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I can’t remember the last time joy came without a precondition. I can look at old photos of myself and remember the work out or the foods I ate that day that made me either happy or depressed. I can feel the hallow or bloat in my belly that pre-determined the Elizabeth I would be. Was she going to be chill or anxious? Was she going to be powerful or weak? Strong or desperate? Worthy of your attention or laughable? Stupid or brilliant? Was she lovable today? I blamed you for these standards. I said you demanded too much and gave too little. I said you were an asshole. That you made me feel like shit. I cursed your name...

The texture of it is the shock between too hot and too cold. An uncomfortable burn that is numbing at times, in constant fluctuation and never progressing. A torture device used to make every moment a rebellion or a loathing, so goddamn powerful that sometimes you look in the mirror and don’t even know that it’s you, so you look to others to define it— and they always get it wrong. That’s what it’s like for me to hate my body. I’ve walked down the street and felt like I was in water. But not the calm kind of water where you find peace, the pressurized kind that pricks your skin in a way that makes you always want to...