In the end I am always grateful — despite groaning at myself, despite wondering whether I should, and if it’s even that good for me, or anyone else.

Spending this much time in a body that feels out of place — incorrect, so incorrect, accepting it as non-fiction does not compute — the only way to remain somewhat at peace with it is to list all the ways it’s compelled my to confront myself, this war of neuroses, society’s expectations or lack thereof, how certain people see me or not, how other people see me or not, how I see myself or not, and whether that’s even possible? These are the battles that people with less weird bodies do not experience. OR have I been avoiding ‘living’ by developing elaborate ways to see myself as sophisticated and deep instead of avoidant?

I couldn’t tell. Every time, my mind skids to a halt, to then accelerate, breakneck, with the realization that, before this — whatever the struggle — my body was: fine.

Just, fine. Truly okay. Nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to ridicule or criticize. Fine.

It thus follows that, if I was so convinced that my body — my being — was wholly unacceptable before.... this, how can I trust my own judgment, or even the scale, or a photo, anything?

I’ve known since high school that I can’t trust my own perception of myself. As a result, as often as these thoughts arise — that I should starve myself, get rid of the dirt I’ve accumulated by living without investigating every morsel before it enters my gastro-intestinal system, that I should, as it were, let the light in and dry out the swamp — I also never question the matter-of-factness with which I refuse to write them down. It doesn’t even come up.

Having shame about my body is one thing. It’s normal. It’s the way of the world.

Writing about shame is also a thing. It’s good, it works in many ways, yet, expressing this shame publicly in any way whatsoever seems so obvious, so cringe, so we’ve-been-there-can-we-fucking-finally-move-on. The notion of attempting to unpack this one specific source of suffering that is so not unique to me, in writing (real writing; not in my diary, not yammering to a chatbot), feels too terrifying to even think about — and so, so necessary. Feeling fat (whether I actually am, or not) is the one challenge I’ve consistently encountered over the course of my life that I just as consistently work so hard to avoid being seen with — I even avoided it in therapy.

The irony is fucking paralyzing and yes, why yes, I did stop writing right there, right then, for weeks

· · ·

I’m staying in the hotel room because my uterus is cramping while the others are frolicking on a boat. I know it’s for the best, I won’t be overstimulated later. My uterus is cramping a little but not too much: I feel like a conperson. I should have gone with the others. I should’ve got over myself. I know I’m not a party pooper, how could I have been. I wasn’t there. But I am. But I am but I am. I shouldn’t stay in bed. I am a princess and I should be outside burning calories and earning my dinner.

I want to watch people tell me I will get fit at some point, just doing what I do. Lifting and walking, resting and eating. Sometimes running. Sometimes biking. Mostly lifting and mostly resting. One woman said not to jog only to sprint, if at all. Everyone else says to run. My body is tired. My head is tired but caffeinated and it wants to learn about how my fat will melt within 40 days if I eat green bananas, but the guy looks like he’s AI but the comments say he’s definitely not. Another guy is telling me to do light weights high reps. He’s got a Dragonball-Z shirt so he knows what’s up. Also he is talking to men but maybe that doesn’t matter. Also he’s on T and other stuff. I want to be fit, I want to be ripped and wear blue jeans that fit well to family functions. Not tight, not pinching my waist, not because I have gained muscle and fat but don’t want to buy bigger jeans. I want my fat to be negligible but still there. I want everyone to see that I do stuff. I do stuff, I work out. Threetimesaweek, heavyweights. Yet I can’t do a full-sized pushup. Weak. I am weak, I’m almost menstruational and I want to cut off my double chin as I write.

I ate carbs this morning. I ate bread and butter and lab-grown cheese and tomatoes and somewhat processed, fructose-sugared yogurt. I should be walking and lifting and doing everything remotely possible in this little space in this large valley of mountain air because that kind of breakfast is required under specific circumstances only (moving, heaving, sunglasses) but I have been in bed all day, a princess, reading a heavily praised and prized book with disdain, corners of the mouth turned down, telling Claude it’s “dishonest,” “written to sound written,” and that the plot is “forced,” will it get better, should I stay or should I go? I give it up, it Does Not Spark Joy.

I am a spectator. A spectator spectates, shouldn’t need to look good or be seen. Old men commenting on women’s bodies.

The lack of fat in my diet makes itself known immediately. I didn’t even want to lower my intake, on the contrary. It’s automatic. I don’t want to restrict. I want to eat and eat, I want to handle amounts of food, digest them and poop them out and to be satisfied.

My hands demand attention. The skin is like an old pig’s, fried.

The sun is out, I should go outside.

Last revised May 16, 2026.