Two weeks ago, I wrote an essay about some of my self-image issues, wondering if it was body dysmorphia. The response was overwhelmingly positive and kind-hearted, but one email completely spun me around, and I haven't stopped thinking about it. Try this on:
AJ
I'm stuck—how do you know if genuinely knowing you're hideous is body dysmorphia? What if you (by you, I mean me) really are ugly? My body has changed so much and is a source of such shame that I can't even tell anymore. Ugly and fat are very popular words in my family. You would need to accept that everyone, every man, every woman, everything is a thing of beauty, which, for some reason, is a much easier thing to believe. I've never looked at someone else and thought, "Hey, you're ugly." Never.
The first thing that came up for me—a few years ago, we were at my aunt's house for Christmas, and there was an old picture of my mother in a frame getting passed around. My mom couldn't have been more than five or six in this photo, but she looked at it and quickly pushed it away. She was upset that the picture was displayed (and framed!) and was visibly disgusted with herself. "I'm surprised all the kids didn't throw rocks at me." Again, she was so young—she was adorable, really. But what on earth did she see?
Well, I know exactly what she saw. It's the same thing I see on too many days—the same thing a lot of you see. And some days, we say the ruthless and terrible self-talk out loud. It's shocking and dispiriting when that happens, but I absolutely do it.
The other thought I've been stuck on since that email: Are conventional beauty standards and our self-scrutiny around those standards actually a path to freedom? Will clear-eyed acceptance of our outer ugliness bring us inner peace?
This is something that I'm trying to talk myself into. Not working so far.
So let's get to today's entries:
Usual formatting rules apply: All our contributors shall and will remain Anonymous but are credited collectively as "The Small Bow Family Orchestra."
The ***** separates individual entries, as do pull quotes. Some of the super-short ones will just be pull-quoted.
And, of course, TSB looks $amazing because Edith Zimmerman did the drawings.
There were dozens of submissions, and I'd like to run all of them, so I will split this into two batches: one batch today and the second one in mid-April.
I'm always grateful for our entries, but this round of submissions really did a number on me: the fact that so many people who've carried some of these awful feelings inside for a lifetime and never shared them but are only doing it now because it might help another person? I mean—you're incredible people. That's it. Just truly golden human beings. So, on behalf of everyone who has got this dumb thing: thank you.
If you like what we do and think we do a good job, you can help support us by becoming a paid subscriber. The birthday deal on annuals is still happening so get in on that if what we do is working for ya. — AJD1
My Mind (and My Body) Is a Terrible Place to Live
by The Small Bow Family Orchestra
I keep reminding myself that, even at my smallest, I always thought, “If I could just be a little bit smaller, everything would fall into place.”
As a cis woman who grew up in the 90s/early aughts, it was made clear to me that the only acceptable modes to be were either Kate Moss or Britney Spears; bless them both. I had active bulimia from ages 16 through 30 and still struggle with it occasionally. I've never been formally diagnosed with body dysmorphia, but with EDs especially, I think it's always pretty much there. Even when my ED was at its worst, I never looked emaciated—something I now know is extremely common, but at the time, it felt like just another failure.
I remember reading about a residential program where the patients would lie on or stand against big pieces of paper, and someone else would trace around them, and they'd be SHOCKED at how tiny the outlines were. My roommate at the time did this for me, and I was disappointed to find that my outline was exactly as big as I'd thought. Maybe even a little bigger.
Over the years, mostly the past five from ages 35-40, I've reached something of a détente with my earthly meat sack. Some days, I feel really good about it. Most days, I am ok with it. Some days I feel really awful and shitty about it. And all of those have to be ok or I'll just slide right back into constant misery. I keep reminding myself that, even at my smallest, I always thought, “If I could just be a little bit smaller, everything would fall into place.” (Nope.)
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Even when I was at my most beautiful, in my thirties, I still felt like there was something wrong with me physically.
I've struggled with convictions of ugliness since I was in middle school. I was severely bullied for my weight and looks, and that left its mark. Even when I was at my most beautiful, in my thirties, I still felt like there was something wrong with me physically. Now that I'm in perimenopause, gaining weight and losing any beauty that I once had, well, it's become even more difficult to be out in the world without feeling hideous. It's exhausting.
