When I look in the mirror,

I see a girl who is so incredibly sad. Tragically unhappy. My friends and family think I live a perfect life because I’ve learned to smile through the pain. I have mastered the ability to appear happy even when I’m not. At 18, I’ve become a phenomenal actress – showing others only what they want to see. Or what they can handle.

I am fat. No, really. I am fat. Morbidly obese is the medical term but I prefer fat. I have a fat ass, fat upper arms, a fat belly, fat hips, fat thighs and a fat face. I have stretch marks and I have cellulite.

My Body – two little words that hold such power over my feelings of self-worth. How much longer will I continue to criticize myself for wanting food, not exercising per day and not being the media’s version of what’s right? How many more hours of pinching fat on my stomach and wishing I had the courage to induce myself to vomit? What amount of self-loathing and flagellation will be enough to convince myself that I am not disgusting and irredeemably ugly? My body has been the enemy for a good sum of my life. It is something to beat down and suppress into submission.

I am tired of only seeing a chubby, mushy, worthless girl that doesn't deserve to eat or to live. I am tired of feeling slightly sick every time I look in the mirror, terrified of what I may see. Can I tolerate the image reflected back, or will I cry and decry the need to face the world while appearing so broken? I don't want to be stuck, forced to choose between subduing my body into a weak, unnatural shape and nourishing it so I can be free to move and run.

I sometimes fleetingly daydream about what it would be like to wholly accept myself, but in truth, the word “self-acceptance” has no tangible reality for me; it is a word on a page that applies to other people, never me.

I just wished I loved myself as much as people believe I do.