The Body Inside My Head

Lately, I find myself paralyzed by the realization that you can look in the mirror, recognize your person standing before you, but not actually see your body as it is.

A mirror is a piece of glass, buffed until it reflects everything your mind is capable of seeing through a combination of cones and light and filters and marks left on your waistline from where your jeans spent all day pressing against your belly button, reminding you that you exist — and that there are consequences to existing.

I’ve felt this way before, when I was much younger. My first period came when I was 11 years old. By the time I was in fifth grade, I was taller and wider than all of the boys and girls in my class.

I nestled my pain into loud music. T-shirts with anarchy symbols and ripped jeans and Converse with my favorite lyrics scrawled on the inner sole. I even convinced my parents to let me buy the semi-semi-temporary purple hair dye that one time, so on sunny days at recess, you could see flecks of maroon in my hair. I embraced my braces and decorated them with lime green rubber bands. The state of the body beneath these things did not matter to me. It was merely a canvas for a larger vision of myself, one that transcended thighs and folds of skin.

That time is now over. I am 25 and my BMI is 24. I recently reviewed the DSM guidelines for…