Thursday, 4 December 2014

Personal: I'm a Blogger, but I'm not a size 8

I've never been the girl who cycles, endlessly through her entire wardrobe, before stepping back, weepy and exhausted to see the destruction that has inevitably become. Clothes all over the floor, shirts crumpled, tights pulled on and off, left inside out, discarded and rejected. But the past few weeks that girl has been me.

Today I stayed in, comfortable in my pyjamas and missed a night out and a Christmas meal with some very good friends of mine, purely because I felt embarrassed and self concious in everything I put on. I felt sick at the thought of leaving the house, having people look at me, wondering, if they are judging me for my size, for trying to squeeze my thighs into a pencil skirt. I missed out.

I haven't been very active on my blog of late, purely for the reason the thought of taking photos of myself sickens me to my stomach. I've never been a size 6 model, but I've never looked in the mirror and hated the skin I'm in, up until now.

I feel like my own flesh is a prison, I'm stuck in this body that doesn't look good in a mini skirt, that can't rock a bodycon dress, that arches it's back to try to hide from the world rather than walking tall. It's miserable. For someone who loves clothes and fashion, I can count on one hand the amount of clothing items I wear on a daily basis, these days. My lived in smock dress that 'skims over the chub,' my boyfriend jeans that are so baggy, you can't see the size of my thighs and oversized jumpers that do nothing for me. 

The more I loath my body and the way I look, the more I withdraw from the blogging world. Every bloglovin' post seems to jeer at me 'look at this seasons must have item that you won't be able to pull off' and 'look at how confident I am in myself.' I like to torture myself with it, none the less. To look at the models, the skinny bloggers, the naturally petite girls until the tears are running down my face and I inevitably turn to food for comfort and oblivion. 

This post isn't an excuse, nor is it a promise to myself to try harder, to love who I am. Rather, it's is brain vomit, because expressing myself through this space on the internet is what I am best at. I wish I could love myself, unconditionally and unapologetically but for now I can't. So, Amy, I am sorry for that. 

Amy x
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