Self-Love & Self-Loathe: My Stories

As promised – here are my stories:

Yesterday, I went to Kohl’s (the store I feel at home; that can be bad- it’s my giant walk-in closet, except I have to charge my account to walk out with my new outfits).

Brief Bio: I used to be size XS when I was fit. So, I know for sure I’m no longer that size.

But I am in a little denial. So I was like, okay, hopefully, I’m S. But being a realist, I also took a Medium because let’s face it, I’ve lost self-control and discipline. [Easter Egg: I’m still hopeful despite being a realist]

I try on the S and I was able to get in. Yay me, but I looked like a tamal mal envuelto. Actually, more like a tamal bien relleno. Picture this, my back fat was bulging, the girls were squished, found it difficult to breathe, and I had very little movement.

Strange, I managed to put it on with ease, but taking it off was the huge struggle. I was scared of tearing it and having to pay for something that I wouldn’t be able to wear. As the panic attack was creeping in, I felt myself semi-hyperventilating and even that was hard because I really felt my lungs were collapsing due to being squeezed. But don’t fret as much as I did; I managed to get it off.

Thus, I was left facing the M blouse. After a stare off, I eventually won and put it on. Shockingly it didn’t put up a fight. It fit. I should’ve been content I found a blouse my size, but instead – at first I was like damn, marrana. But then I’m like wait a minute. I still look good. So I stopped myself by shushing Negative Nancy. I told myself, I’m not going to make myself feel bad for being like this. It’s my fault I know, but I shouldn’t put myself down. It’s still a pretty blouse and I’m still gonna rock it even if it’s a size far from the one I once was.

Also, because even though I’m fat, I’m still a friendly douche. Okay, maybe I don’t like to admit it, but I’m actually nicer than I give myself credit for. Describing myself as a douche is my defense mechanism (if you did not read that in Beans voice from Rango -sad face). Anywho, I did end up taking the M. I did get a bit sad, I ain’t gonna lie, but I had to push those feelings aside.

It can be super hard, I know, but it helps us live peacefully with our selves. We are who we got. We should be our greatest cheerleader. But instead, we are our worst critics. And it’s even harder when the media is enforcing a basic model for everyone. Standards that are absurd in most instances. I don’t want to be Barbie. I want to be myself and loved for what’s within more than the exterior. One size does not fit all. And I am not only saying it because I didn’t fit in the size I was before. We are not all meant to be the #same.

But it’s hard to shush that voice when we are so used to it. When we end up echoing the same cruel words to ourselves and believing them. And although I had that victory in the dressing room, coming home to take my makeup off was a completely different story. It was the version of me where I practice self-loathe instead of self-love. I play two roles: the protagonist, but my leading role is the antagonist.

I want to blame menstruation, but I know that’s only part of it. Here’s the story:

After removing the makeup and washing my face, a routine I’ve grown accustomed to, I couldn’t help but feel a strong sadness. All because my skin isn’t as it was years ago. Now it’s covered in more impurities than I’d like.

The healthier version of me was better. But, in my current state, I’ve been breaking out badly. So bad it might seem as if I don’t apply masks, do daily cleanses, but I do. They just don’t seem to work. And I’ve tried more brands than I could possibly remember. And that alone gets discouraging. Another factor it’s my poor, unhealthy diet. My kidney and my body needs a detox. Which I’ll be talking about in a different post. And I know it’s a severe problem that is harder to control, but it still gets to me when I have to see the real me without my mask. A mask of makeup that makes me feel more confident. It’s sad but it’s true. I’m not able to walk around without makeup because I feel less attractive.  Nancy loves that and she calls her cousin Debbie and they both want to chime in. The worst thing is that I allow them to. I start listening to them. And what they have to say is never nice.

And I know I’ve always had sensitive skin. But it wasn’t this bad. They were always flaws that I considered minor. You know the ones easy to ignore. Not this many. So what did I do? I should’ve shushed their voices, but instead, I joined them. I started being mean to myself to the point of making myself cry. Telling myself harsh things. I even went as far as saying, “ay pore so nadie te quiere” and then some. As if my worth was based on that. I know it’s not. But self-loathe triumphed self-love that time.

Hence making me feel like a hypocrite preaching self-love.

I sometimes am my worst enemy. I believe we all love ourselves to an extent but we are also our worst critics. At least that’s how it is in my life. And I know I am more than what is on the outside. I don’t want to stop being humble, but I am aware of my great qualities. But I highlight the bad instead of the good. It should be the opposite.

Don’t let your mean words by that mean skinny perfect skinned girl inside of your head be louder. Shush her. Don’t let her tell you your worth. Don’t hurt yourself. Remember the positive. Say goodbye to Negative Nancy and hello to Positive Patty.

Love Yourself.




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