Trigger Warning: Body Dysmorphia
I’ve had anxiety about my weight for as long as I can remember. I hate the feeling of dread that engulfs me when I step on the scale, the silence as I wait for the numbers to settle, and the overwhelming sense of defeat as the numbers practically scream back at me, “YOU’RE OVERWEIGHT.” So, I did what any sensible person would do: I threw out the scale and avoided weighing myself for seven years.
Over the years, my anxiety extended beyond stepping on the scale. I avoided full-length mirrors and bright clothes with patterns, and I wore mostly black to appear slimmer. I’ve gotten a bit better in recent years; I bought my first full-length mirror and a bright yellow top (not all at once, though, baby steps), but I couldn’t bring myself to step on a scale. That felt like taking it a little too far.
Two weeks ago, I looked at myself in that full-length mirror, and my inner thoughts were not kind. I hated the way I looked, but even more than that, I was tired of hating the way I looked. That night, I told Marlon how I felt, and he encouraged me to go back to the basics: eat mindfully and move consistently. But first, he said, I needed to step on the scale. I fought him on it, but the feeling of being fed up boiled in me, so I ordered it the next day.
Stepping on the Scale
Monday morning, I woke up feeling ready to tackle the day. We had dinner already prepared and plans to hit the gym right after work, but I forgot about weighing myself until I saw the scale propped up against the wall. I reluctantly asked Marlon to place the batteries in, ready to get this part over with so that I can finish getting ready for the day. Of course, Marlon stepped on the scale with no problem, and I envied how unaffected he appeared. Then it was my turn. I stood there, hesitating. My chest felt heavy. I couldn’t breathe.
And then I started crying. I was having a panic attack over a number that hadn’t even appeared yet, and my mind was already filling in the gaps: It’s going to be bad. It’s worse than I imagined. I’m going to hate myself even more when I see it. The tears were coming so fast I could barely get out a few sentences, but Marlon immediately stepped in and helped me breathe. It took a few minutes for the panic to settle, but my breathing slowed just enough for me to do what I’d been dreading. Eventually, I stepped on the scale.
Bracing myself for the worst, I winced as I anticipated the dread, silence, and defeat. When the numbers finally appeared, I blinked my lingering tears away, sure they were clouding the digital display. I even moved the scale to a different spot in the house to make sure it was real. It’s not as bad as I thought it would be. As I stared at the numbers in disbelief, I started crying all over again. I was proud of myself for conquering something so scary, relieved that the scale didn’t show the number I had imagined, and ultimately confused because I thought it should have shown the number in my head. The numbers that I saw didn’t match the body that I avoided in the full-length mirror or the way my clothes uncomfortably hugged me every day. My mind built an entire narrative around how I looked and what I must weigh.
Body Dysmorphia
“Babe, I think you really might have body dysmorphia.” His comment caught me off guard, mostly because I brought it up to him months earlier and hadn’t expected to hear it again. At the time, it was more of a passing thought that we briefly explored rather than a final conclusion. We talked about it for a moment, and then I quietly tucked the idea away. Diagnosing myself with something so serious based on a feeling felt irresponsible, so I decided it was safer to ignore it, but standing there after my panic attack and hearing Marlon say those words again, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. This time, I can’t neatly file this away and bury it in the corner. If my mind could convince me that my reality was so much worse than it actually was, then maybe the problem wasn’t just my weight. Perhaps it was the way I was seeing myself.
I don’t know yet whether I actually have body dysmorphia, but learning about it made me realize that a lot of my behaviors over the years weren’t just “normal insecurity.” Avoiding scales, avoiding mirrors, constantly assuming I looked worse than I actually did and was heavier than I actually am — those might have been signs of something deeper than I realized.
Final Thoughts
Right now, I am realizing that I have been trying to solve two different problems as if they were the same thing: managing my physical health and fixing my relationship with food and my body. Every time I try to go on this health journey, I focus entirely on the first problem and completely ignore the second, which explains why my goal to maintain a healthy lifestyle long-term never lasted. I’m starting to recognize the importance of working on both while also not letting the numbers on the scale be the only measure of success. I stepped on a freaking scale after seven years. That might seem small to some people, but for me, it means that I faced something that terrified me for almost a decade.
I am not miraculously healed now that I’ve stepped on a scale. In fact, I literally started anxiously picking at my fingernail polish and crying as I wrote the beginning of this blog post. This is still so new to me since it only happened two days ago at the time that I’m writing this, and I’m still anxious about weighing myself again next week. However, I have to accept the small wins. I know more about myself than I did before I started this journey. I have the support of my amazing husband and mother, and I have new goals that I’m working toward. One of those goals is doing more research about body dysmorphia, and the other is exploring professional help.
If you’ve ever avoided mirrors, scales, or certain clothes because of how you think you look, I hope you know you’re not alone in that feeling. I’m still figuring this out myself, but I’m finally ready to stop pretending it isn’t there.
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