I can’t accept myself. And please don’t tell me to accept myself. Accepting the self can’t be an on/off button that I can push immediately to change. And no one’s perfect at anything. So I also guess no one is perfect at accepting themselves too, yes, there will always be something to be unhappy about because life is two sides of a coin. But I like to focus on the bad side because habits die hard.
Every freakin’ day I look at my breasts and think, “Why!? Why the fck aren’t you freakin’ growing you dumb btch!?” And then I look at a women with smaller boobs and I think to myself, “Haha. I got them bigger! :P” while I stand around with my usual poker-face. Yes, I am being honest about my thought-process. My Mon is freakish.
I’ve decided that in the month of July, I would write less. So, what has prompted me to write a long post today? It’s blood.
OK, I am making no sense. And I will attempt to make no further sense now.
Today I went to the saloon to cut my hair short for this unbearable summer-time. I don’t like cutting my hair but I have to for the summer. Besides, I covered my hair all the time anyway so no need to look prett(ier?)y. And I thought of getting a facial because facials are relaxing and fun. But my Mom, even when I insisted I get a facial with my own money, wouldn’t let me. Instead I only went for the black-heads removal treatment. It’s a tough treatment. They push a needle and push it around my face to get rid of all the blackhead I have :I The last time I had it, I cried a lot in it’s pain. And I can handle physical pain pretty good, mind you. I once had burning hot water accidentally poured over my leg and I didn’t scream, even though it hurt a lot and turned blue-purple for a whole week and pained everything something touched it. Oh wait. The treatment. So, I cried at being poked but it was my choice anyway.
And I had one today and it was even more painful because I’ve had more black-heads growing making my nose look browinsh. And I just cried and cried and cried throughout the process. I breathed deeply and hard. It was SO painful. I couldn’t believe my nose didn’t bleed. I have to get this done three more times to get the blackheads out. So…..while this was happening, I just thought, “Why!? Why do I want to look pretty for a man? Why? What will a man do for me as I go through hell like this? Will a guy even cook for himself while get a bloody nose?” Lots of other thoughts went while this happened. I wanted to stop but I convinced myself that it would be over soon. “Soon! Soon! Bear with it, already!”
I’ve almost never cried in times of pain. I’ve had a lot of flesh even torn away from my legs, at the age of 10 when I fell down and scraped my need very hard. This mark is still on my skin right there. But I’ve never had SO much pain (not that I remember).
So I wet my dress with my tears……..
And then I go on and call myself a feminist. I sexualize my body. I have to LOOK a CERTAIN way. I have to have brighter skin, sharper nose and the list goes on forever. I am crazy. I am crazy.
Crazy, crazy, crazy.
Ugh. That had to be said.