January 1st, 2009
I made a resolution to love myself more.
I knew it would be a hard thing to do, the first year was disgustingly painful, but it was something I had to do.
I was sick of looking in the mirror and hating myself.
Getting dressed every morning and hating how my clothes fit.
Looking at pictures of myself and hating what I saw.
January 1st, 2010
During the past year I have successfully moved my image of myself from a 4 to a high 7 out of 10.
I stopped imagining myself wearing the newest trend. I even stopped trying on certain hip clothes in stores - this decision prevented a lot of panic attacks.
I wore bikinis again. Mind you, only in the company of family...at the cottage...where no one else could ever see me.
Maybe a low 7.
It was a tough year.
January 1st, 2011
I feel good.
Better than I ever have before.
It has taken many serious discussions, and an ability to look hard at myself to determine where these expectations come from.
I could blame the media, my friends, peers, society, but in the end I truly believed every difficult image I had set out for myself.
Somewhere deep inside of me those beliefs still live.
Persistent little bastards.
But I can finally accept myself.
It makes a world of difference to be completely accepted by someone you love.
I will occassionally look in the mirror and think nasty thoughts (after all, this is no easy task) but more often than not, I love myself.
I think: Man! I look good.
And it feels good.
And so, I owe my stomach an apology:
As the longest standing recipient of my self-hatred, Stomach, you are the bomb.
You have withstood me jamming a piece of metal through you; three incisions for surgery; two seperate pregnancies; and every pair of jean I have ever buttoned up around you - yet you still hang around.
You've taken every brutal comment I have thrown your way; soldiered on through every nasty period; and you have never asked for anything in return.
Thank you Stomach.
You are truly something beautiful.