Hey, fat lady!
The thing about self-confidence as relates to your body, and wishing that you had more of it — or any at all — is this: every single day, you go out and engage with a world in which (1) many places are not built to accommodate you, (2) people punish, starve, and mutilate themselves in an effort not to be the kind of person you are, and (3) many of those people are not afraid to let you know what they think of you (i.e., grody).
You know some teenager is going to yell shit at you from a car, or some woman on the bus is going to conspicuously refuse to sit next to you, or some toolbox is going to grab your goddamn stomach, or the arms on the chair of the restaurant where you’re meeting a friend for lunch are going to pinch the crap out of your thighs, or the dude sitting next to you on your flight is going to spend three hours rolling his eyes and jabbing his elbow into you no matter how you try and contort yourself, or, or, or.
And you go out, and take the bus, and go to lunch, and walk around, and get on the plane, and live your life anyway, and, and, and. So if you think you (me) are the one who lacks confidence, I suggest you put the above into your pipe and smoke it. You look out your front door at a pile of shit, and then you go out and deal with it, every fucking day, and you don’t become a hermit on a mountaintop. You are, if I may, a badass.
Let us not conflate the cruelty of others and our wish for that cruelty to stop with a lack of self-worth on our parts. The confidence is already coming from inside the house.
Claiming your fatness: like consciousness raising, but with less looking at your vulva in a mirror!