Do you see what I see? Scary, isn't it?

The physical therapist asked me to take stock and really pin down my underlying body issues and what I don't like. She said that if I really look, I'll find what I do like. Her belief as a practitioner is that if you feel deep hostility toward your body, it is a block to healing. The truth is, then, I may never heal. The feelings I have about my body go far beyond mere embarrassment or dislike. These feelings are complex and difficult to articulate. The word 'loathing' is inaccurate. I hate my body so intensely, I wish I were invisible. It is the only cure. I am fat, I am ugly, I am a mistake of genetics on many levels. I want to believe that beauty comes from the inside, but even if it were so, I live every day of my life entrenched in a culture that blatantly eschews interest in the more intangible aspects of the self.

When I look around me in this world, I don't see anyone who looks like me, and on the rare occasion whe I do see someone who takes larger than a size zero, it's not portrayed in a positive way. TV, movies, books, magazines, advertising, catalogs...my demographic is invisible. What I hear is that in my culture, I am invisible. In this month;s Oprah magazine, there is an article about why women hate their bodies. The author nailed it, but left little in the way of advice. It reminded me I want to die. Maybe embarrasment can kill you. In the end the article was merely depressing to be reminded that attractive, thin people get many good things people like me never will. I have a nice voice and that's why it's better that I speak to people on the phone instead of in person.

From the time I was a little kid, I was constantly bombarded with the message that I looked different, and not in a good way. My mother loves to tell the story of how I was born with a big butt and fat thighs. It may have been cute the first year, but after that, it was pointed out to me far too many times for me to believe I looked normal. Summer swim club was the worst.

I remember one summer day sitting in the back seat of a car with my friend Susan from across the street. Susan was tall and willowy from the day she was born. There we were in the middle of summer, sitting in the back seat when I looked at Susan's thighs. They were lean and tight, like the legs you see in hosiery ads. My thighs were wide and soft and seemed to puddle around me on the seat. I wondered why Susan's legs looked so different from mine. I wasn't fat then--in fact, I was small for my age. I knew right then I wanted long, firm legs, but I was still too young to know that all the exercise in the world was never going to make that happen. I was only six years old on that day I compared Susan's legs with mine and found my own body shape to be inferior. From that point forward, I always came up short in every comparison.

My body image only deteriorated after that, and is now so embedded as to be irreversible. I have mirrors. I read magazines and watch television and I know what is valued and admired in this culture (and it's not one's lovely personality). Consequently, I know that I am simply...disgusting. So, let's take a tour head to toe and see what it is that May finds so very troubling when she looks in the mirror or shops for clothes...

Hair. I have difficult hair. The shade is hard to describe--sort of a mousy, ash brown that has acquired streaks of gray. My hair is quite fine, so it lays very flat on the top. It's hard to keep a style in it. I haven't cut my hair for ten months. I had a series of horrendous haircuts last year, so I decided to just grow it out for a year and start with a clean slate. My hair looks awful. It just always looks awful. I detest flat hair. I colored my hair starting at age 16 and my hair has been may colors since, including a few that weren't intentional. I didn't see my natural color until about two-and-a-half years ago. It's still unimpressive and problematic. All the layers in the world haven't helped the shape. I wrote about my hair issues last summer, and you can read that post here.

My brain. Seriously. Do I need to elaborate? I want a new one that isn't defective. How about no bipolar disorder. Being diagnosed gave me yet one more reason to be embarrassed to be me. Toe fungus would be easier to admit to having. There are my regular issues of inherent dorkiness, absent-mindedness, tangential speaking, talking too much, and being very blunt. Pervasive feelings of insecurity are latched onto everything I think or do. I am lazy. I don't always focus. I am finding it harder and harder to talk to people because I don't really care what they have to say and that makes me come off as rude and insincere (how ironic--I couldn't be more sincere). My memory is failing. My balance is bad (that might be pharmaceutical in nature), I'm not really that smart, not even close to as smart as most people believe I am (trust me on this one), and I am a mathematical retard (I use the word retard in the true, dictionary sense). Having gone from dorky to awkward to even dorkier and then to neurologically defective, I find very little to feel good about regarding my brain. It doesn't do any of the things I want it to do (that's another post), and it seems to have spent its life finding new ways to humiliate me. I am intimately familiar with humiliation.

Face: I have such a high forehead it looks like I have a receding hairline. This is something I have cringed at millions of times throughout my life. Like, all my life. I must always, always, always wear bangs; unfortunately, my hair always wants to part in the center and expose my big forehead.

