After taking a long while to cool off, I ended up going back to Terry. Part of it was the uncomfortable motel bed I was sleeping on, starting to take its toll on my already permanently-sore back (lugging breasts and all this extra weight around is no fun.) Mostly, or so I tell myself, it's the greater good. In the end, my squabbles with this man are my own, and my actions have an effect on the person who is supposed to be in this body. As loathe as I am to share a bed with him, I force myself to put on the "good wife" facade.
I'll admit it has its benefits. Routine is nice. Company is good. I'd be lying if I said I didn't get any pleasure (albeit a kind of perverse kind) out of fulfilling Christine's "wifely" duties. But it's a bit like the last semester before graduation. I'm squirming in my seat at all times, ready to break free for the summer and take back control of my life.
And while I console myself by telling myself it was the right thing to do, I still feel like I've betrayed myself in letting Christine go back to him. He's an asshole, a difficult partner best and a bigot at worst. I'd be lying if I said it was the first time I found myself paradoxically attracted to a man like that, but I hope it's the last.
I hate feeling small, while also being too big. Christine left me a body that was very out of shape compared to what I'm used to, and while I made some progress helping that, there is only so much that can be done. As determined as I am, there just weren't enough hours in the day to make a huge difference. Eating right helps, staying active helps... but I've always said you've got to be about it, and even with my discipline, there was only so much effort I could put in while doing a full-time job and carrying on the marriage. This is, I guess, why people "let themselves go." I've never had that luxury because I never settled down, and I never wanted to.
So I'm left with this: another month or so of carting these hips and thighs and not to mention bosoms around with me, clenching my teeth when the man who shares my bed speaks, getting looks from strangers that I read as judgmental of my weight or lack of cosmetics... and sometimes clearly the mark of some kind of fat fetishist.
I'll admit to a certain level of judgmentalism in myself, both towards myself, and towards others before I got here. I always thought if it worked for me it should work for everyone... and maybe to a degree there's some logic to that, but I'm less hardline now than I was a year ago. I have a better understanding of women's body acceptance movements. I used to think it was just for quitters, but now I see it as a strength. To love yourself hard, but satisfying.
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