I sit here full of self-hatred and hating myself for being full of self-hatred.
How can I be this superficial?
I was raised to understand that a woman’s worth lies in her attractiveness above all else.
I hate myself for aging. How stupid is that? As if I should be punished for just not having died for 42 years.
Is a woman more valid and relevant if she dies when she is young and pretty? Everyone loves Marilyn Monroe, because she stayed pretty forever. The ideal woman in life and in death. Her life was tragic, but we remember her for her curves and that time air blew up her skirt. Who she was is irrelevant.
It’s so ridiculous that we place value on things that are entirely out of our control. Like, a person is better or more worthy if they were born with certain features. The way my face is shaped, the length of my body, the size of my breasts, my skin. Ugh, my skin. I hate myself for my skin. I hate myself for having had acne, as if acne were a sign of weakness or it was my fault somehow. It wasn’t. It wasn’t because I didn’t wash my face enough or ate too much chocolate. It was genetic, and it was fucking awful. Now I hate my skin for reminding me of how ugly I was. I hate my mild scarring and deeply envy people with clear, smooth skin. That’s the ideal, and the lie we’ve all been told is that it’s your own fault if you…
