Fat Slut

Easter was a couple of weeks ago, right. (Which I typed as “Eatser” at first.) And my cousin and her family came up. Technically she’s Dad’s cousin’s daughter, which makes her my second cousin? I think? Anyway, her side of the family has the genes for fatitude. My grandfather was fat, his sister is fat and an amaaaazing cook. None of the women or men on that side are skinny. At the smallest, they look simply average.

So my cousin walks in and the first thing she says to me is “You lost so much weight!” We only see each other at Thanksgiving and Easter, when I’ve managed to make it home for Easter. So I guess it IS noticeable. Then again, I was also wearing a short-sleeved top instead of a sweater and tank top.

Why do I do that? Why do I freak out about losing weight? Because so much of my journey towards accepting my own fat and becoming an activist for size acceptance has had to do with accepting that this is the body I have. And it deeply unsettles me that I’m losing that body, that it’s disappearing. Not only because I’m vehemently anti-diet but also because it makes me feel like a traitor to the cause. Which, I haven’t BEEN dieting. And I haven’t noticed the weight loss, as I’ve mentioned before. It’s creepy. And it wouldn’t make me a traitor. Plenty of SA folks are smaller than me; the two best examples I can think of are Fillyjonk and Sweet Machine at Shapely Prose, who are both not actually fat as far as I can remember. Hell, I have another 100 pounds before I hit the top end of the “normal” range for my height according to BMI. Why worry about this now?

Because I am paranoid, and I put far more stringent standards on myself than on anyone else. This is true in pretty much all areas of my life – it’s something I work on with my counselor – and it only makes sense that it happens here too. As much sense as the slightly bent workings of a malfunctioning brain can make, anyway.

[This is not to value or devalue the neurotypical experience; I just have problems struggling with my own diagnosed depression even on technical good days and this is the best way I can think of to talk about it.]

Today was good. I went to the annual bulb show at a local college with my dad and sister, got a giant pizza slice for lunch and some concert tickets for me and my BFF, and took the dog on a nice walk. All in all a good day.

Then my mom and sister got in a fight at dinner. Which happens, because my sister is seventeen and extra sensitive, and they both stormed off. Dad and I shrugged and kept eating, and Mom came back still mad and decided she needed to snipe at us too for just sitting there. She looked at me and went “Shut up, fat girl.“

And… I had to hold back a laugh. Now, Mom is getting over being sick. She’s always either getting sick, sick, or getting better, but the in-between phases are almost always marked by being incredibly nasty and mean. And apparently the worst thing she could come up with to call me was “fat girl.” And… it truly, honestly didn’t hurt. Yeah, I AM A FAT GIRL. Not a news flash. So I was able to let that roll off me. Now, it’s a sign of how messed up she is that that’s what she goes for, but I’m glad it didn’t bother me.

So my mom came in and asked for some of my chocolate, as she often does. I had a bag with a few Dove pieces in it and offered it to her, and she said she’d take two. “Take all of them, I can just get more.” And she says “You don’t need to get more.”

I had a very mild freakout about that just now, eating the rest that were in the bag before I realized what I was doing. I feel much better when I have junk food around and can self-regulate, when I don’t have to worry about being shamed or scolded like I still get in the kitchen, when I know I can get more and not worry about it. Sometimes I hate living at home.

I finally got a chance to talk to the ballet teacher after class – previously she’s been occupied with other people, and two weeks we didn’t have class (school vacation and then inclement weather) – about my heels not touching. That’s one of the things she corrects me on, usually, not having my heels together in first position. Turns out? It’s not so much my calves of steel or big thighs that prevent my heels from getting close. It’s my knees hyperextending – they actually flex backwards a little when I have my legs straight, which pushes my feet forwards and away from each other in that position. So it’s not about the fat at all. Crazy.

In other news: I HAVE A JOB. It’s only a few hours in the afternoon, but I’m grateful to have it in this economy.

In other other news: (cut for excessive rambling) Read the rest of this entry »

The belly thing first. So we were all watching the Super Bowl on Sunday, and my sister was exhausted after an eight-hour shift at the diner where she works. So she was snuggled up to me with her head on my chest and one hand on my belly. And out of the blue she goes “I like your belly.” And I went DD because that’s something I didn’t expect to hear from my teenage sister.

