Body

Do you know what it is to hate your body? To loathe its every bulge and bump, to be constantly thinking about its flaws? To be so consumed with disgust that the idea of even saying, not even meaning, a positive affirmation like "I am beautiful" seems nigh impossible? To look at magazine pictures of beautiful women with a longing despair, knowing that you'll never, ever measure up to that perfection, albeit airbrushed beyond reality? To link your self-worth to your looks so closely that when one is low, the other is automatically abysmal? To berate yourself for thinking a good thought about your body once in a while?
I am there right now. The bad body image days come and go, but lately they've been more on the coming side of things. My belly is so full of food. I can't breathe. I am flabby all over; I need to work out and build some muscle. I am putting on weight in all the wrong places. Today I put on my jeans and they were tight. I was demoralised. They weren't that way when I came here three weeks ago; I needed a belt. I take to wearing loose layers of clothing to hide my stomach, which is no longer flat, even when I lie down. I feel distended, gross, unattractive, unloveable. I tell myself, despairingly, no one will ever want me or be attracted to me when I look this way. I will be alone for the rest of my life, miserable and ugly and fat.
It's like I have a giant magnifying glass on certain body parts distorting all I see and I can never get rid of it. I am told I have body dysmorphia, that I am not seeing reality and that I am really not as hugely fat as I think I am. I don't believe it, most days. They tell me my spirit, my personality, all that's on the inside, matter more than my crazy disproportionate body. Many days I have a hard time believing that too. They tell my my body will adjust, things will be more comfortable and the weight will eventually distribute normally. I don't trust this. Most of all I don't trust my body. I want my control back. I want to control my weight and how my body looks, in the vain hope that I can someday at least be indifferent to it.
Underneath I suspect I am wrong. Maybe I've been brainwashed by a body-focused culture. Maybe my self-worth will be low no matter how small my size. But I cling to my wrongness like an overgrown baby to a pacifier. I'm used to it and in a weird way, I'm comfortable hating my body. It gives one something to focus on. If only my body were this, then everything in my life would sort itself out. It's a lie, but so tantalizing a lie it is! It simplifies everything and prevents me from focusing on what lies beneath my (oh so reviled) body.