Age 22

I've often wondered what it would be like not to have any fat on my body. I wonder what these muscles could do without the weight of the fat I carry, how far I could run without getting out of breath, how high I could jump. I wouldn't want such a change ever to be permanent, though. I know that the muscles I have are just what I need for carrying every ounce of me.

I think I started to be less ashamed of my body when I dropped my long hair and got my gigantic mohawk. Suddenly everyone around was complimenting me. They said things like, we love your hair, it looks like the sun. I felt powerful with my hair spiked out to look like it could kill someone. The mohawk is long gone but the feeling of confidence in being visible is still there.

And I love my body. I really do. I walk around in my apartment naked and whenever I see myself in the bathroom mirror I smile and look at how long my armpit hair is getting. Sometimes I feel like a five-year-old, sitting in the bathtub poking at my belly and thinking of how it's like a flotation device. I'll never drown.

And I love my body when I am bicycling down the road and the cars are passing me and there is a fresh breeze in my face. I love my heart and the way it pounds when I try to go as fast as I can. I love the slight pain that gathers in my legs when I strain to pedal faster. It makes me feel strong and alive.

Age 70

OK, it probably started at the age of 12, in the summertime, with a rolling pin trying to trim my thighs. I had a girlfriend who was the skinniest peg you ever wanted to meet. Me, well, I wasn't so lucky (or so I thought). My mother even signed me up for a magazine called "The Chubby Club." I hated it. The magazine would come with pictures of girls who were so much heavier than I. They sold dresses which had this elastic at the back waist (you know, so it could stretch). I dreaded it coming in the mail.

Next came the diet doctor. I remember my mother bringing me and the doctor taking my "before" picture. Every week I went, got pills, weighed and had a little question and answer session with the doc. One of the answers I can recall was, "if you eat from a pig, you'll look like a pig." His name was Dr. Repp in West Philadelphia. Needless to say, when I passed out one day my mother threw the pills down the toilet and I didn't go back to Dr. Repp. I think I weighed 150 lbs when I started with him; I recall losing 10 lbs in one week.

Today, well I'm 170 and hate it. I've tried so many diets. No flour, no sugar seemed to be the only one that works, but it's too difficult to stay on it.

My body image is of a fat person.

Age 28

For more than 20 years, I have hated my body. Every aspect of it - my skin, my hair, my size, my height - down to the freckles on my shoulders. Over those 20 years, I have been a compulsive over-eater, exercise bulimic, anorexic, bulimic, ED-NOS, and at times, even recovered. I've been pre-med in college, an EMT, a firefighter, a 9-1-1 dispatcher and teacher. I've gotten married, have two wonderful children, and while they give me purpose, the only time I ever felt validated as a worthwhile human being was when I was sickest, and at my thinnest. All the good I know I've done, the people I've helped, no one ever noticed me, appreciated me, respected me, except when I was skinny. I curse and hide my body. I look at my old scars, criss-crossing my arms and thighs where I once used to injure myself and I wonder, since it's been years since I hurt myself, that means I'm recovered, right? So I skip some meals, and stick my fingers down my throat when I do eat, but so what? Right? Denial is more than a river in Egypt.

I'm scared for my daughter. That she'll endure the same hell I've lived in my whole life. I walk a tightrope between worry and obsession with what she eats, how she eats, etc. I worry that my son will face the same image issues or that one day, maybe unknowingly, he'll judge someone else's worth based on their appearance and weight.

I don't need money or a big house or cars and jewelry to make me happy. If I had one wish, it would be to be rid of all my body image issues and disorders and just.be.happy.

Age 34

I am fat. No, really. I am fat. Morbidly obese is the medical term. I prefer fat. I have a fat ass, fat upper arms, a fat belly, fat hips, fat thighs and a fat face. I have stretch marks and I have cellulite. I also have a body that enables me to do the things I want to do. It has conceived, carried and borne two healthy children. It houses my brilliant mind and gives me means to express my thoughts and creativity. It lets me make love to my partner and to enjoy it. I like who I am. I like where I am in my life. I would rather be fat than stressing about dieting and losing weight. I can spend that time writing and creating and being. My body has got me where I am today and while I haven't always been on BFF terms with her, I think she is pretty cool. That is why I decorate her with ink and other expressions of love. I refuse to be ashamed of her. Why should I? My children love snuggling up to me because I am soft and squashy. My partner doesn't find skinny women attractive. I look like my mother did and I don't see that as a bad thing. Maybe I am in denial like all the fat haters say I am. But hey, it sure is more fun here than at Weight Watchers.

