What is beauty, and how do we define it? Is it a paradox that has been placed upon humanity? Is it defined by society or individuality? Beauty is subjective; it is something that almost all of us strive to obtain in some form or the other. To some beauty is defined by the darkness of their tan, to others beauty is defined by the merit of a person’s character. For the longest time, to me beauty was defined by perfection – which is perhaps the greatest myth to be bestowed upon society. Perfection has the ability to turn us into droids ¬¬¬-- manufactured parts of who we truly are. Yet for some unknown reason the idea of being “perfect” has always transfixed me. Everything in life is extremely subjective, that is why I’ve always known that perfection is somewhat unobtainable. What is perfect to one person may be an atrocity to the next, yet for some profound reason perfection is something that so many of us strive for, it has been deemed a panacea, as though if we were suddenly able to attain “perfection” all our troubles would miraculously vanish. Yet clearly, that ideology reigns to be erroneous. Albeit unobtainable, I’ve always idealized perfection, just as many people do. I’ve always tried to mirror an image of perfection, concealing what was on the inside by painting a smile across my face. Ever since I can remember I’ve always had an all-consuming fear of not being good enough, good enough for myself or good enough for anyone else. This fear never faded; as I grew older it simply began to grow with me. Even though my parents have always loved me unconditionally, I’ve always feared that I’d somehow manage to let them down. Growing up they never set expectations for me, they simply loved me and allowed me to be who I was, but as I grew older I began to set expectations for myself. I felt a need to plan everything out because the unknown scared me. I’d set unrealistic, unobtainable goals for myself and I’d desperately strive to reach them. This translated into almost everything I did, weather it was academics, friendships, or even my weight. I had to make sure that I wasn’t failing, that I wasn’t being a bad friend, essentially I had to make sure that I was doing my best at everything I did. I was never pressured to do so by anyone other than myself; I felt the incessant need to obtain all the goals I set for myself. If I was unable to attain them, I was subjected to the ferocious cruelty of my mind.

Beautiful Delusions, 2
Perhaps the most unrealistic of all the goals I had set for myself was my goal to be “thin”. For as long as I can remember, my appearance had daunted me. To be more specific, I’ve always hated my body. I’ve never been overweight, but I was never really skinny either. No one had ever called me fat, yet for some unknown reason when I looked at myself in the mirror – fat was the only thing I saw. For the past five years, I’ve been subjected to the torment of my own mind. When I turned thirteen, my body began to change, as is normal at that age but at the time it wasn’t normal to me. Everything began to change, and I simply despised it. This “growth spurt” is what ultimately lead me to the conclusion that I was “fat” and because of that I began doing everything that was within my power to lose weight. I began to severely restrict my diet, but of course this could only go on for so long because my parents would never allow me to starve so they would force me to eat. I’m not sure how, but somewhere along the way I developed bulimia nervosa. For those who do not know what it is, Bulimia-Nervosa is an eating disorder categorized by binging and purging. Many people have severe misconceptions about eating disorders, eating disorders are usually connoted with extreme weight-loss and extremely low body weight but a person doesn’t necessarily have to be underweight to be diagnosed with an eating disorder. Eating disorders are mental health conditions where a person is often scrutinized by their own mind, forcing them to believe that they are not thin enough or beautiful by any means of the word. It is also sometimes associated with body dysmorphia, people suffering from eating disorders have skewed body perceptions causing them to see themselves differently than others see them. I have struggled with bulimia for the past five years, for three of those years it was on and off. At times, I’d convince myself to stop because clearly it wasn’t worth it. I never lost significant amounts of weight, it simply allowed me to eat what I wanted, and maintain my weight. I managed to conceal my eating disorder for quite some time, but when I turned fifteen my parents had finally found out about my eating disorder and I managed to get things under control, I had recovered… or so I thought. Recovery wasn’t a miraculous cure, it simply meant that I had stopped purging but the horrible incessant thoughts – they were still there. My mind was constantly scowling at me, “You’ll never be good enough, you’re simply a failure at everything, you can’t even lose weight.” I desperately fought to push those thoughts aside, and to convince myself that I wasn’t fat, that I was in fact beautiful. For almost a year, I had managed to keep those thoughts at bay; I convinced myself that I was happy with my body and that everything was alright. Sadly, once I turned sixteen all of that began to deteriorate as the noxious thoughts slowly began to creep back out of the recesses of my mind. Like a disease they began to spread, slowly infecting each and every one of my thoughts. My reflection began to taunt me once more; all I could see were my flaws. My insecurities consumed me, I began to feel worthless again – a feeling that I was all too familiar with. I finally convinced myself that I knew what the answer was, I had to lose weight. I convinced myself that losing weight would equal happiness, I believed that it would absolve me of all my problems, that it would magically make things right. What I didn’t realize at the time was that if I couldn’t be happy with myself to begin with, no matter how much weight I lost – I never would be.

