Dear Body,

You and I have a complicated relationship. I want you to look like the people on TV or in magazines, but you're always too wide, too lumpy, too cellulite-covered. Other people say we're beautiful, but I don't always believe them... I wish I could, but I can't get past the images in my head of girls I see on the street--the ones who look like supermodels and athletes. When I see how thin they are, how attractive they are and the boys that hang around on their arms, I feel like you're failing me and I get angry that I'm not viewed as being attractive or that I'm not worth as much.

That being said, I want to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I put you through every day, I'm sorry for the abuse I've caused you in the past, and I'm sorry for the things I'll tell you in my future. I don't want to believe we're ugly, I want to think we're beautiful, but it's hard when I look in the mirror and all I see are the lumps and bumps that make me feel like a fat girl. I know we're average and we're healthy for the most part, but I want to put you through trials and challenges that will only destroy you faster. I don't want to get to that point, but I need to change--keeping in mind that you have needs, you have different requirements that have to be met. If I don't meet those, there are consequences that will follow; I don't want to see that happen to you. I want to make both of us better.

I know that we have so much to come, but when I was told by someone that I need to be careful not to let you get obese, I can't help but think I'll think of you this way forever... I want to love you, but I feel like I can't. I feel like I'm not measuring up because I don't have a thigh gap, a flat stomach, blatantly obvious hip bones. But it's okay that you don't look like that right now--as much as I think it isn't, I know you're doing your best to get through the day. I know how hard you work to get me from class to class, and even though your weak points give out sometimes, you keep going. The heart still beats, the lungs still breathe, and the muscles still move.

I should be more grateful to you than I am. I'm sorry for being so awful to you, torturing myself because you don't look like the conventional definition of attractive. I can't stress enough how sorry I am. I'll work on loving you more, and trying to get both of us to be healthier--not for other people, but for us. Our longevity, our happiness, our feeling confident in ourselves. I'll do better, and I'll take better care of you.

With love and so many other feelings,

Me