Understanding Fat Shaming

Note: I'm calling people "fat" on purpose in this post. First of all, I want to own that word. It isn't a cuss word for God's sake. Secondly, I want to evoke an emotional response. Fat has been used as a hurtful word. It's a word that makes strong people cry. Cry if you need to, but it's time for the truth.

I realize I've already made a post tonight, but after my post about self-love (which included body image), I had a conversation with one of my best friends. I know that he doesn't hate fat people, but he said some pretty ignorant things regarding fat people in our culture. This was just another effect of fat-shaming on us. Someone who really means no harm can say things that are very hurtful without understanding the reaction that understandably roars in response. So, I could go on about what fat-shaming is, how it affects people, how to fix it, etc. But I'm not going to do that. Because the person I talked to tonight understands all of that, but still doesn't understand. Instead I'm going to tell you a story. I'm going to tell you a story of a girl who's been fat for *most of* her life. I want to share my own fat-shaming history. Some of this will be news to you and shared for the first time, but I've come to realize that stories are heard while rants about the harmful effects of unhealthy societal expectations often fall upon ears accustomed to the sound. So here's my story.

As a five year-old, my step sister told me I was fat. She told me I needed to lose weight. She also told me I was a wuss because I was afraid to get my ears pierced, while her best friend's little sister who was only three had already done it. She told me I looked like a boy because of my short hair. She told me I couldn't touch her barbies because I would mess them up, and although my memory has served me the kindness to block it out, it's likely she molested me. She was about nine years older than I and she was skinny and pretty and cool. She constantly told me in new and creative ways that I wasn't okay. As an adult I can look back at that time and see a girl struggling with her parents' divorce, probably dealing with her own history of sexual abuse, and of course her own issues with self esteem. But at the time, someone who was older than me and knew so much more than me was telling me I was useless. It didn't matter what anyone else said, because people are nice, even when they don't mean it. I wasn't the kind of kid to be mean unprovoked (that came with puberty, haha), or ever hit below the belt like that. So I assumed that she must be right, and everyone else was being nice to spare my feelings.

Being a bipolar kid, I was really intense. I would constantly talk, usually about myself, I interrupted people, I argued too quickly, and I was completely oblivious to this behavior. So when I had a hard time making friends or people pulled away, I assumed it was because I was fat. Later, issues developed because I would see popular fat people, and I couldn't understand what was wrong with me. At St. Mary's we had uniforms. Until the fifth grade, girls wore plaid jumpers. Because in fifth grade girls began to wear navy skirts, the sizes stopped at what they thought a little fourth grader ought to wear. I was bigger than the rest of the little fourth graders. Only four girls were in my class at St. Mary's, and the other three were tiny. There was a new seating chart at school and I overheard some of the other girls complaining about it because they had to sit next to me. Completely unaware of my affect on people, I assumed this was because I was fat. It makes no sense, but to my young mind it made perfect sense. No one wanted to sit by me because I wasn't cool, which correlated directly with size. And I was deeply hurt by it.

By fifth grade I'd found my love of dance. Being big in the dancing world is incredibly difficult. You always have to be better than the best girl, because you're judged before the music even starts. My cheerleading uniforms had to be altered because the biggest size was too small for me. For someone trying to fit into a new school, I was convinced everyone knew mine was different. My best friend at the time who was dealing with her own self esteem issues as well (noticing a common theme?) would make side comments to me about the extra red fabric we'd snuck onto my uniform so it would fit. I would respond in a way that preserved her feelings while my own heart was breaking over it. I just wanted to be normal, and I had no idea how. I couldn't even wear the same clothes, because junior clothes were too small for me. I had to shop somewhere else. My dance team in junior high was called the Cubcadettes. After I joined (along with some other heavier girls), we were coined in the hallways as the "Chubcadettes." That made it ten-times harder to go perform on that floor. My mom, who was the coach, and I argued constantly because I was already so self-conscious about being a fat dancer that I didn't want anything else to make me look stupid. Often she was right (although to this day I think getting us pom outfits that looked like cheerleader uniforms was a bad idea), but my bipolar turned our conversations into battles. I was already scared.

