God Give Me Perfection: A story of how I got to this point

I am an awkward kid. I have boobs and no other girls I know do. I have already grown pubic hair, and no one else knows what it is. I have big red zits on my face and little bumps on my arms, and on top of that I have started having a period all by the age of twelve. I know that these things are gross and something to be ashamed of. I learned this from watching Disney Chanel, seeing girls with perfectly bald armpits and flawless skin. When the girl next door found out about my need for a trainer bra it instantly got snapped, and the new spread like wildfire to all of the kids in our playgroup. Boobs must be something to be ashamed of. My mom said if I sleep in my bra they wont grow. Maybe if I wear two bras they will go away.

I asked my mom if I could shave because I was embarrassed to go to pool parties with my friends. None of my friends have pubic hair. My mom said “It's weird if you don't have hair under your armpits, but you have it coming out your bikini line. Pubic hair needs to match.” It took me a long time to get my hands on a razor, but when I did I made sure it matched.

The bras, the armpit hair, the period have all faded away as prominent in my life. I am really worried about my skin. It isn't perfect. My mom pops the pimples on my face and tells me that I need to get the pus out. I don't like when she does that, but I let her do it. I finally figured out how to do it myself, and it doesn't hurt as much. I have to get them all. My dad tells me I have to leave them alone, but I just want the pimples to go away. I want my skin to be perfect. It's summer and I am wearing my 4-H t-shirt sitting in the grass among a group of kid. We are all waiting to find out what we placed in are dog 4-H competitions. I was bored and started looking over my arms. I noticed they weren't perfect. They have little pimples all over them. I tried popping one, and another, and another. I have to make my arms perfect.

I am twenty-two years old now. My face isn't perfect, my arms aren’t perfect, and my skin isn't perfect. I pick at it everyday. I have picked at it everyday since I learned how. I have many scars. I pick at my skin when I am stressed, when I am bored, in the morning, at night. I pick at my chest, my legs, my stomach, my back, my arms, my face, my scalp. Any part of my skin that isn't smooth. I pick at it. I try to stop, but I can't. I learned at a young age that I had to be perfect.

I have decided to challenge perfect. I have stopped shaving my armpits and my pussy because I am a woman now. I don't wear a bra because nipples are sexy and bras fucking hurt. I catch my blood in a menstrual cup so I can embrace my period. I except the things my body does, but there is one thing I can't except. A bump, a scab, a black head, a ingrown hair. If I can't get rid of the imperfections my mind pulsates and fixates, my heart races and tightens. I will dig my nails deep into my skin. I have left hundreds of scars all over my body. Scars that will carry with me everyday.

Twelve year old you is writing you now.

Stop listening to the voices in your head. God can't make you perfect. You can't make you perfect. You already are perfect. You can't heal scars, but you can stop leaving them.