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I spent too much money on clothing in the hopes that wearing the right thing would make me feel ok — and it did, but of course, only briefly.
Growing up, my parents were adamant about never telling me I was pretty. They praised my intelligence or good behavior, but they didn't talk about how I looked in a positive way unless I was dressed for a huge event like the prom.
They were trying to push back against the 80s/90s culture that told girls that our value was rooted in our appearance. It was well-intentioned, but it did land me in a place of belief that I must be ugly because my parents' values could not overcome societal ones.
One effect of this in my teens and twenties was to make me peculiarly vulnerable to ill-treatment by men who did compliment my appearance, as if I believed that I should be honored, that they would tolerate the way that I looked, and that I should accept their otherwise horrible behavior. I defaulted to letting men choose me rather than vice versa, and the results were terrible.
I spent too much money on clothing in the hopes that wearing the right thing would make me feel ok — and it did, but of course, only briefly, and then I had to buy something else, and on and on forever. I had pretty good taste, but every purchase was made through the lens of whether I looked fat (I was not by any stretch of the imagination). I really count my lucky stars that I hit 30 before Instagram really took off because had I been ten years younger, I'm sure I would have been so damaged by the effects of influencer culture (I mean, I probably still am).
Since becoming a mom, I suppose it's gotten a bit better since I allow people to take photos of me with my children because I know it will be important to them to have them. Unfortunately, having early-stage cancer also helped me with my dysmorphia because that was too close to death for comfort, and now I feel a different kind of appreciation every day that I'm in this body and alive. The cancer was treated with a disfiguring surgery, and perhaps the indisputable ugliness of it has helped me to see that the rest of my body is objectively fine.
It's interesting that I have been in therapy for many, many years for other mental health issues but have never discussed body dysmorphia, perhaps because it's been present in my life as long as I can remember (lamenting that my hair was brown in kindergarten), probably because it's never turned into an eating disorder. Perhaps because hating our bodies is something we believe is normal. But my god, life would be interesting without it!
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There are times when I will spend hours in front of the mirror, checking myself in the front-camera view or taking pictures of myself from every conceivable angle to try and figure out if I really looked as hideous as I felt.
Started following The Small Bow relatively recently because it was only relatively recently that I began to really face the fact that I've had an eating disorder for most of my life. That's not an addiction, exactly, but you have to do relapse prevention and IOPs and eat with a recovery coach and stuff like that, so I've been finding a lot of comfort in your newsletter. (I actually just finished an IOP, which is the highest level of care I've been able to receive. So far, so good.)
Body dysmorphia is a pretty big part of having an eating disorder. I figured that I couldn't control whether or not I was actually disgusting looking, but my logic was that I should be skinnier so I could "get away" with being ugly more.
I don't avoid my appearance. I body-check constantly. There are times when I will spend hours in front of the mirror, checking myself in the front-camera view or taking pictures of myself from every conceivable angle to try and figure out if I really looked as hideous as I felt. Of course, that would only reinforce my bad feelings because I would find new things to obsess over and nitpick.
I would tell myself that all girls were insecure and that this was a normal amount of worry about how I looked, but I knew that wasn't really true. I wouldn't get work done because I would spend up to three or four hours making sure I wasn't the worst-looking person alive. The thought that probably comes up most is, "Am I embarrassing to look at?"
I've cried for hours because I saw a picture of myself I didn't know was being taken, even though, realistically, it would not be That Bad of a picture. And then I would feel very petty and pathetic for getting upset about it. I must consciously try not to constantly ask my boyfriend, "Do I look ok?" "Are you embarrassed that your girlfriend is ugly?" "You don't call me pretty every single day, so does that mean I look like shit?" "Do you still think I look ok?"
I have an example of a body image meltdown from college. For context, I have these flesh-colored cysts on my scalp that are not that noticeable or gross. They just look like slight bumps. But I still constantly worry that they're visible and disgusting. Anyways, friends were over at my apartment, as was my then-boyfriend. I went into the bathroom and extensively checked myself in the mirror as usual, and started getting upset because I realized that you could see one of the bumps. I went out into the living room and started throwing a whole fit in front of all my friends, getting extremely upset and actually yelling at my then-boyfriend for not telling me and for allowing me to look dumb and bad. Of course, no one knew what I was talking about because no one else could see it. All they could see was me yelling and crying.