In seventh grade, I started to lose weight. I worked out a lot and started seeing a doctor for weight loss with my parents. It was working for me. That year was the first year that I auditioned for and made UDA All Star. It was an audition hosted through UDA and UCA (Universal Dance/Cheer Associations) that gave you an opportunity to dance in the Philadelphia Thanksgiving Day Parade. I was so proud of myself when I received that medal. I wore it all day. Mom gave me shit for it calling me a Special Olympian, which genuinely hurt my feelings at the time, but I wasn't good at expressing that, really. I was just so proud because I truly thought my weight was going to get in the way of me winning that medal and it didn't. (Later I had a huge internal crisis when I considered that they may have only given it to me to prove they weren't fat-phobic, but that's a whole other story.) I went and performed in Philadelphia. It was a really cool experience and I got a lot out of it. I talked about it non-stop (again with the intensity that I'm sure drove people up the wall).

I came back, and during PE one day I was walking the track with the same friend who had made those comments about my cheerleading uniform. I'd been on TV, and she said that she had been with some boys (I'm not afraid to call out Abraham Huffington because he's still a dick). She told me Abe had said if they could find my station they wouldn't be able to miss me because of my huge ass. Again with the silent heart break. All I could think was I'm trying so hard. I will never be good enough for you people. I really was trying to lose weight and I was working my ass off to do it--way more than any of my peers did to maintain their tiny physiques. I cried about it in the bathroom between classes. I was truly hurt. People had said things about that friend to me, but I'd always kept them secret to spare her feelings. I had wished she'd done the same for me, but at the time I genuinely believed she thought she was being a good friend. Now I believe she may have used that as an excuse, but was looking for a way to bring me down. Perhaps out of jealousy, perhaps to shut me up about it, or perhaps both. But I do believe he said those things. In junior high (I think this is true of most girls; boys are oblivious), I was convinced people were always talking behind my back. Every now and then I'd find a moment of peace where I'd convince myself not to be so self-centered and to realize I was not the topic of everyone's conversation. But in this instance I was proven wrong. Being proven wrong one time will poison everything that follows.

This same friend also revealed to me that Sarah Simpson was calling me "Weight Watchers Dancer" behind my back. At the time, there was a Weight Watchers commercial with a plus-sized dancer. I guess that was supposed to be me. I was afraid to ever be around her again. I was so embarrassed. She was stick thin, a dancer, and everything I would never be. The only thing that made me feel better was being mean. Granted, my form of meanness never involved lying. I only told people how much of a bitch she'd been. I was so embarrassed that I wouldn't even use her words, but I'd say she was skinny and not that good of a dancer. I'd say she was mean and I didn't understand why people liked her... and people agreed with me. When my weight loss became more visible, she and her friend cooked up a rumor that I was bulimic. It was as if they were trying to say that, yeah she can be skinny, but only if she cheats. Again I was miserable. I worked my ASS of to lose weight. I was running, lifting weights, dance class, dance team, stretching and doing situps in my front room while I watched criminal minds... and they were going to say I was cheating? I was so pissed. But horribly, more than truly recognizing her cruelty, I continued that thought process: this is what everyone thinks. She's the only one enough of a bitch to say it out loud. And I felt worthless.

By 8th grade I'd lost a lot of weight. I was around 40 lbs lighter with a lot more muscle gained. I felt healthy. I still wanted to lose weight, but I was really proud of where I'd gotten. One day I dropped a bunch of stuff after the last bell. As he was passing, Dylan Reed mumbled, "like a cow" under his breath. I was done. I kept working out and eating right out of habit. But when the time stopped being readily available to hit the gym and the food not quite as accessible, I stopped caring. I didn't make the time or choose to eat healthy. What did it matter? I was never going to be skinny, no matter how hard I worked. I was never going to be as skinny as Sarah Simpson. She could eat all the pizza she wanted and look that way forever. She had it easy. Slowly, the weight crept back on. Cruel passing comments remained. Finding dance clothes to fit was still an issue. Changing in PE was devastating... High school.

