This Is What I Mean When I Say I’ve Let Myself Go
And I know, I’m not the only one.
This is something that I typically keep inside, all to myself — especially over the past year. Staying home with the pandemic has been tough on my mental health and it’s contributed to some deeper depression which tends to make me more reclusive and uncomfortable with my appearance.
I don’t look in the mirror if I don’t have to. I hate it. I don’t take photos either. I don’t like to admit how much I hate my appearance these days. Or more to the point, I hate the rising shame and disappointment. I don’t like to admit that my brain works that way.
When I look into the mirror, I see baggage. In certain, outward ways, see a shell of the person I used to be. And I feel shame. I see the way I looked 7 or 8 years ago, and I know the world would surely decide I’m worth… less now. Just because I was conventionally “cuter” back then.
God, I hate it. I hate buying into the stigma that comes along with being fat, frumpy, ugly or supposedly sexless.
I don’t feel good about my appearance anymore, but I also try to ignore it. I try to live my life like none of that shit matters, because ideally, it wouldn’t. But the shame is still there.