Beautiful Delusions, 3
I slowly started to restrict my calorie intake, at first I convinced myself that I was losing weight “the healthy way” that I wasn’t going to partake in any detrimental behavior – for a while it was true. I was working out every day, and eating healthy. I felt great and it actually started to pay off, I started losing weight and for a few fleeting moments that made me ecstatic. Finally! I had done it, I had lost the weight and I’d managed to do it the right way — but of course that still wasn’t good enough for me. In the course of 4 months I had lost 14 pounds, but even after I had lost all that weight I still wasn’t happy with my body. I still couldn’t stand my reflection, I still couldn’t accept myself the way that I was, and the thoughts — they only got worse.

Beautiful Delusions, 4
As a little girl I was raised to believe in fairy-tales and happy endings. I existed within a metaphorical bubble, but as I grew older the bubble began to pop. I began to grasp the crude realization that the world we live in – It was no fairytale, some people died before they were even given a chance to live, some people were subjected to the cruel tyranny of others, and some people lost their mothers and their fathers. As reality began to sink in, the world was no longer a fairy tale to me, in all actuality it simply began to seem like hell, but yet even through all the desolating havoc a glimmer of hope still existed within me. Even though happy-endings seldom occurred, I still believed in them. I still believed in the humanity of man-kind, even though we inflict terror upon one and other – I believed in change, I believed in prevalence. Sadly, this all began to change. Along the way of losing weight, I also lost hope -- I lost a part of who I was. I dug myself into an insurmountable hole, its depth held no bound. I isolated myself from the ones that I loved; most of my days were spent in my room, with the lights off and the covers over my head – sad songs blasting through the speakers. My existence had become synonymous with sadness; my soul had set with the sun. Of course at this point, my family knew something was wrong. I tried my best to hide it, but somewhere along the way I just gave up. I could no longer hide behind my smile, because my smile had completely faded. All that I had left was the pain, the tears, and the sadness. I was so fixated on losing weight that it caused my world to crumble, calories consumed my mind. Everything I ate was almost unconsciously calculated, and no matter how little it was — it was still too much. To me food was the enemy, and losing weight meant victory.

Beautiful Delusions, 5
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. At this point another four months had fallen off the calendar, and I had lost another 14 pounds. In total I’d lost 28 pounds, and at this point according to my BMI I was underweight but in my eyes I was fatter then I had ever been. It seemed that the more weight I lost the worse the voice in my head became. The more I tried to numb out the thoughts that made me feel worthless, the more they persisted – they had won. By the time August rolled around it was my birthday again, I was turning 17 and it scared me to the very core of my being. An entire year had flashed by, and I had nothing to show for it, I had barley achieved anything. Even though I had finally obtained my “unobtainable goal” of being thin; I still wasn’t happy – happy with myself or with anything else for that matter. For so long, I had connoted being thin with being happy, they had homogenized into the very same thing – yet they had nothing in common. I was finally thin, but I was at the polar end of happiness—I was in an extreme melancholy. I was perplexed – for the longest time I had thought that being thin would grant me the happiness I desired, yet at this point happiness was but a distant memory to me, a mere vestige of the past, no longer existent within my present. I began to view life as a methodical regime, each day was a reverberation of the last, things never changed, they simply repeated. I’d wake up each morning, feeling extremely exhausted – getting out of bed became a rigorous task. I’d slowly push away the duvet covers and clamber out of bed; it would always take me a few moments to muster up the strength to actually stand up. Once I was on my feet the room began to spin — everything around me would become a blur and I’d fall back down onto my bed. Each morning was the same, most days I simply saw no point in getting out of bed. I’d sleep for hours on end; sleep was an escape for me – an escape from the affliction of reality, most of all it was an escape from the torment of my mind, a few moments of peace but eventually I was forced to open my eyes. Falling asleep was never an easy process, my thoughts were inexhaustible but once I fell asleep and became entrenched within somber silence, the seams of reality just managed to slip away and for a few fleeting moments I was at peace with the world— at peace with myself, it was bliss.

