Tl;Dr - First World Problems
My appearance is probably the worst and most problematic aspect of my life. This is a morning, like many others, where I spend hours over-analyzing myself in the mirror and wondering what I look like to other people. I don’t know which part of my upbringing made me resent my face so much, but that resentment grows stronger than my addiction with every day.
I remember being very young, and never having known my father, wishing I would grow into a face similar to my mother’s. Today I would rather perform plastic surgery on myself rather than look anything like her. And aside from my eyes, I don’t. It really has nothing to do with what she has or doesn’t have, she’s one of the most beautifully ageless women I know. Something is just inherently off with the way I perceive myself. Where others see emaciation, I see plumpness, where others see pallor, I see rouge, where others see distinct features, I see a complete failure of my genes.
There is no such thing as good enough or even satisfactory. I look at faces of the ill and the dead with envy instead of apprehension. No plastic surgeon will gut me to start over on a blank canvas, and though so many people have told me they would trade faces with me without a second thought, I think that if there are no mirrors in hell, only death will bring me satisfaction.
I’m beginning to think that my face isn’t really the problem. It’s the intense and never-ending desire to become someone outside myself and the realization that it is impossible, that drives me fucking insane.
-John.
