The Myth of Self-Love

 

Once upon a time there was a globalized world that sexualized and fetishitized certain body types. See, in this world, no matter what you did as a woman was ever good enough. If you’re too skinny, you’d better bulk up, because nobody likes bony girls. If you’re chubby, you’d better slim down, because nobody likes fat chicks. Too many muscles? Girl, you better realize that masculinity is fragile and tone it down.

 

Once upon a time I might have loved my body. I might have appreciated the vessel that carries my brain (and consequently my thoughts, my memories, my personality — basically everything that gives life meaning) and other life-sustaining organs. I might have even cared enough to take care of it like it should be taken care of.

 

But somewhere in this once upon a time that weird globalized world came into play. Somewhere in this once upon a time a thing called beauty standards ruined my perception of myself and what I should be as a girl — and someday, a woman.

 

In this once upon a time, this world started to change. People became more “body positive,” and started the movement of self-love. Accepting yourself for who you are. I was a woman by then. Already tainted by the old once upon a time and my own mental blockade. The self-love movement came too late for this princess — and she remains locked in her tower.

 

To me self-love is a myth — even people who claim to love themselves still complain about what they want to change — they call it a “journey,” which sure, I understand. But is there really a destination? A final point? A moment when “self-love” is truly achieved?

 

I don’t mean this to put down anyone working on their own path to better themselves, in whatever way that might be. But as a honest question.

 

In this once upon a time, is self-love really attainable?

 

I see friends and loved ones share their adventures in health and wellness. In life and career events. I see them try so hard to love themselves in a world that deems us all unlovable.

I swing both ways on the spectrum of self-love. As a now woman who is overweight and has no self-control, I go from loving everything about myself to loathing it.

 

Right now I’m in a state of loathe.

Depressive loathe.

That “I’m fat and I’ll always be fat because I have no self-control and can’t stick with anything,” kind of depressive loathe.

 

This is a woe-is-me post.

This is not a pity post.

 

This is a “I’m about to move to one of the statistically skinniest and most thin-obsessed nations in the world,” anxiety post (“hello darkness, my old friend”). Coupled with a some deep-seeded self-hate (not a myth) and societal beauty standards.

 

And while I know I am worth more than my weight, my large hips, my big butt, and thunderous thighs, right now, I’m stuck on the myth of self-love.

 

The journey is long, and I’m ready for the destination.

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