It's funny. A week, maybe two ago, there was an article about ptosis of the breasts in the oh-so-misogynistic "women's section" of one of the newspapers here (I can't remember whether it was El Nuevo Diario or La Prensa, so I'm having a hard time finding it, but if I do, it'll be posted, never fear).
It was kind of confusing. You see, I was under the impression that women's breasts sagged naturally with age, and that was, you know, natural. Apparently I've got it all wrong. It's a DISEASE, and we must take DRASTIC MEASURES to prevent its life-threatening consequences, such as, um...un-perky breasts, and...non-perky breasts.
Yeah, so, you should have invasive breast surgery before anything like THAT happens! I mean, "saggy" breasts are a health hazard, folks. Yep.
In the article, it mentioned the usual medieval delights, like breast lifts and breast reduction with implants, but recently, I became aware of another charming procedure to treat this "condition". It's literally, a bra inside your chest.
The mind boggles. Hoyden About Town does a better job of dissecting it than I do. But basically, FUUUUUUUUUCK!?!?@>@>!>$
Ok, breasts will sag. There is nothing wrong with that. In fact, that is what they are supposed to do. Also, the immense majority of breasts are NOT, even when their owners are young; globular and gravity-defying, though I'm sure all the lad's mags and the plastic surgery industry would have us believe otherwise.
I am so, so sick of being told that my body is abnormal. You'd think my breasts had committed terrible crimes against mankind for the kind of comments I get about them; from the "WOW, are they real?!" to the snarky "oh, but it was a joke" to the ones that spend hours trying to tell me how much better I'd look after a reduction, to the ones that can't seem to let five minutes go by without commenting on their size.
Yeah, sorry, but no.
Fuck this shit. I don't need a reduction. I don't want a reduction. And I sure as hell ain't getting one to make everyone else more comfortable around me and my EVIL EVIL CHEST. Which by the way, I plan to keep intact even when it's struck down by the terrible affliction of ZOMG PTOSIS. Because as much as I can go on about mind over matter, my body has everything to do with myself, if one can say that without sounding lightly ridiculous. And this is how I look. And it's not a disease. It doesn't need surgery.
There is nothing wrong with my body.
I'm not changing it.
Deal with it.
Showing posts with label beauty standards. Show all posts
Showing posts with label beauty standards. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Straighthate, part the second
Kill. Maim. Destroy. Demolish. Rip limb to limb and crush to pulp with my bare, nail-less hands. Not a shred of guilt, not one gram of remorse or mercy.
Yeah, I think know what blind fury feels like.
It's why I can never really feel human, not to the full meaning of the word. Who could, when you know that that force, that that entity lives inside you, waiting to strike, just that one moment that you don't say no.
But I'm more human then they are. All those men. So many men. Because I can say no. I can say stop. I can keep my inhumanity inside, but they, they caused it. And they're worse than I am.
It was the kind of day I've learned to take pictures of and use them to smile. My friend, protegé, and apprentice in evil ways, Ritsu came over. That time of year again: new hair; and no one's better at DIY hair care than Ritsu. Streaks, bleach, dye, straightening, he's done it all. And now he's salvaged my fried and faded ginger. Using methods yet unknown to man, it's now doubled in volume, soft, shiny, curly, and a black so black it seems to suck the light out of every place I go.
Nice.
We talked about everything, pretty much. Bellydancing. Cosplay. Teachers. Contacts. Piercings of every kind under the sun. Even touched on the subject of being the black sheep of our respective families. What it had done. The resounding, silent mantra "Hey, freak has a NAME!".
But it was a good day. The anger is for another time. Today is a day to make fun of photographers, talk about prom, possessed phone books, Masons.
Today we wanted to watch a movie before Ritsu had to go home. So we left. Walking from my home to the movie theater, not quite so far. We're pretty people with unusual tastes, what can I say? He's a beautiful bishie boy, and I'm to makeup as he is to hair, so naturally, we don't look like your average pair of friends walking to the movies.
But I wonder. Does looking different warrant dehumanization, anymore than being a woman does? Why must we be the ones to have to walk like that, folding their stares like hate notes into our pockets so we could pretend they weren't there?