Beautiful Delusions, 6
I am glad to say that I have finally managed to reach a point in my life where my past no longer haunts me, where my thoughts no longer taunt me. My recovery is a half written story which I began to write five months ago. Sadly, there is no magic cure, nothing that will miraculously extract all the pain and heartache, nothing that will remove the sorrow and years of detriment — but there is an iridescent light that shines from within the somber darkness. A light that reminds me to never give up, that light is held within my hands and it is my transcendent duty to shine that light onto the darkness until the darkness turns to light and life begins to re-animate before my eyes. Luckily I haven’t been forced to walk through the darkness alone; my family has been there for me every step of the way. The turning point for me happened a few months ago. During August through September my eating disorder had severely progressed, my energy levels were at an all-time low, I was always exhausted yet I pushed myself to exercise every single day. I was barley consuming any food, and if I were to eat anything at all my body would simply reject it — I’d automatically get sick. I was emotionally and physically drained. I felt scared, cold and alone even in a room full of people. I had basically turned into a zombie, methodically going through each day, praying that things would miraculously change — that I’d wake up one morning and finally be happy with myself. Everyone commented on how thin I had become, my friends and family began to say that I resembled “a skeleton”. At times this made me happy saying I resembled a “skeleton” meant that I had made progress, but at other times their comments infuriated me. I was convinced that everyone was lying to me, how could they say that I was thin when I knew I was the complete opposite? How could my own eyes deceive me? I knew what I saw – and all I saw was fat “they had to be lying” I convinced myself. I had no one to talk to about my eating disorder, I was afraid that no one would understand, because frankly no one ever did. “Fat, Fat, Fat, you are worthless and disgusting” was all that loomed through my mind, I didn’t know why I felt that way, how could I explain to people something I barley understood myself. Explaining the complexities of what goes on within the mind of a person with an eating disorder is no easy task. Often time’s people have the misconception that eating disorders are developed through self-indulgent preoccupation with one’s own appearance, but that notion is extremely misguided. For me, my eating disorder was simply a reflection of my desire for perfection in all facets of life, I was so fixated on losing weight because I needed the progression, and I needed to be working towards a goal rather than idly standing by doing nothing. In a world where so much was out of my control, my weight was one thing that I had complete control over – it was all mine.

Beautiful Delusions, 7
I remember waking up one night during September shivering, I always felt cold – but this was different. It was unlike anything I had ever felt before; the mere memory of it sends chills down my spine. I was lying on my bed wrapped up in three blankets, and wearing two sweaters underneath yet I felt as if I was inside a freezer, or lost within a snowstorm. Suddenly the walls began to spin around me, I was so tired but I was so afraid of going to sleep because a part of me thought that if I did I wouldn’t wake up the next morning. Slowly, I began to climb out of bed I knew I needed to get help. Before I even got a chance to stand up I heard a knock on my door, my brother gently opened the door slightly and peeked his head in “Are you okay?” He asked. The moment he spoke my eyes began to swell with tears, gushing like a waterfall from my eyes “I’m not okay, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be” I mumbled out through the tears. He sat down on the edge of my bed and I began to explain everything to him, as I spoke I saw his eyes gleam with concern “I knew something was going on, but I never thought it was this bad I’m sorry I didn’t realize it sooner” He said, guilt looming through his voice. He got up and went to make me a cup of tea, he handed me the cup and noticed that I was shivering. He went to go get a thermometer to check my temperature, I put the thermometer under my arm and when it beeped it read 34 Celsius which is the second stage of hypothermia and can be very dangerous. “Please, please, please don’t tell Mom!” I begged, “She’ll be so worried, I promise I’ll be fine in the morning.” We stayed up talking for the next few hours, at one point he broke down into tears and said “Please, you have to stop hurting yourself, I can’t lose you.” I had never ever seen my brother cry before; it broke my heart to know that I was breaking his. I had finally come to terms with the realization that I wasn’t only hurting myself; I was hurting everyone who cared about me. “I promise I’ll stop, but I need your help, I can’t do it on my own.” I said as I got up to hug him. That was the day I decided to stop, if I wanted to live – I knew I had to.

Beautiful Delusions, 8
So have I managed to stop and finally “recover”? I’d be lying if I said that it’s been easy, I’d be lying if I said the horrible thoughts have disappeared, and I’d be lying if I said that I felt 100% okay with myself 100% of the time. So no, I can’t say that I’ve fully recovered, and I can’t say that I’m a 100% sure I ever will. For now all I can say is that I’m trying, trying to get through each day the only way that I know how, trying to accept and love myself for who I am, not forcing myself to be something that I am not. Even though each meal is a battle, each bite is a small step towards victory. Rather than trying to change my imperfections, I’ve decided to embrace them because at the end of the day all the minute details that I’ve spent so long trying to alter are what make me who I am, so rather than changing who I am in order to fit into the standardized mold of what society believes is beautiful, I’ve decided to change my definition of beauty— because after all beauty is subjective, it is completely reliant on our own perspectives. Beauty to me is a term that is undefined; it simply has the definition that we give to it. In my new found perspective all of life is beautiful, as are all of the creatures that exist therein - including you and even me. I am merely a collection of memories, of thoughts, of hopes, of dreams, of various ideologies and various beliefs. I am a beautiful delusion, and I’ve learned to love and embrace all that I am.