Insecure

Not sure how I look today. My sweater is more open than I thought it would be, and I’m left feeling vulnerable, exposed.

Nothing closes around my chest. As a young woman, I never, in a million years, ever imagined I would have this problem. I was little in the middle and flat chested.

I carry my extra weight in different places than I did when I was a girl. It’s not really my hips, legs, and behind so much as it used to be.

But I didn’t really have extra weight when I was young. I was always in a healthy weight range. It was certain family members who made me feel I was heavy, when in fact I wasn’t. And that’s just mean.

Not all of them did this. My father and his side of the family never said anything about my looks as far as I can recall—no adults, anyway. My cousin used to say I had the Donaher nose, but that was about it.

It was my mother, my mother’s brother, and now my aunt. And I think it qualifies as emotionally abusive. It has messed so badly with my head that I don’t know if it’s undoable. My therapist thinks it is.

Neural pathways. But again I face the question: what do I say to myself instead of all the negative things? I am beautiful? Is that too general? And how deeply do I have to actually believe it for it to work?

I know. I’m saying the same stuff over and over. But I’m trying to work it out. I’m trying to fix it, so it’s not such a pervasive force in my life. There are so many bigger and more important things in the world that it makes me feel incredibly small and silly to be so preoccupied with it.

Who cares if I look good or not? Probably I look fine. Or the same as always. Or both. Probably I’m the only one who notices any flaws, either real or perceived.

Can I just move on to bigger and better things, now?

I know. No one’s stopping me. Only me.

Have a good morning, friends. Thanks for listening ❤️ ♥️ 💜