Self Image, one hundred and eighty degrees

An interesting thing has happened. I have remembered that I don’t much care how I look.

I have never really cared about my appearance. As a kid, I was far too busy having fun to worry what I looked like. I never had any Nike trainers or Reebok joggers like the kids from trendy families, and whenever I brought it up my parents would go off on one about scandalous wastes of money. I was told so often that other people’s opinions didn’t matter (but catch me trying to leave the house without brushing my hair – “Get back in here! What will everyone think!?”).

Irony aside, it’s a philosophy I’ve always grown up with. “It doesn’t matter what others think of you, and it’s what’s on the inside that counts.” A lot of people scorn that as a load of Little House on the Prairie bullcrap. I really took it to heart.

So, unlike most dtManiacs it seems, I have never bothered to put on make-up every morning. It seems like a waste of time and effort to me. I’ll sometimes paint myself up a bit if I’m going out somewhere of an evening, if I feel like it. But there’s no way I could be bothered with it every morning. If other people have a problem with how I look au naturel, that’s their problem, not mine.

So it was only lately, when I started facing the fact that I had a problem that had spun way out of control, that I started obsessing over my looks. I found myself staring at girls on the bus who wore the latest clothes and perfect make-up and had immaculate hairstyles, and thought about getting my hair cut like theirs with that long floppy fringe, and buying some new clothes and make-up. I wanted to look like them. It was an absurd ambition. The floppy fringe in my eyes and face would have irritated me to screaming point, not to mention the tickling of hair on my cheeks making touch-freedom impossible. And frankly, at the moment I just plain can’t afford to spend that much money on clothing and cosmetics if I want to keep making my rent each month.

Logic had left the building. I just desperately, desperately wanted to feel attractive.

I don’t feel like that anymore.

My skin is clearing up. I have some spots, sure, but I think they may be because ‘that time of the month’ is coming up. I don’t know for sure if that’s the cause, because before now my skin has always been too much of a mess all month round for me to tell how my cycle affects it. I have been pretty spotty this last week, but now the last couple are going down and there aren’t any more coming up to replace them yet. My skin is reasonably clear for the first time since forever. With all the scabs out of the way, finally I can see the scarring I’ve given myself. I don’t have any deep pits or prominent marks, but my whole face is slightly mottled with pink all over. I’m hoping that will fade over time. But the main thing is – I don’t feel ugly anymore. I’m comfortable with my appearance, and I’ve stopped feeling desperate to be beautiful. Beauty be damned. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.

Peach
xxx

clever girl, way to go; thirteen stickers in a row