Balance

I hate waking up in the morning.
I hate that I have to try on 5 outfits to figure out what I want to wear in the morning.
I hate that even by the 5th outfit, I’m still not satisfied with the way I look.

I hate that I have to wear make up to feel even remotely beautiful, and even when I do, I hate that it won’t cover up all of the imperfections on my face as much as I want it to.
I hate that I just got 4 pairs of new jeans for Christmas, and those don’t even fit anymore.
I hate that I only own one pair of jeans that I feel comfortable in, and that I have to wear t-shirts just so that my love handles don’t show.

I hate that when my gym teacher calls my name for attendance, even if I’m standing right in front of his nose, he still can’t manage to find me because I’m so short.

I hate that I look at my friends and I wish I had their bodies.
I hate that I even get the smallest urge to skip lunch or dinner, just so I don’t have to add on those extra calories.
I hate that I’m not motivated to exercise.
I hate that I know it’s my fault I’m not thin.
I hate that by 3rd period, all I can think about is food.

I hate that I’m not witty, clever, or funny like my classmates.
I hate how I look and feel like a fool when I try to say something humorous and it blows up in my face.

I hate that even my parents tell me to lay off the sweets and exercise more, even though they are the ones who are supposed to love me no matter what I look like.
I hate how my friends say that they wish they could be as skinny as me, and at that moment, all I can think about is how I’m exactly the opposite.

I hate that I have to convince myself to go to soccer conditioning.
I hate that when I do go to soccer conditioning, one of the new girls always passes me up.

I hate that I’m not as thin as I used to be, and my sister is still, and probably will always be, a twig.

But…

He loves me anyway.

I love that he sees the beauty in me and loves me for it, and I love even more that he sees my faults and loves me for them too.
I love that on a day that I feel particularly unattractive, that is the day that he looks into my eyes, runs his fingers through my hair, and says with the deepest sincerity that I look beautiful, even when I hadn’t mentioned at all that I detest the way I look, so he couldn’t have possibly been bluffing to just make me feel better.

I love that he loves me for me.
I love that he keeps me sane.
I love that I cry less because of him.
I love that I love myself, even when I don’t, because of him.
I love that he’s always there to keep me smiling.
I love him, because he made me realize how much I should love me.

And so I do.