This was so hard for me to write and I'm not even sure what I said here or if it makes any sense; I just kept going and willed myself through it until it felt like I'd finished. I'm not reading it or editing it because then I'm afraid I won't post it. It may be a while before I can come back and read what I wrote. So I apologize in advance for any messiness or lower quality writing than normal.

The idea for this post came from here.

Note: The two links that point to images of the woman's body are NSFW.

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Dear Body,

I've been avoiding writing you this letter, so I know it's something I've got to do.

Why don't I want to talk to you?

Actually, that was the only thing I could think to say for the last few weeks since I thought about starting this post, "Dear Body, We've never really talked."

I find this to be shocking. I never really realized it before. But it's true. I've never really communicated with you in any way. And for that I'm so, so sorry.

I'm trying to start now. But it's really hard. This letter is going to be a mess. I apologize in advance. I hope you'll stick with me more than I've stuck with you all these years. I know I may not deserve it, but...I hope you'll hear me out.

What really prompted me to write today after waiting so long was that last night I couldn't sleep, and I ended up watching a film on some independent movie channel that I'd already seen once. But I watched the whole thing again, anyway. And in this film, there is a main character, a young woman of my coloring, who is often seen naked. And I remember the first time I watched this film finding her somewhat mesmerizing.

It was much the same this time. I found myself completely absorbed in watching her body as it moved across the screen. And while watching her, I was overwhelmed with this profound feeling of connection also this instant, deep sadness that wailed both straight into and also poured out of my heart--almost like mourning. This is the only way I can describe it; the reaction was simply visceral, and not easily given words. But then again, Body, you felt it, so you know. We felt it together. Or maybe it was you who made me feel it. Maybe it was you who was telling me it was time to feel these things.

In any case, when conscious thought followed the emotional response, I recognized with some shock that: 1) her naked form looked almost exactly like yours did when I was in my early 20s, and 2) I was thinking to myself that she was beautiful.

This may sound odd to some outsiders that it was hard for me to piece these two together as connected thoughts. But I don't think you'll be surprised by this, will you?

Because I was was looking at this other girl's body, so much like you were then, and responding to her in all her erotic, naked power. I mean, she was stunning. Just this marvelous, vibrant thing, full of life, in this absolutely mesmerizingly beautiful body.

But when I looked at you, I couldn't see any of it. When I looked at you looking much like this, here is what I thought:

"Yeah, you're thin, but look, your belly still has a curve outward. It's not flat. It totally ruins your chances of having a really nice body. That curve is so aesthetically unpleasing. You'd better hide it. Wear control-top tights or something."

"Look at how your breasts are sagging. And you're only 20! See how they are heavy at the bottom like that, with that slight curve at the top? That's not normal. They should be round all the way around, and up higher. Guys will be disappointed in them. Sure, you can make them look good in a bra, but when you get naked, well, guys'll put up with them, they won't say anything, but they won't be thinking anything good."

That's the kind of thing I said to you, when you were generous enough to gift me with the shape you did. I ridiculed you and picked you apart. I couldn't even see what was in front of me.

But I wasn't comfortable even with that. I knew enough between the obsessive media focus on eating disorders and my feminist studies that it wasn't "right" to criticize my body. And on top of that, I was never comfortable, even from early childhood, with how much focus people put on my appearance. So I didn't even like attention to you--positive or negative--coming from myself, let alone others. And so to solve this dilemma, I decided to completely ignore you, block you out. I chose to pretend you didn't exist in any real or important way; that you weren't a part of THE REAL ME. Any reference to you or thoughts of you I just...let slip away as if they didn't exist.

Do you remember that one guy in my dorm telling me in an offhanded way I had the perfect body, and me just staring at him blankly? My response was beyond just not wanting to believe him or trying to be modest--I simply couldn't conceive what he was saying. I felt nothing except some slight confusion, like he was talking another language and so I couldn't possibly have a response. I didn't forget I did this to you, if you thought i did.

