Tag: women

“After having a baby I am proud of my body.”

I’ve never been completely happy with my body and I’ve never felt like a completely skinny girl, but after having a baby I am proud of my body. Not really for how it looks but for what it’s achieved!

My little boy is almost a year old and recently I’ve thought a lot about the last 2 years. How I went from feeling completely comfortable in my skin and wearing what I wanted and having so much freedom to, in a short amount of time, meeting someone, falling in love and falling pregnant within a few short months. I have to say, although I felt quite sad about the changes that my body was going through, I loved being pregnant! It’s not like how you see in the movies or on TV but it’s an amazing feeling.

I would coat my swollen stomach in gallons of cocoa butter and constantly look at my growing tum. I was bloated from the day I found out so by 4 months I looked about 6 months but I wasn’t worried.

At around 6 months my stomach started to get a few stretch marks, even after using loads of creams, lotions and potions. They were deep and red and even started to bleed later on but again I was amazed at how much my body was dealing with and just embraced every moment. My favourite part of pregnancy was the movement. In fact I would bathe for long periods of time in my later months just to watch the little guy wriggling around. I know that everyone has a pregnancy story and if you’ve not been pregnant it sounds like a bore but when it’s happening to you it’s too amazing for words.

Anyway the time came where he was ready to make an appearance. Gestation ends at 40 weeks but can give or take a week or two. I was lucky in that I had been in and out of hospital for bleeds and such things, and on my last visit I requested a membrane sweep to speed things along (basically a doctor just pulls the membranes away from the neck of the womb). Anyway that night at 3am my waters broke and so began the labour journey. I was 38 weeks and 6 days along. Having your waters break is odd. At first I felt a trickle but felt like when you come on at night and you don’t expect it – anyway, I moved my leg and it gushed everywhere (nice!).

We went in and was told that my contractions weren’t coming quick enough so to go home and wait. By 6pm the next day the pain was unbearable so off we went to the hospital again to be told that I still wasn’t far along so we went home and waited again. Finally by midnight I had had enough but was afraid if I went in I’d just get sent home so I did what every scared girl does – I phoned my Mum! She asked if the pain was worse, I didn’t know because it had been going for so long I just didn’t know if it was worse or if I just couldn’t cope. She said that it’s likely that he’s on his way so to go back in.

Luckily this time the midwives took one look and offered me the gas and air! Well I was 4cm dilated at 1am and after pethadine and gas and air by 7am I was 10cm. I was ready to push but the midwife wouldn’t check me as her shift was changing over. Once the new midwife had come in I had already been pushing almost an hour without there being anyone to deliver him if he did come. After another hour of pushing with the midwife assisting me in every way there was no way he was coming out. I was tired and sick and couldn’t cope. The midwife suggested we go to the main delivery unit and try a ventouse (a small suction cap) in the operating theatre. This part feels blurry as I was so tired and could feel every twinge! I remember being prepped for theatre and asked to sign all these forms to say that if there’s a complication I’ll have a hysterectomy or blood transfusion!

So in theatre I had a spinal block, which was amazing, and then I had to try and push while completely numb which wasn’t easy. After numerous attempts with the ventouse and forceps they advised I would need a Caesarean section. Finally at 10.04 AM he was born at 9lb 1 oz.

After being taken to the recovery room with him and giving him his first breast feed I felt so proud of my body. It’s not till you go through that that you realise how amazing a woman’s body is, to go from delivering to feeding my child with my own body – it’s amazing. I was upset I couldn’t deliver naturally but just happy that he was delivered healthy.

My stomach now is stretched and has small scars from blood thinning injections I had after, and I have my C-section scar, but it feels more beautiful than ever cause I now know exactly what my body can achieve and I’ve never loved it more. My little boy is one at the end of the month and is still nursed. Some people think I should have stopped by now but the thought of my body doing nothing for him scares me a little and when my milk dries up I’ll shed a little tear. Saying that, he won’t be breast fed when he’s old enough to ask but I can see why some mother get obsessed as it is a incredible bonding experience.

So that’s my body story and I feel glad to share it with you. It’s quite predictable, yes, but if it’s you or someone close to you the experience is completely amazing and just goes to show how strong and beautiful our bodies are.

