This morning I decided to watch How to Marry a Millionaire while I folded laundry. I’d never seen it before, but it is one of those famous movies from the past, and I can’t pass up a Marilyn Monroe movie.
But it reminded me of something.
I freaked out.
I thought my face was permanently damaged. I was a freak with this stupid freckle on my face.
I’m pretty sure I cried. My mom had to console me by telling me that Marilyn Monroe had one like that and that it was called a “beauty mark” and that I think calmed me down.
But it made me think of just how far back the hatred of my body I’ve had goes. I’m not sure what conditioned my 3-4 year old mind to think that my one freckle was going to ruin my entire appearance, but it definitely snowballed into something bigger. I spent a long time hating those freckles. Then I hated my legs, my butt, my stomach, everything.
I spend more days now liking my body than hating it, or rather just not caring, but I’m not perfect. I still have bad body image days, and I wear baggy sweatshirts and pants to make myself feel better.
There isn’t really a point to this other than just me realizing how far back this body dysmorphia thing goes in my life.