SO, WHO MADE THIS MESS?

I am, by nature, inclined to focus on myself as the root of all evil. It's hard to say how I got that way, but it has always been so. It's not even that I think badly of myself. I'm very intelligent and talented. I think that I just don't trust that other people can see it.
I have my suspicions about where that came from and I'm embarrassed to admit that it all comes down to body image. I was the fat girl in a family of skinny folk. At the age of around 7, a bout with scarlet fever blew out my thyroid and in one year I went from scrawny and knobby kneed to 'pretty plus'. Of course, the medical reasons weren't discovered until my adult years, so it was always implied that the fat was my fault.
Just to add drama to the story, I grew up on a beach, surrounded by friends and family in bathing suits. I remember the tearful trips to Garbers department store, every summer, to buy a new suit. Reminiscing brings a lump to my throat as I type.
By my teen years, I had perfected the art of avoidance and got some control of my weight by never eating very much. A nice set of knockers helped a little, too.
I just read what I have written and I feel quite the whiner. I don't know that wallowing in my own crapulence is the secret to success, but I've done a bunch tonight and that is that.
What I know about myself is that I always feel that no one can really see me. I'm shocked and pleased when people remember me, even though there have been times when people from my long ago have remembered me better than I did them.
I do my art and show it to no one. On the rare occasion that it is seen, I get much praise, but never seem to trust that it isn't an aberration.
Truth is, that I am quite aware of my psychic dents. I just have no clue how to perform the necessary repairs. Intellectually, I know that I shouldn't let my fears pin me to the mat, but emotionally, I am more often than not, down for the count.
Okay, I'm out of metaphors, so I must be done for now.

Falana For Now