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– by an anonymous woman

Posted on by taithannah 0

“I try to love and respect my body no matter what I weigh.”

My body and I have had a love/hate relationship for as long as I can remember. I remember when I was younger hating my body because it was different than the other girls. I was short and stubby. My mother would tell me to stand up and suck in, so as not to seem so fat. Around third grade is when I realized, I could change the way I look. By third grade, I started off my first course of bad dieting. Eating carrots, soup, and crackers for months at a time. I equated losing weight to being happy. When I lost weight, I felt great. People would comment on how good I looked or how pretty I looked. Eventually, though, I would gain the weight again, starting the whole process over again.

The time that affected me the most, though, was just a couple of years ago. I was a sophomore and junior in college. I was already a vegan, but I decided that being vegan wasn’t enough to lose weight. At the point, I started eating less and less. I would eat a banana for breakfast, gum for lunch, and iceberg lettuce for dinner. I continued to work out. I quickly noticed my body starting to change, but I still wasn’t happy. No matter what the scale told me, I found myself hating my body and who I had become more and more. This sadness oozed out into my everyday life. I found that I couldn’t connect with people anymore. I couldn’t have fun partying or doing random things with friends.

I hit rock bottom when my doctor explained to me that I was ruining my chances of ever having a child. I had lost my period the beginning of sophomore year and had never gotten it back because I was lacking too many nutrients. At that point, I decided to see a counselor.

This was a changing point for me. While you always hear “love your body” and “you are beautiful”, you never really come to understand how reality is distorted by things such as music videos, magazines, the internet, etc. Everywhere around us, we are bombarded with pictures of women who seem so happy. They are thin, tan, and beautiful. Psychologists sometimes like to call it the halo effect. The halo effect is the assumption that persons who are beautiful are perfect. They have great friends, they’re nicer, smarter, etc. That is what I was attempting to do. I was attempting to become beautiful in my body, so that I could achieve this sense of perfection. If I had a beautiful body, then maybe I would have a happier life.

Nowadays, I realize that this mindset was not going to work out. The way my body looked didn’t have to affect my happiness. I could control that. Since that point I saw the counselor and on, I have still struggled with my body. Now, though, I try to love and respect my body no matter what I weigh. I cherish my friends, family, and experiences in life. I understand that I’m beautiful no matter what my body looks like. There is so much more to me. I’m not saying I have all the right answers, but I think I’m off to a good start with my body.

Posted on by pinkapplejuice 2

“My body can do amazing and destructive things. My body is not an ornament but an instrument. It allows me to give hugs, work hard, create, make love, play, feel nature, bear children, to dance. It allows me to live and to love and to feel and to experience.”

I remember as a child seeing my size 16 post-four-children mother lie reading on her side on the couch and thinking how beautiful her curves were. She was like a renaissance painting to me. Or when I was walking behind her up the stairs and was mesmerized by her swaying hips and voluptuous behind and thought to myself that I would like to be as beautiful as her when I grew up. But it turned out, I was wrong. That wasn’t the way she or I should look at all. Her mother before her was a petite, small-minded woman whose main aim in life was to be attractive, well-coordinated and to be the envy of others. Women who were not attractive were to be pitied and others who didn’t comply with fashion ideals were scorned. She constantly reminded my mom to suck in her belly and she put hairbands over my ears to keep them from sticking out.

I watched my mother and her friends diet constantly growing up. They went to Weight Watchers, low-carbed, counted points, calories, enjoyed temporary satisfaction when they had managed to be “good” for a sustained amount of time and would “reward” themselves with treats when they lost weight. This was the way women should be, I soon learned. Reward, punish, control, deprive, bargain, scrutinise, congratulate, berate, stick-to-it, push through, treat, fall-off-the-wagon, squeeze. Disappointment, exhilaration, relief, depression, failure, exhaustion. The end of the diet cycle usually begins with the words “fuck it.” And then they begin all over again. This was what women should spend their time doing, obsessing over and striving for.

