The other day I kept catching my reflection in the window at the restaurant and the body dysmorphia was so strong. It wasn’t disgust at my gender, not at my weight, but at my presence. My frame is so freakin’ large compared to how I feel. I want to take up a tiny little space in the world, but my bones betray me. Sometimes I think my fat is a way to hide both my despair at my gender and my frustration with my bones.
Lest anyone think I’m being overly dramatic about these bones, here’s a story: At my son’s first pediatric visit, the doctor looked at his head from several angles, eyes squinted up in confusion. Then she looked at me, at a spot above my eyes, and said, “Oh, okay.” sigh
Inside I feel like a wisp of a woman, but my body is a hulking cage. Ugh.