I was normal.
People noticed me for my accomishments.
People liked me for me and not what goodie I might know.
I was valued.
I had money so I could have infinite manis/pedis, massages, waxes, and other treatments to mentally take care of me. To pamper myself.
I had my beautiful tan like I did when I worked at the day camps. Crisp. Thank you Native American genes.
My eating disorder had me looking like the stereotypical anorexic girls.
I was understood. Even a fraction.
I wasn’t controlled by food. Or the fear of weight gain. Or the fear of food. Or the fear of loss of control.
I was good enough.
I could just lash out and put abusers and maltreaters in their place. For once not just have to be the bigger person and just take it.
I had the lost weight, toned body, my black booty again, confidence, dream job, PC, and everything else so I could put the haters in their place.
I had a pet rat or puppy to love me and I could love back unconditionally. So simple. Who needs a man then?