I'm a woman. It's nothing new to me. Any woman can tell you of the leers and the hisses and the catcalls. Of being degraded and stripped naked and subject on a daily basis, for no reason at all. No reason but being female and in public. And I find myself using the passive voice here, not because I think it's my fault, or any woman's fault, or because I think it's excusable for men to continuously do so.
It's not. It's despicable.
But I've become used to it, to a certain level. Like all women have. Maybe the killing rage that stirs in me isn't typical, even if it should be. But even though I am the only woman I know to act, to respond to their continuous attack, I know that it's not enough. And there are times when I feel that just shouting, just gesturing, just arguing will never be enough. I feel just like the ones who lower their heads and pretend that they didn't feel the catcalls rip into them.
But I deal. I deal with it the best I can. And I never stop arguing, shouting, and refusing to take it.
But it's one thing to live with it yourself, to refuse it/resist it walking with no one but your boxcutter. But today I was dehumanized again. Directly, of course, because that is what happens when a female dares show her face in a public space, but indirectly, to the point of nearly losing control, when they dehumanized one of my own right in front of me.
I've heard a lot of feminist arguments about whether men, as the dominant class, can ever awaken to the reality of the female experience. Today I saw just how much. And today I saw, again, just how different it is when they move to attack, not just you, but the loved ones around you.
Infuriating. The swarms of men. Boys. Teenagers. Their voices sound all the same to me now. And it hits me, over and over again, the same old questions, and all the variants that might apply.
Why are you doing this?
Why? What do you have to gain?
Would you say that to your sister, mother, daughter? Would you say that to your father, brother, son?
Does it hurt you, to see a girl and a boy walking along laughing at their own stupid jokes?
What is it about a short metal dyke and a skinny goth fag that you find so terrifying?
What is it in us that scares you to the point that you feel you must reassert your power through force, through intimidation, and through repeated verbal assault?
What have I done, or what has he done, that deserves this kind of response?
Isn't it enough that you control everything else?
Can't people like us even walk without fear of attack?
And maybe you know what it's like. Maybe you walk with your girlfriend, or your sister, or your niece. Or maybe you're just trying to spend an evening at the mall like everyone else does with your friend. Maybe you hear it directed at them, and feel it like it's the first time it happened to you. The powerlessness is deadening. No matter how much you retaliate, you can never stop it from starting. And like too many of us, I worry if Ritsu has learned to lower his head and pretend it isn't happening.
And it drives me nearly out of my mind that he will have to fight back. Because he shouldn't have to. Because he's a KID. A kid who's never hurt anyone, never been anything but kind to anyone, despite being dealt more bullshit than anyone should, especially at his age. And even though his merit is besides the point (no one deserves harassment and objectification, no matter who they are, how old they are, what they wear-the things everyone knows already), the fact that it is him, it is that sweet, wonderful, vibrant person who already has to handle too much- it hits a nerve. A war nerve.
Sometimes I really do lose everything. All sense of hope. All self-control. It's pretty well-documented here, I guess. But some people take it too far. And here I am using the passive voice again. And no, it isn't "some people". Some men. Homophobic, misogynistic men, which make up most of the lot, take it too far, and they do it every day.
So today I lost it. All that in my head, and some real winners decide it's a good idea to approach me when I'm alone and taunt me about him.
And why? I just don't get it. Why can't I hurt the people who violate me? Why is it forbidden to stab the stalkers, the harassers, the cat callers and the oglers?
I decided it was a good idea to hurl a cup full of ice cubes and some soda in their faces. Prudent? Most definitely not. Deserved? No. That didn't even come close.
I got away "safely", if you define safe as physically whole.
But I cannot stop thinking. That it was a huge, bright, public place, with hundreds of people, and armed security guards. And no straight woman, no queer girl or guy got out of there safely. Nor will they ever, I think. Not as long as the male gaze remains all-powerful. Male harassment the law that the world lives by.
