Hypothetical One Sided Conversations

  I am so scared.  Scared that you will take one look at my bumpy skin, my endless rolling hills of fat, my status as a deity of distastefulness, and despise me for it.  I am not the girl you last saw, shining imperfectly pure in the low light.  You will not see me.  I cannot let you.  Is it lying by omission to withhold from you the sight of my greatest shame?  I swear I know.  How can I know?  Drawing on past experiences with men, I can only conclude that my current figure will be the line, the straw that broke your ever patient back, the end.  I have asked so much of you.  You have given so much to me.  How can I betray you by asking you to accept me as I am, when I am like this?  I do not fit in with your world.  Your word is self-confident, no boundaries, and thin.  Who am I to subject you to the jeers of your family and friends?  Who am I to expect you to withstand the taunts leveled at me?  This is not your body.  It is not your responsibility to accept, or fix, or love.  Who am I to ask you to love someone who cannot love themselves fully?  I guess it would be accurate to say that my self-hatred is only skin deep, or fat deep.  Whatever works? 
    Honestly, I am terrified of your rejection of my physical self.  I have been called ugly.  I have been called fat.  I have been called disgusting.  I hold these words closer to my heart than any declaration of love.  Because love can be taken away, but not hatred.  I have accepted these words as truth, and it would kill me for you to validate that truth.  It would be the final proof to me that I am beyond … love, acceptance, beauty.  But who am I to put this on you?  I create this flawed structure.  I allow myself to be destroyed by hateful words, because I know no different.  No.  I accept no different.  Somehow I have decided subconsciously that it will protect my heart to accept all the hatred and spite as truth. If I have been killed once, I cannot be killed again.  But to be called ugly or disgusting, or a bitch?  Day after day; it is like dying all over again, every single time.      And I tell myself it is true and that it is all my own fault.  So really.  Who am I to ask you to deal with all this?  My brain will outlast my body’s usage, but who can love a brain?  That is all I have to give you; my brain, my love, and my honesty.  I have only myself to offer.  I’m sorry.