Let me tell you about my body.
It is a good body.
But when I apprehensively gulp down vitamins and apple cider vinegar in hopes to morph my body into one that will fit into the mold Candice Swanepoel has created for me, my body starts loving me less.
When I heave my body onto the treadmill for another hour, in hopes it will suddenly lengthen my legs, lighten my hair to a pretty blonde and give me boobs like Scarlett Johansson, my body starts loving me less.

So let me tell you about my body.
When I look at my hips, my mind throbs with pain in remembering the time the pretty boy chose ugly words like “wide”, “thick”, and “maternal” to describe them. When I look at my hips I remember lying on the floor with pretty boy, aching for words of affirmation but instead hearing critical compliments about how it is okay to have a wide frame because boys love it. When I look at my hips I remember the girl who allowed her value to rest in the eyes of pretty boys.
When I look at my lumpy legs I remember the names everybody called the girl who was proud of showing off her lumpy legs. I remember feeling proud that I was “smart” enough to hide my flaws in order to gain acceptance from my peers, feeling stronger than lumpy leg girl, even though it was her legs that upheld the true strength. When I look at my legs I remember sliding my hands against their skin in third grade. While doing so I cried to my mom about how my thighs weren’t as skinny as my calfs. Every time my body dances across an unforgiving mirror, my aged mind still screams the same words.
When I shutter across my very own sexualized bags of tits and ass, I recoil in heartache. An ache to be good enough. Ache to assure that this skin stays lusted over. Ache to etch a design into them that was created for eyes that do not matter.
When I look at my skin, I see the many hues of blemish integrated with shades of immense privilege. When I look at my stretch mark ridden body, the crashing waves of binge and purge roll over me. My mind rides the remembrance of rises and falls of bad habits that it is all too familiar with.

The pain of walking through life not feeling completely comfortable in your skin is one that too many people struggle with. It is a struggle that I have to tackle every waking hour. This has become my reality.

The truth is is that I do have hips that do indeed make it more difficult to comfortably slide around in a patriarchy, but they are the center of my being. They frame all of my creativity and wit.
The truth is is that my lumpy legs are the pillars that allow me to rise and rise and rise. To stretch high above the atmosphere and allow me to grasp views that many can’t reach.
The truth is is that gravity is stronger than my desire to spend time shaping my boobs to where they are “supposed” to be. The truth is is that my body is a body that has hosted too many guests that should not have even gotten the thought of an invitation.
The truth is is that my stretch marks act as a braille WikiHow on how to be an infuriating warrior. The truth is is that my skin is only an extrinsic storybook.

My reality is that I am terrified of the idea of unconditionally admiring another being when my eyes and mind have a hard enough time admiring their own home. I am terrified of people who eat avocado habitually, talking to a person who actually cares about macro nutrients for more than five minutes, and Pacsun. Ultimately, I am terrified that these thoughts keep me from becoming and evolving.

I could go on and say that I should love my body because God does or that everybody has flaws and I have learned to accept mine. But that is not what makes me feel better.
What makes me feel better is that my very best friends always reach for the words “brave”, “hilarious”, and “well-read” when they describe me.
My positive reality includes the knowledge that I contain multitudes within multitudes, and then jubilation in the understanding of the famous poet that practically coined that term.
Healthy pinterest meal planning doesn’t make me feel better. Knowing that I have a body that is constantly working to keep me alive and fully functioning makes me feel better.
Lifting heavy things and shoving myself into the anxiety ridden place that they call a gym does not make me feel better. Using my body to cry when I am sad, to laugh when I am happy and to listen when I am intrigued makes me feel better.
A man being intimidated of my body does not make me feel better. A man being intimidated by my words and pursuing me because of that makes me feel better.

Anorexia is the most fatal mental illness. Objectivity is the number one reason anorexia or any body image issue exists.

So my exquisite mind and healthy body says to hell with your nasty societal norms while my heart beats for a change. My mouth will scream for women to strive to know that their worth is not confined in any three dimensional earthly space, no matter what anybody says.

I may not be the body that your mind desires late at night, but my mind is not impressed by your desires.

I’ll walk this earth having to manage these body image issues every day. That is my reality. But I take each step with a mind that knows I am strong enough to manage them. That is my reality.

That is my body.