Today it would appear, I mostly want to throw a pot of white paint over my face and chop off all my hair. I would also like to take scissors to all my clothes and get myself a whole new wardrobe.
Its taken me over an hour to do my hair and decide what to wear. My room is covered in clothes flung around from my anxious rage. The room still smells of slightly singed hair from trying to tame my unruly locks with straighteners.
My mum says I'm being dramatic. And perhaps I am. But I cant help how I feel.
I'm not asking for sympathy or compliments. I'm just writing it down in order to gain some sort of release from this frustration I feel.
I spend so much of my time admiring beauty in all sorts of different things. Beauty to me is like being given a gift. To see something beautiful nourishes my mind, I find it peaceful and fulfilling. But trying to recreate that feeling of beauty on my own body just doesn't seem to work.
Instead of being nourished, I am frustrated and angry. Filled with hatred for my annoying face and equally irritating hair. I have so many ideas of wonderful outfits in my mind, but ultimately end up back in my faithful old skinny jeans and hoody.
Why do I have this within me?
Why am I taunted by such idiotic and materialistic voices?
My mind is pressuring my looks into its ideal of perfection. An ideal that is probably unreal and unachieveable. So why can't I believe that?