This week’s word is:
I embrace imperfection in all things… except me.
I do not so much have a fear of never being good enough. It would be far more accurate to say I have a deep seated belief that I am never good enough.
I remember being a little girl and my mother was testing me on my times tables I had to learn for homework. I got them all right and she was very pleased with me. I, however, was very unhappy. I said I was bad because I had cheated. She enquired how I had cheated. I replied, “But, I just remembered the answers!”, and burst out crying. I simply, even at that young age of about 5, could not accept that I had done well. I could not feel good about my achievement.
I went into town yesterday to buy some groceries and supplies. I made the mistake of trying on some new bras. (Any woman will tell you this is usually not the most pleasant of experiences.) Yesterday, I looked in the mirror and hated what I saw. Really, really hated it.
As I walked home I struggled to contain the tears that threatened to spill down my cheeks.
I know… Hey Kat! It’s not rocket science – eat less, move more, lose weight, right?
Been there, done that.
I got down to a size where I wore age 11 clothes and I saw a fat, ugly person.
Following medical advice, I allowed myself to put on enough weight to fit into a tiny size 6 and I saw a fat, ugly person.
I never, ever thought I had achieved the look or the body I wanted. I never felt happy with it. It was never good enough.
So, I could starve myself again and get tiny again, but here is the rub… I will still hate who I see in the mirror.
I sit here and type this post and my fear is not of imperfection, but that I will never feel at peace with “me”. That I will never be happy. Despite having so much in my life that I am truly grateful for – a loving relationship, friendships, family, enough money/food/things, my dogs, my health – I remain a shallow, vain and vacuous shell.
And worse… I am so bored with myself and this constant discontent. I am certain I have bored you, my readers, with my incessant whinging.
And one thing I never wanted to be is boring.
I do not equate fat with ugly, nor do I equate thin with beauty. It is much more complex than that.
In an uncharacteristic display of self kindness, I will say that I think I did myself a disservice when I called myself a vacuous, vain shell – there are reasons for my body issues and they are real.
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