On and off through high school I struggled with cutting, inappropriate relationships with boys, and all the other goodies bipolar brings to a hormonal teenage girl. I hated myself and I had no clue why. And I don't think I was ready to understand. I wasn't ready to say, I think I'm fat and I'm afraid no one likes me, because just the thought would make me cry. I didn't even like myself enough to really try to get to the bottom of why I was unhappy. College came and after an incredibly rough first year I began to truly find myself. My diagnosis with bipolar disorder gave me something I'd never really had before. For the first time I knew what was driving people away, and it had nothing to do with me being fat. I could acknowledge that the things I truly hated about myself were symptoms and not character traits. It was so freeing that I began to really come to terms with what it really meant to love myself. I learned that secrets are evil. The more you silently convince yourself you aren't worth it without consulting the people who love you, the less likely you are to succeed. Loving yourself is necessary to be healthy both physically and mentally.

So that's a story of fat-shaming. It took a mental health diagnosis and 19 years of struggle, but I learned that my body did not define me. I am smart, I can write, I can sing and dance, and I love children and books and Doctor Who and Harry Potter and and and... my size has so little to do with me. Granted, with the danger of generalizing I will state, that oftentimes, MY (not true for everyone) weight is a sign of how I'm doing emotionally. If I'm heavier it means I'm eating emotionally and I don't have the energy to work out. This is depression, folks. That is bad. But now that I know myself better, I know I'm not depressed because I'm fat. I gain weight when I'm depressed. And right now, after a year of self-discovery, I finally feel ready to tackle my health. But that's what it took for me. If I'd started any sooner, I wouldn't have been ready, and I'd have wound back up right where I started. Everyone has to find their own individual journey.

With that said. Fat-shaming is never okay. Ever. It is a sensitive topic because of the way it's been handled in the past and therefore must be handled sensitively now. Otherwise it's simply pointless. America is fat. Okay. Instead of making that broad and obvious statement, do something to teach kids about eating healthy. Tell them that loving your body is the first step to taking care of it. Tell them that it doesn't matter what someone else thinks of their bodies--they have to be their own champions. Okay? So shut up about the problem and be a solution. The solution isn't a lecture circuit. It's about appealing to people's emotions. Making them feel worth the effort. It's hard to understand what it's like to be fat in our culture unless you've been there, but hopefully this will give you a better idea of what it's like, and hopefully that will allow you to support healthier messages and to smash what hurts the people already struggling so painfully with self-hatred.

JUST LAUGH FOR THE SAKE OF PETE!

HAHAHAHAH! Get it??

I obviously can't maintain my "Love a Day" while I'm at camp as I'm completely without Internet. But I can promise to post one when it's available to me. So here goes: I love life exactly as it is. There are things I want to change, and so I do it. There are things beyond my power, and I struggle to accept that. But if I were to allow everything that makes me sad hold my attention in ways that are unproductive, then I have lost purpose. I will choose ways to make my life and the lives around me better. That is my definition of purpose, I think. And so I choose to find things that used to make me nervous, funny. There is certainly more humor in life than we give it credit for.

Knocked-over orange barrels can make you nervous, or they can make you giggle. Soaking yourself by accident with your garden hose can piss you off, or give you an excuse to smile. We always say, "you'll look back on that and laugh." And it's true. Those silly, embarrassing, and near-mishaps will be funny in a few days, weeks, months... years? We can laugh at them. But... but... why wait? What the hell people?! Imagine how much grief you'd save yourself if you accepted the wisdom you can already acknowledge your future self will posses. This is where this philosophy gets tricky, so Imma break it down.

You do something ridiculous.

You freak out.

You know that you'll find it funny in time.

Looking back on it...

But you choose to leave the laughing to your future self.

But two seconds post any embarrassing moment makes it history. If you know it's going to be funny to a wiser you, then you already posses the wisdom necessary to laugh it off. Right? It's so easy to panic when your car starts to sound its own panic alarm, but it's a hell of a lot easier to laugh at it. Laugh louder than that horn! Go for it! Because you cannot let a damned car horn ruin your vacation! You just can't. Enough crap in this world will bring you down. You don't need to sweat the small stuff. I know I'm not the first person to say that. But it's more than brushing silly things off your shoulder. It's about allowing yourself to fall in love with it.

