Currently listening to: You’re The One For Me, Fatty – Morrissey
You’re the one for me, fattyYou’re the one I really, really loveAnd I will stayPromise you’ll say if I’m ever in your wayA-hey
How do you deal with bad body image days?
Trigger warning: body dysmorphia, anorexia, body image
Prompt snagged from: TCMC
Honestly? I don’t deal with them well. My perception of my body is completely skewed—I know it, but that doesn’t make it any easier to change. People I’ve dated have given me compliments or say they love certain features about me, but all I can see are the flaws. It’s like my brain filters out the compliments and highlights every imperfection instead.
And I know I’m not alone in this. In Korea, body image struggles are deeply ingrained in the culture. You can never be thin enough, never be pretty enough. It’s a relentless standard, and no matter how much you achieve, there’s always something to “fix.” The expectation isn’t just about looking good—it’s about perfection. And that’s exhausting.
Back in high school, I thought the only way to feel in control of my body was to stop eating. Anorexia wasn’t some grand plan—I just started withholding food, waiting until my hip bones and clavicles jutted out enough for me to feel like I was finally doing something right. That was the standard in my mind. If I could see bones sticking out prominently, then maybe I was getting close to “enough.”
Even now, certain things stick with me. I have a big ass—objectively, I know that’s not a bad thing, but growing up, my mom would always tell me to cover it up. She made comments about how my thighs were too big, how I needed to hide them. And even though I’ve learned to tune out a lot of outside noise, those words still echo in my head. They planted the seed of self-consciousness, and it grew into this constant hyper-awareness of my body.
The thinner I get, the better I feel—not just emotionally, but physically too. I get more confident, more comfortable in my own skin, more frisky, even. But at the same time, when I’m intimate with someone, my mind still spirals. I start thinking about how he must see me—if he thinks I’m too big, if he’s secretly comparing my body to someone smaller. If his legs or fingers are on the thinner side, I catch myself freaking out, wondering how I must look next to them. It’s irrational, but body dysmorphia doesn’t exactly deal in logic.
I wish I could say I’ve fully unlearned all of this, but the truth is, it’s a work in progress. Some days, I look in the mirror and like what I see. Other days, I can’t stand my reflection. I try to remind myself that bodies are supposed to change, that health and beauty aren’t defined by size—but those lessons take time to sink in.
I guess the real answer is, I’m still figuring it out. And maybe that’s okay.
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