Monday, September 11, 2017


I have had a strange realization lately; I don't seem to care that I'm fat anymore.

I have been working on accepting my body, but even in May I wrote that no matter how good I was getting about accepting myself, I still had that desire to be pretty, which meant thin. Now, only a few months later, I don't feel that in me anymore.

I am still aware that I am fat, and that this is not considered conventionally attractive. It is an issue for where I can buy clothes and how strangers may react to me and even how some chairs feel. I know all that, and I don't care. Two people I care about have started another attempt to lose weight, and I feel sorry for them.

I feel sorry because there will be so much deprivation and frustration, and even if they end up making some progress, it will probably come back a bit later plus a few extra pounds; they already hate their current extra. That's exhausting. They are already too tired.

My level of acceptance could relate to being tired. There are so many other things going on that I don't think I have the energy to worry about my size. It is seriously less important than so many other things.

It is not from a surge in confidence. Between the job thing and everything else, I am not feeling on top of the world now. I was feeling that pretty deeply last week, but then I remembered that a lot of this is temporary, and not a reflection on who I am. It's not that this isn't hard - it is still really hard - but I am a good person, and I like myself.

My weight doesn't matter.

There is more to say about that, because I have cared, and there are people that will care, and naturally there are books that have helped me get here. There are probably also things that I will still need to do.

It is nonetheless nice to be able to take a moment and realize that something else that really hurt me has stopped, and to feel amazed and at peace about that.

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