Someone calls you a mean name. What's the real meaning of that name? Our choice of curse words is absolutely hysterical. Someone calls you fat? Why? Why did they feel the need to waste their breath telling you something you already know (and have accepted as the beautiful you, yeah?)?  Shoot. They got more mess in their brain than you do. Someone calls you a bitch? Female dog. Don't tell me that isn't funny. And who doesn't love dogs? When someone says it, picture yourself as a schnauzer or yorkiepoo. Those are precious. I can say that because I own those two. When I was little, my mom told me I could be anything when I grew up. Before I'd considered the unlikelihood of my dreams, I wanted to be a dog when I grew up (specifically with a good home and fur that's easy to brush). I wanted to be a bitch when I grew up.

That last paragraph got kind of out of hand. but I think my point is clear. There are things that are out of our control. There are things that will break your heart. But an orange barrel shouldn't be one of those things. All of you. Right now. Take a deep breath, and when you let it out, just laugh your ass off. Laugh so hard you start to cry. Start to think of everything that's ever made you laugh hard enough to pee on your camp cabin floor. READYSETGO!

Makeup is NOT Antifeminist

Yes makeup, yes feminist.

*I would like to note that I wrote this geared towards women because of the feminist nature of the post. However, these truths are applied (often in reverse) to men who wear makeup as well. Men should not feel bad about interest in cosmetics, and no assumptions or judgments should be made concerning a man’s sexuality because of his use of makeup. I try to be sensitive to my male readers on this topic, because I acknowledge the flaws of our gender dichotomy. <3 to y’all.

I love makeup. I love makeup because it is art. It is art in the same way tattoos, piercings, and clothes are art for our bodies. It’s a form of artistry I’m not half-bad at. I appreciate cosmetic application as an expression of personality and a creative outlet. I like picking colors that look good together and finding the perfect shade of foundation for my skin. And I love helping other women do the same. I’m a Mary Kay consultant. I’m also a feminist.

And I know that’s hard for some people to grasp, because the way in which people use makeup can be antifeminist, and the way in which people interpret a woman’s use of makeup can be antifeminist. But makeup is never antifeminist. Some women do not wear makeup because they don’t like it. Just fine. Some women don’t wear it because they want to push social boundaries. Just fine. Some men and women are attracted to a certain style of makeup. Just fine. But makeup is often viewed in ways I find problematic. Following are my issues with makeup and my explanations of those.

What makeup is not:

1. A requirement for beauty.
2. A requirement for women.
3. An invitation for sex.

Further explanation:

1. Physical beauty has nothing to do with images on TV or in magazines. Physical beauty is something every single woman has. Some man or woman who is in touch with their sexuality and their wants and needs will find her attractive. Ugliness lies in behavior and isn’t present in physical appearance. I don’t believe in ugly. I do believe in unattractive. Something may be unattractive to me, which to me means that I find it unattractive; and not that it is by nature unattractive. Just because I do not find someone attractive does not mean they are inherently unattractive; someone else still might. Makeup isn’t what makes a woman beautiful. It can highlight the things she is most fond of. Maybe a woman really appreciates and loves the shape of her lips. If she wants to accentuate that, I take no issue with that. All that means to me is that she loves herself enough to have found a part of herself she is willing to show off. And the same goes for a woman without makeup! If she finds herself attractive without makeup on, then she need not wear it. I know I’m beautiful without makeup, but I still enjoy it. I wear makeup a lot, but I sometimes (more often lately) allow my face to go without. I need to remind myself that I’m beautiful without it, and I am confident enough to show it off without fear of how others feel about it. I find myself attractive, and if someone else does not, I’m not bothered by that. I don’t find everyone attractive either! It’s crazy to expect everyone to be attracted to me. A woman’s beauty comes from her attractiveness which is a combination of her personality and her physical appearance; which does not have to match societal standards of beauty to be beautiful. Damn the man.
2. It’s absurd to define a woman’s femininity by her interest in makeup. Perhaps she just feels more comfortable expressing her creativity elsewhere. A woman is a woman by choice, and if she does indeed identify as woman, then she is a woman. Her style of dress, her career, nor her interest in cosmetics can take that identity from her. I’m concerned that a woman can feel less of a woman because of another person’s idea of attractiveness. Often that idea of what is attractive is defined by images on TV (curse television), and I take issue with that because...
   