As long as they can do that to me, to my friend, to every woman, LGBT, or anyone who is in the least bit different, we are not safe. I got out of there with my body unscathed, but the toll it took on my mind wasn't light. Those that are cowed into fear are as hurt as those who are provoked into losing control. And though I dare not presume to say it's on the same level, or that it can be simplified into some neat and tidy comparative package; I KNOW that it is real, just as real as any physical hurt. The lifelong sequels of dominance and intimidation hurt us just as badly as any battering. As any bashing.
And all at the same hands.
I really hate them all right now.
And childish though it may sound, I hate them more for spoiling my wonderful day. Because it was truly wonderful. Thanks for everything, Ritsu.
I'm off to make some voodoo dolls and whatnot.
Ed note: "Fag" and "dyke" are used, as always, in a satirical/reclamatory sense. Andrea Gibson reference is an Andrea Gibson reference. Just clearing that up.
Yeah, I think know what blind fury feels like.
It's why I can never really feel human, not to the full meaning of the word. Who could, when you know that that force, that that entity lives inside you, waiting to strike, just that one moment that you don't say no.
But I'm more human then they are. All those men. So many men. Because I can say no. I can say stop. I can keep my inhumanity inside, but they, they caused it. And they're worse than I am.
It was the kind of day I've learned to take pictures of and use them to smile. My friend, protegé, and apprentice in evil ways, Ritsu came over. That time of year again: new hair; and no one's better at DIY hair care than Ritsu. Streaks, bleach, dye, straightening, he's done it all. And now he's salvaged my fried and faded ginger. Using methods yet unknown to man, it's now doubled in volume, soft, shiny, curly, and a black so black it seems to suck the light out of every place I go.
Nice.
We talked about everything, pretty much. Bellydancing. Cosplay. Teachers. Contacts. Piercings of every kind under the sun. Even touched on the subject of being the black sheep of our respective families. What it had done. The resounding, silent mantra "Hey, freak has a NAME!".
But it was a good day. The anger is for another time. Today is a day to make fun of photographers, talk about prom, possessed phone books, Masons.
Today we wanted to watch a movie before Ritsu had to go home. So we left. Walking from my home to the movie theater, not quite so far. We're pretty people with unusual tastes, what can I say? He's a beautiful bishie boy, and I'm to makeup as he is to hair, so naturally, we don't look like your average pair of friends walking to the movies.
But I wonder. Does looking different warrant dehumanization, anymore than being a woman does? Why must we be the ones to have to walk like that, folding their stares like hate notes into our pockets so we could pretend they weren't there?
I'm a woman. It's nothing new to me. Any woman can tell you of the leers and the hisses and the catcalls. Of being degraded and stripped naked and subject on a daily basis, for no reason at all. No reason but being female and in public. And I find myself using the passive voice here, not because I think it's my fault, or any woman's fault, or because I think it's excusable for men to continuously do so.
It's not. It's despicable.
But I've become used to it, to a certain level. Like all women have. Maybe the killing rage that stirs in me isn't typical, even if it should be. But even though I am the only woman I know to act, to respond to their continuous attack, I know that it's not enough. And there are times when I feel that just shouting, just gesturing, just arguing will never be enough. I feel just like the ones who lower their heads and pretend that they didn't feel the catcalls rip into them.
But I deal. I deal with it the best I can. And I never stop arguing, shouting, and refusing to take it.
But it's one thing to live with it yourself, to refuse it/resist it walking with no one but your boxcutter. But today I was dehumanized again. Directly, of course, because that is what happens when a female dares show her face in a public space, but indirectly, to the point of nearly losing control, when they dehumanized one of my own right in front of me.
I've heard a lot of feminist arguments about whether men, as the dominant class, can ever awaken to the reality of the female experience. Today I saw just how much. And today I saw, again, just how different it is when they move to attack, not just you, but the loved ones around you.
Infuriating. The swarms of men. Boys. Teenagers. Their voices sound all the same to me now. And it hits me, over and over again, the same old questions, and all the variants that might apply.
Why? What do you have to gain?
Would you say that to your sister, mother, daughter? Would you say that to your father, brother, son?