Do you remember all my lovers who went on about how great your breasts were? Do you remember how deep down, I felt surprised every single time, no matter how many times it was volunteered freely? How I just sort of pretended I didn't hear? I didn't let myself feel anything about what I was doing. But I didn't forget I did this to you.

Do you remember how tense I felt whenever someone went to kiss my stomach, wishing he'd move past that flawed spot quickly, so I didn't have to think about how I didn't measure up? And then just pushing that thought out of my mind? I pretended I didn't do this. But I didn't stop. And I didn't forget.

Do you remember how I almost always covered you up with big, big tops and long skirts or round babydoll dresses all those years so no one could see most of my shape? Oh I was good at pretending that I was revealing stuff, but nothing was really clear and out there to see.

I need to say this to you, though I am ashamed to say it.

I was not proud of you. I was ashamed of you. I'm so sorry. You didn't deserve that. You were lovely and good and I humiliated you and hid you away like you were a defective child.

Not because I thought you were ugly, or I didn't love you. I didn't think you were ugly; and I loved you, more than you could probably understand.

But I didn't want anyone to see you. Because I thought...

I don't know. I don't know why I was ashamed of you. I don't understand. I wish I could understand.

The other day I was talking to my therapist about having urges to eat when I wasn't hungry, and why I don't seem to want to let myself get thin. She asked why I thought I might be doing this. I responded without thinking, "Maybe it's because I'm afraid of what will happen if I'm thin."

She asked me what I thought would happen. And I had no answer. I'm not sure. I just know I'm terrified. Terrified to be thin. Terrified to be looked at. Terrified to be attractive. Terrified of what I might attract.

I should keep going with that list, free forming, because I'm getting somewhere, but I'm too terrified to keep typing that list.

But. For now.

Maybe, like the "defective child" analogy I made earlier, it was not that I couldn't see the beauty in you, not that I couldn't love you, but that I thought the world would be too hurtful to you. I wanted to protect you from what would happen when exposed to others. So I hid you away.

Writing that made me want to start crying.

But I don't know. Maybe it was that. And maybe it was even worse than that.

I never thought I hated you. I really didn't. But there is evidence to the contrary. I hid you away, and didn't let you get love and attention, from myself or others. I ignored you. I denied you were important to me. I said you didn't matter. I didn't let friends and admirers of yours come around. And if they braved my displeasure and admired you anyway, I made their lives very difficult.

And I did this all while I was telling myself and you how much I loved you, but that other people just didn't understand. Only *I* could really love you. Everyone else was a sham.

At that stage I wasn't hurting you physically, but damn if that doesn't sound like an abusive relationship to me. Neglect? Abandonment? Denial? Possessiveness?

Maybe I was not a good person to you. No, not maybe. I was not a good person to you.

But it's not over yet. I wasn't satisfied with that level of dysfunction. I let whatever that was in me that was doing that to you grow. And I started hurting you. I treated you very badly. I force fed you, in a way, until you became distorted into an almost surreal version of the things I'd hated about you. My breasts grew bigger and, in my eyes, even saggier. My stomach got larger and, in my eyes, more grossly engorged. I made you into the object I was afraid the world saw you as to begin with. I forced you out of all proportion until when I saw myself in photos, I didn't even know who I was looking at anymore. The adult body I'd started with had ceased to exist. I ate and drank and hid from everyone and let your mood get lower and lower, and your health worse and worse. I let it get so that walking up three flights of stairs got you out of breath.

I took everything you gave me, everything you were, all that sweet, pure, goodness, and I hurt it in every way possible until you were a crippled, gasping version of your former self, desperately trying to hang on, wondering why the hell this was happening and when the hell it was going to stop.

I don't know why I did this to you. Because you ARE ME.

Maybe that was why I did it. I didn't want you--a body--to be me, the essence of me.