   
   A) images of women on TV are often achieved by unnatural means and are unattainable by nearly every other woman. It is unfair to expect that of women. Women should not be attempting to fit themselves into our cultural cookie cutter, because not everyone fits! Women should instead accept their appearance, although always aiming for health. But some women are healthy at a size 14 (this girl, for instance). Some women are healthy at a size 0. No body is the same. And the cookie cutter is getting more and more complicated. The cookie cutter has breasts that are not proportionate to the rest of the tiny body. The cookie cutter has skin that is darker than is healthy for the popular blonde hair often associated with it. Blondes tend to have fairer skin and are more prone to skin sensitivity and sunburn. This cookie cutter leaves women feeling hopeless and unfeminine. Women try to lose weight to look like those skinny women, but the weight first comes from their breasts! Women try to tan, but then age more rapidly—another natural process our culture is terrified of, as if looking younger means you aren’t actually approaching death. A woman in her natural state is attractive to someone as she is. There isn’t one way to be beautiful, and it’s ludicrous to think that because a woman doesn’t look like a Barbie—something nearly physically impossible to achieve without cosmetic surgery –she isn’t attractive! And,
   
   
   B) people who are attracted to those images are often only attracted to those images because they feel a social obligation to be, as if not finding Kim Kardashian attractive would make them less of a man. (I only say man because women are generally not expected by society to find Kim Kardashian attractive.) So, TV Heads (people who allow television to think for them) can only be attracted to them physically which is only half (although still important) of attraction. That means these people are experiencing a very shallow sense interest in these images, and they are assuming that they will be wholly attracted to a woman that displays that image in the “real world.” However, they are lacking the equally important part of attraction: personality. This leads to misinterpretations and unrealistic expectations. For instance, women with large breasts are often considered sexual—regardless of their personality—because our society encourages young men to find large breasts sexually attractive. Also, I’m bothered because I don’t think TV Heads are really in touch with their sexuality. Every single person attracted to women is not likely attracted to the same kind of woman, and vice versa. A person that lets their TV think for them is often not aware of what they do find attractive. They think that only certain physical bodies are supposed to be found attractive, and someone who finds a 300 pound woman attractive is wrong. But honestly, I believe that person is far more in touch with their sexuality and their physical needs, because they’ve come to that conclusion on their own. Society had nothing to do with that decision. I respect that.
3. I feel ridiculous that I have to say this at all. Guys and gals: just because a woman wears a style of makeup our culture tends to pair with sex doesn’t actually mean she wants to have sex. You may say, “Maddie! People don’t really think that!” But tell me if you’ve heard this: “Her makeup looks so slutty.” You have. And the word ‘slut’ is associated with sex! But be sure to check the etymology on that! When someone calls someone a slut because of the style of a woman’s makeup, they’re insinuating that woman wants to have sex because of that. Culturally, red lipstick and thick, black eyeliner are associated with prostitution and thus women who are initiating sex. But further consideration needs to be made: Perhaps she just likes the aesthetic appearance of that style of makeup. Is it not possible she just finds herself attractive in that style of makeup? Also, we should consider the likely possibility that she may feel pressured to present herself as a sexual being, because she may see herself as such. By calling her a slut, you’re confirming her belief that her purpose is to please men; nothing more. We need to be a lot more careful about our judgment of women—everyone has a story, and you don’t know everything! I get that it’s pretty much written in our DNA to judge people and categorize them, but we’ve come quite a long way since the days of a necessary, biological sense to protect ourselves from warring tribes, in order to carry on our race. In fact, we’re dangerously overpopulated. Seriously. It’s unnecessary. And people. Assuming a woman wants to have sex with you just because you think her makeup screams it, makes you look kind of desperate. And desperation + the flippant use of the word ‘slut,’ makes you a tool. Congratulations. You’re an asshole. Nice guys don’t really finish last.

