I'm so tired of being trapped in this body. How many times in the last few months have I posted about my body making me miserable? Honestly I feel like it's just the story of my life.
I'm living out a life sentence in a horrible cell that I can't seem to change at all. And the worst part is that whoever is holding me here lets me out every now and then, liberates me from the prison of fat and self-loathing, and I get to smell the wildflowers and frolic in the meadows and all that great stuff, but then the alarm sounds and the dogs bark and before I know it I'm incarcerated again.
And the really fucked up thing is that I'm living two (or more) lives: one of me is constantly trapped in these body issues (and not just the image, but the reality of my weight and my size and all the exercise and dieting in the world not making a dent in the cellulite), and the other lives this great life, with fabulous friends and a hilarious family and a wonderful, supportive boyfriend. But I can't seem to kill off the prisoner side of myself, and the existence of the other life makes me reluctant to end them both. I'm starting to understand why crazy people hack off their own limbs (or ears); sometimes I wish I could pull a Fight Club and shoot myself in the face just to get rid of the more fucked-up side of myself, so the happier me could finally live in peace. Don't worry, or call the authorities, I know it's just a movie and face-shot treatment rarely works.
But I do feel like taking a cleaver to my hips sometimes. Or just throwing things. Anything to break out of this awful sticky jello-like sludge I'm suspended in. If this limbo continues I'm going to have to make a choice: either do something drastic to try to change my body, or give up on that and try to change the way my mind works. At this point I think I'd rather be a happy size 26 than a miserable size 16 who only fits into half her clothes.
I'm living out a life sentence in a horrible cell that I can't seem to change at all. And the worst part is that whoever is holding me here lets me out every now and then, liberates me from the prison of fat and self-loathing, and I get to smell the wildflowers and frolic in the meadows and all that great stuff, but then the alarm sounds and the dogs bark and before I know it I'm incarcerated again.
And the really fucked up thing is that I'm living two (or more) lives: one of me is constantly trapped in these body issues (and not just the image, but the reality of my weight and my size and all the exercise and dieting in the world not making a dent in the cellulite), and the other lives this great life, with fabulous friends and a hilarious family and a wonderful, supportive boyfriend. But I can't seem to kill off the prisoner side of myself, and the existence of the other life makes me reluctant to end them both. I'm starting to understand why crazy people hack off their own limbs (or ears); sometimes I wish I could pull a Fight Club and shoot myself in the face just to get rid of the more fucked-up side of myself, so the happier me could finally live in peace. Don't worry, or call the authorities, I know it's just a movie and face-shot treatment rarely works.
But I do feel like taking a cleaver to my hips sometimes. Or just throwing things. Anything to break out of this awful sticky jello-like sludge I'm suspended in. If this limbo continues I'm going to have to make a choice: either do something drastic to try to change my body, or give up on that and try to change the way my mind works. At this point I think I'd rather be a happy size 26 than a miserable size 16 who only fits into half her clothes.
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