Does it hurt you, to see a girl and a boy walking along laughing at their own stupid jokes?
What is it about a short metal dyke and a skinny goth fag that you find so terrifying?
What is it in us that scares you to the point that you feel you must reassert your power through force, through intimidation, and through repeated verbal assault?
What have I done, or what has he done, that deserves this kind of response?
Isn't it enough that you control everything else?
Can't people like us even walk without fear of attack?
And maybe you know what it's like. Maybe you walk with your girlfriend, or your sister, or your niece. Or maybe you're just trying to spend an evening at the mall like everyone else does with your friend. Maybe you hear it directed at them, and feel it like it's the first time it happened to you. The powerlessness is deadening. No matter how much you retaliate, you can never stop it from starting. And like too many of us, I worry if Ritsu has learned to lower his head and pretend it isn't happening.
And it drives me nearly out of my mind that he will have to fight back. Because he shouldn't have to. Because he's a KID. A kid who's never hurt anyone, never been anything but kind to anyone, despite being dealt more bullshit than anyone should, especially at his age. And even though his merit is besides the point (no one deserves harassment and objectification, no matter who they are, how old they are, what they wear-the things everyone knows already), the fact that it is him, it is that sweet, wonderful, vibrant person who already has to handle too much- it hits a nerve. A war nerve.
Sometimes I really do lose everything. All sense of hope. All self-control. It's pretty well-documented here, I guess. But some people take it too far. And here I am using the passive voice again. And no, it isn't "some people". Some men. Homophobic, misogynistic men, which make up most of the lot, take it too far, and they do it every day.
So today I lost it. All that in my head, and some real winners decide it's a good idea to approach me when I'm alone and taunt me about him.
And why? I just don't get it. Why can't I hurt the people who violate me? Why is it forbidden to stab the stalkers, the harassers, the cat callers and the oglers?
I decided it was a good idea to hurl a cup full of ice cubes and some soda in their faces. Prudent? Most definitely not. Deserved? No. That didn't even come close.
I got away "safely", if you define safe as physically whole.
But I cannot stop thinking. That it was a huge, bright, public place, with hundreds of people, and armed security guards. And no straight woman, no queer girl or guy got out of there safely. Nor will they ever, I think. Not as long as the male gaze remains all-powerful. Male harassment the law that the world lives by.
As long as they can do that to me, to my friend, to every woman, LGBT, or anyone who is in the least bit different, we are not safe. I got out of there with my body unscathed, but the toll it took on my mind wasn't light. Those that are cowed into fear are as hurt as those who are provoked into losing control. And though I dare not presume to say it's on the same level, or that it can be simplified into some neat and tidy comparative package; I KNOW that it is real, just as real as any physical hurt. The lifelong sequels of dominance and intimidation hurt us just as badly as any battering. As any bashing.
And all at the same hands.
I really hate them all right now.
And childish though it may sound, I hate them more for spoiling my wonderful day. Because it was truly wonderful. Thanks for everything, Ritsu.
I'm off to make some voodoo dolls and whatnot.
Ed note: "Fag" and "dyke" are used, as always, in a satirical/reclamatory sense. Andrea Gibson reference is an Andrea Gibson reference. Just clearing that up.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
SuicideGirls
Today there were three girls in a bed. And we were not pretty, not as the patriarchy sees it. And we were not fulfilling patriarchy-approved sexual fantasies. We were watching a movie. We were talking about our lives.
A woman on the screen laid down, with bottles of pills all around her. We laughed and joked about it, because all of us know, all of us were alive and there to prove that overdoses rarely do the trick. We all know from experience. Some of us more than one experience. I know from two experiences with suicide-by-pill; the latest being...the latest, I guess.
A woman screams, howls with rage about how her mental illness has incapacitated her. Not the illness itself, but how everyone around her has become convinced that they must make every decision for her, and her life ceases to be in her hands and in her control, and she ceases to be human. It's patriarchy; textbook. She is dying of patriarchy. And every one of us could identify. We could all talk about it and make jokes about it because every one of us knows that. We know that to the point that all women do, and beyond; to the point where all mentally damaged people know that. We feel that dehumanization.
