I’m having a rough time with my body this season. It’s exhausting. That’s nothing novel or new, but it feels harder than normal lately.

For those of you unaware, my sister died of an eating disorder…and you’d think that by itself would be motivation enough to avoid the worlds of diet and weight loss. However, it’s a realm wherein I have struggled for my entire life. Maybe that’s not surprising, being the sister of a woman who died far before her time of self-starvation. Maybe there’s no-one immune to the pull of not-enough-ness. Maybe body dysmorphia and the innate dislike of one’s own shape and size is impossible to avoid; but lately my doubt and loathing are screaming in my head. It’s maddening, and uncomfortable, and awful.

Don’t get me wrong, some days (rare but existent) I feel lovely and ever so hot, and the selfies flow like milk and honey. On those days, I’ll catch myself admiring the reflection in the mirror, effortlessly and joyfully. More often, I’ll look down at my body, or at a reflecting surface, and reel at the wrongness and discomfort. I’ll spot a thousand horrible flaws, and each one lingers and burns.

Of course, the things we know by logic and reason don’t always reach our hearts. I know that I know better; that doesn’t change the feeling of it all. I’m aware that, were I anyone else, I’d have no issue with my looks, my weight, my body type, and my features. But being terminally unique, somehow the rules don’t apply inward, and I feel a deep, terrible wrongness with myself…and a snide, awful loathing that I’d never feel for someone else. I would never in my life be as mean to another as I am to me. It’s extremely unfair.

This isn’t to say that I have no confidence (it’s there sometimes), or that I can’t recognize the things I think are pretty and appealing parts of my body. It’s just…ephemeral. The satisfaction is so fleeting. It doesn’t stay, it doesn’t last, it’s unreliable as all hell. I have to talk myself into belief, which is quite a tricky task for a resolute agnostic. Understanding that my self-image is distorted is the easy part. Accepting and granting myself the grace to be worthwhile as a human despite the distortion is agonizing and takes active, hard work.

Thank goodness for a wardrobe of clothing I know fits me and presents a put-together image to the world. It’s my armor against judgement of myself; if I wear something I know is objectively appealing and attractive, and it fits according to the standards of the occasion, then I’m covered (literally) and acceptable. Dressing up, to be clear, doesn’t make me feel pretty so much as ensure I’m proactively fighting my own doubt. I know objectively that the clothing is nice; and if I look nice to everyone else, maybe it’ll sink in.

As you may have guessed, this inner debate is probably a large part of the reason I have extensive tattoos and piercings as well. Taking back my skin and making it a canvas for wonderful artworks has been a comfort and saved my life on more than one occasion. Body modifications, hair dye, stylish clothes, nails on-point, all help immensely and put the work of feeling ok back in my court. And while I appreciate the compliments I get, knowing that I made myself look this way, knowing I own these choices, is worthwhile entirely on its own. I suggest you consider that fact when you see someone out in the world whose fashion choices you don’t personally enjoy. Maybe they’re more comfortable than they’ve ever been before. Maybe it’s the way they survive.

To note: I hear you when you tell me nice things about the way I look. I appreciate your opinion and your kind words. I cannot say I wholly agree or can even perceive what you do. Still, it’s nice to hear and it helps, a teeny bit. Please don’t be discouraged, and please don’t worry. The battle of me vs. me is nothing new.