I wonder when I passed the point of no return. The point where bodies become something more than a vessel; the point where they no longer have to just keep you alive, they also have to contradict that function by being something they were never meant to be.

It’s funny how I can recognize this, yet still try, endlessly, to morph into the mythological creature that people somehow find realistic. It’s realistic for some people, to be the definition of “well-proportioned,” but not for me. Just like how being me, in all of my “unproportionality,” isn’t realistic for some people. They smile at you, praise you for your achievements, but it is all in vain because if my hips are two inches “too big,” then what does it matter?

The confusion, which has been in my mind for years, is a lot like a bruise. Should I try to change myself even more, or finally live in harmony with the body that has carried me so far? But I know that it is not my body that is the problem, it is my head. Somehow, that makes me feel less bad.

It’s incredible that after all the hate we bury our bodies in, they haven’t just up and left already. ♦