Mirrors

I hate the days when nothing seems to fit. Nothing looks good. I feel fat and ugly. I curse the fact that weight doesn’t just melt off me. And why can’t I be three inches taller? And if not taller, why can’t my neck be longer? And why do I act like my eating habits aren’t my own? Why do I know the “right” things to eat yet eat the “wrong” things too often? And why do I always start with the best of intentions, but end the day grabbing for anything delicious. And how did I develop such a disordered approach to eating and weight? And how can I still feel happy in spite of wanting to be taller and more beautiful? And at what age will I stop caring about western standards of beauty? And why is it some days I want to look as offbeat and unusual as possible, but then I pass a traditional beauty and my self confidence sinks? When will that initial confidence I had–before leaving the house/before remembering the beauty–take root deep in my core and be unshakeable in the face of anything that comes my way? How long will I have to fake it until I make it? My grandmother gained weight gradually throughout her life and was always perfectly happy with herself. I take after my grandmother in myriad ways and maybe this way as well? How is it I can see the forward momentum of weight gain, yet act like I have no control over it? Ben and Jerry’s doesn’t show up in my refridgerator by magic, though I wish they did. Why don’t I have more discipline? 

But my body works. 

But I’m healthy. 

But I’m healthy. 

And for that, I’m happy. 

Even while…even while…

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