No More Hiding

Acceptance V.S. Reality.

If Acceptance was a person, they'd be the most boring. With perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect teeth, smile, height, weight, curves, personality, laugh, voice, and everything in between.

But it is of the quirks that make one interesting: the small scar they got from a funny story, the tragedies behind their eyes, the loud contagious laughter, the dyed hair, the blemishes, the weight they are happy at, and everything in between.

If Reality was a person, I just described them.

And it's a funny thing, because most people I have ever encountered and had the best conversations with are twins, triplets, quadruplets, of their mother, and mine, Reality.

And so why do I push myself, become my own motivator to squeeze and pain myself into fitting into the sons of daughters of Acceptance, instead of just coming into reality with myself?

Why do I look at photo shopped magazine covers, see models who worked countless of sweaty hours in the gym, and feel bad about who I am?

With my blemishes. And weight. And height. And quirks, personality, features, and glasses.

Why do I need to be a daughter of Acceptance to finally come into terms with myself?

Because the children of Acceptance are deemed perfect for society, and I am not anywhere close?

Or perhaps it's because I was never taught how.

How to love myself, as much as I love others.

-D.