Stop me if you’ve heard any of these:

Absolute crap invented by people with no hangups on the way they look in the mirror. Designed to make you think they understand what’s going on in your brain when they honestly couldn’t care less. (Also, the phrases look catchy on tee shirts.)

No one in the history of the modern world ever felt better hearing one of these slogans.

A casual remark certainly never helped a person, like me, overcome their crippling body dysmorphia. Because that’s all it ends up being, a throwaway statement that makes no impact on the way my brain works.

A trainer could stand beside me as I look at my reflection, shouting their favorite catchphrase, and I wouldn’t hear a word. All I’d see is the excess flab around my waist. The way the backs of my arms jiggle when I flap them around. How my breasts droop a little lower down my front with each passing year. And, of course, the undeniable presence of gravity hauling down a layer of fat beneath my chin when I drop my head.

There’s nothing positive looking back at me in the glass.

The mirror contains nothing but the repulsive creature who hides out in my brain and whispers nasty remarks any time I dare to think I’ve accomplished something. There isn’t a single uplifting comment in her repertoire. Even at my best, She brings me back down to a more “reasonable” level. Unsatisfied with dominating my internal monologue, She also pops up in every reflective surface to ensure I don’t forget about her.

Or, rather, me.

Friends and family see an imaginary creature standing in my stead. One with a different body contour and muscular structure. They heap on the praise and positivity to the simulacrum in front of them, thinking it possesses the ability to hear.

I’ve never met the mannequin, and my imagination forbids me from contemplating what it might look like. (Suspension of disbelief only gets you so far.)

The only one I know is the monster in the mirror.

She appears in the blink of an eye, too. If I dare to run my fingers along my calf and feel the complete absence of fat deposits or extra skin, She conjures an image in my head of cankles and excess water weight. Then She throws in the reminders of changing for gym and hearing the laughter of the surrounding girls who didn’t need to wear men’s shoes, just for good measure. Lest I forget that I’ve never been small or acceptable to the social world.

My brain doesn’t know which to believe: the sensory information collected through my fingertips or the endless litany of scale weights shouted out by medical professionals. (Fifty doctors can’t be wrong!) I can’t trust what I feel. And only a fool dares to think the cold numbers of a tape measure have any basis in reality. (If they did, you wouldn’t need to “measure twice” before making cuts.)

She’s a sick, twisted individual, determined to keep me wallowing in self-hatred. The compulsion to step on a scale comes directly from Her. She knows the number won’t go down. There’s a perverse pleasure in her revelry of my disappointment. Because I can’t ever help the thought of, “Maybe this time, it’ll be kind.”

As if I’ve ever seen a friendly scale in my life.

Cold digital digits reminding me that in Second Grade, everyone made fun of me for weighing the same as a young panda bear. Teachers forcing everyone to stand in order of size around the classroom for some sadistic purpose, and having to walk to the back each time. The unending chorus of “Andi the Panda!” chanting in my ears. The scale hated me from the very beginning, providing Her with all the ammunition she could need.

I could blame the hatred of women for why clothing sizes continually increase. Cold facts that explain why I never fit into anything “cute” or “fashionable.” Instead, forced to wear hand-me-downs from my mother and thrift’d bell-bottom jeans no one deemed cool in the 80s. The prevalence of 5-7-9 stores condemning me to pretend I held no interest in shopping with my friends. She always hissed laughter into my ear as I sorted through clothing racks in the Plus section, trying to keep my head bent down as far as possible. Of course everyone knew the size printed on my tags. Why else would they take such delight in making fun of me?

I created Her, though. Not the outside world. Not a system designed to make females feel fat, frumpy, and unwanted. I gave Her the space to roam free in my brain and mock every attempt to dress myself up for an evening. And I’ve continued to allow Her space to criticize every bite of food I manage to get down. (Fruit contains a hideous amount of sugar, you know.)

My race times might improve with each new event. I may lift a heavier barbell than I have in the past. It’s even possible that I can watch my average heart rate drop. I could have all the evidence in the world that I’m making progress toward a healthier existence.

She won’t see it. Won’t accept the cold numbers looking back at her.

Because it’s more comfortable for Her to sneer and deride my efforts.

She loves staring back at me from the reflection way too much.