When I look in the mirror, fully clothed, I think I might look beautiful. I dress well, have nice makeup, blonde hair. I'm thin, but not too thin and have curves in all the right places. But if I take those clothes off and stand in front of the mirror, I'm horrified at what I've done to myself.
After 6 years, I've cut, burned, sliced or stabbed every area on my body that looks so well when fully clothed. The skin on my bare arms, chest, breasts, stomach, hips and thighs is no longer a creamy, smooth, white surface. Instead, it's puckered, bumpy, discolored and ugly. My constant need to hide these self-inflicted imperfections has brought on the paranoia of being found out, the pain of rejection when I am found out, the need to leave early due to panic, the addiction of archaic blood-letting and the fatigue of anemia.
I'm angry with myself and with my naked body. But the thing that angers me the most is that I have suffered no heartbreak, loss, physical ailments or family trouble. If I had, then I would have something to blame. But because I have been blessed with what many would call a perfect life, the blame is mine.