a confession of sorts

There are days when I can look in the mirror and be okay, hell, happy, even, with my body.

There are also days when I would rather slit my wrists with a rusty razorblade than look at another picture of myself.

The latter days seem more frequent...probably because I feel it more keenly in my gut. The other days are me compromising with my ideal body image in my head.

And the worst part about it--the worst part about me, overall--is that I literally can't find the energy to do something about it.

There are some days when I wish I'd been born a different person.