Sorry, this is going to be an incredibly long rant about pretty much all the negative aspects of my life, full of illogical repetitions and self-pity at its finest.

Okay, here’s my answer to your question:

The usual realization that I deeply hate myself. I always seem to forget about that.

Okay, no, I don’t. I just try to ignore that feeling and then sometimes, it just all gets too much.

I’ve been feeling like this for fourteen years now, starting when I was three years old (my earliest memory is actually my mum saying what a fat little girl I was. I recently asked my aunt about that comment, and she confirmed that this actually happened),

so I should be used to the fact that I find myself incredibly disgusting. All my life, I have seen people around me and every single one of them was pretty. Everyone was beautiful and then there was me. I would always overhear conversations of skinny girls talking about how they needed to lose weight, how much they weighed. I saw photos of models that were really skinny and then it said they are plus sized models. There were numbers everywere and I became terribly ashamed of myself.

At that time, I was seven. I decided to starve myself when I was seven, but I never did. And instead of being grateful for being able to eat, I felt more and more disgusted by myself.

Time moved on.

I spent a lot of time with girls my age. We were often put in situation where we all had to eat. And I noticed. I noticed exactly just how much (or little, to be accurate) they were eating. I realized I ate a lot more than them. I came to believe that the reason why (in my eyes) I was fat, was because I always ate too much. I decided to starve myself, but never did because no matter how much I hated it, food seemed to be the only thing that was there for me.

I was eleven at that time.

You know, I have always been a shy kid. I would cry easily and people would make fun of me. I would get close to people just to realize that they did not care about me at all. My body image was terrible. I would compare myself to everybody around me and would find both my appearance and my personality ugly. I appeared vulnerable to kids my age, I they would take advantage of that.

They made fun of me, they called me disgusting, they formed groups to beat and kick me, they stole things from me and made me shut up about it.

My self-confidence disappeared completely.

Time went on and I hit puberty. As usual for girls hitting puberty, my body changed. I was getting curves, which I now know to be natural and good for your body. But I was the the first from my year to actually visibly change, so I thought I was just getting fat.

I would stand in front of the mirror, telling myself that it is fine, that there was nothing wrong with my body, that I could still be pretty. But I did not believe in what I was saying. I still didn’t have any self-confidence at all. So I would hit my own body as a punishment until I had bruises all over my stomach area. I still felt fat. I tried to cut off pieces of my body with scissors, but obviously I didn’t succeed.

Time moved on, I turned thirteen, puberty at its worst. I felt ashamed of the fact that I was sweating a lot. I felt ashamed for every hair that grew on my body. And I still felt incredibly fat.

I spent most of the time reading and sometimes, the (female) protagonists would complain or freak out about their weight, which I realized was 20 lbs lower than mine. I thought my weight was something that couldn’t be accepted. I decided to starve myself again, but I never did because food was the only comfort I had.

It got worse over the years and writing everything would bore everyone reading this to death (if it hasn’t already).

Now I realize I was a stupid little girl. I realize now that I have never been fat; I realize it was all just natural.

However, the feeling of being gross, ugly, disgusting and fat was so deeply engraved in my entire self that I still can’t shake it off. How do you shake off something that is so deep under your skin that it has become your flesh and blood?

I starved myself, I cut, I over-exercised, I cried, I screamed, I scratched parts of the skin on my arm off, I cut deeper and more frequent, I starved for weeks, fasted for days.

I started overthinking. I came to realize a lot of things and I thought nothing made sense at all.

Three times, I was close to giving up. I didn’t. The only thing that kept me around was my friend. Thank you for that.

Of course, my life has not just been horrible. I just tend to drown in self-pity (I am a very pathetic creature, you see) and turn thing into a worse light.

My life has not been horrible at all. There are many things I enjoy, some things I dream of. Everything around me is incredibly beautiful.

Just not me.

I realize how flawed my logic is here, but what I feel has always been illogical.

I am not looking for attention. I don’t need your sympathy. I do not want to hear any encouraging words.

It’s fine. I can go on living like this. It is fine. I am okay. This feeling has been  part of my personality for fourteen years, I should be used to it by now. It doesn’t surprise me anymore. It’s fine. Maybe as time goes by, I will begin to accept myself for what I am: Just another  human being, neither better nor worse than everybody else.

Until that, I will just occasionally lose everything and scream, cry and despair. I hope you don’t mind.

Thank you very much for your attention, but I actually don’t care anymore, so neither should you.