Whatever the reason, the end result was that I treated you the way I was afraid everyone else would. In trying to protect you, I made my worst fears for you come true. *I* was the unfeeling monster. I was the one who looked upon you with disgust. I was the one who told you when you were thin that no guy who ever showed interest could ever be interested in more than just wanting your body. I was the one who when you were fat who told you no one loved you because of how you looked. And now I'm the one telling you that if you lose weight, you'll never be loved for anything except your body again. And I'm the one who's telling you Ithat at forty you'll never have that 20-something body back, especially due to the problems *I've* caused for you--and that this, no matter how thin you become now, will still make you unappealing to the world.

I was the one who never let you out without fear, or let you feel your full joy of being, except for when I was having sex and became too sensorially overwhelmed to think about suppressing you anymore.

This is my attempt to try to testify. To bring let you know I am not blind to the things I've done. That I get it. I know you've been going it alone, trying your best to stay afloat despite all the abuse I've piled on you. And you've done marvelously. I can not say the same for myself.

I'm so proud you've managed to hold up all this time. You are so much better than I've ever given you credit for.

I want to say how sorry I am for all of this, all I've done.

I know sorry isn't not enough. I know you deserve more. But it's a start and I think it's important to start with saying I am so very, very sorry. I'm so sorry I couldn't enjoy you when you gave me so much; that I couldn't feel anything except either bad or blank about you. I'm so sorry I've hurt you. And I've hurt me. I've hurt us, because we are the same. And I want you to know that I know this now.

I hope you will forgive me for not knowing it before, and for what I've done as a result of that.

I want you to know that I won't stop at apologizing. I'm going to do something about it. I'm going to back up my words with actions.

I will not ignore you anymore. I will not pretend you don't exist. And I am trying so, so hard not to hurt you anymore. I know I need help with this; I know I can't stop alone. I'm getting this help.

Because it's time for me to stop this. I don't want to hurt you anymore. I don't want to be scared to be in whatever my real body is at this age. I want to find out what my real body is at this age. I want to give you the freedom to show me.

I want to stop being scared. I want to stop thinking what you look like has a direct correlation to how well I'll be loved, to how shallow the world is, to how shallow I am, to how I'll be treated.

I want to stop feeling LOOKED AT. And I want to stop punishing you for being looked at.

I want to live together and work together and talk to each other all the time.

I want to accept you, as you are, and feel real love for you. Not love tempered with fits of compulsive, unconscious abuse.

To feel proud of you, as you are. To show you off and not think I have to be ashamed because of it.

I want us to be friends. I want us to be lovers.

I want us to love and be proud of each other. I don't want to be separate entities, passing notes through a crack in a wall.

I want symbiosis. As it always should have been.

I want joy coursing through you. Not just my soul. Through YOU, Body, through my breasts, which are mine, and not needing of adjectives. Through my belly, which is mine and not needing of adjectives. Through all of you, which is me and not needing of adjectives. Except one. Joyful. No matter how your lines are drawn, we will always call them joyful.

More with that word joy. The most important thing:

I want to enjoy you.

In my remaining years, finally, finally, I want to enjoy you.

I want all that. But first I have to learn how to talk to you. And as you can tell from this disjointed and sometimes repetitive letter, I still haven't learned how to communicate well with you yet.

I'm trying to do better. But just like with a family member you've seen but never really developed a relationship with, I kind of love you in the abstract, from the outside, but I don't know how create a love bond with you in a highly personal way.

But I really want to. And you've stuck it out and stuck around, so I'm hoping that means you do, too.

So this letter is my very ineloquent way of asking you, will you help me figure out how to do this? I need some help and I'm feeling pretty shaky, and I'm not even sure how to get started. I'm going to do everything I can on my own, but maybe you can help show me the way to release some things. I'd like to work together so we both feel safe and happy and ultimately can see in each other the goodness that's really there.

I want to see you. Let's not hide anymore.

It's okay.

Please tell me it's okay.

Love,

Me