![]() The mirror now belongs in a funfair, distorting what is actually in front of me into something grotesque. I am, I can see now, experiencing body dysmorphia: a feeling about myself unfairly transferred onto my unsuspecting skin and bones: a lame duck, an easy target that can’t answer back. ![]() Her face searches mine as she wipes away my tears. Molly, my best friend, looks at me, heartbroken. What I see is my body a collection of limbs I resent for their shape, their size. But right now, at this moment, I am startlingly aware: I hate what I see. A shift is occurring one that has been some time coming, perhaps without my realising. In paint-chipped toilets, I stare in a smudgy mirror. But somewhere in between the wine-soaked reunion and the dancing, somewhere in amongst the joy, a sadness has arrived. A group of friends from London have come to visit, and we’re having a night out. I’m in the toilets of a nightclub in Amsterdam.
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