In short. Makeup is a form of artistic expression. I don’t like for women to feel as though their beauty depends on it. And I don’t like women to feel as though their womanhood is unbreakably bonded to cosmetics. And I don’t like when a woman is labeled a slut because of the way she wears her makeup (or anything she does, really). But I love makeup. I’d appreciate if other feminists stopped harping on it.

But for the sake of you feisty women: I do think women should wear it less. I think they should experiment with their natural, physical beauty and learn to accept themselves as they are. They should look for things they’re proud of instead of focusing on what they’re ashamed of on their bodies. And the confidence to go without makeup is impressive, only because of our culture’s emphasis on it. Try it out for a while every now and then, just to remind yourself of how beautiful you are, and to get in touch with why you’re really putting that face on in the morning.

No makeup, no big deal.

Epiphany Post

by Laurie Lipton

I don't really care what other people think. My entire life I've spent time trying to be someone I'm not. I've become so accustomed to code switching that I've lost myself. I let reality television, pop stars, and my peers tell me what was cool. But now? The stuff I thought was cool back then is cool now. So really? There was nothing wrong with who I was. There's nothing wrong with who I am. There's nothing wrong with being as many people as I want to be. There is never anything wrong about being. That's simply my existence.

I try to be kind to people. I try to treat people like I'd like to be treated. I try to take the concerns of others seriously. I try to respect different cultures as different as opposed to wrong. I don't judge a person based on their religion, sexual orientation, age, sex or gender, or political beliefs, even if I don't agree with everything. (If you know me, the only things in there I really take issue with are opposing political beliefs (although I'm working for a better adjective than opposing) and a person who denies their own pleasure by forcing themselves into a relationship that is untrue to their emotional and physical desires, when someone uses age as an excuse to close their eyes, when someone sees their sex or gender as superior to that of another...). Basically I don't like when people make other people's business their own or when someone isn't true to themselves. Other than that I try to accept people as they come and to judge by a person's true merit: the way in which they treat others; and yet to understand and coach those who don't treat others well. It's my duty, and it's yours too.

Those things are things I'm proud of. Those are my values. I think it's important to define our beliefs and values in our ceaseless journey to self-discovery. I'm still finding a belief secure enough to follow blindly besides that of love. Love is the only religion I trust entirely. But my values? I've got them down. I don't always adhere to them. I'm not perfect. But the way I treat other people is a direct reflection of how I feel about myself.

And here comes the epiphany: It's not a bad thing to be happy.

I used to have such an aversion to happiness. I felt guilty in happiness. I didn't like myself well enough for happiness. Whatever. Now I don't. I don't know if it's the meds, the mere knowledge of my condition, or if I'm just finally embracing a journey to enlightenment. I don't know if I care. I'm here anyway.

I love this. I don't know if I've ever embraced life this way. I'm so okay with myself. I'm okay with my body. I'd like to lose some weight, but hey! If I don't I don't care that much. I wish I'd managed better than a 3.5 this semester, but with everything I was up against, I'm really proud of that GPA.

I still have heartache. Happiness is a state of being and it doesn't mean I don't get sad or lonely or disappointed or frustrated or angry... my feelings are still very real and present. I worry about Ian all the time, and I have both nightmares and dreams concerning him. I miss my family in southern Illinois and I want to make more of a difference in the lives of the children of my family. I still get really insecure at times, and I have to remind myself that there's nothing wrong with me being myself. There's something wrong with a person feeling the right to judge me for being me. There's something wrong with society for condoning that arrogance and entitlement and standard of "normal." It's still hard. But I'm choosing to live in happiness and feel those hard feelings as they come, rather than feeling nothing until those feelings break me. It's a conscious decision that I have to work to keep to--just like giving up meat and soda.

