I shouldn’t feel this way. Twenty-three years old and I should have accepted myself by now. Twenty-three and I should at least be able to look in the mirror without getting stuck for hours just staring at all of my imperfections, wishing they were gone. And yet, here I am.
Twenty-three and still hating all that stares back at me in my reflection. Twenty-three and still reverting back to my old habits of restricting my food intake because “a moment on the lips, forever on the hips” rings like a melody in my head. I shouldn’t feel this way.
Because being stuck in this cycle of vicious self hatred does nothing but tear me down. And even when I have the strength to build myself up, I am swallowed back down by one measly thought that doesn’t seem so negative until it turns into a tornado, wrecking all of the strength within myself I have built over all this time.
I shouldn’t feel this way. I shouldn’t be pinching the fat sitting upon my hips and on my stomach, wishing it would disappear. I shouldn’t think the easiest solution is to deprive myself of nutrition because past history has shown that all though it is effect in making me skinny, it’s never enough. And I’ll want more. And I’ll become so obsessed that any amount of food put into my stomach will feel as though it’s ripping me from the inside out and I will feel forced to bring it out against its will.
Twenty-three and I shouldn’t be obsessing over wrinkles and dark circles. Twenty-three and I shouldn’t be wanting to change the things that, ten years from now I’ll be wishing looked like they did when I was twenty-three. Twenty-three and I shouldn’t be getting so upset over the fact that my eyes, jaw, breasts, ass cheeks, anything on my body, aren’t perfectly symmetrical.
I’m twenty-three, when will this all be over? I shouldn’t feel this way.