The Ghost of Body Dysmorphia

[Listen to an audio version of this blog here.]

“You look so strong!” she said. “Do you mind me asking what you do?” I had just finished a yoga class, and normally after yoga, I’m not in the mood to chitchat. Normally, nobody tries to start a conversation either, so her question threw me for a loop. I said thank you. I said I run and lift weights. She asked me what I eat and I told her whatever helps my body feel good.

As I drove home I thought about her compliment and my relationship to my own body. For years, I suffered from body dysmorphia, a mental health disorder in which you can’t stop thinking about one or more perceived defects or flaws in your appearance — a flaw that appears minor or can’t be seen by others. When I was deep in the pit of my eating disorder, I was small. I wore clothes at 21 that fit me when I was in middle school. Hoodies and jackets swallowed me up. I punched new holes in my belts and bought smaller bras. As the number on the scale methodically shrank, I grew smaller, and colder, and quieter. What’s really fucked up though, is that despite my smallness, I thought I looked large. I would stare in the mirror and find things to dislike; my stomach, my thighs, my upper arms. Looking back on photos of myself from that time is startling because I can see more clearly now how emaciated I was. How sick. How sad.