I am told I have a nice smile. Whoopee.

Skin. I've had acne of varying degrees since I was 11. I hope this stops with menopause. My skin is just...blech. Thousands of dollars of focused attention haven't helped. I once spent $400 for a series of custom prescribed facials at the tony Lia Schorr Salon in New York City. That didn't help, either.

Blue eyes. Very bad vision. Near sighted, far sighted, astigmatism. My eyes are small, or they appear to be because they're deep set. Wearing glasses emphasis this issue. I hate wearing glasses and I always have. I can wear contacts and they're great--as long as I don't need to see anything within three feet of my body.

Blond eyelashes, very thin and fine. It looks like I don't have lashes at all. I plucked the bejezus out of my eyebrows when I was 18 and I haven't had to pluck them since. Unfortunately, I didn't do a good job when I was 18.

Nose. My nose is a weird, weird shape and it is always congested.

My face is very round. A former boss called me "moon face." It wasn't a term of endearment.

I hate my breasts, I hate my breasts, I hate my breasts. I take a bra size that doesn't exist, so I must blame my breasts for my daily discomfort. I need a large band size, but a very small cup size, and not even the swanky bra salon here could accommodate me. Not even with a special order. When I weighed 125 pounds, I didn't even need to wear a bra except I always did because...My nipples are very, very prominent. They show through everything--prominently. I use Maidenform's Petals, flower-shaped band-aid stick-on things that help, but they are very expensive. I hate my breasts so much, I would like to have them removed entirely. I am dead serious.

There is not one redeeming quality between my chin and my upper thighs. Upper knees. Feet. Whatever. My legs are disproportionately long for my height. This means that regular sizes are too long and petites are an inch too short. Pants do not fit me, but if they do, I can only buy capris or pay for hemming, which I won't do because paying for it feels like a short person's tax.

My ass is huge. My belly is big and has always had a natural protrusion my entire life. My kindergarten group dance teacher used to call me Mrs. Santa Claus. You know how you can only have an abs six-pack if you have the genetic predisposition for the muscle definition? I have whatever the exact opposite is. All the sit ups in the world ain't gonna change my gut.

My thighs are enormous. My waist and hips are two different clothing sizes. I am curvy at any weight, which is a euphemism for "I was born with big hips and a fat ass." My mother calls this a baby-making body, and I am appalled by the very thought of that. These ass-hip-thigh-belly problems are not as prominent if I weigh less, but they are still prominent, nonetheless. Is a 50- or 60-pound weight loss really so much to want out of life? I would give up many IQ points to lose 60 pounds. I'd sell my fucking soul to lose 65 pounds and be free of bipolar disorder.

My feet are oddly shaped. I can't wear shoes that are closed in the back--very interesting in winter. Also, I have a genetically inherited foot problem: I get freakishly awful calluses on my heels. If I'm not diligent about scraping, buffing, scrubbing, trimming, shaving, and applying salicylic acid and lotion...well, then the calluses split open vertically and I can't walk. This special trait iscalled heel fissure, and in my family, it is not related to being overweight. It is entirely genetic and it will always be a problem. It is aggravated by wearing open-back shoes. I don't have very nice feet.

All things considered, I just hate my body as a whole, and my weight may be what my deepest depressions are rooted in. I would get gastric bypass surgery in a minute if I could, but at 5' 1.5" and 180 pounds, I do not qualify, not even for lap-band surgery. I am too fat to be healthy, but not so unhealthy to qualify for meaningful help.

Overall, I am quite homely and that would be true at any weight. Every day I get up and start my day embarrassed. I stay that way all day. My face is scary. My body is a never-ending source of shame and reminder of my many failures and shortcomings. I've never been able to fix it, and lately I've given up trying. Futility, you know?

I'm so physically ghastly, it's a miracle I found a husband. I have long believed that my body is just a visible manifestation of the defects inside my head. When the physical therapist asked me what I thought about my body, I articulated this belief a little bit better. Here is what I wrote down:

I hate my body. I loathe and detest it. I treated it very well for a long time, but it never returned the favor. Nothing in my life has caused me as much anxiety, disgust, and sadness. It’s all wrong—completely botched—from the inside out, and nothing I do (or have ever done) seems to make any difference at all. I will never be able to like myself, let alone love myself, until my physical flaws have been eliminated.