Until recently, I never thought about accepting myself as I am. How could I accept myself when I’m so obviously imperfect? I’m too fat, I’m not blonde, I’m too short, I don’t like sports… the list goes on and on. I’ve always been an outcast: I tried Girl Scouts, but got kicked out for “deviant behavior”, I hated Sunday School with a fiery burning passion, I stood out like a sore thumb in various other groups. Hell, I even got kicked out of the gay youth group I was in as a teenager.
I wanted to play with dolls years after my friends were all too “grown-up” for that. I never wanted to date boys – and never even thought about dating girls till I was much, much older. I wanted to read, but the books I had access to were vapid and left me feeling disconnected and not really nourished. I led a very sheltered life, spotted with frequent moves that took me away from any friends I did have. I’m a communal soul that flourishes in groups, but often found myself alone.
And even as a child, I saw the boxes I needed to fit into, and so squished myself into them as much and as often as possible – even at great personal cost. I was often lonely inside, even when I had friends. I was smiling and fun, I had money and a car, I was doggedly loyal and incredibly sweet. But I would cry myself to sleep at night, hating myself and my body and the lies I told myself.
It’s not like I considered acceptance and decided against it – I literally never even thought of it. We all hate ourselves for various reasons, right? You’re too tall, you’re too thin, your boobs (or penis) aren’t big enough, yours are too big. Every time we look in the mirror, we shudder. We’re trained to hate what we see, to constantly strive for a sort of physical perfection that we may not even clearly understand.
If we love ourselves as we are, we’re not manipulateable. The Big Industries (Diet, Cosmetic Surgery, etc) can’t get to us if we love what we see regardless of what we see. Diet pills and miracle cures wouldn’t sell. No one would ever go under the knife (or laser) if we were happy with ourselves.
Why do women need to look like 14-year-old girls with giant breasts?
Why do men need to look like athletes?
Why can’t we look like ourselves?
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