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My inner critic is still fat.

Tonight my boyfriend said he loved my stomach, and I couldn’t help telling him I’d let my doctor know. Then, when he looked me in the eyes and told me that if we’d met before my surgeries he’d still have loved me, I couldn’t believe him. And I told him that. I couldn’t just say “aw thanks, honey,” I had to go on about how he would have liked me as a friend, thought I was funny, a funny fat girl, but he would never have been attracted to me. Which, in all fairness, is unfair to him. He probably is the kind of guy who would have loved me anyway, but I never wanted to be loved in spite of the way I looked. Being fat was a catch-22 for any guy who might have loved me (not that anyone did, to my knowledge): if you love me for my personality, you must think I’m disgusting and are just looking past my looks, which makes you shallow. On the other hand, if you love the way I look, you are obviously deranged because I’m disgusting, and therefore you’re completely un-datable as a result of being unhinged. And the thing is, I would never have thought that about any guy who loved a different fat girl. It was only my fat that I hated with such venom. And apparently, despite all the physical and mental changes I’ve undergone since then, a good portion of me still feels like that fat girl, and still hates myself just as much. Poor guy, he probably never saw it coming until it was too late. By the time he saw the scars and got the story he was in too deep.
Sucks to be him.
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