Alarm sounding, I blindly reach out and slap at the air. After several attempts at muting the screeching beast, I make contact and am met with beautiful silence.

I am the creator of my day, the decision maker, and yet my brain takes the reigns and breaks the silence, “Your co-workers will think you’re disgusting if you wear your hair up again because you don’t feel like showering.” I flinch in response to the thought that somehow lashes out against me— me against me. I groan, and plant my feet after the initial roll. I don’t want to be disgusting.

Just another day on auto-pilot: I reach into the shower and in an instant, hot water sprays. Climbing in, “How did your thighs get so big? Are they bigger than usual? They are, they have to be, they are huge!” I begin to blush, whether from the heat or the criticism is to be determined.

The loofah glides over my side. “Your skin there used to be perfect. Now it has these weird purple chasms where your pregnant body ripped into pieces. They won’t ever go away, you’re broken forever.” I move faster and quickly rinse my whole body, conditioner mixing with body soap in rivers down my back. I can’t relax and dally or the clock will punish me.

I reach for my bra. “You could pack up to go camping for the weekend under all that sag.” I quickly put it on. I turn to the full length mirror, catching sight of my thunder thighs, then the purple chasms, and my full breasts being held at the socially acceptable position thanks to my handy torture device.

I pause, nearly tripping; I’m stunned.

Two mean eyes stare back. A lip, my lip, is curled into a slight snarl. “Just get dressed, you still have to put makeup on, that skin needs concealer today.”

“JUST SHUT UP! You’re fine. Everything is fine. Look at the children you’ve stitched together, see the work you’ve done to get here, to today, with that body!”

The glare wavers for a minute then relaxes away. I’ve taken control of today.