Emptinessisfillingme

Type that into google, and it comes up with a moribund girl obsessed with and failing to lose weight (at least, in her own eyes). She imposes such stringent regulations on herself; it's no wonder she breaks them eventually.

There's a part of the whole weight loss caboodle that's incredibly self-indulgent, and leads to self-pity; namely, "I am not the way I want to be; therefore I can blame the way I am on everything, and if I change it I will be perfect". Sadly noone is ever perfect, and subconsciously, it's known that perfection will never be achieved. The girls that practise pro-ana know that none of them will ever be happy; but there's a happiness, a gloating and security, in feeling self-piteous, a smugness in feeling that you are worst off out of everyone, and it's that feeling that the world of pro-ana deals in. The feeling of being the worst. And it's that feeling that I'm desperate to purge myself of; I have been the drunk girl that tells her friends how she doesn't like her body, and what she does to stave it off (and I was never even bulimic, and I think that's far, far more damaging than anorexia, corporeally and mentally) and I don't want to be anymore. I want to not care a jot about the way I look; because when I care, it tips me over that I can't control the way my body is.

I cannot fathom why it should be my body that garners such loathing from me. There are other things I don't like about myself; mediocrity, lackadaisical tendencies, unrealistic aims, lack of ambition, lack of concreteness, lack of neatness, non-perfectionist- and I feel they might be solved if I could solve my body. Of course, they won't be. The main reason, though, why it's strange is because I have long been accepting of my face. It isn't perfect; there's a list of faults; my nose is short and wide, there's lines either side of my mouth, I'm getting double chin more frequently, my forehead and chin sections are too long and my skin isn't the most wonderful, my teeth are too large and my mouth can look annoying and is also massive; but for all that, I am attached to it. If anyone offered me free and painless plastic surgery to correct these deficits, I'd reject it because I am honestly and truly happy with my face. I don't know if it's a pretty face or an ugly face; but it's got its own nobility, and that means I don't particularly care. It's me. It's not refined and sharp but I like it, because it's quirky and expressive and it's got it's own idiosyncracies that are attractive enough. I can't even think of much right with it; my favourite feature, my eyebrows are overgrown and dark, but even so, I like them. It's this disjuncture of acceptance between body and face that I cannot bridge, and I'd like to. If I could feel the same about my thighs and hips as I do my nose and teeth, I'd be happy. I wonder if it'll ever happen.