Some days I think I have this whole body image issue licked - or at least pummeled into submission - and other days I wake up to see a series of pictures of myself wherein I closely resemble a frat boy off of a month-long bender. Bloated and corpulent, sweaty and disheveled. I want to make out with Vince Vaughn, not look like him.

Sigh.

I have perspective. I do. I have to or I'll go off the deep end. I'm more concerned about how unhealthy I look. I've always had a very full face and, from a side perspective, it isn't the most flattering angle of me. I've accepted that. What I can't abide is looking like a hot mess.

It all upsets me. I can't deny that it doesn't. I have very strong, visceral reactions to changes in my appearance, and deviations therein have a tendency to throw me into overdrive. I have to be careful that it doesn't border on obsession because I'm having an off day.

For as much as I say -and believe - that there are worse things than being fat, I know that once I start looking unhealthy, the depression and panic attacks aren't too far behind. And fat is usually an indicator of that for me, and that's just no good.

Ah well. Always the struggle.

Posted by Erin at 03:24 PM | filed under: Ouch