The negativity hit a fever pitch in March when I was trying on my bridesmaid dress for my cousin’s wedding. It was tight around my middle, and I broke down crying. “I hate my body,” I blubbered to my mother, who’d come to the fitting with me. “I’m fucking disgusting. This is why I’m still single,” I wailed, somewhat melodramatically. I started connecting every horrible thing in my life to my body and blaming it for the things I deemed “wrong” with myself. My body had kept me single, because no man would ever want to date someone who looked like me. It made me broke, because I was constantly spending money on food and gym memberships trying to get it to look the “right” way. I had never been meaner to myself; and I believed it all to be true.