I remember the first time I pulled up a website with pictures of nude fat people.
Not porn; this was a photographer's art project. But the models were all my level of fat and they were naked.
The images weren't beautiful to me, but they were powerful. I felt like . . . my insides were all a hollow shaft and someone dropped a piano down through me. A great and melodic sound of destruction verborating all throughout empitness.
I'm the fattest person I've ever encountered. I stopped fitting into anything off the rack about six years ago. I actually go beyond belief. Seated, I have no body. I'm pouches on top of pouches, with two pouches on pouches legs. Oh, and there's the gross asymmatry of my bosom -- one of the breasts never developed.
Everywhere I look at myself, something unique, something uncorrected, something that shouldn't be there. I only exist because my mother lost weight, for crying out loud -- she lost twenty pounds and forgot to get her diaphram refitted, ba duh bing, here's your firstborn. It just makes sense that I'm a freak of fatness. Like I'm some sort of biological glitch that somehow slipped through playtesting.
I honestly thought I was the only one like me in the entire world.
Evidence that that wasn't true, that it isn't true . . . it should feel empowering, but that's not what I feel. Exactly. I just want to cry. They might not be beautiful to me, but they're beautiful to themselves. Nature allows them to exist and feel beautiful. How is that possible?