Confession

This feels like confession.

 

I don’t love my body.

 

Not always, at least. Not always and rarely for very long.

 

This feels like confession.

 

I, advocate of fat acceptance. I, badass fat chick. I, encouraging others to love themselves. I, loving those other selves in all their various shapes, sizes,  configurations.

 

I don’t love my body.

 

The particulars are unimportant. What I don’t love is unimportant.  I only needed to say it. To recognize that it is true.

 

I don’t love my body. But I could. I could try. I could start.

 

This feels like confession and if this is what confession feels like I am starting to understand the appeal. There’s something to be said for letting go of this. For not holding on to it or burying it. There’s something to be said for putting the stuff that most painfully gnaws at the corners of our minds out in to the world. At least out there you can look it in the face.

 

You can look it in the face and you can say no to it.

 

You can say “I see you. I see you and you will not win.”

 

I see you. You will not win.

 

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