“There is nothing more rare, nor more beautiful, than a woman being unapologetically herself; comfortable in her perfect imperfection. To me, that is the true essence of beauty.” ~Steve Mariboli
Out of everyone that has ever said a critical thing about my body, I can say that I am the most critical person in the world about it. We are told to love the creation the Lord has made, but every day, I watch my body tear at the skin, falling apart and slowly be destroyed by the illnesses I am battling.
82 may be a number that doesn't mean anything to anyone, but 82 is the number that looms over my head every day. 82 is the number of stretch marks I can count on my body right now, as I sit here and type this out... and that number continues to grow. 82 stretch marks have formed on my body in the past four years, as my belly enlarges and my cheeks fill out. 82 stretch marks have grown as I stuffed my face with the comfort foods I thought would make me feel content with my diagnosis, but ended up destroying me more than I thought and forming another addiction.
I know this body isn't the most beautiful. I look at it every day and cry as I wonder why I had to have the disease I have. My legs are short and stubby, my thighs and calf muscles getting larger by the day. My belly is protruding outward as I pollute it with the things I know aren't good for me, but I convince myself that just one more cookie will make me happy. One more french fry will satisfy my sadness. One more piece will be okay. Just one more. My face is filling in with the fat that won't fit on my body. My hair is falling out. My boobs are gross and discolored underneath by my Stein-Leventhal. My butt is just this flabby thing and it's not even cute. I just find my entire body to be this gross sack of disgusting that I happen to have to carry around for the rest of my life.
I feel like society has made me turn my body into this petri dish under a microscope, where I sit and examine every single crack and crevasse that seems abnormal to the 'average' person. But is the average person really the thing we should be striving for? We see the 'average woman' as something in a magazine: tall, long, thick hair, thin, perfect curves, flawless skin, and not a blemish on her. These were women I would cut out of various magazines and tape onto my mirror and bedroom walls in high school, striving to have my hair like them, my makeup like theirs, be thin and beautiful just like them. I was already letting media corrupt my brain and make me think that these women were the body image I should be striving for: something unhealthy and unreal.
It's one of the hardest things I do in my day, but I have to convince myself every day that I am a beautiful creation. Whether I write it over and over again in a notebook until I go insane or I write something on the back of my hand so I always see it, I have to convince myself that I am truly beautiful. Not because of a magazine, or a boy, or anything but because I want to. I want to be able to look at myself and, even when I am unable to lose this weight or when I'm holding a pile of my hair in my hand, say that I am a beautiful person. My discolored skin patches and scars and uncontrollable weight and stretch marks aren't going to change that. What does change it is your state of mind.
When we immerse ourselves in positive thinking, we outwardly express positive words. It's seriously the hardest thing to do, though, when we live in a society full of pessimism, anger, and sadness. I have to wake up every morning, stare in the mirror for a few minutes, and find one thing about myself that I like. And it always has to be different. I can't say that I like my hair two days in a row; that'd be cheating. Besides, if I only focus on one thing that I like, I'm going to miss tons of other things I could grow to love! I sit and read the small pieces of paper I've taped onto my vanity over and over, like a first-grader trying to memorize simple vocabulary.
82 may be a number that doesn't mean anything to anyone, but 82 is the number that looms over my head every day. 82 is the number of stretch marks I can count on my body right now, as I sit here and type this out... and that number continues to grow. 82 stretch marks have formed on my body in the past four years, as my belly enlarges and my cheeks fill out. 82 stretch marks have grown as I stuffed my face with the comfort foods I thought would make me feel content with my diagnosis, but ended up destroying me more than I thought and forming another addiction.
I know this body isn't the most beautiful. I look at it every day and cry as I wonder why I had to have the disease I have. My legs are short and stubby, my thighs and calf muscles getting larger by the day. My belly is protruding outward as I pollute it with the things I know aren't good for me, but I convince myself that just one more cookie will make me happy. One more french fry will satisfy my sadness. One more piece will be okay. Just one more. My face is filling in with the fat that won't fit on my body. My hair is falling out. My boobs are gross and discolored underneath by my Stein-Leventhal. My butt is just this flabby thing and it's not even cute. I just find my entire body to be this gross sack of disgusting that I happen to have to carry around for the rest of my life.
I feel like society has made me turn my body into this petri dish under a microscope, where I sit and examine every single crack and crevasse that seems abnormal to the 'average' person. But is the average person really the thing we should be striving for? We see the 'average woman' as something in a magazine: tall, long, thick hair, thin, perfect curves, flawless skin, and not a blemish on her. These were women I would cut out of various magazines and tape onto my mirror and bedroom walls in high school, striving to have my hair like them, my makeup like theirs, be thin and beautiful just like them. I was already letting media corrupt my brain and make me think that these women were the body image I should be striving for: something unhealthy and unreal.
It's one of the hardest things I do in my day, but I have to convince myself every day that I am a beautiful creation. Whether I write it over and over again in a notebook until I go insane or I write something on the back of my hand so I always see it, I have to convince myself that I am truly beautiful. Not because of a magazine, or a boy, or anything but because I want to. I want to be able to look at myself and, even when I am unable to lose this weight or when I'm holding a pile of my hair in my hand, say that I am a beautiful person. My discolored skin patches and scars and uncontrollable weight and stretch marks aren't going to change that. What does change it is your state of mind.
When we immerse ourselves in positive thinking, we outwardly express positive words. It's seriously the hardest thing to do, though, when we live in a society full of pessimism, anger, and sadness. I have to wake up every morning, stare in the mirror for a few minutes, and find one thing about myself that I like. And it always has to be different. I can't say that I like my hair two days in a row; that'd be cheating. Besides, if I only focus on one thing that I like, I'm going to miss tons of other things I could grow to love! I sit and read the small pieces of paper I've taped onto my vanity over and over, like a first-grader trying to memorize simple vocabulary.
"You are altogether beautiful, my love. There is no flaw in you." ~Song of Solomon 4:7
"I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it too well." ~Psalms 139:14
"I am a rose of Sharon, a lily of the valleys." ~Song of Solomon 12:1
I'll write it on my hands and in notebooks when I'm feeling down at work or hanging out with friends, or when those feelings and life in general just catches up on me. When I get that bad diagnosis and all I wanna do is build a blanket fort and eat a bag of chicken nuggets in it. When I feel like I can't get out of bed or when big crowds just aren't my thing. When I feel alone or when I feel worthless. When I slip up and don't know how to explain.
I am courageous. I am strong. I am brave. I am beautiful. I am human.
And though it may look stupid, at the end of the day, when I'm all alone in my room, just me and my thoughts... what comes up sometimes are these verses and sayings I force myself to recite every day.
I am fearfully and wonderfully made... there is no flaw in me... I am courageous... I am a rose of Sharon... I am beautiful...
I've had to learn that we have to literally train our minds to think something different than what we've learned to think for so long. Trust me, it's hard. I have many days where I sit and think of how gross my belly is, or how no one will ever love me because of my size. Thinking positively about yourself is one of the hardest battles you will involve yourself with in your entire lifetime on this Earth, but when you are able to speak life over yourself instead of death, I can tell you those days are worth it.
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