And I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been on my knees in front of that porcelain toilet with the shower turned on and the music turned up to drown out the thoughts of “you aren’t good enough” and “you’re too fat to be loved.”
And I can’t tell you how many times I stuck my own fingers down my throat before I realized that maybe there is nothing wrong with how I look but rather there is something wrong with how the world looks at me. Maybe I do not have to change myself but rather the world has to change its values.
Because my scars are beautiful and my stretch marks are beautiful and my skin is beautiful and the percentage of people who look like the world wants them to is vastly, greatly, immensely outnumbered by the percentage of real people.
People who eat insecurity for breakfast and doubt for lunch then throw them up at dinner time because they don’t stay down, they don’t go away. People who cut themselves with a blade called shame and bleed pain then cover it up with long sleeves because they’ve become so numb to the world they just wanted to feel something. People who sleep on a bed of depression and a pillow of anxiety then can’t get up in the morning because the world is full of uncertainty and hatred.
Real people suffer from real problems. The world is what’s fake, but the people living in it are not.