I was very active as a child, constantly hungry and wishing there was more food available in our kitchen. By the end of primary school, I was thin and flat-chested and was bullied mercilessly. By my second year of secondary school, I hit puberty and with that came the inevitable curves. I was bullied for this also. By sixteen, I started a part-time job and I spent most of my money on food, luxuriating in the fact that I now could eat whatever I wanted, not like when I was younger. I was soon pulled aside by my father who said I should lose some weight. The shame and self-loathing that washed over me was overwhelming and lingers on in my mind and heart.

Throughout my teens and twenties, I often naturally lost weight in the summer due to being more active. I was slim, tanned, intoxicated with hormones and addicted to the flattering attentions of guys. One summer, I became infatuated with one of my friends who liked me back. He saw me again that December, pasty and back to my normal weight, and his feelings for me evaporated. There was my ex-boyfriend who “loved” me when he could be proud and show off my slim body to others and and was ashamed of me when I was overweight and dared to wear a bikini in front of his friends. Or my dad who only posts old photos of me when I was slim and doesn’t post the new ones but constantly shows off my slimmer sisters. Or well-meaning friends who say “You look great; have you lost weight?” Or colleagues who casually mention the newest fad diet and ask if I would be interested. Up until now, as my weight has vacillated constantly, so has other people’s – both men and women, friends, family – treatment of me. And now, this much I know: when you find your worth in how you look and the reaction that provokes from others, it can be an unstable, insecure and deeply unsatisfying existence.

So, what now? I am at my heaviest weight ever. I am medically obese and long to be a healthy weight but I am overwhelmed with how complicated my feelings are around my body and what I eat and don’t know where to start. I have done therapy and need lots more to work through the layers. I’m still not sure about my elfish ears that my grandmother so disliked. Or my saddle-bags that my ex thought I should work on. Or my fat ass that I get affectionate slagging for. It all hurts. And yet. YET. I know that one day I can eventually live freely and lightly. Nutritious eating and exercising and resting and self-caring will someday be as natural, uncomplicated, life-giving and anxiety-free for me as sleeping. And I long for that day to come quickly.

The stretch marks, cellulite, broken veins, dimples, freckles, moles, lumps, thinning hair, crows feet, short ‘n lumpy legs are all just as much a part of me as my sparkling blue eyes, my long neck, high cheekbones, big breasts and small waist. My body tells some of my story. It is my vessel that carries everything I have been and am in it. My body can do amazing and destructive things. My body is not an ornament but an instrument. It allows me to give hugs, work hard, create, make love, play, feel nature, bear children, to dance. It allows me to live and to love and to feel and to experience.

So I remind myself yet again for today: my body is me and I am beautiful, loved and worthwhile; I always have been and I always will be, no matter what.

– by an anonymous woman

Posted on by taithannah 2

“The Perfect Woman.”

I know that, as a girl, I am judged every day for how I look and what I’m wearing. I am compared to my mother, my friends, models in magazines and people’s own ideas of how I should look. I am compared to this “Perfect Woman”, who is the patriarchal ideal of what a woman is meant to be.

The Perfect Woman is something everyone feels differently about. The media’s best efforts to brainwash us into worshipping a white, slim, able-bodied image of perfection have been mostly successful but we still have slightly different opinions about who and what is beautiful.
These ideas of perfection are so often very different, if not opposite, to how we really look and feel about ourselves, yet we feel obliged to try and make ourselves more like the Perfect Woman. This is a problem because in our patriarchal society, a women’s appearance and beauty are some of her most valued traits. Whether we want it to be or not it is ingrained in our society, in our minds and the people around us.

My picture of the perfect woman is different from the way I look. Not opposite but far enough away that I know I will never look that way. I will always be subpar, inadequate, not quite good enough. But I know I am not alone. I have never met and I do not think there exists a single person on this earth that is even nearly happy with the way they look. In fact, in my experience, the people who are perceived as most beautiful have the most negative views about themselves. The most beautiful girl I know doesn’t even think she is pretty, let alone beautiful.

The perfect woman is a shadow in the front of our minds. A niggling voice saying we will never measure up. Telling us we aren’t beautiful, we aren’t desirable, we aren’t wanted.

