I am fat, and that makes me revolting in a land of thin women.
When I foolishly compare myself to other womens bodies I find myself horrifyingly lacking. I still have a male-like body and I hate it when I remember this. I'm sick of surgeries, yet can't seem to find a way to accept myself. I can't imagine anything actually working to improve my appearance.
I started mentioning that I was feeling depressed about my body to a friend of mine that I went shopping with (for storage things for her) and she's lost any tolerance for my piteous whining. As far as she's concerned I either look okay, or people think that I look okay.
I cannot accept these lies. There must be something wrong with them. Attractive women are either really thin or have bodies that curve. I am neither. Therefore I am defective and repulsive. The only way to escape these conclusions is to hide and avoid seeing women I think are attractive. If I concentrate on theory, and causes, and technology, I can run from this core of revulsion I carry with me.
But it finds me, hunts me down, and drags me back to the space where I want to smash my head into the mirror to blot out the nightmare reflecting back at me.
One of the other things that set this off was that I popped a button on one of my pants. And of course I don't have many clothes because finding garments to cover the feces that is my body is terribly traumatic. I end up sobbing uncontrollably when trying to figure out if something fits because trying to objectively evaluate any characteristic of physical form is too, too, far from my abilities.
And of course it's really hot outside, and so there's trying to find clothing that I can hide within, but that's not too hot is a hopeless futile task.
But the idea of allowing other humans to see any of my skin is too traumatic to be comprehensible.
I can't imagine anything that I could cover myself with that would make me look any better than your typical rotting corpse.