I can feel the pressure. The pressure to be... Beautiful. To be perfect. To be...
For the past almost three years now, in hindsight, my transmogrification from how I used to view myself to how I view myself NOW is almost inconceivable to me. I look at pictures of me from years prior, and it's as if I'm mourning the loss of something... of someone. Of my old external self.
The struggle is whimsical; it's almost become a habit, all this constant self-deprecating, filled with so much aversion to my own bodily image. But every now and then, I'll have a day where I feel more up to par. More lustrous. More appealing. That tidbit of confidence is short-lived, however, because even then, I'm so hard on myself, still not satisfied.
My outlook on vanity has become skewed, to say the least. I've knowingly fallen victim to the hype, to the machine that we feed, as to what is socially "beautiful." Here I am, counting calories, calculating how much of an intake will not only contribute to weight gain, but shopping around for countless "drinks" that will help me to retain the weight as well; I'm heading back to the gym in a couple of days to begin (again) my weight training. I fawn over magazines of men with rippling muscles, bulging biceps, washboard abs, perfect thighs, diamond calves, etc. There's this sub-conscious part of me inside, dictating, "you have to look like that." And I will stop at nothing.
And then there's my (facial) cosmetic surgery I'm getting this summer. The ultimate step into the world of superficiality. That's where it all begins. That's how deep my insecurities run. And it's flabbergasting to me, because I'm sentient as to what it is I'm doing and to what image I'm perpetuating...but I can't stop it. I can't stop myself. The hunger to be flawless is becoming voracious.
Whenever I'm not at home locked away in the privacy of my room, and I'm actually interacting with people, in my mind (in regards to other men, ESPECIALLY those I aspire to look like), I begin to distinguish physical traits of theirs that I covet. And when I summon up enough courage to look in the mirror, I begin to abhor just how much I don't fit my liking. I ask myself why I don't look like the athletic guys I see or why I can't seem to emulate what I see in Dolce & Gabanna ads or what I see on the cover of Men's Fitness Magazine. Hell, even when I'm with my (guy) friends and we spot another we consensually agree is physically attractive, before I EVER consider myself coming close to having any speck of a chance, I just assume if the guy we're eying is eying us back, it's because of said friend, not me. There's at least one thing about the majority of all my male friends I can find to be somewhat appetent of, as bad as it sounds. Some of them are so pretty and so perfect and have the ideal body and this and that and the other. I keep trying and trying harder and harder everyday to keep up. But it's debilitating.
What happened to me? It seems that even after all this time, still, I have yet to come up with some kind of sound response. It may seem idiotic to some of you, this internalized madness, but at least I have the bravery to openly admit that I am insecure with myself and the way I look.
This pressure, it's burdensome. They say that it takes an amplitude of pressure to make a diamond... but sometimes I wonder if I'm just translating that euphemism incorrectly. Nevertheless, I can feel the pressure. The pressure to be beautiful. The pressure to be...perfect.
I can feel the pressure to be...something I'm not.
copyright 2011
