I think there’s truth to it, being aware of those actions being bad. But what can you do? There’s a certain helplessness behind it. I think I’m in denial. Because in reality, even if I do lose weight, I’m still going to be ugly. Even if my cheeks or some other part of my body hallows a bit, I’m going to be just as ugly as before since I never even showed my body in the past. The hardest pill to swallow is that I’m never escaping this body. And I’m not sure there’s any point in letting myself believe I can. Who am I? The face on the outside which I detest? The voice on the inside that never stops fudging talking or thinking or whatever the fudge this constant stream of words is? Who am I? I don’t think I’d be able to handle actually being this body when it looks like this. When it expresses itself like that. I hate my expressions. I hate the way my mouth moves, the way I smile, the way I laugh, the way I frown and the way I cry. It all looks ugly, deformed to me. I hate my cheeks and my cheekbones that probably can’t even be seen. I hate the shape of my face and head and I hate how short my hair is. I hate my hairline and I hate my hands. I hate how hairy and masculine this body is despite being female. I hate having genitals. I hate having a physical form at all. I hate my uneven nails and my flat feet. I hate my thighs so much. I hate how scars scab over, it’s so ugly. I hate my stomach. I hate the arch of my back. I hate even having a gluteus Maximus. I hate my face. I hate everything that could ever be perceived of me by another person. I hate that this body is what is supposed to represent me through life. I hate that I’m trapped with it. I hate that it’s all I can use. I hate being awake in it. I hate being aware of it. I hate that sometimes I feel like it is me when it isn’t. It isn’t mine and it won’t ever be something I claim as mine. Not with this face. Not ever.
I hate that I all I can do is hate and complain and wish and want and cry.
I hate that I don’t know if this is a phase or a prelude to how the rest of my life will turn out. A sign that I should go ahead and end it or something I have to hold on until the end to get out of. I know human brains don’t truly mature until 25 or older. But I’m not sure if it’s worth it. It’s not like I mean anything to the world itself. It’s not like it’ll make any difference.
I can’t remember what I was doing anymore.