We've all been dehumanized.
I wrote about it last week. How I was dying, and all anyone could see was to what extent I conformed to patriarchal beauty standards.
Well take a good look, patriarchy. You and your pornification, you and your trendy girl-on-girl, you and your fucking beauty standards. Look at us. How we were today, together on that bed and you would have seen the real SuicideGirls. And they are not the girls who are pornalicious subculture objects. They are PEOPLE. We are people who bear with the burden of being young and female. Because no one has less power in this world than a female child.
Take a look at us. Take a good look. One underweight, two over. Their stomachs ravaged by the eating disorders and the side effects of the medication they need to survive, to cope. Of all the drugs they have pushed into themselves to fill that hole, that empty set, by nullifying it completely. Look at our scars. All kinds of scars. The addiction, the need to hurt ourselves more than you can ever hurt us, even though that's a losing battle. Look, if you can, into that space where everything becomes chaotic and dark and terrifying, that place where no one who hasn't been there will ever know or understand, and everyone who has will spend the rest of their lives trying to escape. Every victimization we have suffered, directly or indirectly, by patriarchal means, has left us fracted for life. Every hurt we have ever done to ourselves. Every glitter sore is a scream against the world we will never live to see changed, if it ever changes. A scream for every other female, and especially every other female child who will most likely end up where we are, until the world changes, or comes to an end, or every woman dies of patriarchy, dies of femininity.
We are what you hate. But we are still here, despite your efforts, and our contrary efforts. And I love you, girls, women, my friends. You are PEOPLE, despite the whole world trying to make you less. You are what beauty should be.
Fuck those other SuicideGirls, living tamely, reaping the rewards, empty as eggshells, as lightbulbs; of conformity. We're the real deal. Fuck the beauty standards that made my friends hurt themselves so much that I can feel it just standing next to them. Fuck the queerbashers who wounded me, fuck the rapist who attacked me as a child, and fuck the men who mentally, emotionally, and physically abused every one of us. Fuck the women who have internalized misogyny and wield it as a weapon against every iconoclast who dares to live her own life. Fuck religion. Fuck hairlessness and skinniness and stupidity and frailty and servility as The Ideal Woman. Fuck the patriarchy.
And FUCK SNOW WHITE.
A woman on the screen laid down, with bottles of pills all around her. We laughed and joked about it, because all of us know, all of us were alive and there to prove that overdoses rarely do the trick. We all know from experience. Some of us more than one experience. I know from two experiences with suicide-by-pill; the latest being...the latest, I guess.
A woman screams, howls with rage about how her mental illness has incapacitated her. Not the illness itself, but how everyone around her has become convinced that they must make every decision for her, and her life ceases to be in her hands and in her control, and she ceases to be human. It's patriarchy; textbook. She is dying of patriarchy. And every one of us could identify. We could all talk about it and make jokes about it because every one of us knows that. We know that to the point that all women do, and beyond; to the point where all mentally damaged people know that. We feel that dehumanization.
We've all been dehumanized.
I wrote about it last week. How I was dying, and all anyone could see was to what extent I conformed to patriarchal beauty standards.
Well take a good look, patriarchy. You and your pornification, you and your trendy girl-on-girl, you and your fucking beauty standards. Look at us. How we were today, together on that bed and you would have seen the real SuicideGirls. And they are not the girls who are pornalicious subculture objects. They are PEOPLE. We are people who bear with the burden of being young and female. Because no one has less power in this world than a female child.
Take a look at us. Take a good look. One underweight, two over. Their stomachs ravaged by the eating disorders and the side effects of the medication they need to survive, to cope. Of all the drugs they have pushed into themselves to fill that hole, that empty set, by nullifying it completely. Look at our scars. All kinds of scars. The addiction, the need to hurt ourselves more than you can ever hurt us, even though that's a losing battle. Look, if you can, into that space where everything becomes chaotic and dark and terrifying, that place where no one who hasn't been there will ever know or understand, and everyone who has will spend the rest of their lives trying to escape. Every victimization we have suffered, directly or indirectly, by patriarchal means, has left us fracted for life. Every hurt we have ever done to ourselves. Every glitter sore is a scream against the world we will never live to see changed, if it ever changes. A scream for every other female, and especially every other female child who will most likely end up where we are, until the world changes, or comes to an end, or every woman dies of patriarchy, dies of femininity.
