In a new book of essays, a writer takes a closer look at her complicated relationship with her body

Here are some things I would rather do in public than write about my body and, specifically, my struggle for self-esteem: punch my cat in the face, eat a leech, have sex with an impolite wolf, allow someone to watch me try to pluck an ingrown hair from the most tender part of my groin while hunched over myself and squeezing a little pustule until it pops and mixes with blood and turns pink and I groan, satisfied, “Oh, gross,” while pulling out a follicle the length of a cucumber. In fact, I would far rather present to you all naked, in this exact body, in public, than actually talk about my body. I’d prefer to show you so I can avoid acknowledging this vessel, which I’ve worked so hard to hide.

All indelible memories are rooted in trauma, like trees grown in a dumpster, all crooked and ugly and covered in leaves made of used diapers and stretched-out Fashion Nova tops. Naturally, some of my most vivid memories are those where I discovered in what unique and particular ways my body was wrong. By the time I was nine, I was well aware that I was too hairy, too brown,…

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