The Demise of My Thighs

Dear Editors of Cosmo,

Go fuck yourselves. Stop telling me how to be prettier, thinner, look better in a bikini, look better naked, please my man, have hot hook-ups with my best friend's boyfriend, lie and get away with it..well you know what I'm saying.

Fuck you and your proverbial hatchet to my self-esteem. Fuck you and your 18-gauge shotgun to my disintegrating-by-the-millisecond body image. Fuck you and your overdose pills of skinny and pretty to my old and still impressionable mind. Fuck you for making me ashamed that I am me and not ten years younger or 2 feet taller.

Fuck you to my husband, who ordered me the magazine "for the articles". Yep. The articles that tell me how to be prettier, thinner, look better in a bikini, look better naked, please my man..because that's what it's all about isn't it? Who's the weaker sex?

Last but not least, fuck me. Fuck me for losing sight of myself. Fuck me for making a FrankenMess out of the body God gave me. Fuck me for being so weak-minded and unassurred that I allowed this transition in the first place.

Yeah. Fuck me.

Me vs. Myself vs. I

I have created this blog for no one but me. Its sole purpose is to give me an outlet to vent my anger and frustration, to lay bare all the things that haunt me, that interfere with my marriage and with my peace of mind.

This is where it begins. This is the place where I will identify and come face to face with my so-called inner demons. Unfortunately, every single one of those demons looks like me. Weird. Anyway, they allow and encourage me to buy into all the bullshit that the media wants to sell to me. They want me to keep sizing up the random girl next to me, comparing thigh sizes, wondering if she looks better in a two-piece or if I'm the loser of that round. They want me to feel threatened by younger women, and force me to feel guilty about every piece of food that I consume. They want to keep me awake at night wondering whether it was me or the hot girl on TV that my husband was fantasizing about during sex. The torturous list goes on and on.

I am not a feminist. I am not a man-hater. I am not a lesbian. I am not the kind of girl who wishes ill will on pretty girls. Okay, that part was a lie. Yeah, I do that, and it's an immature thing to do, and it's birthed from my own insecurity, but also from my shallowness. Another nameless demon. Sheesh.

My demons suck. I want them evicted. They are good-for-nothings. Freeloaders. Spacehogs. They are taking up precious space in my soul and in my dwindling peace of mind. They are making my existence a very literal nightmare.

I want to live again. I want freedom from my psycho thoughts. I want my marriage to be divorced from the damage these demons have inflicted.

And I let them.

By writing this blog, I can explore all the things that tear me up, and then I can explore the reasons WHY all these things tear me up. Sounds, easy. It's not. This is going to suck, and I will more than likely learn some hard truths about myself that I am currently not willing to admit to.

So it begins.