Survival of the fittest

You know, ever since I was 10, I’ve hated the way I looked—except for one brief year, from 22 to 23. That was when I started going to church and thought, for once, that the guys I liked actually liked me back. But that feeling was short-lived. I was wrong—they all chose other girls over me.

Returning to the body dysmorphia, the crying, the self-hate—it felt like coming home. Like slipping back into my natural state. Strangely, there was comfort in it. That year—when I thought I was finally seen—was confusing. I kept asking, If they find me attractive, then why don’t they choose me? The answer? I was wrong. They didn’t find me that attractive. 

Anyway, I don’t know if I want to keep going to church anymore. With body dysmorphia, you hate yourself so much that the idea of friends or family seeing you becomes unbearable. At least that’s how it’s been for me.

But here’s the part I weirdly love: going back to wearing no makeup, being okay with being “ugly,” not trying to impress anyone. There’s peace in that. No confusion. No expectations.

And I don’t want plastic surgery. I don’t want to marry someone, have kids, and then pass on features I was trying to hide—like a big nose or chin—and keep the cycle going. It’s painful. It’s inefficient. I’d rather just let my genes run their course and be done with it. Just letting natural selection do its thing.