Layers of fat overflowed into my hands as I pinched hard at different parts of my body, longing for it all to just disappear, vanish, longing to be my six year old stick thin self. Times change. Stomach, thighs, arms. The fat was all over, there was nowhere to hide. No amount of clothing could cover up my hideous weakness, my horrible flaw. Tears forced their way out of my unfamiliar eyes as I stared at my reflection, not even recognising myself. When had I let things get this bad? Miniature puddles splattered the bathroom floor as I started to cry, sinking into reality. This was me. This was what I looked like. I cursed as I caught a glimpse of the magazine that lay on the floor beside me, a flawless woman posing for the cover. Perfect thigh gap, perfect curves, perfectly toned stomach. Everything was perfect. Countless airbrushed pages mixed with the tears as I ripped the magazine into pieces, unlocking all the anger I had inside of me, five years worth of frustration, guilt and self-pity pouring out. Why? Why couldn’t I be like her? Why wasn’t I perfect? Why did I have to look in the mirror every single goddamn day and absolutely hate everything about myself? Why?