I have spent the last 3 years trying to fix myself, trying to become someone else.

I’ll love myself when I’m not broken, I always told myself. If I could just fix this pattern, or get over that fear, or be strong or whatever, then I could love myself and I’d be happy.

I’d be perfect.

Perfection was always what I strove for. I fought my fears, I fought my imperfections and flaws. I struggled against myself, day after day, trying to become whole, perfect, without flaws.

Perfection was safe.

I realized this morning though that this wasn’t working. That self love isn’t about becoming perfect and then liking yourself, it’s about loving yourself with all of your flaws. It’s about being you, and not battling that, but accepting it.

I’ve spent a long time being ashamed of who I am and who I’m not. Today, I’m learning to accept that whoever I am, that’s okay.

Who I Am

I am me. Who is me? Something I’m not necessarily discovering, but learning to accept.

I love passionately and deeply. I wear my heart on my sleeve. You gain my loyalty, and I’m yours forever.

I have fears of abandonment, which come out strongly when I’m sick.

I like to laugh loudly. And a lot. Laughing is one of my favourite things.

I grin like I’m 5 when I’m really happy. My nose wrinkles and my eyes crinkle and I’m usually laughing as well.

I love chocolate. And cookies. And cake. And tea. I don’t watch what I eat and I’m okay with that.

I’m skinny. Pencils have more curves than I do. I used to hate that, but now I know that’s just part of who I am.

I’m loud. I stand with my hands on my hips, and my feet apart, and I probably come across as standoffish to strangers.

I love low slung jeans and stilettos. I wear lots of black. I’ve got a million freckles and I’m very, very pale. I don’t tan, I burn.

There are moments when I feel intensely vulnerable. I get quite nervous sometimes, and I make terrible small talk.

I’m afraid that I’m secretly the world’s worst person.

I think I’m a damn good painter and that my work has an extraordinary quality that I don’t see very often. It has nothing to do with me, that’s for sure, but it shows up anyways.

I love romantic love stories. I’m the world’s biggest softy. I usually cry at the end. I believe in true love.

I can be incredibly snarky. Actually, there are times when I’m a downright bitch. I have little patience for ignorance and close-mindedness. Teenagers today annoy the crap out of me. Most of my peers annoy the crap out of me.

I’ve never been the social type. I prefer to keep to myself most of the time, and have a close knit group of friends whom I adore, but aside from that, I’m not really the person to go to the bars on a Friday night and see who can dress the sluttiest.

I am stubborn. And argumentative. But I usually think that I’m wrong, which makes it hard to defend my own opinions. I’ll still try though.

I’m excellent at ignoring myself. I’ve spent years denying my own body, rejecting it day after day.

I’m oftentimes a contradiction unto  myself. I can be terrified and brave, weak and strong, charismatic and annoying, loving and spiteful. I think that I make very little sense at the end of the day.

Surrendering

I’ve been fighting myself for years. Struggling against myself, against the world. I thought that I had to make things better – make myself better, fix myself, fix everything. I’ve been trying to “make” my life for years, constantly forcing it and getting nowhere.

All I do is drain myself, day in and day out. Not helpful.

So today I’m going to start trying something different. I’m going to start becoming comfortable with myself, maybe even become friends with me. I think that’s what my body’s been trying to tell me for the past several weeks. That I’m okay as I am, and that I don’t need to change anything.

The only thing that I need to do is heal. And to do that, I only need to listen.