I’m really insecure about my body image.
Working in the TV industry hasn’t helped that at all. I have a bachelor’s degree in Women’s Studies, and I do consider myself a feminist. You’d think that by now I’d have a handle on all this.
The truth is, I don’t.
I recently joined 24 Hour Fitness not only in an attempt to ease my anxiety, but also to get back into shape. I miss being able to walk up stairs without feeling like I was gonna die.
I always think about how powerful I could be if I could re-direct the part of my brain that worries about this to something else. To making money, to creativity, to math skills. Anything would be more helpful than this constant worrying.
Do I look fat in this, does this show a bulge, or doesn’t it? I can’t tell because psychologically I’m starting to become obsessed, so is this a psychological issue or is it a real body issue?
Issue. What a word. A “body issue.” As if having a roll in your stomach is a flaw, a problem. There’s really nothing wrong with it. If you don’t like it, fix it. If other people don’t like it and you happen to not give a damn, that’s fine too.
I wish I could follow my own advice.
It upsets me that I follow the status quo on this issue. I wish I could just…not. Because there’s really nothing wrong.
I think when it comes to a body the only time you might ever be in the wrong is if you are killing yourself with your eating and exercising habits.
But then again, that’s your choice.
I always knew I loved to write. I just never knew what I wanted to do with my writing.
I like telling stories, but specifically I love telling the stories of real people. I like the imperfection of a dialect and the misspellings and improper grammar of raw communication.
I like that everyone is a little rough around the edges.
I’ve finally figured it out today that I want to capture humanity in words — the good, bad, ugly, the humor and ultimately twisted beauty that is human nature.
I don’t know if it’s naive to feel confident in forever, but that’s just how I feel.
I’m so negatively affected by mediocrity. I’ve never understood apathy and I never will.
As much of a romantic as I secretly am, one thing that always kind of gets me thinking is the phrase, “I was made for you.”
Because I’m thinking: I don’t want to have been made for anybody specifically. Even if they were made for me. It sounds fake, doesn’t it? “I’m here because I was made for you,” vs:
“I’m here and I love you out of my own free will to do so. Because I believe that you’re the most special person I’ve ever met. That’s why I love you, and that’s why I’ll stick around — not because of some ordained contract.”
Something that I always think about is what freedom really is.
I always think that I’m getting so close and then all of a sudden something snaps me back and I realize how far away it really is. That’s probably my least favorite feeling. It hurts worse than what I imagine heartbreak feels like, because to have something dangled in front of you, something you want more than anything, to have it taken away from you like you were never going to get it in the first place, that is gut wrenching.
I just stare at the ceiling or the sky sometimes and wonder what it feels like to be so high and limitless. It’s a kind of boundless sensation I associate with freedom when I feel hopeless and barred in and it makes me think that maybe achieving such a light feeling of freeness is possible — if only I could get up there somehow?
I wonder if freedom is not an achievable if you’re trying to get it. I wonder if it’s some kind of zen thing. I wonder if it’s similar to achieving happiness.
Freedom, I’ve always thought, is a right. But really, I wonder if it’s selfish.
It really is true, isn’t it? The thing about one part of your life working out while another part struggles for your attention.
The horrible thing is that you could care less about the other part. Because the part that’s working out is too much fun.
Sometimes I think about the term “dead weight” and I never know how badly I should feel if I were to cut it out of my life. There was a point where that dead weight was alive and it was getting me through, but now it just seems heavy. Boring. Maybe even a little tedious.
There’s a secret in my heart that even I don’t know.
I feel heartbroken. Dis-spirited, something to do with my soul feeling like it got shot and is slowly floating to the floor waiting to be still forever.
It’s so frustrating to feel behind closed lips with eyes and ears wide open.
I’m not a politically correct person, so my very politically correct professor has a problem with my word choices.
I don’t know, I’ve never put much stock in words.
What a funny thing for a writer to say.
Every time I declare that people look at me like i’m an idiot — like, duh.
But honestly if you just sit in the glow of what it feels like to be happy, really genuinely happy for no real reason, it’s a great thing.
I’ve always been told that you choose happiness. I’m a big believer in being allowed space and time to be a bitch, to be mad, sad, cry, or yell. So I think it’s fine not to choose happiness in some moments.
I do think you can get stuck. I know I do. I know that eventually after all the stifled cries and when your puffy red eyes are finally dry, you need to keep them that way. You need to open yourself back up to happiness because sometimes it’s hard to choose when crying and laying in bed is so much easier.
Happiness is hard to come by. It’s hard to hold on to. So once you figure out what keeps you in the light and out of the dark, make sure to hang on to that as tightly as you can because even though it’s harder, it’s worth it.
Trust me, it’s worth it.