I love everyone. I love the idiot drivers I cuss at behind the wheel. I love the most annoying child you've ever met. I love the people who have hurt me--some more than others. Speaking of which: I've gotten over the Sarah Simpson thing (Go ahead and Google yourself! I have nothing to be ashamed of, and there's no teacher or principal to run to now that we're adults.) She was a nasty, cruel little girl, and I'm sure she's a cruel young woman. But I'm sure she had her own heartache; heartache I'll never know. And at the time I was not confident or secure enough to handle her bullying. Who is in junior high?!

But now I am. I dooooon't really care what she had to say. Because I was a badass back then, just like I am now. I was still kind as often as I felt I could be. I was still doing my best with what I had. I have nothing to be ashamed of, just like I don't now. Just because I didn't fit Sarah's idea of physical beauty did not mean I was not beautiful. And I'm disappointed in myself that I ever let her childish comments wreck me the way they did. But it is what it is. We all have a bully who breaks us. We are defined by the way we put ourselves back together. I've grown up since then. I just don't care what she (really she just represents all the people who have hurt me) think.

It's so freeing to wake up knowing that if she were to call me today and call me Weight Watchers Dancer again--something that used to have me crying in the bathrooms at Marshall Junior High, I wouldn't care. I would feel bad for her that she still felt the need to bring people down to feel good about herself. <-- That's something I used to think was just something grown ups said to make you feel better, but it's so true! People only hurt people when they are hurting. But I wouldn't really let that change the way I see myself. Really, at the time she was just affirming all of my greatest insecurities and making very real for me a truth I tried to hide and ignore. But now I've displayed that vulnerability. I've learned to accept myself as I am. And bullying words can only hurt me if I think they're true! Since I love myself as I am, and I accept and forgive my own faults, no one will have that power over me now. I do not judge myself based on the opinions of those I do not respect.

I've done things I'm not proud of. I could list them, but most of you know them already. Instead I'll say a big I'M SORRY. I'm sorry to the people I'll never see again. I'm sorry to the girls I may have been unkind to. I'm sorry to the boys whose hearts I've broken. I'm sorry to the family I've said hurtful things to. I'm sorry to those I respect that I may have disappointed. I'm sorry. I know I'm not perfect. But the only thing I can really do to make it better is to live well. I will take this summer by storm and I will make those children my own. I will fill them with so much love they won't know what to do with themselves. They won't understand why someone can love them so much, because they still see their flaws so clearly... but I don't overlook them. I love them anyway. Because there are some really, really beautiful people that loved me anyway. And I would do them a disservice not to carry on that legacy of love.

Breasts, Bodies, and Shame oh, my.

Everyone loves breasts. And why not? They are the earliest source of nutrition and they are an early distinguish-er between our society's differentiation between men and women (something I intend to discuss at some point, promise; but if I tried to do that in this post, this post would surely never end). But shame? Women are ashamed when their breasts are "too big," or "too small." They're ashamed of the size and shape of their nipples and the coloring of their areolas. Because this is a factor that differentiates men from women, we tend to associate them closely with sexuality. Since we live in a patriarchal society, women are raised with a deep awareness of their sexual role and the standards of beauty promoted by our culture, as attraction is influenced by those standards.

But women are made differently because evolutionarily, different body types served different purposes. My big butt and strong legs were designed to survive some ice age. Unfortunately, I don't live in an ice age. I live in the United States in the 21st century. But I know my body type served a very important purpose. The genes that make me the size 14 I am now, are the same genes that were important enough to survive generations and generations of big-assed women. I know that my body type doesn't fit into our culture's cookie-cutter standards (nearly impossible to fit into, women), but I know that regardless, there are men and women attracted to the body I have been blessed with.

It is an erroneous myth that the cultural standard of beauty is actually what is attractive to everyone. For instance, I'm not attracted to the fit, masculine, athletic man that fits our cultural cookie cutter. And I made my way through high school thinking that because I didn't fit the cultural cookie cutter shaped for women, that I would not be found attractive. In college, around so many more different men and women from so many different cultures, I've found that my big ass and thick thighs are very attractive to the right person.