My therapist told me that she constantly checks in with herself and asks, "What would I be doing right now if I loved myself?" Then she does that thing if she can. Sounds obvious, but it's a fake it till you make it kind of thing. I'll shorten one lengthy body-check because I'll ask myself the question and remember that there's a version of me who wouldn't do that. So I pretend to be that version of me for a little bit. And the idea is that if you do that enough times, you'll eventually become that person.
:-)
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To cope with my body dysmorphia, I regularly turn to my partner and ask her what she sees when she looks at me. In my head, it's a question framed a bit like how one would ask someone to talk about a Rorschach. But the answers I get—even when I think they're just being nice—are words that slam up against my negative self-talk. It doesn't always get through, but sometimes it does. And that's enough.
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In the mirror, I look awesome. In photos, I hate myself.
Every weekday at 5 PM, I go to the office kitchen and eat my dinner—boiled chicken, steamed asparagus, and spinach salad. When coworkers comment on this bleak spread, I'll say, dryly, "I'm watching my figure." They'll point out I'm not fat, and I'll reply, "I have body dysmorphia."
This usually gets a cheap laugh.
But I wonder if I suffer from this weird thing in the news now. Straight Guy Body Dysmorphia. It doesn't feel like an "-ia" ir an "-ism," but it's probably holding me back.
In the mirror, I look awesome. In photos, I hate myself. My head is tiny. My face is 90% nose. My shoulder frame is narrow, but my hips are wide. These proportions are the root cause of my bland wardrobe. I look badass in a tallit at your nephew's bar mitzvah, but awkward in anything else.
My parents have dozens of framed pictures of my sister in their house but only one or two of their son. For years, my mother would ask for a photo of me as her birthday present. I never gave her one.
I've had a career for about fifteen years, but I took my first quasi-professional headshot six months ago. I was close to securing a freelance gig and needed to update my LinkedIn profile. I borrowed my friend's blazer and got his roommate to take a photo of me against the white drywall of their rented apartment. I tell myself I should start dating, but Tinder requires photos - multiple ones.
There is a solution, maybe. Fucking go back to the gym, fucking stop bingeing on Doritos at 11 PM.
In alcohol sobriety, I'm a success. In food-and-exercise sobriety, I'm the chronic relapser. I'm about to renew my F45 membership. I'm estimating I'll need six months for my dress shirts to feel less tight, and another four to start shrinking my double chin. I'll feel good about my body if I never have to look at it.
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Even after I'd lost weight, I still saw myself as much bigger than I was.
When I was 17, I walked into a Lululemon to get leggings. I was with my mom, unsure of my size. We asked the saleswoman to help, but she was hurried and said, "Well, I'm a size eight. So what size do you think you would be?" I stared at her hips and guessed a size eight as well. She shook her head. "You're a 4," she said. She was right.
This moment sits heavy in my mind because it's one of the clearest examples of the body dysmorphia I had. Even after I'd lost weight, I still saw myself as much bigger than I was. It came both before and after my eating disorder, and I still feel the vestiges occasionally. A few things helped.
The first was appreciating the way my body could support me physically. When I was in recovery, I picked up running. When I would gain weight and stare at my thighs in the mirror, cursing them, I would remember that their purpose was not to be thin. They had carried me two miles on the treadmill and had pushed me uphill. When I did yoga, I would feel grateful for my arms and legs for holding me up in a downward dog. My body wasn't just meant to be thin. It was meant to move me.
The other thing that helped me is realizing that I don't always need to feel good in my body, that my body doesn't always need to look its best, or that I don't always feel my best. Sometimes, I have a stomach ache, or I'm depressed, or I have a cold. My body can have days where it simply exists, which is its right. I think Body Dysmorphia places so much meaning on looking amazing. Sometimes I can just be.
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Being sober has helped me not go down these rabbit holes so often, but I still go there in my mind. I hate it.