BUT

I don’t like that voice and I don’t think you do either. Why should we measure and compare ourselves to this ideal, this figment of imagination when we are real. We all have flaws and we are all different so why try and change that? Why not celebrate our differences? I ask you to see your differences and embrace them. Embrace yourselves and embrace the differences of others around you because perfection is not real.

Guest post by @lilinaz_evans whose blog can be found here.

Posted on by pinkapplejuice 1

“I never realised the extent to which men claim ownership over women’s bodies in everyday life until I worked in a nightclub.”

I never realised the extent to which men claim ownership over women’s bodies in everyday life until I worked in a nightclub. The club I work in is young and trendy clientele for the most part – not so much the rowdy rugby and stag do side of things, more students and young people of similar ages – and generally overtly sexual touching isn’t a problem. I’ve probably only been actually “groped” once or twice in the six months I’ve worked there. But I’ve been flashed (once), called a “dyke” for intervening when a customer wouldn’t stop harassing a staff member for her phone number, and lost count of the number of times men have stopped me by grabbing my arm or standing in my way, or “guided” me through basically empty spaces with hands that are just, almost, not quite on my bum.

For me, the “compliments” are often the most uncomfortable part. Don’t get me wrong, I can take a compliment. When a young guy comes up to the cloakroom, pupils big with ecstasy, and says, “You’re beautiful”, or, “You look nice tonight”, or even, sometimes, “I love you”, I don’t mind. It can even be quite lovely. They just wanted to say a nice thing, and they expressed it respectfully, or at least through a joyful haze of drugs that I can understand. But the guy who grabs you by the arm, stopping you from passing him, to tell you that you have “a cracking body”, or “a great arse”, or “really nice tits” – I hate that guy. I don’t know how to answer that guy. Usually I say thank you, the words dripping with anything but their usual meaning. The way I feel about my body isn’t contingent on how a random man in a nightclub feels about it. I don’t feel any more or less beautiful when someone talks to me that way. What I do feel is uncomfortable, dirty, and guilty. I probably shouldn’t be wearing that top, or such tight trousers. On some level I can’t help but feel like I’ve done something to make them think it’s ok, “led them on” by smiling or by just being there in front of them. It doesn’t make me dislike the way my body looks, but it can make me feel ashamed of the reaction it’s elicited.

There are numerous respectful ways to pay someone a compliment. If you want to try and flirt with a bartender while she’s at work, the chances are she’s not interested – trust me. She’s busy, she’s sober, and there’s a good chance she’s trying to figure out how to politely end the conversation because she has shit to do. But complimenting her tits isn’t going to help your case. You’re creeping her out. Tell her you like her outfit, or her hair; strike up a conversation about the band on her t-shirt; ask her if she likes her job, and listen. Basically anything except drawing attention to the fact you’re staring at her body and wondering what she looks like naked. This doesn’t just apply to flirting with bartenders, obviously.

The club I work at is underground (as in physically so, not culturally) and on a busy night it’s fucking boiling. Usually I’m wearing a cropped top or something slashed down the sides, because it’s so warm, and my stomach and ribs will be out. Some men take that as an invitation to touch me there. They’ll touch my bellybutton jewellery, or the tattoo on my side, or sometimes – weirdly – tickle my stomach like you would a baby’s (although thankfully no one has yet blown a raspberry on my tummy). Don’t do that. That isn’t ok. Some men, when they see the look on your face – in that moment when you say nothing because you still can’t quite believe, even after all these years, that a stranger thought it was ok to put their hands on your bare stomach – immediately apologise. I don’t blame those men. They’re just drunk and got carried away and they’re products of a society that taught them it was ok. They know they did something wrong and they’re sorry. Maybe they won’t do it next time, maybe they will, but in that moment they know they shouldn’t have touched you, and they apologise. But a lot of them don’t. A lot of them think you should be flattered.

But I’m not flattered. You’re a knob. Not only am I at work, where my need to be at least moderately polite to you prevents me from telling you to get to fuck as I might on a night out, but in general it is just not ok to touch strangers in anything even approaching an intimate manner. I can’t imagine a scenario in which I would stop someone walking past me to stroke his biceps and tell him he’s sexy. It’s just absurd and incomprehensible to me.

