Body Dysmorphia While Dating

The first time I took my clothes off in front of my partner, I felt like I was back in a massage parlor for the first time, shirt removed, running to lay flat on my back before there was any PG-13 exposure to anyone around me. The years I’d spent on my own, abstinent, and engaged in self-work weren’t so helpful without the practice of being with another to feel comfortable in my skin skin with. It was vulnerable to be a grown woman in her 30s who, amongst posters of empowered female bodies hanging from her walls, still wasn’t able to bare it all with pride. Things I thought I’d healed still lived, breathed, and thrived within me. Alone, they were manageable, but in the company of others, in intimacy, they were revived.

Then came the meals together, when I’d side-eye sneak peeks of the size of our plates and pay particular attention to eating less than my partner did. I’d stop when he did, take seconds only when he’d make the first move, and add mayonnaise if he suggested we include it in our meal. My eating was structured and controlled, and over time even he was tired of giving me permission to gorge when I truly wanted to. I was carefully balancing being a carefree feminist who definitely wasn’t one of those girls, while also standing up strongly for those girls, while simultaneously definitely being one of those girls because, despite it all, my conditioning was strong. I felt my body as the place where I could theoretically receive love if it wasn’t such a repellant for love all along. I was a walking paradox, preaching self-love in my circles and believing everyone deserved the gift of feeling free in their bodies but failing to extend that same grace to myself.

Eventually, I grew tired of putting on my clothes when my partner went to the bathroom or constantly responding with, “just a little!” when he’d offer to refill my plate with a second serving of dinner. I also grew tired of playing it cool, like I indeed carried the confidence of the women I idolized. It finally caught up to me that I felt more uncomfortable running from the reality of my body and needs than I did sitting up in bed and sharing that my stomach folded into rolls or that, yeah, I can finish off a large pizza with some effort. There came a time when I realized, damn it, I want to be the first one at the table to say yes to the dessert question when the waiter arrives to…