For as long as I can remember I’ve had this issue with my appearance. It mostly stems from being bullied in school and constantly comparing myself to everyone around me.
No matter who they were, or where they came from, they had something I didn’t. They were prettier, thinner, more talented, richer, had nicer eyes, nicer legs… whatever. It was all better than me.
Every friend I’ve ever had, I’ve hated in some respect. I’ve hated their perfect smile, their tiny waist, their flawless skin.
For years I’ve looked at other people and burned in my very veins because I just can’t match up. My heroine is JK Rowling and I even hate her a little bit. She came from nothing and got everything she wanted and I hate her for getting there.
I have such an obsession with other people’s stomachs. My life has been plagued by bad skin, wonky teeth and a wobbly belly. Until I was sixteen, I was taller than all of my friends and so skinny that clothes just hung off me, I was gangly and it was something else for the bullies to call me out on.
But now, nine years later it’s all caught up with me. I don’t have that wonderful metabolism my Father so kindly gave to me, it’s been snatched away and I’m left with an ever increasing tightening of all of my clothes around my hips.
I’ve always pushed it away by saying it’s what that other person has, but I’m okay. And I have a boyfriend now, which is something I haven’t had in the longest time. And so it’s so easy to push it to the back of my mind, because he loves me, and I can pretend my belly isn’t hanging over my jeans because he still wants to have sex with me. I can eat chocolate and sweets and cake and pasta at midnight because he does, so it’s okay.
I ignore that he’s over six foot and built like a rugby player and can eat twenty four hours a day without adding a single bloody ounce.
My problem is that I have zero self discipline when it comes to anything. I can’t make myself stick to anything. I’ll eat well for a couple days, I’ll go for a couple jogs, and then before I know it I’m back eating brownies and muffins and pizza and not moving from my bed all day.
Today I put on a pair of shorts that I’ve owned for years. They were comfortable before. They were baggy around my thighs. But today? Today they hurt. They rubbed on my skin and were tight on my legs. And walking home I caught sight of myself in a shop window and wanted to cry. I was, I am disgusted with what I’ve become. And I know I have absolutely nobody to blame but myself. I am the one who has sat and stuffed my face. I’m the one who stopped my gym membership. I’m the one who sits in night after night and eats fatty, sugary foods and drinks fizzy drinks. I’m the one sat here almost in tears because of how much it bothers me.
Yet I’m the one who came home and ate another brownie. I shoved it down like it didn’t matter. And I’m fuming with myself because I did so.
Why, when I know how important this is to me, why can’t I stick to sorting it out? I’m not huge, it wouldn’t take a massive amount of time to lose it. And yet I don’t?
I’ve spoken with a good friend about wanting to write, but not bothering because I’m scared I’ll fail, I’m scared I won’t be good enough.
Is it the same with this? Do I just not bother because I’m scared I still won’t like me when I lose weight? Will I still be an insecure little mess? Will I just find something else to hate about myself?