Age 19

Ever since I was a child I've been told I'm beautiful, cute, even angelic. I've had more than one guy tell me I'm "perfect." I don't understand where all of these compliments come from. I have days when I look in the mirror and I see what everyone else sees; I see a beautiful young woman. I only weigh 105 lbs, that can't be fat. Right? So then why is it that I have a lot of days where I look in the mirror and despise what I see? I'm not tall (I'm only 4'11") and I don't have big breasts and a non-existent waist. I'm not what I should be. I'm not perfect at all. How dare anyone say those words to me.

For years I've struggled with an eating disorder. I don't know how to stop.

Age 20

"I know all women have body issues. If you didn't, you wouldn't be normal."

My new boyfriend told me that when I became upset at him commenting on my body fat (or lack thereof), and I don't think he could ever understand just how much more depressing I find it that I am merely 'normal' in my repellant self hatred.

At least as an anorectic, one has something special. Now at a healthy weight I am just another female, having family reassurances constantly contradicted by the media - another 'sinful snack,' 'flawless perfection,' 'perfect new body' advert. I don't know one woman who is truly happy with herself. Most of them haven't been classified mentally ill, so what hope is there for me to ever let go of this?

Age 15

Now is the only time in my life I have been called beautiful, and it’s only because I am starving myself. I have always been fat, but last year I have started to not eat. I hide my food and wait for a good time to throw it all away. I act sick so I don't have to go near food when I'm at home. And the people in my life are praising me about how pretty I look now that I have a slimmer waist and hollow cheeks. People are encouraging me and I know I cannot stop. My friends are not fat and most of my parent’s friends are not fat, only my close family is. So I am a fat ass. Sometimes when I look in the mirror I catch a glimpse of a slim pretty girl, but then I'm overwhelmed by my huge fat thighs and rolled fat belly. I poke and prod my fat leavening purple-green bruises and dark red lines of blood. I never mean to hurt myself; I just wanted to show myself how I should look and feel. I can no longer see me as me, I only see what I think is me. I’m scared for my health.

Age 20

I'm covered with scars. Face, arms, stomach, thighs, ankles, all covered, all attacked, all self inflicted. As grotesque as they are, I don't hate them as much as the fat that they lay on or the stretch marks that some blend in with.

I hide it all behind designer labels and a pretty smile. Thank you for your compliments, I've never believed them. I really just want people to realize that I'm just as breakable as the china doll that they think I look like.

Age 22

I have hundreds, probably thousands, of dollars worth of tattoos on my body. I am more proud of them than anything else, but just once I want somebody to say "Oh, she would be so pretty if it weren't for all of those tattoos" instead of complimenting them. I have them so people look at the tattoos instead of looking at me, I want somebody to really see me someday, and think that I'm beautiful. Maybe someday I'll stop putting beautiful things on my body and actually believe that my body is what's beautiful.

Age 19

I am 19.

When I look at old pictures of me, I cry. I cry at how pretty I was. How that girl disappeared. How I fear I'll never find her again.

I wipe my tears away only to cry again when I remember how sick I was. How everyday I had a stomachache. How if I was awake too long, my stomach would hurt so badly I wanted to curl up and die. How I worked out when everyone else relaxed, and how eventually I couldn't eat a full meal anymore. How I spit out every bite behind my napkin.

And I wipe my tears away only to cry again when I remember how my jeans began to fall down. How I would lie on the ground, admiring the valley between my hips and ribs, and swear nothing was as beautiful.

And I once again, wipe away those tears only to cry again when I remember how fast the weight came back. How with medicine and depression I became literally twice my size.

And I look at those old pictures and cry, because, I was so damn beautiful.