"You're going to have to wear a swimsuit every day. Some people prefer to wear it under their uniform but some prefer to change here. Does that work for you?" My heart stopped. It was such a simple task: observe a kids' swim lesson every day. But the thought of being seen in a swimsuit made me want to curl up and die in the fetal position. I mean, I wore bikinis of course, but only on my good days: the days when I woke up feeling empty, feeling skinny, the days I wasn't bloated, the days I could suck in until my ribs felt like they were cracking under the pressure.

Most people who struggle with their bodies ease into this type of full, everyday exposure. Not me; no toes in the water, just a plunge. People who love themselves also love to use the word struggle. "You don't hate yourself, you're just struggling." No honey, I hate myself. I despise the way my jeans gap at the back because my butt's bigger than my waist. I detest skin-tight dresses that cling to every bump. I loathe the way my hips jut out to the sides. Being in a swimsuit every day was my worst nightmare. Not dying, not being terminally ill, just being forced to wear a piece of fabric. What a dumbass.

I did it in the end; I wore the swimsuit. Every day for an entire summer, and then two more summers after that. The novelty of it wears off after about a week I, discovered. Nobody's looking at you. Nobody cares as much as you do. It's all in your head.

To the naked eye, it's such an insignificant detail in my life story, but it changed me more than you would know. To go from hating yourself to hating yourself a little less is a big deal. It's ingrained in our little, girly heads: you don't measure up to the other girls, the ones with clear skin, thin thighs, waxed legs, pink lips. And it's true, that is the ideal standard of beauty. If you lack one of the things on the endless lift of requirements for "beautiful," you should hate yourself. You should resent your body to the point where you have to change it. You shouldn't feel satiated until your body lies around you in tatters, torn to shreds.

People love to blame the media for the issues within society. I would love to blame the media for my issues too, but that leaves me with only one, impossible choice: change the media. It's much easier to change myself. There's cookie-cutter mold that I'm just waiting to fit into. I want to look like her, and like her, and her and her and her. I want to be like all for the "hers" out there: toned, tanned, splayed on a white yacht in the middle of the ocean, laughing her ass off. She looks so happy, according to her feed.

It's much more fun to detest your body. You get to play little games all day, like "Do these socks make my ankles look chubby?" and "How many pairs of identical black leggings can I try on this morning looking for the right ones?" and my personal favorite, "Which pair of shorts will fit my thighs and not my waist?" Everyday is a carnival of merriment.

I wish I could be writing an essay about how much I've learned to love myself, how I've throw off the shroud of media-induced-self-loathing. A success story is so inspiring to read, so I'm sorry I can't deliver. I'm working on that thing, self-love. It's hard, I won't lie. It's like taking a piece of your identity and saying "you aren't welcome here anymore." It's not a matter of conquering the image of perfection that the media has created; it has more to do with incinerating the idea that perfection exists. Afterall, what is perfect, some bitch on a boat? I think not.