We are what you hate. But we are still here, despite your efforts, and our contrary efforts. And I love you, girls, women, my friends. You are PEOPLE, despite the whole world trying to make you less. You are what beauty should be.
Fuck those other SuicideGirls, living tamely, reaping the rewards, empty as eggshells, as lightbulbs; of conformity. We're the real deal. Fuck the beauty standards that made my friends hurt themselves so much that I can feel it just standing next to them. Fuck the queerbashers who wounded me, fuck the rapist who attacked me as a child, and fuck the men who mentally, emotionally, and physically abused every one of us. Fuck the women who have internalized misogyny and wield it as a weapon against every iconoclast who dares to live her own life. Fuck religion. Fuck hairlessness and skinniness and stupidity and frailty and servility as The Ideal Woman. Fuck the patriarchy.
And FUCK SNOW WHITE.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Body image survey
From Christi Nielsen. Who rules.
Name: Composite Creature
Age: 17
Height: 5'0"
Weight: 170
Do you consider yourself attractive? Sometimes
Do others consider you attractive? A few people.
What is your biggest insecurity and why? My arms and chin: I can deal with big legs, hips, butt, breasts (and find them attractive, actually), but I think fat arms look really bad. I also hate double chins. I think it doesn't look like me. I also have issues with my large breasts.
Have you/Would you consider using plastic surgery? Why or why not? I have considered it. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I did it.
What is your relationship with make-up? I love it. Patriarchy be damned, it's fun; but I can and do live without it a lot.
How much money do you/think is reasonable to spend on your appearance? As little as possible.
What is your experience of dieting? I had a terribly warped body image as a child. It never struck me as how warped it was until I saw a picture of myself when I was a kid a few months ago: I remember that day, panicking about my huge stomach and thighs. I remember seeing my fat and being disgusted.
I looked at the picture recently, and nothing matched up. I saw a perfectly healthy nine-year-old. Not even close to fat. Stress eating balooned me up to where I am now, a good 40 or 50 pounds overweight ( a lot of it is muscle-I'm fucking hardcore, I am).
Have you/ anyone you know tried any specific diet programs i.e. Lighter Life? How did that affect your health? your moods? your relationships? I tried a metabolic thingy a while ago. I dropped weight very quickly, but also muscle mass. I was unhappy and stressed out, which led me to break my diet.
Do you have any experiences of eating disorders i.e. either yourself or someone you know? My warped body image. A dear childhood friend was anorexic and vomited a lot.
How did other people react to this; what was the fallout? Most people told her how great she looked. Her mother tried to make her eat, but she worked a lot and couldn't monitor her too closely. When she lived with me, I would try to make sure she ate healthily, but since I've lost touch with her, I hear she's relapsed.
Have you had negative experiences relating to your appearance and people’s reactions to it? Of course. I've had every single fat insult/fat joke thrown my way, from people I don't know to my immediate family, and everyone in between. I've been turned down from jobs where I was the better qualified candidate because they were looking for "stage presence" (singer's code for "you're good, but no one wants to look at you"). Nearly every store I go to will not stock my size in pants or shirts even though it's not even plus size.
What about positive reactions to your body? I have recieved "positive" comments, which are pretty much just people who find different body parts of mine fuck-worthy. Few have been really positive, but yes, several aesthete friends have complimented my body and proportions.
How has your body image and attitude changed over the years? I can't really stop caring, but I'm close. That's a good thing. I eat healthy and work out when I can, but I refuse to starve myself or sacrifice precious reading/writing/listening/fun time to working out when I have other things to do.
What do you love about your body? That it does what I need it to do, and looks pretty to me sometimes. I like my waist a lot.