What about health? you ask. I'll call myself out: I'm a pretty darn healthy size 14. I am active and I eat a balanced, if not perfect diet. I don't drink soda or eat red meat. I probably consume too much sugar and caffeine, but I try to burn those calories off and to limit my caffeine intake to morning hours. Human bodies weren't created with cars and McDonald's in mind, so we have to find ways to keep ourselves active to make up for these new factors. But "dieting" is scary business. I don't diet. Everyone has a diet. That's just what you eat. But I don't really go on diets. I cut things out of my diet I feel I can stand to lose if I find them unhealthy. However, if I find myself unhappy because I'm turning down food or drink I really want, then I readjust.

Feeling deprived doesn't make for a successful weight-loss plan. You get tired of that really quickly. I've found, though, that if I cut certain foods I (again) can stand to lose, then I'm not interested in them after a while. Once I got over the pop thing, not even Diet Coke sounded appetizing. Once I got past bacon, meat kind of grossed me out. And now I prefer soy milk, I prefer fiber cereals, and I'm happier if I finish two or more water bottles a day. But none of that bothers me. I don't feel like I'm missing out. If I want a piece of cake, I'm going to eat it. If a chai latte sounds super good, then I'm going to get one. Health is only a matter of being healthy. Not thin. Big difference. It's about being strong enough to support your joints, fit enough to walk a flight of stairs without wheezing, and happy with yourself and your decisions. I need to kick my own butt sometimes to get out of bed and do something, but I do it because it makes me happy. Period.

Back to breasts. Your boobs are as big or small as they're supposed to be. If your breasts cause you physical pain, or you don't identify with the feminine nature of your body, then that's something to look into. Your body should never hold you back from activity, and no one should feel trapped in a societal construction of gender. But they're yours. Own them. It is not society's job to tell you how to feel about them. Too big=sex object? Well shoot. How dare you... have the boobs you were born with? Sheesh. Put those away. :P  Too small... for what?

It's your business what you do with your body. I'm not really in the business of telling people what to do. It just bothers me how blindly we allow those cookie cutters to make decisions about beauty for us. You have your own eyes, your own minds, your own bodies to help you make decisions about what is attractive to you. And there's no need to change yourself to make yourself attractive. Because someone who is in touch with their own wants and needs may be looking for someone just like you.

So. Be healthy. Be happy. And damn the man. You can make your own decisions.

Peace .

Get it girl

To the teenage girls of the world:

Twisting stomach, fuzzy image, floating head, cold hands. Guilt. The trials, both great and small, that we endure, are made worse only by guilt. You put your face in your hands, didn't you? And you had to sit down, because breathing was really starting to be difficult. You tried frantically to think of ways to fix it, and when nothing was without consequence, your stomach sunk further downward. You called someone to give you advice, and they may have helped you some, but really, they were judging you--at least in your mind, blinded by regret. Vertigo. So you told all your friends. You looked for ways to twist the story to favor yourself. It's so easy to make yourself a victim when you're already feeling horrible, yeah? And your friends took your side, because they liked bitching with you. That's what ties your relationship together: people to hate. But things always come back around. She found out what you were saying, she was hurt further, and you didn't care enough this time. You'd already suffered enough. Your defenses were up. You convinced yourself you were the victim too. So easy to do.
But then, when you're much older, she'll come up to you. She'll say "I forgive you." At first you'll have to think about it, but it'll come back to you--guilt always does. "I-I'm sorry." The order reversed loses some of its strength. It's a weak response. But it was all you had. She smiled at you and walked away. Only she was at peace.
You may never forgive yourself. You may have forgiven yourself shortly after she did; it was a long time ago or if she's over it, I am. Give it time, lady. Forgiveness heals. Hurting another hurts yourself. But do not blame yourself for hurting someone; not even for doing it twice. You have only benefited them. They will grow stronger. They will grow a thicker layer of self. They're deeper. You've made them more of a person, and you've hurt only yourself. Work on fixing that, okay? Fix you first. Or you'll keep on hurting people, you'll keep on hurting you. Someone still loves you, even if you've pushed everyone else away. Someone loves you enough to help you become you can be proud of. Be the type of person you want to meet.