Of Body Image

From the moment a few days after my Grade 8 graduation, when my mom pointed out that I looked fat in my dress, it's been a long journey to self-acceptance.

For someone who, before that moment, didn't care what she wore and had been told all her life she had the body of a model, and never worried about how she did my hair or wore make up as long as her eyes weren't too creepy-green, oh and figured the dark circles under her eyes were just permanent, well... Suddenly being thrust into the world of supreme self-consciousness wasn't just depressing, it was frustrating and terrifying.

It hasn't gotten any better, the bit of a bulge on my stomach. And it's pretty much in genetics, and I know now as I knew back then that my mom had no right to say a thing for various reasons.

But I like to think that I've gotten better. I've tried to fix it, really I have, but nothing works. I've probably cried over it a dozen times, and I've looked in the mirror and called myself ugly for it.

But I don't know. Recently, things have just snapped. Every once in a while I will look in the mirror or look at myself and just feel tired of it. Tired of being critical and hating my body and feeling helpless. And a few days ago I looked at myself and realized that it's quite possible I'll never get rid of the stomach I have, and it's probably genetic.

And though I don't particularly like how it looks all the time, and I see girls who are how I "used to be," I don't know... I'm getting used to it. I'm accepting it.

Just felt like I should write this out before I head off to Shoppers to get some Nerds candy for my brother's Welcome Home cupcakes (I had to force some creativity out of him, because all he wanted was vanilla cupcakes and regular icing!)


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