To my phone I place my eyes, glancing from the camera lens

to the home button. Memories of self hatred and self conscio

usness cross my active mind, recollections of perfections pla

stered on the small screen running rampant in my thoughts. I

recall all I wish I was, all I wish I could be. Perfect straight h

air, clothing so fashion forward it makes my own rags absent

of all riches, and bodies the perfect shape, curves in the right 

place and planes where every woman once wished they woul

d be. I click the home button. The light of my entire life turns 

on, opening to everything I know I shouldn’t be dwelling on. I 

scroll, each video before the next another marking of all that n

eeds to be changed about me. Photos of everything so polished, 

each one detailing what needs to be done in order to be the mo

st perfect version of yourself. Stay away from dairy, it will blo

at you. Stay away from non-dairy, seed oils will inflame you. O

nly do cardio, anything else makes you too masculine. Only li

ft weights, cardio will make you “skinny fat.” I spiral down, d

own, down, into an endless pit of judgment and misguided info

rmation. I pause, breathing in so deeply through my lungs I ca

n feel my stomach expand and contract. That only furthers the

panic, the focus going on what isn’t right about my body. Stop. 

Take a quick snap shot break, put down your phone. Everythin

g is okay. You’re just as you should be. Each photo you see, e

ach video you come across, is merely a posed and edited imag

e of one moment in someone’s life. Comparison is the thief of 

joy. Don’t let it steal your livelihood. Don’t let it reach it out i

t’s feeble hands, fingers wrapping around your fragile heart, st

opping each beat, blocking your arteries, cutting out air. Hide 

from It, block it, do what you need. You’re you. You’re whole,

 always.

Picture this. A girl, given a phone as a way to be safe. She takes it, welcoming in the security and ability to contact her parents and friends at the snap of a finger. At first, that’s all she uses it for. Her world hasn’t been opened to all that is out there yet. A text sent to her bestie, and the conversation turns to the unknowingly morbid. 

“Do you have insta yet? Let me follow you.” 

“What’s insta?” 

One question, two words, and years of self doubt and self hatred to come all from the camera and the pictures this naive girl is about to find. 

I recall when my self worth wasn’t wrapped around a single picture, not like yesterday but like light years away. The camera, for a young girl like me, wasn’t just a recollection of history but actually a complete and whole representation of who I believed myself to be and who I thought everyone else thought I was. Before that became the only truth I knew, a photo was nothing more than a snap in time, to be viewed in the future, presently present and when time would pass, a recollection of my past. 

As I grew more conscious of my physical being, as I grew and curved and swirled and turned left and right and back and forward, my fingers would prod. They would run down my body, wondering if everything was normal. Was there something wrong? I felt wrong, I felt uncomfortable, and I felt incredibly alone. No one, not even the heavens, could provide a crumb of comfort in my box of cookies. Open the lid, reach your imperfect fingers in, and take a bite of the butter and white chocolate chip flavored dysmorphia. Polarizing and scattered throughout the confection that is me. 

These questions of if I was as I should be, each one begging for someone to acknowledge, my mother, my grandmother, anyone, please, did not get answered. Not for a long time, at least. So, I’d let people take photos, hiding what I was confused about. If I wasn’t sure about my curves and my planes, unsurety riddled each twinkle of my eyes in the photo. I can look back at these times, at the mementos in history, and see a girl who wants guidance. Someone to silence the unknown, for as humans, the unknown becomes the most terrifying omniscient being. The bump in the night, the shifting of the floorboards. 

It’s only fitting, really, that my guidance would come in the form of the media and the photos plastered across my phone. Inevitable, as dark as it may seem. Each photo would become further proof that how I looked, how I appeared, and how I carried myself was wrong. It was offensive, it needed to be changed, and I needed to look like how they did. 

Photos became rare. I let no one, not even my mother, take them from me. If I was not perfect behind the camera, my day would become that photo. No longer just a moment in history, I’d place my entire worth into how I looked behind the camera. I was engulfed in the pictures, what should just be a snap and a giggle. Nothing could save me from the black hole approaching me to pull me into its never ending darkness. 

I’d soon realize the problem was, in fact, the way I thought about myself and not my physical being itself. How I placed my completely fine limbs into the camera, and the absence of love for myself. An absence of love is an absence of comfort, and I needed comfort with every breath I took. In myself, I sought sanctuary. I’ve achieved some semblance of solace, and yet 

With each 

Breath 

I 

Take,

As the 

Air 

Fills 

My imperfect lungs, 

That girl looking for guidance is still my past, 

Still me. 

If I could go back and tell her she is 

Picture perfect

I’d walk through the heavens just to be there for her.