Do I have body dysmorphia or am I just fat?

I know that the thoughts that I have surrounding my body reek of internalized fatphobia. I know logically that I am very privileged to exist in this body, despite what I think about it. But body dysmorphia doesn't obey logic. | Photo Credit: ©Vivek / Adobe Stock

When I look in the mirror, I see… A shape. I can’t clearly define this shape for you because it is always shifting, sometimes by the day, and sometimes by the hour. The only consistent detail is that I am always repulsed by it. 

I see shoulders blades large enough to land planes on. I see a back that is wider than the Sargasso Sea. I see myself standing before the image you find in a funhouse mirror; except this time, the mirror is not built that way. I am built that way.

The first time I noticed the size of my body I was 9 years old. I was at the very beginning of a competitive swimming career that would bring me as much joy as it brought me pain. I stood on the poolside amongst the other swimmers and realized that their stomachs did not have the same bulge as mine. They did not have tree trunks in place of thighs, and their arms were not more meat than bone. 

I took a deep breath and sucked in my stomach as much as physically possible. I have continued to suck in my stomach around others every time I have worn a swimming costume or fitted clothing ever since. That is 13 years of sucking in. 13 years I have been ashamed of the body I inhabit.

I was not diagnosed with Body Dysmorphia until the end of my teenage years. One day, amid a conversation about my insecurities, my therapist asked me what description the Police would share if I were to go missing. “5’4, white, obese, with no distinguishing marks.” 

She paused for a moment and asked, “And you really think you would match that description?” I nodded my head without missing a beat because I was not blind to the fact that others could see how much space I occupied.She proceeded to tell me a version of what many friends, family members, boyfriends, and girlfriends have said to me over the years. 

“I do not see what you see.” “You are not fat, Jodie.”

I swept the comment to the side as I have so many others. Of course, your loved ones will not tell you that you are fat in a world where fat equals bad. And as for my therapist, she knew more intimately than anyone else what self-destruction I was capable of when I felt ashamed or insulted. Why would she take the risk and tell me the truth? I was, and still, am, fat.

I am hesitant to admit that I have body dysmorphia. I can’t fathom how anyone could see anything other than what I see. I am almost certain that the Doctors that diagnosed me did so in a plan to humiliate me by attempting to make me believe I’m not fat so that they and everyone else can laugh in secret about me being delusional and stupid.

I’m aware that this belief is also delusional and irrational, but that doesn’t make it disappear. Every time I try to pull back the veil that traps my thoughts about my body, I hear an echo of the boys in my Year 10 PE class who named me ‘The Beast.’ And I was much skinnier when that label came into being.

I have spent many hours thinking about taking a pair of scissors to my stomach and cutting out the flesh I don’t want. I have declined many invitations to see loved ones because I have not been able to leave the house and bare the shame I feel when others look at me. I have angered and bored partners with the excessive force of my self-hatred. 

I have spent years in the throes of disordered eating and bulimia, years I won’t ever get back. The most insane part is that even now, 4 years after diagnosis and subsequent treatment, I still can’t tell if the Doctors just assigned me Body Dysmorphia Disorder to make me feel better about being fat.  Do I have body dysmorphia or am I just fat? I am very, very fat, aren’t I?