I wonder what it feels like to feel genuinely beautiful.
I wonder if my life would have been easier if I was one of those pretty girls.
I wonder what it would be like to be loved by the people we cared about and not in the way they needed us.
It seems as if everyone’s ideal of me is in me not being me: 10 pounds heavier, four inches longer–curvier with less in the cheeks, more definition of the jaw. It seems as if everyone’s ideal of me was the frail, lithe girl that existed within the confines of her own depression. The me that fought to eat because I fought to understand why I would want to sustain an existence I did not want; a body I no longer wished to house.
people insisted so much shit in me that the way I looked at life changed drastically and now I don’t even know myself..
All I ever wanted in life is to be loved. to be needed. to be wanted and to want to live.
I think the reality is that I would rather be beautiful in the heart and healthy in the soul. To allow myself to no longer worry about if I was beautiful to anyone else except me.
I think the reality is that it’s all unbelievably bullshit: the idea that I am supposed to exist for anyone other than me.
I hate the fact that I care so much of what people think of me and what I needed to do to please them wherein I know deep down in my very core I would never be able to please anyone.