There’s something that I need to say.
Some girls may look at this picture and think wow she has the coveted thigh gap, she is so lucky.
Let me tell you something, when I stand with my ankles together, the space between my legs widens as you go up and eventually comes to a break between my thighs. For some reasons this coveted inch of space between skin is thought to create happiness and erase bodily dysmorphia.
You may look at my thigh gap or my flat stomach and be envious or think that somehow these features make me happy.
My skin makes me so incredibly angry that I used to torture it, trying to kill it. Trying to kill the way it made me feel. I have scars to prove it. I was so unhappy with my body because I did what you all do to me. I looked at girls who were skinnier, fit, muscular, and healthy, and I decided that I was going to starve and hate myself until my body would magically change shape.
I thought that envy and hate would birth happiness. And confidence. And security.
If you search for self-confidence embedded in other people’s thighs and think if only they were yours, you would be happy, I want you to know that you are treading down a dangerous path. If you do not learn to stare at yourself in the mirror in your underwear and tell yourself “this is me and I have to fucking deal with it”, you will never be happy.
Your skin is your home, it is the only home you have.
When I sit down and my thighs clap together like a sarcastic applause saying “congrats you’re fat”, I don’t cry and cut and hate myself, I tell myself that I am beautiful.
When I wear a body-hugging tank top that accentuates the baby bump-esque fat on my stomach, I take a marker and write “this is fucking beautiful damnit” on my stomach and I stare in the mirror and refuse to let myself think otherwise.
I have spongebob arms and a saggy white girl ass and my boobs have grown bigger from birth control and they’re still smaller than my 18 year old sister’s, and I hate my thighs and that you can see my veins through my casper skin.
But I have to fucking deal with it. I have to get angry at that part of my brain that tells me I’m not beautiful. Every day that I’m alive is beautiful. The healed scars on my thighs are beautiful.
This is my home and it is beautiful.