I’m pretty sure I’m into self-torture.  Sorry, I’m not talking about a sexual kink or anything – I just like to mentally flog myself.  For example: I have a couple of areas on my body that have more mass than I’d like.  Some days I’m super-motivated to exercise and really do something about it because hey, I’m in charge here!  Other days my month-long supply of Ben and Jerry’s (a pint) looks better than a walk, or swim, or water-yogging.  Pretty typical struggle, yes?  Well, I’ll bring up these areas in conversation with my poor, innocent husband (who has no idea what he’s walking into) and cross-question him to see if he really does love all of me or if he hates those parts that I dislike for their inappropriate mass.  Woe betide him if he’s even a single second late in responding with deep and abiding love for all of me, wobbly bits included.  If he pauses to collect his thoughts to deal with how the conversation has changed violently in under a minute, I start an internal mantra: he doesn’t love me unconditionally, he thinks I’m fat, he thinks I’m disgusting, he’s terrified I’ll let myself go.  Then I hit repeat.  I run away, curl into a ball, and listen to thoughts of how unlovely I am, how I lack the self-control necessary to be a decent woman, how I don’t even have a good personality to make up for the horrible appearance.  How I’m not his type, how he just married me because I was around when he felt like marrying, how he loves me out of obligation and we have one of those horrible marriages of convenience and societal expectations.  I make sure that I feel every second of regret, loathing, hopelessness.  Then I scrounge through the kitchen for something to eat because I feel bad.  Might as well revel in my deplorable state, it’s not like I can change now, after all.  I am doomed.  DOOOOOOMED!

Anyway.  Please pity my husband.  He lives with this crazy.