Waste of paint. (NSFW, maybe?)

So I didn't go to the gym today (to be honest, I can blame my own laziness and be honest about it; I wanted to watch a movie instead, and eat fat-free peanut butter with a spoon, and catch up on emails since all weekend I was neglecting it), but I started cleaning out my old folders of pictures to see what I could toss into the old Recycling Bin. Among those folders I found a gem I forgot I'd taken; it was something I snapped in December 2012, when I was at my most depressed and angry at how I'd let my body go. I had already begun researching the option of gastric sleeve surgery and had already had my first meeting with the doctors to discuss pricing and options. I had just bought a pair of bigger panties; a 3X, actually, a size 24, and I was disgusted with myself because I didn't want to keep buying bigger clothes.

I'm not proud of the why behind the original photo. I was body-shaming myself; I was angry because my friends kept telling me that I was beautiful and I didn't think that I deserved it. I thought they were only saying it because they knew my personality, because they found me beautiful the way my mom always said I was beautiful--- because it was their job to say so, just like it was my job to nod and pretend like I believed them. So I thought, 'No more Myspace angles, no more flattering lighting, no more birds-eye view shots to hide my chins. I want to see what I really look like.' I remember setting the timer on my camera and standing anxiously in the middle of my bedroom, waiting for the ten-second self-timer to tick down and the flash to fire. And I remember seeing the picture and thinking 'No... no no no, there's been a mistake, take it again', but there were already tears in my eyes by then and I didn't take it again. And for whatever reason I actually uploaded it to my computer and put it in a folder, buried among pictures of my mom and Thanksgiving dinner and other random odds and ends. Buried and forgotten.

Until today.

Today I opened the file and stared at it, and in my head I thought about my friends, how beautiful all of them are to me. They all take issue with something about themselves; their weight, their hair color, their complexion, whatever it is. But to me, they are perfect, like exotic birds who have never known the inside of cages. They are colorful plumage and wide wingspans, they are perfect hugs and shoulders made for nestling against during a Netflix marathon and beards that scritch-scratch my cheeks when we hug. They are piercings and tattoos and scars and strange jewelry found in thrift shops and old attics, they are crooked teeth and stubbled legs and chipped nail polish and every single one of them appear to me like calligraphy. So why did I doubt them? Why did I believe that they were so beautiful and wonderful and special and that I was this hideous troll they deigned to associate with? Why did I spend years thinking I was the Ugly Duckling in my group of friends? Why did I try to hide behind my skinnier friends, insist on putting myself behind the camera instead of in front of it, and concern myself with how many chins I had in a picture of myself laughing at a hilarious joke? This weekend on set, our friend Mike Kaddour was snapping photos and I remember asking him not to post any unflattering ones. That was what I was concerned about, rather than the fact that I had fake blood smudged on one cheekbone and bug bites all over my calves and was having the time of my life watching my best friends try to make a fake head explode with an air compressor and a tub of goo.

I stood in front of the mirror at Shawn's in my sports bra and panties and I turned on the overhead light. Nothing artful here, no creative positions. Just my body as it is now, and I emailed it to myself before I could change my mind.

My body before, my body now.

The main difference is... in the first one, I look sad and resentful of the camera, like I already know how the final photo will look, what the end product would be. I was so unhappy with myself, and so desperate for something to change.

I'm not bikini-ready yet, or even anywhere close. I'm 240 pounds. By anyone's standards including my own I'm still morbidly obese.

But I am beautiful. I just never realized until now that maybe I was then, too.