Reverse Body Dysmorphia

For most of my life, I have suffered from a very serious and rare illness known as Reverse Body Dysmorphia, or for short, RBD.

My symptoms include, but are not limited to, regularly trying on pants from college (that are three to four sizes smaller than my current size) and assuming they will fit, emphatically arguing that glass store fronts are warped and thus result in a much larger reflection, attempting to purchasing bathing suits on the internet, without trying them on, and writing down the number “140” on any paperwork that requires my weight. When my weight is checked by a professional, I make sure to tell the nurse that my clothes are very, very heavy, and also, I’m probably premenstrual, which adds at least 25 pounds. Also, let’s not forget, that my scale at home is definitely more accurate because I got it at Hammacher Schlamacher, and therefore, I insist that the nurse record my weight with an asterisk and a note about the extenuating circumstances of said weighing.

In a nutshell, I walk around New York City thinking I am prettier and thinner than I actually am. But, today I wasn’t in New York; I was on a trip to Nowhere, Ohio, and I wasn’t feeling quite like myself.

Three weeks earlier, after scarfing down a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, I found myself in bed watching Biggest Loser and yelling at the TV.

“Oh, please, Bob. I can do that.”

OK, maybe I couldn’t do that, but I knew I could do something, so before I realized that this line of thinking was due to a sugar high, I committed to a program that promised to get me off the couch and running a 5k in just eight weeks.

Three weeks later, I was standing in a hotel bathroom in Ohio, attempting to put on my work out gear, and that’s when things went awry.

I lifted my left breast up, and struggled to squish it down into my sports bra. My breast suddenly had a mind of its own, spilling out over the sides, over the top and underneath as well, just for symmetry. After some tugging, stretching and growling, I got a good portion of my boob into the cotton cup, and it felt like a victory. I took a cleansing breath, before I shifted my attention to my right side.

I pulled and prodded and poked, but every time I got the right boob into the bra, the left one popped out.

Clearly this bra shrank in the dryer the last time I did laundry. It was also possible that I had accidentally grabbed my six-year old daughter’s bathing suit top. They looked very similar and it was dark in that hotel room. Who cared? Either one should fit since I’m so skinny.

I jammed Leftie back into the cup and forced her underneath the wall-mounted hairdryer to keep her locked down. Then, using both my hands, I carefully wedged Righty into the holster while simultaneously tightening the straps thus creating a tourniquet-like situation.

Thumbs up. I was in.

Sure, some parts were hanging out, and there was a great deal of flesh molded together in the area that should have been cleavage, but need I remind you that this bra was dried on high?

I know.

I reached for the deodorant, and in the mirror, I saw the underside of my arm swaying like a hammock in a tropical breeze.

Que? No entiendo?

I was very confused and disoriented by what I was seeing in this large bathroom mirror.

You see, one of the many side effects of RBD is something known as “Ineverlookinthemirroritus.” I see no need to check myself in the mirror as I’m sure things are perfect just the way they are. Sure, on occasion, I glance to see if I have a goop in my eyes because goop happens, even to super models like myself.

The only exception that I make is at my house. My apartment has just one full-length mirror that’s embedded on the back of a wooden door, and it’s been there since the apartment was built in the 1920s. It looks purposefully antiqued, like you’d expect to find in a trendy Brooklyn apartment, and the result is that I can see myself, but it’s like I’m looking through a camera lens with the Barbara Walter filter over it. Needless to say, I love that mirror.

However, mirrors in cheap Holiday Inn Express bathrooms are, in general, large, clean and much too well lit, and because of that, I was having trouble looking away.

For the first time in a decade, I scanned my body and immediately noticed a bulge across my midsection that was not there when I was in New York. I checked my forehead. I didn’t have a fever, so I merely pulled the waste band of my shorts over my midsection, thus ensuring that the “alleged” fat was invisible. As I walked down to the gym, I made a mental note to google illnesses associated with Ohio that cause optical illusions. This was probably because I drank the tap water. Ohio wasn’t Michigan, but it was close enough.

I slid my keycard into the slot of the gym and opened the door. I stepped onto the treadmill and was face to face with myself. The entire wall in front of the treadmill was a mirror. Why was the Holiday Inn Express so obsessed with giant mirrors? Geesh, Holiday Inn Express, vain much?

I tried to focus on banging out my intense 18-minute mile run, but the large patch of cottage cheese I saw on my legs ripped me from the zone. My knees were jiggling like Jell-o.

Something very bad was happening here in Ohio — it was as if I was being cured of my RBD.

Suddenly, doubts swirled about my head; a continuous loop of negativity that I couldn’t ignore. Who was I to be running with my giant boobs, flappy arms and my cottage cheesy legs? I’ll never be able to finish the “Couch to 5k, ” and even if I do, I’ll end up back on the couch, right where I started. Oh, and I’m sure I won’t lose any weight either.

Oh, my God. Do I need to lose weight?

I hit pause on the treadmill and stepped off to the side of the machine. I walked over to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, downing it. Maybe that would rid my body of whatever toxins I had picked up on this trip.

I stared in the mirror, attempting to shatter the glass with the beams of anger shooting out of my eyeballs. That failed, but I noticed something else — there was a cheap hotel painting hanging on the back wall of the gym, and I could see it clearly reflected in the mirror. The print was simple, an image of the sun rising high over a mountain; everything aglow in oranges and yellows. I studied the painting, looking for answers. I squinted and saw myself, a tiny speck of a person, standing on the mountaintop, with my arms outstretched, raised up toward the sun. I was twirling around in joy and thinness.

Hmm.

I kept my eyes focused on that picture as I stepped back onto that treadmill and hit the resume button.

Smack, smack, smack went my feet on the machine as I continued to stare at myself on the mountaintop through the mirror.

That’s when it hit me. I was an athlete. I was a champion. I was the white Marion Jones, without the steroids.

I felt lighter. I picked up my pace. I kept running.

My face was as red as an apple. Sweat was rolling down my chest into my sports bra. I heard the lady in my app say, “Workout complete.” I slammed the stop button and hopped off the treadmill.

I walked over to the ginormous mirror and stood in front of it. I looked closely at myself. I tilted my head to the side, honestly assessing my body and myself. Here’s what I saw. I looked damn good, and my sports bra fit perfectly. If it weren’t for the fact that I was at an upscale and respectable Holiday Inn Express, I would have ripped off my shirt, dropped to my knees in victory and showed my sports bra off for all of Ohio to see.

And here’s what I knew; I was going to be fine. I was going to be better than fine. But, I also knew that I’d better get back to New York as soon as possible.

Just in case.

This article was written in September 2016. Want to hear about how my relationship with food, body image, working out, and sports bras has changed? Check out the audio companion to this story later this week.