She starts screaming, but I close my eyes, breathe in and out deeply the way my mother taught me and shun that voice until it mutes down to a familiar buzzing that’s almost always with me, trying to get louder again.
I look into the mirror and that day, I am not too happy with my body. If people hate it so much they don’t make clothes for it, how can I love it?
Why, why, why don’t they make clothes FOR ME? What’s so wrong with me?
But then I looked around and saw skinny women with that same look in their eyes. Women with all kinds of bodies, searching with that same glimpse of frustration in their eyes. My sisters were just as unhappy as I was.
Tall, short, fat, skinny, no matter what they look like, we are all tied by a single red thread: insecurities. We grow up and learn that there’s something wrong with us. Our minds are underestimated and placed on the second spot (because it’s cheaper to perfect your mind than your body) and our bodies take the full wrath of a potent mix of environment, parenting and media and we usually end up hating ourselves by the time we’re 15. Or, at least parts of ourselves that suddenly become the reason why you can’t be happy in life. Your nose, your lips, your non existent thigh gap, your eyes, your hair, your lips, your arms, your ribs, your bones, your fat, your feet, your knees, your ass, your boobs, your vagina, your skin, your all. Your body becomes an enemy’s front of things that are stopping you from living your best life, stopping you from landing your perfect lover, stopping you from finding the perfect job, stopping you from enjoying summer, stopping you from BEING HAPPY.