I am really sick and tired of reading articles by women who have made the (apparently colossal) effort to resign themselves to loving their bodies despite all their myriad imperfections, including the ravages of time and child-bearing. My body is perfect, thanks very much. And no, I haven’t always felt this way.
When I look in the mirror, I see a body that, 10 years, ago, I would have rather destroyed than inhabited. And I did destroy, or attempt to, with fervour. I can recall some of the thoughts I indulged: If I could, I would flay this [invisible] fat from my thighs, my stomach. I wanted to erase myself from the face of the earth.