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Any intimacy required vulnerability, and vulnerability inevitably led back to humiliation. I shrank from their touch, recoiling from their hands like hot iron, believing their interest to be impossible or pathological. No matter how a potential partner looked, no matter how enthusiastic they were, I couldn’t trust their attraction. In the years since my first breakup, I had struggled to accept interest where I found it. And I worried that I would become a sexual curio, more novel than loved.ĭesire for a body like mine meant my partners were irrational, stupid, or resigned to settling for less than they wanted. In retrospect, I worried for my bodily safety, as if only violence could develop an appetite for a body as soft as mine. Over time, I came to experience any attraction as untrustworthy, as if danger lurked nearby. Dates constantly commented on my size, a knee-jerk reaction to their discomfort with their own desire. For years, my body took center stage in my dating life. I had learned that I was undesirable to almost everyone. In the cruel calculus of dating and relationships, our numbers didn’t match.īut it wasn’t just him. His thinness alone earned him a much higher standing. Everywhere I looked, bodies were openly critiqued and ranked, and mine steadily landed near the bottom of the scale - 2, 3, 4.
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We were dating at the height of popularity of sites like Hot or Not and TV shows like The Swan. How could he love me if it meant loving this?ĭespite having what was described as a “very pretty face,” I was constantly reminded that my body was impossible to want. My risk-taking resolution ebbed from my broad, soft body. Because this was uncharted territory, I assumed it was also unexplored. I had never seen fat women who asserted themselves, whose partners respected them. For me, my body isn’t good or bad it just is.īut I had never seen a fat woman in love - not in life, not in the media. I do not lie awake at night, longing for a thinner body or some life that lies 100 pounds out of reach. I do not struggle with self-esteem or negative body image. At my high school graduation, I wore a red wrap top in the highest size I could find at the time-a women’s 24.įor me, the size of my body is a simple fact. Three years ago, I weighed just over 400 pounds and wore a size 30 or 32, depending on the cut of the clothing. My body mass index (BMI) describes my body as “super morbidly obese” or “extremely obese.” Although my body is not the fattest in existence, it is the fattest the BMI can fathom. As I write this, I weigh 342 pounds and wear a women’s size 26. Not chubby or fluffy or husky or curvy - fat. Someone easier, prettier, cooler, and, of course, someone thinner. This beautiful life belonged to someone else, and he deserved someone better. I started researching jobs, and he started looking for apartments.īut every time I imagined our future, I couldn’t imagine myself. We would lie together in his tiny bed and daydream of my postgraduation move to Boston. Over time our Boston rendezvous turned into weekends at his apartment. I figure if I keep looking at them, I’ll start to believe it. He put the letters up around his bedroom mirror. I wrote back on thick paper, sometimes sprayed with perfume. His love letters landed like a blow, knocking the wind out of me.
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He wrote me letters nearly every day, and I responded like clockwork. We lived two states away from each other and on the weekends would meet in the middle in Boston, spending long days together. He had started testosterone shortly before we met, and the double-exposed photos seemed to show his body as a specter as the hormones took root. Haunting photographs hung on the walls, a ghostly kind of self-portrait of his changing body. My first love went to art school, and early in our courtship he invited me to a student show of his photography.