I bet that you look good on the dance floor

It’s the final day of my original challenge. So tomorrow I shall be writing a post on the process and what (if anything) I’m going to do with this blog, feel free to send me your ideas. 

But I still have one more thing to write about. 

Yesterday I had so many lovely responses, I was just overwhelmed and humbled by the responses. SO thank you everyone. Every comment, like, retweet, view means something to me. I value them all. 

Jamie told me I should post a picture of my face for this post. I decided against it. But it did help me to realise what I wanted to write. This I think is going to be the toughest one, because I have to do it without being vain. 

Not that I think anyone would ever call me that. But you know what I mean.

You see, on a good day, I can look at myself in the mirror and think that I look vaguely acceptable, on a great day, I can look in the mirror and think “wow I look good today” but on a bad day. Well on a bad day, like everyone I’m sure, I see before me a hideous creature. Fat, ugly, gross skin and weird coloured hair, and my scars, I see my scars a lot. 

My skin tells a story, my story. There is the scar from the first time I cut myself, heck there are scars from the last time I did as well, more recently then I would like. There are scars marking the stupid things I did as a teenager, a scar from my first ever day at work, a scar from a “sword” fight with my big brother. But these are all over me. 

There are days when I really hate them, along with the rest of the way I look. 

But there are days, when the cloud of mental illness is slightly less, that I don’t hate them, where I don’t hate the way I look, when I realise that, actually, I’m kinda pretty. Due to the sheer volume of water I drink I have really nice skin, it’s super pasty white, but it’s still nice. There are days when I look at my eyes and don’t see sadness but instead a spark of life. Where I don’t see a podgy face, stomach, thighs. In my lucid moments I see a girl who’s parents genetics have worked in her favour. 

Because on these days I feel like Jamie can be proud to call me his girlfriend (he always feels that way, or so he tells me,) I feel like I could get an extra smile from the guy at the supermarket. But mostly I feel like I could be a good role model to young women, I don’t wear lots of make-up or revealing clothes, I’m a healthy size, and I’m comfortable with my body. And these are things I want my sisters to feel. Happy with themselves, whatever their shape/size/hair colour. 

Sorry this isn’t as coherent as normal. But I guess for day number 7 I recognise that I have an outer beauty as well as an inner beauty, or maybe it’s just the inner beauty shining through (is that big headed to say?) I’m not a model, or a beauty Queen, but I’m happy with the way I look, freckles, man hands, scars and all. 

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