Dear Body,

I would love to write you a letter praising all that you are. I would love to say I love your curves, and your svelte beauty. I would love to call you sexy and lovely and provocative. I would. I really would. But, alas, I cannot.

You see, body, I hate you.

I hate what you've done to me. You've made me realize that what curves can be to other women are merely fat rolls on me. When other women shop at the hoochie mama fat chick store, they're full figured, but when I shop there it because I'm just fat. You've made me see that the bigger I get, the more invisible I become. Sure, dear body, you try your hardest to regain that girlish figure, but we both know it will never happen. Mile after mile, diet after diet, defeat after defeat. I hate that you make me so mad. I hate that you have taken my self worth and flushed it down the toilet.

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

But I'm stuck with you. So another day comes, and I make excuses. I say I'm too busy being a supermom to take care of myself. Or there's too much going on in my life to worry about what I weigh. But let's face it, it's a load of crap. What it really is is this.

I expect a lot of myself, but I'm just not willing to take the time to make it happen. There, I said it.

Maybe I need lower expectations. Maybe I need a good bout of anorexia. Maybe I need counseling to learn the difference between body image and self image. But really, I know all the cliche's. I know what they would want to hear, so I would say it and be cured, and be sent on my way. But it still comes down to this.

I hate you. You disgust me.