The columns, commercials, news feeds, magazines, billboards, advertisements, gossip, shows, films, and pointless, endless images that tell me to hate my body are everywhere. They’ve infiltrated every facet of my world. They crawl across the uppermost part of my computer screen. They appear along the road when I drive. They sneak in between Buzzfeed articles and passive, semi-political Facebook posts, sit knowingly next to the Twix bars in the Stop & Shop checkout line, and hide beneath the lovable façade of my favorite television characters. And because of this, I am angry.
I am angry that this society is allowed to determine who should love their body and who should not. I am angry that the bodies – fat, thin, and everything in between – are seen, not as human beings, but as objectified forms of “inspiration,” for women, men, boys, and girls, to alter their own, to search for flaws, and to hate themselves. I am angry that, even in my most rational state, I am constantly fighting myself, constantly trying to reconcile self-acceptance and self-degradation, constantly wishing that my desire for body peace were not coupled with a desire to weigh less.
I am angry that some of the most beautiful people I know don’t feel beautiful.
I am angry that we are not all angry about this.
I am angry.