As for ballet: well, I took it for four years when I was little, and one of those obnoxious girls who wouldn’t wear anything but pink or purple. And then I saw an article about the adult beginners’ ballet class at the local studio. So I signed up, somewhat trepidatious because… I don’t look like a ballerina. Except maybe one of those hippos from the Dance of the Hours segment in Fantasia. (They’re awesome, but you get my point.)

But it was awesome. Actually my first feeling was one of total disorientation, because there are some things that are exactly the same – the ivy painted over the mirrors, the curtains on the windows – and some that are completely different. Also I’m not sure how different things look simply because my eye line is about a foot and a half higher than it used to be. But so much of what I used to know came back. Turning out from the hip, keeping the back straight, the same little snippets of music repeated over and over, the French terms that I actually know now what they mean.

And luckily it was a very welcoming environment. The crowd ranged from high school girls to women old enough to be my mother, and some of them were in leotards and some were in workout gear. I was definitely the fattest one there, but I had the prior experience. And I got complimented on my flexibility. The teacher was also very kind; the martinet who ran the school when I went there as a weester retired, and this woman was really nice. She didn’t seem to mind that I physically can’t get my heels together for a first position given the size of my thighs, and I didn’t feel singled out for anything. Well, maybe for the jumping at the end, but that had more to do with the fact that I need more support for my 44Ds than a regular bra if I’m going to be bouncing all over the place.

I came home tired – I really am out of shape, but this was a good way to get moving without killing myself. And today my hips are awfully sore. But I can’t wait to go back next week.

So I’d been meaning to write about this for a while, but I didn’t because I’m a space case who needs a to-do list to remind her to shower these days. But this post at Fatshionista by the very clever Lesley made me actually click over to WordPress. So.

I am not a huge fan of having photographs taken of myself. I think this is because I look larger than I do in the mirror, what with three dimensions being flattened to two. And most pictures of me recently have been taken at the middle or end of shenanigans with friends, when I am either drunk or greasy from lack of sleep. Not the most attractive state for anybody.

My friend Kait is a photographer and has recently been revamping/restarting her business, with hopes of getting it off the ground soon. And she was looking for test models. And because I have loads of free time I volunteered. The actual modeling was sort of hilarious because it was about eighteen degrees out and we both kept slipping in the snow.

When she uploaded the pictures, though, I was floored. I actually looked… pretty. Holy crap. It was almost magical, seeing myself as the subject and attention of a gaze that made me look beautiful instead of some vaguely sweaty blob in yesterday’s shirt. And there’s a lot to be said about the problems of valuing one’s appearance and blah blah male gaze, but… this was pretty novel for me, and I can’t say I hated it.

It’s really hard to move more when it’s January in New England. Last week we had a storm that didn’t match up to the monumental ice storm before Christmas, but there was a lot of rain and light slush that all froze solid. The bottom of our driveway is a sheet of ice. I’ve fallen down twice just taking the dog out to pee, once on my hands and once (really hard) on my ass. And on New Year’s Eve I managed to wrench my bad ankle pretty badly in the snow because I couldn’t see where the sidewalk ended. So I haven’t been getting out much; I even canceled a counseling appointment because I would have basically had to ice skate over there.

In line with the resolution I was thinking of getting some exercise programs after a friend recommended Yoga Booty Ballet to me. And then I could move without risking a broken neck. I went to a community where I download movies. (HOMG YES I AM EVIL let’s get past that right now.) And there’s an offshoot community for just exercise videos, which is cool. Less cool: all the dieting and weight-loss talk. They’re having a “Twenty Pounds More Fabulous By Easter” challenge, which freaks me right the fuck out because more fabulous? Bitches, I am plenty fucking fabulous at 270.

