He saw me naked, but this time with my clothes on.
It was two in the morning. We were both half-drunk and lying on opposing couches. We stared at the ceiling until one of us was sober enough to start a conversation. I was far drunker than he ever expected me to be, and he asked me why I drank so much. I didn’t realize he was just asking about that night, so I started to talk about my parents.
I told him both my parents were alcoholics, and everyone in my family was rooting for me to follow the trend. And sometimes, I do. I told him how many times I’d drunk alone, and how one drink had never been enough for me. I told him how I could never just stop at tipsy—I always wanted to be as drunk as I could. I drink in waves: one month like a fish, the next stone-cold sober. Because then I can’t label myself a true alcoholic.
He asked me why I didn’t believe him when he told me he cared for me. I told him about my mom, and how to this day I don’t think anyone truly cares about me. I told him how my mind is cruel, and how people always leave as soon as I express my desperate need for attention. I yearn to have a parent who cares about my well-being—to be the one they check up on and believe in. Not the one they think has a messed-up head and is going nowhere in life. So no, I don’t think you care, even though I can so clearly see that you do. It’s a burden I’m trying to stop holding so high above my head.
He asked me why I talk so poorly about my body. I told him about the skin that hangs from all the weight I’ve lost—the skin I look at every time I’m naked. The rolls that appear when I move my body in any direction. I told him about the lumps and bumps I get when I wear clothes that are a little too form-fitting, and how I’ve seen too many candid photos of myself—photos I’ve hated. I know I should care less about my body, but I’ve spent five years getting to this weight, and I still hate what I see.
He reached out for my hand as I started bawling. He looked me in the eye and said,
“I think you’re pretty—not just pretty on the outside, but even more within.”
I’d never felt more human.
That was the last time he ever stepped foot in my apartment.