Triumph of a tormented spirit

I had spent a large part of my life believing that I was grossly imperfect, from the shape of my face, to the size of my chinky eyes, to my height, I thought everything about me needed work. It never occurred to me that I may be okay, acceptable, even palatable just the way I am. So after having spent a large part of my life viciously contemplating areas that needed improvement and the means by which I can attain my desired “perfection”, solutions that often entailed major diets, extreme exercises and one great make-over, I am now pleasantly surprised to find myself at peace with my body.
No one teaches young girls to value themselves, most of the social institutions are only too happy to get their hands on insecure, impressionable young minds for it becomes easier for them to instill preferred values that will either turn out a profit or continued life-long support and attendance. Media, magazines, movies, and the American culture prizes beautiful perfect looking girls and women, rarely will we see feature stories done on plain looking mousy brainy women unless they’ve managed to snag a hunk or have climbed their way into power, or redefined themselves through surgeries or life changing moments that rescued them from the monster known as Frump (being frumpy/unattractive).
So where could I have learned to value myself despite living in a society that barely respects the intellect and potentials of women and is peppered with teachings that women are meant to be wives with no power over their husbands and no say over their own reproductive health. I always respected myself even when I was plagued with self-doubts, no matter how contradictory that statement may seem it is entirely possible. See, I knew that I was an intelligent human being and although in my insecurity was not entirely convinced of my attractiveness, I was absolutely certain of my value as a human life with countless potentials. I was no door mat, I did not let pretty popular girls walk all over me, I stood up for what I believed in and I spent most of my time, when not dwelling on my perceived imperfections, broadening my mind with what I thought was a vast array of literature.
I also instinctively knew that if I did not respect myself no one else would. And thanks to the undeniable influence of the countless romance novels I had read, I also knew, in concept, that to be deemed attractive by anyone else I must cultivate my own interests, feed my mind, nurture my body and be a non-needy complete person on my own. By saying complete I do not mean someone who no longer needs to grow and is almost the epitome of perfection on her own, I mean someone with substance, with character and a stable definition of herself without the constant need to be attended to, taken care of, or nurtured by another human being. This state of utter dependency on another person to complete, perfect or make whole is what I fondly call being a “cling-on” (no offense to the Cling-on race of Star Trek). These are the men and women who can not stand alone even for a few quiet moments, and when left to be on their own they wear this lost, dazed look as if aimlessly searching for something missing that they have not yet been able to define (it’s called a brain).
I vowed never to be this kind of person, no matter how much in love I get, and still deep inside I would heard a voice chiding “who would ever find you attractive enough to fall in love?”. Through years of defining and redefining myself, though piles of books and hundreds of well-meant advice, countless gab sessions with equally unsure and searching friends I have emerged surprised. Stunned to find that I can actually laugh off hurtful comments about appearances, revealing to me how far I have traveled since my painfully self aware adolescence, pleased to realize that I have transcended the perpetual need to be liked, accepted and seen as nice, happy to note that I am content in my own world and I no longer shrivel up inside in the harsh light of comparison against my peers because they have long since ceased to matter.
How did this transition happen? How can I explain it in the hopes of pulling out another unfortunately floundering soul? Or must we all suffer through this personal hell to emerge triumphant in our self-acceptance? Perhaps if pre-empted one loses the chance of ever salvaging a crumb of spirit from which a content person may emerge at a distant date after long journeys within. It could also be that to attain satisfaction one must begin from within, honing the mind, sharpening the skills, attending to the spirit and the wisdom that can be squeezed out of our human experiences through thoughtful reflection and only after achieving that internal intellectual equilibrium can one find within the ability to appreciate the body once thought to be deformed and utterly imperfect.
I am uncertain and so as not to misguide I shall keep my opinions to myself. Maybe at a later date, such as a doctorate study I can test my theories and once more broach the topic and give definitive answers to the question of confidence, self-appreciation, satisfaction and a shifting body image. For now I just air my questions, share my opinions and happily report that I am heartened by my realizations that after years of self-torment one can emerge only slightly scarred and tremendously triumphant.