I’m going to make this intro as quick and painless as possible.  Or as painless as the truth can be.

Let’s get all the juicy stuff out of the way so we don’t need to have some huge Oprah-type reveal later: Some days I look in the mirror and I see a goddess, an African queen whose curves and muscles can carry the weight of a nation and simultaneously make you turn your head as I walk down the street, mesmerized by the sway of my hips and the confidence in my step.  You become intoxicated by the trail of pixie dust of loveliness and stupendous beauty I leave behind as I pass you by.  And other days, I feel like shit; the real funky, stink up your whole house (and your neighbor’s) type of shit.

You see, I suffer from dysmorphia, meaning what I see in the mirror is not a true representation of what really is. Or to put it another way, my brain refuses to see the beautiful, healthy and strong being in the reflection.  When my mind was in full on toddler-tantrum, refusal-to-see-my-worth m...