I walk in the door feeling awful, I’m weak, nauseous, sweating. I drop my laundry bag on the floor; it falls. I strip out of my work clothes, I replace them with polyester gym shorts. The room spins as I stumble to the couch. I pull a heavy blanket over my head. I’m scared, there’s no one to call.
And I need all the reasons I can find not to hate myself. But it’s hard. Even the idea makes me shiver. Because I see loving myself like looking down on others. Riding around on a high horse. And I never want to think I’m better then the people I see on the street. The ones who have it rough. The ones who don’t fit in. The ones I see my own face in.
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