The Cult of the Body

I wake up, get up and go to the bathroom. Suddenly I find myself in front of the mirror watching me, seeing if I have any new imperfection that I have to worry about before going out into the street. It’s almost like a ritual I’ve been doing since high school, more or less since I was fully aware of my appearance. I remember that I have always worried about my appearance. From a very young age, I was the one who chose the clothes I wore or the haircut I wanted (I thank my mother for not repeating the pattern of imposition that my grandmother made with her).

For a long time all I cared about was liking myself, or, rather, the things I chose I liked, because I think that the sense of self-perception for such a small child is a bit big. With the arrival of the institute, at age eleven, things changed: I did not worry so much about the decisions I didn’t like, as they were not strange to others. The first pressure on my body came when the reactions of those composing my environment were not negative. Fortunately, I still loved me too much for it to affect me. It was nothing that I could not handle in relation to things that I had never planned about my body and to which I gave the reason to or my pride because I liked me.

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