why?

Why do we ever think we're not good enough for the world?

The question which, as of late, I am asking myself on a more or less constant basis. The question that has many reasons behind it, the most obvious of which being media and our perceptions of ourselves. I spoke to a girl the other day- a girl I happen to work with and casually invited her along for what I referred to as "Coffee and Bitching". We went to the Tim Horton's at the bottom of Foothills, went inside, got our coffees, and went to sit on the steps of the small, possibly unused church nearby. It was cloudy out, with no chance of meatballs.

Pardon the wordplay. "Cloudy With A Chance Of Meatballs" was one of my favorite books as a child.

To continue the story, it was cloudy. Her short, platinum-dyed hair and double-snakebite piercings seemed to shine in the gray. She tends to wear heavy eye makeup, and her blunt-cut bangs hang low down on her forehead. We sat there with our coffee and chatted, eventually getting to the topics relating to school. She was telling me about her women's studies class up at the university, and somehow we found ourselves deeply into a discussion about the role media plays on our perceptions of ourselves. She admitted to me that she once had an eating disorder, and only through a metaphorical "slap in the face" was she able to overcome it. When I was about twelve, I worried almost constantly about the way I looked, although I never actually had an eating disorder.

As we talked, I got to thinking and actually said out loud. "Why is it that we never think we're good enough? Good enough for the world, good enough for ourselves or the people around us, good enough for anything? Why is it that we can't be happy with the way we are?"

And it's true. You know it yourself. You cannot look someone in the eye and tell them without a flinch that you have never felt insecure about yourself. And if you can, you must have one hell of a poker face.

Have you ever looked in the mirror and hated your nose, or the shape of your eyes, or your freckles, the shape of your body, or even the look of your hands and feet? I'm quite sure that you have. I've hated every one of those things about myself, except for the freckles, and even then, that's only because I don't have freckles. At least, none that I'm aware of.

Stretch marks? I've got 'em. I am 20 years old, 5'7, and approximately 122 pounds, and I have ceased to care about how I am percieved by other people. Granted, I like to look good, but it is for myself and not just for the world around me. Unfortunately, in our world, image is everything.

I'm done with being angry at myself. I'm done with girls being depressed and angry with their bodies. It's official- I like the way I look.

And let me tell you, my friend, it's been a long, hard, and excruciatingly lonely road.