It's never easy as a woman to admit to having "problems". Problems imply madness, the woman in the attic, something off it's hinge which in a society that tells us to keep these "problems" quietly tucked away, only perpetuates them.
I admit to being disordered. I am that kind of woman.
I don't know how to live a life without wanting to be someone else. As long as my waist measures this, as long as each thigh measures that, as long as I wear a size 4, as long as my skin continues to break out, as long as the skin I was born with betrays my ideal of beauty, I will not be comfortable. My self worth has become so inexplicably intertwined with this foolish conviction, that I am simply not able to see any other way around it.
But I'm too ashamed to admit this to the people who provide for me, just like I'm too ashamed to admit that 90% of my existence revolves around this obscene vanity.
New York women. With long legs. Long hair. Long lashes. Pure, beautiful complexions. So many strange perfect bodies. This is not an even playing field for me. If I were to walk into a bar, I'd walk back out alone. They smiled. And it was one of these days after walking far too many blocks admiring too many women, that I simply decided I was against impossible odds. Attempting was pointless. Bow out. Simply bow the fuck out.
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