There’s Rosie, Cara, Candice, Antonina, Kendall, Emily, Allie, Adriana, Barbara, Nina, Nicola, Bianca, Lily, Irina, Amelie, Victoria, Valeria…

And then there’s me.

Why me?

“I’m not that hungry mom, thank you.”

I hurried out of the kitchen, a mountain berry blast powerade in my hand. I tied the bright neon green laces on my fuchsia Nike free runs.

“You can’t go running on an empty stomach! You need to eat something! You’re going to pass out!”

Maybe that’s what I wanted. I was sick of it.

I wasn’t just running, I was running away from myself.

Whiter teeth, smaller waist, longer legs, thinner thighs, longer hair, wider hips, clearer skin.

“I need to weigh 100 lbs before the summer mom. I’m not going anywhere near a pool until I lose weight.”

It began as a diet; a workout routine. It turned into an image fixation.

I occasionally tried to skip meals but by the end of the day I would shove whatever I was craving into my mouth.  Food was too seductive. I’d binge and cry; break down at how disgusting I was.

I would look at my reflection on the mirror and point out every single flaw. My face burned red as tears of desperation poured down my cheeks.

“I need to do something. I can’t look like this any longer.”

If it hadn’t been for my parents’ intervention I might have developed a serious eating disorder.

I had become obsessed with my weight and looks. My self-esteem and confidence swept the floor with every step I took.

I cried myself to sleep contemplating how vague and shallow my burden was while others had no roof to sleep under, no food, no health.

That did not stop me from lamenting.

“I hate myself. I hate my body.”

Why me?

My mom told me I would find peace the day I stopped comparing myself to others.

It’s hard not to put myself down when all I see are good-looking models and celebrities on every single medium. TV, magazines, web. Sculpted facial features. Goddess-like figures.

Society praises them. I praise them.

It’s a war against myself.

I still haven’t triumphed. I battle every day.

I’m no Rosie, Cara, Candice, Antonina, Kendall, Emily, Allie, Adriana, Barbara, Nina, Nicola, Bianca, Lily, Irina, Amelie, Victoria, Valeria…

I’m no supermodel.

But I am more than just looks.

My weight, my height, my eye color, my hair length, my facial features don’t define who I am.

My appearance doesn’t define me.

I can’t expect others to accept me, if I don’t accept myself.