Friday, November 30, 2012

TMI and TW: Body Hate, A Naked Experience

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?


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