- Which, tangent: I ended up getting officially weighed for the first time in a really long time last month. Mom hooked me up with her doctor’s office so I could get a refill prescription on my meds, and they didn’t have a file and they started one. Which meant weighing and age and blood pressure but, oddly, not my height. And it was a digital readout rather than the clanky old scales with the big metal things they move around, which was sort of cool. And now I have an official semi-recent number: 270. Fine by me, I guess. THE OTHER COOL THING is that I got my blood pressure checked and according to the nurse it was fine and dandy. That’s great, because the last time I had it checked it was rather high… but I was at school and stressed the fuck out over my entire life falling apart and living off terrible processed food. Score one for living at home, I guess. And now back to our story.

Anyway, I have a hard time reading all this weight-loss stuff as I go through looking for videos. I’ve been allying myself with fat acceptance (or Fat Acceptance if we wanna call it a movement) for over a year now, since I sent in my picture to the Shapely Prose BMI Project. And yet I still have thoughts of “wow I look so fat,” “life sure would be better if I weren’t so fat.” I think a lot less about dieting but I still have recurrent thoughts about magically being thinner. I don’t know if these videos are going to be all about the weight loss rather than just exercise: does it matter if my sculpted buns and ripping abs are under a nice cushiony layer of fat? Will I be able to get through these without wanting to scream and then go eat a bowl of cookie dough? We’ll see. If this doesn’t work I’m stealing my sister’s DDR mat and going to town with those.

Crap, I’m gonna have to buy a new sports bra.

And again I disappeared. This time it was applying to graduate schools. I’m about to submit application number eight, and number nine will get done sometime this weekend. Man alive do I hate writing application essays. Anyway, here’s something I’m copying from my LJ:

So I’m only making one resolution and it’s pretty blah: to move more. I mean, I do need to physically move more. I don’t think I’ve had a good solid bout of exercise in the past two years, just frantic sprints and slow walks. So movement, in some shape or form. I don’t give a shit about losing weight but I hate how hard it is to just do shit now, how out of breath I am. Moving. At any pace, just… moving. But I mean it in a broader sense too. I didn’t travel this year, when I love doing it so much. I didn’t really do much of anything. I came home from school and hid in my room for five months. I need to move forward, I want to go places, I want to explore and move beyond this life where the most exciting thing that happens is I maybe leave the house and see someone I’m not related to. It’s been five months of calcification and hibernation and slowly creeping despair and I am sick of it. I am tired of being a burden to my parents and to myself. Moving onward and outward. Let’s do this.

Yeah. Happy new year, folks. This isn’t going to turn into a diet-and-exercise blog because I would probably swiftly descend into the hell of binge eating again, which is no fun for anybody. I just… want to not feel so crappy about my life, and I think getting out of my desk chair and out of my room will help. Vitamin D and fresh air and all that shit. If nothing else the dog will benefit, right?

Oh my god, where the fuck have I been? Well, I passed my retake and am frantically getting everything done for my M.A. graduation in January and trying to apply to grad schools for next fall. So yeah. Busy. But that’s not what I wanted to post about!

So. Amanda Palmer is one half of the Dresden Dolls, and one of my favorite musicians in general, and she’s currently promoting her solo album “Who Killed Amanda Palmer.” In an email to her mailing list accompanying the announcement of the release of her latest music video, she wrote that she had to fight with her record company, Roadrunner, over the video. Because they thought her belly was too fat. Behind the jump, the totally awesome video:

Read the rest of this entry »

And another spate of neglect. I moved home. That basically sucked. I failed one of my three retakes, and have a last-chance re-retake on Nov. 3d. That sucks a lot more. I’m unemployed. Needless to say, SUCKS. Whine whine whine.

Reallly I just wanted to post about numbers: I’ve lost fifteen pounds, more or less, since moving home at the end of July. That includes two birthdays, vacation, a Ren Faire, and visiting friends. And it wasn’t even intentional – I just eat more fruit and vegetables when I’m at home. And I sort of hope this continues, just because the back pain that appeared when I gained the last stack of weight is a phenomenal pit of suck, but… if it doesn’t? Well, okay. I will continue to eat nommy grilled zucchini and braised leeks with chickpeas. Yum.

Of course, according to the scale I regained five pounds in two days through the magic of menstruation. Water retention is awesome, you guys. It’s hilarious. Less hilarious is my inability to sit up straight because all my abdominal and thigh muscles are crunching together, but whatevs.

And… yeah.