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I was laying in bed when I started to think about how much time I used to spend being consumed by the feeling that I wasn’t where I wanted to be. I didn’t look how I wanted to look. I wasn’t perfect.
I used to think there was a perfect body type for me, and if I just kept pushing myself, kept restricting what I ate, and exercised more, I could get there. But I never did. It was never enough.
No matter how thin I got, it was never enough.
Even now, I think about the times when I weighed significantly less and just laugh at myself. Because even if I “feel big” sometimes currently, somehow I felt even larger back then, which I know clearly does not make mathematical sense. But that’s body dysmorphia for you.
It wasn’t even just that, though. If I felt satisfied with one aspect of myself, something else would come up.
“Oh, my eyebrows look good today.”
“But my nose looks too big.”
“I’m having a good hair day.”
“But my lips look too small.”
Literally, it didn’t matter what it was, there was always something. The never-ending loop of being imperfect.
Until I accepted that maybe I’m meant to be imperfect. Maybe we, as humans, are meant to have flaws.
Perfect is boring anyway. If every single person was “perfect,” wouldn’t we all just seem like a bunch of robots? Without imperfections, how are we supposed to grow? How are we supposed to evolve?
Besides, maybe those physical “imperfections” are what actually make us unique, what define one person from the next.
I don’t want to look like someone else anymore.
I don’t want to be like someone else anymore.
I want to be me.
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