Your Body: Has She Ever Done You Wrong?

My body isn’t chiseled. I’m having an awful day full of body dysmorphia and asking myself abominable questions that I know won’t give me mercy.

I have these despicable moments where I am anticipating failure. I degrade myself. I minimize myself for the sake of being liked by others. I stock all my self-love in this dusty attic and I reluctantly unlatch the worn out lock sometimes. Only when I feel like I have earned it.

Sometimes I speak to my body with irritation. Other times, with  awe of all that she’s done for me.

I’ve looked at photos and felt detached from her.

Still, I always cut back to the interrogation room: What’s wrong with you, Kaleigh?

My relationship with my body is inconsistent. I shape her like an object, covering who I am with who I wish I could be.

My body.

The last thing I allow myself to love.

I present myself as the “girl-next-door” with bangs and glasses and balance. But the truth is I hate being seen. I totally giggle awkwardly when complemented. I quietly berate myself while loudly adoring others. I make mistakes.

These emotions always return when they are too hard to ignore. But I wouldn’t speak this way to a friend; why can’t I treat my body like someone worthy of love?

I acknowledge this body, but forget to treat her like somebody.

This constant criticism follows me: judgmental and defeating.

It holds me back each time I try to grow. This scrutiny I’ve accustomed myself to scares me.

But it’s impossible to flourish without feeling uncomfortable.

Maybe I should take this as my sign to be kinder to my body. Calmer when there are parts of her I can’t control. She’s never done me wrong.

She has carried me through years I wasn’t sure I’d survive.

She has held her composure when I tried to make myself smaller.

She learned my patterns before I did.

She tenses when I am afraid.

She softens when I finally let go.

She has endured every cruel thought I’ve directed at her and still helps me get out of bed. She breathes, moves, and keeps me alive.

So no, she has never failed me. I’ve just mistaken control for care.

Maybe love doesn’t look like admiration yet. Maybe it starts as neutrality. As acceptance. My body is not a problem to solve. She is a testimony.

And maybe the most affirming thing I can do is to quit asking what’s wrong with her and begin thanking her for surviving me.