Inside the world of body dismorphia

The human brain is a powerful thing. It has the ability to learn at lightning speed, making the connections to help us adapt and grow within its environment. The human brain is the reason our species has survived, collonated, and become what it is today. Yet, despite it being our greatest strength and asset, it can also become our greatest enemy. Because of its strength, the mind allows us to see, hear, and learn; and sometimes, only what we want to.

Half a year ago, I was a lean, mean competitive machine. I felt fit. I put my clothes on and I felt skinny. I looked in the mirror, however, and felt anything, but. The farther I was into my prep, the harder I cried when I would step on the scale for my weigh –in. I would pick myself apart, standing in the mirror wishing away fat that wasn’t there. I thought it was bliss; but, it was Hell. It wasn’t healthy for me to look at myself in that way. It wasn’t healthy for my daughter to see me hate myself in that way. I was the size and shape some girls dream; and I still had a self-hating, unhealthy view.

Six month later, and I am fuller. I can lift more, more than I ever thought I could. I have added inches to my shoulders and arms; I have increased the strength in my legs to five times that at competition. I am strong, and I love it. I feel empowered when I enter the gym: with my pink Nikes on, Journey playing through my buds, picking heavy stuff up and putting it down. That is my happy place. That is where I go to put myself back together, to be stronger for my family. I am Wonder Woman, in my world, on that bench. Then, I walk past a mirror. It may be in the locker room. It may be in the parking lot. It may be at home, as I’m getting ready for my shower. No matter how powerful I have felt the moment before, that mirror can bring my confidence crashing down. I see rolls. I see soft curves on top of large muscles. I see an undesirable person. In that moment, I hate myself.

The other night I found myself at a table surrounded by amazing women, coming together to work on a project that was created by me, developed on a seedling of an idea from my brain; my beautiful, powerful brain. As I gazed around, I acknowledged each woman for the strength and power she brought to the table. Each woman was beautiful –stunning, really- in her own way; created by the talents and skills that she possessed. I was humbled by the reality that these women had gathered because they believed in me, and the project I had been building. That belief was electric: it filled me up from tip and toe and energized my thoughts to the possibility of the many things we could collectively accomplish. I left that evening feeling ten-feet tall.

I went home that evening and kissed my little ones goodnight. Already tucked safely in bed, they were unaware of the life-changing evening I had experienced. I ran through the nights’ events as I changed in front of my mirror, wondering my next steps. Then, it happened: I saw the roll my pants had created on my waist. Without pause, I began to berate myself for having considered wearing such an outfit. I wondered who had noticed; had I been judged? What would they think of me? As each ill thought was born, directed at my own flesh, I could feel my excitement deflate. How quickly such positivity can die when it is fed lovely bits of evil. What is unfortunate is that I took a night of female-empowerment and degraded it by worrying about my physical form. I let my brain see what it has been trained, over many years, to identify and insult. I let my greatest enemy take the shot, lowering the evening’s worth to far less than reality. This is the world of body dismorphia.

Body dismorphia affects everyone, in some shape or form. We all have moments where we see our bodies in a variation that differs from the reality. I have met men who say they are too small, yet I am pretty confident their biceps don’t fit any shirts…anywhere. I’ve met women that look like supermodels, telling me about their fears of non-existent cellulite. I’ve sold women girdles to suck in their tummy, and spanx to hold in their butts. It’s all because we see an “issue” that isn’t really there. It’s terrible, this self-inflicted pain. And, the worst part is that there isn’t an overall cure.

I could say that I’m going to try harder. I could say that I will only tell myself positive thoughts. I could tell you that I love my face, skin, stomach and bottom half. But, I would be lying. As wonderfully easy my hair is now that it is short, I worry all the time it makes my face look fat (there’s that damn F-word again.) I strongly dislike my stomach, with my funny looking belly button and my layer of off-season pudge. I have always had issues with my bottom half, knowing full well it is in my genes to carry most of my weight there. Heck, I don’t even like my chest size! My shoulders aren’t as defined as I want them! Like many women, I have a mile-long list of complaints in regards to myself. A list I tick off every time I have to look at my body. I’m going to tell you right now: it sucks.

Now that I’ve put my list out there, what am I going to do about it? Well, I’m not really sure. I’ve tried being positive. I even read the Happiness Project. I think it’s time to really focus on the bigger picture. After all, my looks will only last so long. My hair will grey. My face will wrinkle. Heck, my boobs have already fallen. The physical is temporary. What I do have is my health. I have my strength. I have my family. And, I have my big brain. Yes, this, too, shall one day fail me; but, it’s helped me get this far, hasn’t it? Plus, there are many physical things I DO like about myself: I’m the only person with green eyes in my family; the tattoo behind my left ear; the dimples on my cheeks that I passed on to Moose. So, maybe I have a little extra insulation, these days. Truth be told, I’m smaller now than I was this time last year. And, in the end, does size really matter? Doesn’t it matter, more, what is in your heart?

There are many worse things in this world to be called, than small or big. You could be called a fascist, a hypocrite, or a murderer. You could hurt someone by lying, cheating, or stealing. Being one size or another doesn’t hurt anyone, but you. You are hurt by your thoughts, created by that beautiful brain. A brain that is told what perfection is by outlying stimulants, and pinpoints what imperfections it sees; a brain that has a hard time seeing reality. To all those men and women who know exactly what I am talking about: do not become victims to your own thoughts. Do not let one poor photo ruin your self-esteem, or diminish your feelings of accomplishment. Do not let those thoughts stand in your way of living your life. This will be a battle you fight every day, and some of those day you will win! On those days you don't, however, just remember to keep fighting. Because, life is a beautiful thing to waste on an F-word.

“Is ‘Fat’ really the worse thing a human can be? Is ‘Fat’ worse than vindictive, jealous, shallow, vain, boring or cruel? Not to me” – J. K. Rowling