I still hate pictures of myself. I hate that, when I see pictures of myself, I reflexively think “disgusting.” I hate that I don’t even think this about other fat women my size. Or fatter. I still sometimes blame the fat, but it can’t be the fat if I find other big round bodies attractive or neutral.
And I’m really grateful for the drugs that don’t let my mind jump to that and then stick there and worry at it until I hate my life.
And I’m grateful for the therapy that has taught me to demand my brain slow down and articulate how it’s feeling, really.
But I’m also really grateful for a little dude who genuinely delights in seeing me. To him, I just genuinely and value-neutrally look like myself, a person he likes.
We were both covered in refried beans, because he likes them but can’t quite get them from his hand to his mouth without them ending up everywhere else.