I'm Not Visually Beautiful.
I'm at the age of living vicariously through any place but myself. When you pass through and naught beyond, person to person, you're left to reap substance from solely the mirror. Like everyone, I have good and bad days.
I'm in the early years of youth. Suspended at the age of forced presentations and rehearsed dissertations. The elasticity of my skin doesn't attest. At the right position, softly-lit, I can convince people – especially myself – that I'm stunning. With clear, striking azure irises and inviting blood flow to my cheeks and lips. Admittedly, my beauty has not yet been tumble dried beyond wear.
This morning, I weighed two-hundred-and-one pounds. 36•31•44. I'm not delusional – I resent being weighed down (yes, pun) by my insecurities, though. Standing 5'9", with good posture & strong wit, I can dominate the room. Graced with a Scandinavian taut waist and rounded hips, sometimes "fat" can be confused with "curvy".
Without a supportive bra, my b****** lay, nipples to hades. If I'm completely nude, hunched over, they sit on the most blubbery part of my abdomen. An n-shape on my breastbone does not indicate the curve of my rib cage – instead it's an inverted slope created by the elongated separation of my tetes. If some unknown force muddles the warmth of my skin, translucence reveals blue veins trailing, tracing below my flesh.
Stretch marks make it seem like I'm bursting at the seams. Picture an eleven-year-old girl with a body that's already changing in all of the confusing, ridiculous ways that it does during high-hung hormonal growth. The bane of my existence was gym class (well, aside from having a bedridden mother and an absentee father). These bright red, humiliating scars appear – thick & illusive. Disorienting.
The fat on my thighs divots in cellulite riddled clumps. It wrinkles over my knee, the cartilage and bone desperately wishing to support, though squandered in attempt. My ass, creasing over my thigh – flat in comparison to my stomach.
It goes without saying that being overweight isn't fun. Vanity aside, it negatively impacts everyday functioning. By common rules of physics, I exert more force than somebody with less matter to host. My stamina is depleted with less provocation, my face shows more signs of being flushed, my deeper-set crevices invite more sweat and filth buildup. When I'm seen exercising publicly I know their first thought is either "It's not worth it, just give up" or "How brave of her!"
Speaking of which – yes, I can be extraordinarily lazy. Failure by design of plan, my manner of exercise hasn't been carried out in a sustainable fashion. I've gone two weeks of two hours a day on the elliptical to two months of sitting on my ass. I've managed consistency, to some extent. Steady routines lasting a few months at a time. My dietary habits follow a similar pattern. My lowest weight was 175 pounds & that was two years ago (my highest: 223). Ever heard of a fat vegan? I also have bipolar disorder & rapidly changing moods don't make for an undeviating.
This doesn't belie the fact that being "skinny" can also be a source of embarrassment for some people – especially men. There are just about as many outward expectations placed on men. I also heavily (again, pun) disagree with the vilification of slim women. Be it naturally or with a concerted effort. I encourage you to keep in mind that thinness is no indication of overall health.
I'm not a "fativist", but I believe that those who exercise to the best of their ability and make a conscious effort to eat nourishing earn the right to treat themselves occasionally – or at least enjoy their food. In no way do I endorse the consumption of processed, mass-produced food.
I'm not to the point where I revolt those who I am attracted to. I've been involved with good-looking, intelligent people. Words like "voluptuous", "gorgeous", "fine", "sexy" have been thrown around. I don't know what I'm supposed to do with that information. Just absorbing the kind words would invite apathy, settling.
I invite whatever harsh words this confession stimulates. Be it the sway of my other positive qualities or simple politeness, my friends (and partners) keep it to themselves. I can't remember the last time I was outright condemned for my appearance. I appreciate the anonymous honesty. If not for my looks but for my overwhelming obsession with looks. I am sixteen, anyways.