What is your opinion on the media portrayal of women’s bodies? This would be too long. Way too long, so: it's fucked.
What would you change about the way you/ your friends/ your family/ general people see their bodies? I'd like them to throw traditional ideas about beauty into the metaphysical trash can, where they belong. Beauty can be big or small. Thick-waisted, wide-footed, hairy, shriveled, anything. Physical "beauty" doesn't mean anything.
What makes you feel beautiful? I'm ashamed to admit this, but when people I know call me beautiful. I can't really get over that.
Do you shave legs/pits/upper lip moustache? Yes, legs and pits. I hate it, but I still bend to that particular beauty standard against my will. Maybe someday I'll be brave enough not to.
Name: Composite Creature
Age: 17
Height: 5'0"
Weight: 170
Do you consider yourself attractive? Sometimes
Do others consider you attractive? A few people.
What is your biggest insecurity and why? My arms and chin: I can deal with big legs, hips, butt, breasts (and find them attractive, actually), but I think fat arms look really bad. I also hate double chins. I think it doesn't look like me. I also have issues with my large breasts.
Have you/Would you consider using plastic surgery? Why or why not? I have considered it. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I did it.
What is your relationship with make-up? I love it. Patriarchy be damned, it's fun; but I can and do live without it a lot.
How much money do you/think is reasonable to spend on your appearance? As little as possible.
What is your experience of dieting? I had a terribly warped body image as a child. It never struck me as how warped it was until I saw a picture of myself when I was a kid a few months ago: I remember that day, panicking about my huge stomach and thighs. I remember seeing my fat and being disgusted.
I looked at the picture recently, and nothing matched up. I saw a perfectly healthy nine-year-old. Not even close to fat. Stress eating balooned me up to where I am now, a good 40 or 50 pounds overweight ( a lot of it is muscle-I'm fucking hardcore, I am).
Have you/ anyone you know tried any specific diet programs i.e. Lighter Life? How did that affect your health? your moods? your relationships? I tried a metabolic thingy a while ago. I dropped weight very quickly, but also muscle mass. I was unhappy and stressed out, which led me to break my diet.
Do you have any experiences of eating disorders i.e. either yourself or someone you know? My warped body image. A dear childhood friend was anorexic and vomited a lot.
How did other people react to this; what was the fallout? Most people told her how great she looked. Her mother tried to make her eat, but she worked a lot and couldn't monitor her too closely. When she lived with me, I would try to make sure she ate healthily, but since I've lost touch with her, I hear she's relapsed.
Have you had negative experiences relating to your appearance and people’s reactions to it? Of course. I've had every single fat insult/fat joke thrown my way, from people I don't know to my immediate family, and everyone in between. I've been turned down from jobs where I was the better qualified candidate because they were looking for "stage presence" (singer's code for "you're good, but no one wants to look at you"). Nearly every store I go to will not stock my size in pants or shirts even though it's not even plus size.
What about positive reactions to your body? I have recieved "positive" comments, which are pretty much just people who find different body parts of mine fuck-worthy. Few have been really positive, but yes, several aesthete friends have complimented my body and proportions.
How has your body image and attitude changed over the years? I can't really stop caring, but I'm close. That's a good thing. I eat healthy and work out when I can, but I refuse to starve myself or sacrifice precious reading/writing/listening/fun time to working out when I have other things to do.
What do you love about your body? That it does what I need it to do, and looks pretty to me sometimes. I like my waist a lot.
What is your opinion on the media portrayal of women’s bodies? This would be too long. Way too long, so: it's fucked.
What would you change about the way you/ your friends/ your family/ general people see their bodies? I'd like them to throw traditional ideas about beauty into the metaphysical trash can, where they belong. Beauty can be big or small. Thick-waisted, wide-footed, hairy, shriveled, anything. Physical "beauty" doesn't mean anything.
What makes you feel beautiful? I'm ashamed to admit this, but when people I know call me beautiful. I can't really get over that.
Do you shave legs/pits/upper lip moustache? Yes, legs and pits. I hate it, but I still bend to that particular beauty standard against my will. Maybe someday I'll be brave enough not to.
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