Rogaine and Push-up Bras

Yes, beauty is only skin deep, but what happens when you’re not even comfortable in your own skin?

Now, I’m not whiny and one of those people that complains about my life, as trust me, I really have nothing to complain about. I can portray an image, albeit a skinny one, of someone in control of her life for the most part.

So maybe it was just a perfect storm of little events recently, but if given the option, I would rather be anyone else than me lately. No, I don’t think I’m fat. No, I don’t think I’m unintelligent. No, I don’t think I’m a witch.

The problem is, I just don’t want to think.

I don’t want to think about the fact that I have one “real” bra (as in, not a sports bra) that kind of fits without driving me nuts—not that I have to wear it, anyway. Picture putting a pathetic imitation of intimate apparel on a 2-x-4 and you might just catch my drift.

I don’t want to think about the fact that I am no longer just shedding, but that I must seriously face the fact that I have severely thinning hair and a receding hairline at age 28. The past couple years I have gone from having my hair be my “go-to, feel-good” area to a source of embarrassment and shame—always pulled back, limp and lifeless.

I don’t want to think about the fact that every once in a while I will involuntarily catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror, and the first thing that strikes me is how alien and strangely remote it appears. It’s not that it seems completely unfamiliar, but it’s more like the unpleasant sensation of recognizing an acquaintance I never really liked.

I don’t want to think about the fact that food rules my life and I’m blogging about that again; the fact that the only thing I often look forward to is eating variations of the same things days after day, while simultaneously planning the next meal instead of enjoying the one that I have.

(Amy’s Mac ‘n Cheese pimped out with my veggies)

I don’t want to think about the fact that I ignore the yellow caution lights my body has been flashing, making excuses all the while and pushing those who try and help away.

I don’t want to think about how I want to look and feel like a woman, not a shell of what I used to or could maybe be again. I want to be curvy, muscular, strong like I was. I want to have hips, the ass and the chest I used to proudly call my own. I want to have hair that won’t stay on my pillow and feminine features that aren’t jutting, sharp and extreme.

I don’t want to think about how I am completely undressable. Nothing fits, nothing looks right, so I default to yoga pants and sweatshirts (when I can, of course). This means I rarely go out, as the yoga pants/sweatshirts look has yet to make it big in social circles.

I don’t want to think about how I used to have fun, used to have friends and used to have passion—and I mean real passion. Not the obsessive, compulsive/impulsive thoughts that float through my head every day, planning every minute, every workout, every meal. I want “healthy” passion to plan moderate workouts, creative outlets and varied, nourishing meals.

I don’t want to think about how I will be regarded after posting this, as it’s not that upbeat, it’s not food-oriented and it’s not inspirational. In fact, I don’t want to think about the fact that I will feel like a total ass and should have kept this to myself instead of venting it out in the open.

I don’t want to think about the fact that I’m not even comfortable in my own skin, with my own thoughts. Because while I grasp for that control in any way I can—food, exercise, isolation—it strangles me at the same time and I don’t recognize what I’ve become. (Or worse, I see it and don’t care.)

However…

Most of the things we don’t want to look at in ourselves are the very things we need to look at in order to know ourselves better and to become more fully who we are.

Right now, I am pushing myself in all the wrong ways. I push my body to do things that it shouldn’t have to do. And even without the proper care, the damn thing continues to function, even if only in survival mode.

When I’m lacking in one internal area, another picks up the slack and keeps me going. But I think it’s tired. I think it’s sending me signs that even though it’s giving all it has, that it’s on my side of this  thing, it can’t hold up it’s end of the bargain forever.

The hair, the clothes, the curves—those are all external, and I really am not concerned with looks. However, they are also external signs of internal struggle, and that, my friends, I suppose I need to be concerned with.

So, I’m not sure where I’m going with this and I don’t really want to think about it, but I need to step it up. Even if I’m not comfortable with where I am right now, I need to make myself uncomfortable and challenge my routine way of doing things.

Because while I can accept myself for what I am, this isn’t what I want to be, if that makes sense—probably not, but I’m rambling.

At any rate, I know I will regret posting this (and probably lose more hair from the stress…kidding), but I had to get it out there.

That whole, “use the blog for accountability” thing…

Anyway, if you actually read all this crap, make sure you check out my Chobani yogurt giveaway and get yourself in the running for some free bacteria!

P.S. Next post will be lighter, I promise, and will include something other than recycled food pictures and incoherent introspection.