Here are my confessions:

I am not a beautiful person. I think constantly about my body and the way I look, and when I see my reflection in the mirror I take a knife and begin to dissect my features one by one.

Sometimes I ‘forget’ to eat and I have taught myself to relish starvation. I am hungry. I am guilty. I will my body to consume itself.

I have logged my weight, both literally and unconsciously, since I was in high school. I have absolutely no idea how my body looks, though I look at it every day. Despite assessing its every detail, crease and fold, I am apparently blind to its appearance. I only know this because of the way people speak about my physical self and the incongruence with my own perception. I at least have the clarity of ,indeed to realise they can’t all be wrong and me the only one with working eyes. I have never been diagnosed with body dystrophies - just as I have never been diagnosed with an eating disorder - but, like a lot of women, I exist on the periphery of categorisation. The blurred edge before intervention is needed.

I want to stop scrolling but I can’t put my phone down. I know I am slipping away from reality. I delete the apps but find myself coming to, awakening from a haze of of swiping through my home screens searching for something that is no longer there. My thumb moves with its own autonomy and hovers, as my brain catches up with the body I no longer seem to control.

I was sixteen when I started decapitating myself for instagram. Cropping off my head. By the, I lived half in and half out of the world, and I was truly myself in neither. My mother could never understand why I wouldn’t smile for photos. Keep in that lovely face. I never understood why she couldn’t see that this was a space for slicing, for offering the best bits for the feed. This was my life in 280 characters or 1080 pixels squared. How could she ever expect to find me whole?

Sometimes I zoom into myself as far as I can go. Pinching the screen closer and closer until there is nothing left to see but a gradient of hues. I begin my sculpting, shaving down the pixels until I can zoom out and feel happy with what I see. This is how I want to be perceived. I lost the picture online, to rapturous applause.

I think about getting lip filler most days. If it’s not lips, it’s for my cheeks, chin, jawline or other parts of my face that I haven’t realised are wrong yet. I know something must be wrong with my face but I can’t quite pinpoint what. I have made multiple appointments to have a cosmetic doctor tell me definitively but have found myself unable to attend.

People compliment me and I do not believe them.

Before a girls’ night in 2019, I bought a brand-new top because I wanted to feel sexy. I never show my boobs even though they’re my favorite part of myself. I always feel shallow to admit that, but it is the truth. The top was long-sleeved and low cut. It was the right balance of flesh, I felt. (I spend a lot of time thinking about the right balance of flesh.) I took some mirror selfies and uploaded them to my stories. The verdict came in: fire emojis, heart eyes and exclamation points gave me the boost I needed to step out of the door.