For many people with body dysmorphia (or a beating heart), a platform like Instagram can be horrific. The posts that are sticky for me show people who have what I don’t. Or are working through that beautification process. Click, click, click, zoom in. Being sober has helped me not go down these rabbit holes so often, but I still go there in my mind. I hate it.
In recent months, I’ve found so many boomer parody accounts that play with the notion that their kids feel intense frustration when they comment on their bodies, their kids’ bodies, or their partners' appearances. Nobody is safe. I can’t blame the boomer population, as I know it was learned from their parents, but these silly accounts have made me feel less alone.
My favourite line was: boomer mom is concerned about how your weight, your husband’s weight, and your neighbour’s weight. But mostly, she’s just absolutely terrified about her weight.
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I incessantly compare myself to other women and compare myself now to previous versions of myself.
Your piece on BDD arrived in my inbox at an interesting time. Just last week, I brought up my own body image issues with my new therapist. I relayed a story to her from the week prior involving me in the middle of an intense, sweaty workout, suffering underneath a boxy, sleeved T-shirt, which is not my usual gym attire. I was wildly uncomfortable and struggling through my least favorite exercise movement, the dreaded burpee. I thought, man, I really need to take this shirt off. The very next thought that entered my mind was, “You absolutely can't take the shirt off, Diana, you are way too fat.”
The objective reality is that I'm 5'6" and weigh around 140-145 with a decent amount of muscle. That is one of many unfavorable thoughts I regularly and frequently have about myself. I did not have these issues until I was a teenager. At fourteen, I asked my mother if she thought I was fat, and her reply was, "You're pleasantly plump." I don't think the comment caused anything, per se, but it didn't help. I'm 49 now, and my relationship with my appearance has almost always been terrible and terribly unstable.
My image of myself in my mind is much like the illustration for your piece. An old boyfriend told me I "have no nose holes," referring to my narrow nostrils, when I was 19, and I've contemplated plastic surgery for them on and off for years. I've thought about surgery for toes that are too long, one breast that's slightly smaller than the other, a protruding lower abdomen, and under-eye circles/bags. I've asked my hair stylist if she thinks I'm balding and contemplated hair extensions. Last year, I was in both my dermatologist's office and urgent care TWICE because I had a stress-related breakout on my face and was absolutely distraught. DISTRAUGHT. I incessantly compare myself to other women and compare myself now to previous versions of myself. I recently saved a meme that said, "I wish I was as thin as I was when I thought I was fat." I pinch the bulge on my stomach multiple times a day, mostly at night when I'm in bed, lying on my side because it's the most noticeable to me. What am I checking for? To see if it grew? Shrunk? Redistributed itself? I don't know anything other than I loathe it every time.
I've tried to tell myself I love my body for the things it can do, but I also try reminding myself that it could be so much worse. I rail against embedded (and outright) messages that tell me I should not age and should not gain weight, and then I buy right into them. I worry about getting into a disfiguring accident as punishment for my lack of appreciation for what I have.
I don't know how to fix this at this point in my life. I still have hope, or I wouldn't have brought it up in therapy. Maybe in my later years, I will learn to be kinder to myself than I have been so far.
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PART TWO will drop in April. If you’d like to participate, email me at ajd@thesmallbow.com Subject: BODY STUFF. Thanks in advance for your kindness and courage.
MORE IN THIS SERIES:
This is The Small Bow newsletter. It is mainly written and edited by A.J. Daulerio. And Edith Zimmerman always illustrates it. We send it out every Tuesday and Friday.
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A POEM ON THE WAY OUT:
Mirror, Mirror
by Tom Healy
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What do we do when we hate our bodies?
A good coat helps.
Some know how to pull off a hat.
And there are paints, lighting, knives, needles,
various kinds of resignation,
the laugh in the mirror, the lie
of saying it doesn’t matter.
There is also the company we keep:
surgeons and dermatologists,
faith healers and instruction-givers,
tailors of cashmere and skin
who send their bills for holding
our shame-red hands, raw
from the slipping rope,
the same hands with which we tremble
ever so slightly, holding novels in bed,
concentrating on the organization
of pain and joy
we say is another mirror,
a depth, a conjure in which we might meet
someone who says touch me.
ALL ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDITH ZIMMERMAN
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A.J. Daulerio: Editor Person, The Small Bow.