I bought a jumper from River Island the other day. It was a pink knitted jumper, and I had all these visions of transforming my wardrobe into a Pinterest-worthy hub of blush pink and grey and generally looking beautiful all the time in this GREAT PINK SWEATER. In short: my entire winter happiness depended on this pink sweater.

I like my jumpers oversized, so I ordered a size 24, and expected it to arrive and be a snuggly cocoon of loveliness that I’d wear all winter long: I’d like to point out here that I normally wear a 14, so I was anticipating the 24 to be a bit too big, but I’d inevitably put it in the washing machine on the wrong cycle and shrink it (because I’m a moron). Imagine, then, my utter disappointment when it came and wasn’t big at all, but in fact a bit unflattering because it clung in all the wrong places. The pink sweater of happiness made me cry. Like a little bitch.

To be honest, it wasn’t the pink sweater of happiness’ fault that I cried. At the moment, I cry all the goddamn time anyway, so what else is new (hormones are a KILLER: I cannot even); but also I’m a huge mass of insecurities, and the tiniest blush-pink knit can send me over the edge into a snivelling wreck.

A bit of history here, if you don’t know me very well: growing up, I felt a bit crap about how I looked and who I was a lot of the time. Not to a huge extent, and not in any way that meant I wasn’t happy, but I think I spent a lot of the time with my head firmly buried in the sand: I had beautiful skinny friends and I was the chunky-but-funny girl, with a pretty impressive mono-brow and questionable fashion sense. (If you fancy a giggle, take a look at this picture here. Sick bags at the ready, kids.)

I was insecure about how I looked, so I lost weight before uni and dyed my hair, and I learnt how to put makeup on and I’ve had fillers and braces and generally look a bit better. I thought doing all that would turn me into this confident new person; someone who loved who they were and were proud of what they did, but it just never really happened. In some ways, uni made it worse, and I left with new friends but a whole host of weird non-issues about my appearance and food and boys and relationships: I pick fights about boyfriends following models on Instagram and refuse to have my photo taken if I’m eating, and all sorts of other irritating things that I wish didn’t bother me but really do.

It’s exhausting being insecure: it’s so utterly draining to have a thought process that’s so negative all the time, and not really being able to say anything to anyone about it because you sound like an absolute PSYCHO. I cried because a pink sweater didn’t look oversized enough on my body, and I was back to being seventeen and five stone heavier and hiding behind people, and it sucked.

So I’ve decided to try and STFU about things I don’t like about myself that I can’t change, and fix the things I can: I’m bored of being such a Debbie Downer and I’m boring other people with it, too. Being insecure in small doses is okay, if it inspires you to be healthier or take up a new hobby or make a POSITIVE LIFE CHOICE (look at me, being all sentimental and shit), but letting it consume who you are is a bad shout.

This post doesn’t really have a point, and is really just a load of waffle and badly strung-together thoughts, but if it makes one person rethink their insecurity then that’s a good thing. (Or is it? #insecure)


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