The following piece mainly confronts the topic of body dysmorphia and therefore may include triggering language for some.

Unlikeable.

That's all she saw represented in the mirror.

Fat, flabby limbs and a puffy, plain face.

Not the fact that she was kind. Or deeply empathetic. A good listener.

And a good friend.

No, rather, when the girl looked into the mirror, her likeness reflected across the gleaming, unforgiving surface, it magnified everything she hated about herself.

Like her flabby arms and puffy eyes.

The latter of which, unbeknownst to her, could be attributed to the sleepless nights spent wailing about her “unseemly features”.

When she looked in that mirror, she didn't see herself.

She saw countless other people, men and women, young and old, slaves to the mirror. Vanity to the extremes of self-loathing. Regardless of ‘race’ or religion. The objects of their own hatred.

But it demonstrated more than that.

The mirror demonstrated society’s need for competition.

“Survival of the fittest” after all. Except replace the “fittest” with the most handsome, most gorgeous, most skinny, ripped, tall- most perfect.

It is that perfection that we strive for, yet we always tout, “no one is perfect”. So, why do we try so hard to be?

The girl will never be perfect, society will never be perfect, yet everyday we strive to be a little less imperfect.

Some may call it admirable, they may herald it as the inherent perseverance and determination characteristic of the human race.

But, only now are we finding- perhaps, because it is the first time it has been vocalised unapologetically- that it is killing us.

Killing our youth. Killing our future.

For a game we all play but refuse to acknowledge our fellow players, in the pursuit of an unattainable goal.

What do we consider the “mercy rule”. When does it stop? When can we stop? Many may say, “When I am older I won't care as much…When I am older blah blah blah” but this is not true. It is a lie, and a comforting one at that, that there may be some relief only “when I am older.”

But is this ever really true? Do we ever stop hating ourselves?

Do we ever stop seeing ourselves as a ‘six’ or an ‘eight’ or some other arbitrary number. When do we start seeing ourselves as loyal, as intelligent, as fierce, as funny?

Perhaps never, not in this lifetime or society, but maybe, just maybe, we should start.