I’m lucky to work somewhere that takes a strong stance on mistreating the bar staff. Our door staff will chuck guys out for groping or intimidating you, no questions asked, and our management will back us up. I’m also lucky that, in general, overtly sexually threatening behaviour is rare in our venue to begin with. But I shouldn’t have to consider myself lucky that I only occasionally get groped at work. I shouldn’t have to field “compliments” from men who’re looking at me with such a leer in their eye that I feel dirty and want to cover myself completely. Men need to stop thinking that they have the right to touch me, or to stare at me like I’m meat. Nobody has that right, and your desire to touch someone or stare at her tits doesn’t override her right not to feel uncomfortable and objectified just for being outside her house and being a woman.

Posted on by taithannah 0

“We hate ourselves for hating ourselves. Confused? Well so are we.”

As I write this I am sheepishly munching on chocolates, not even an Eastenders-episode after polishing off a steak. It is now, with my belly full, that I finally feel guilty enough to write this (uncomfortably) personal entry on body-image.

I am currently on a diet – one that allows steak. It is a no-carbs diet (apart from the more-than-occasional bowl of porridge and drunken McDonalds). This makes declining offerings of carb-loaded food slightly awkward. ‘You mean you don’t want crisps?’ my friends will say. I should stress the confused faces of those closest to me when I decline their offers. I am an open lover of food (proudly boasting a record of 7 plates of food at an all-you-can-eat buffet). So it is understandable that they cannot fathom how I, of all people, can be in the midst of a surprisingly successful (by my standards) diet plan. They ask for an explanation. So I lie – or tell the truth. It’s a gamble as to what answer you’ll get. Consistently though, people are shocked to discover that I am unhappy with the way I look.

But to me it is obvious: I mean, take one look at my moon-sized derriere, mammoth thighs and 3-month pregnancy shaped belly and the answer it literally staring you in the face; taking up the entire of your peripheral vision.

The average dress size of women in the UK is 14. I am a size 10 – but this is still a size too big. I find myself non-erotically staring at women’s bums, either in complete worship or disgust. “How is hers so small?” I think to myself. Lucky bitch. If I’m being Jeremy-Kyle-honest, the sight of a woman with a ‘perfect’ figure sends pangs of resentment and mild hatred pulsing through my body, all the way to my eclipse-sized bum.

The sisterhood, then, is largely a myth. As women we do not stand tall by one another, burning our bras – united through retaliation, strength through struggle. We are, sadly, in competition with one another – survival of The Flattest Stomach.

I don’t like to think of how unhappy I am with my appearance, when I do I seem to inflict some Orwellian-style think-torture on myself. I sit in my room for hours at a time, stirring thoughts of self-loathing around my mind whilst my friends get drunk downstairs.

So that’s me. A case for the shrink? Maybe. A unique case for the shrink? Of course not, I bet my entire student loan on that. The poor shrink could recite a diagnosis. Especially when you get your head around the fact that 97% of British women are unhappy with their bodies. That’s pretty high, eh? Shocked? You shouldn’t be. Body-hatred has become a right-of-passage for the majority of Western females. We are a generation of self-haters. Hating ourselves for that slice of cheesecake, for not going to the gym, for not looking like a Victoria’s Secret model…

But here is the irony – we hate ourselves for hating ourselves. Confused? Well so are we.

Thanks to forfreddie.blog.com for this piece. The original post can be found here.

Posted on by pinkapplejuice 1

“I suffer from high self-esteem.”

Hi, I’m 23, female and I suffer from high self-esteem. I love my body, I just cant help it.

I’m really very lucky – I have 20/20 vision, all my natural teeth, a fairly strong constitution, ten fingers and ten toes.

When women ask me, What do you hate most about your body? or If you could change anything, what would it be? I really have to think about it. After a lengthy pause I usually shrug and say, My feet are pretty big? Truth be told, if I could change anything it would probably be my body clock, so I could survive on 6 hours sleep and not be a moody bitch. Either that or change my digestion so I would take a dump at 7 every morning and not have to go when I’m on a bus or at a party.

But back to the body stuff: There are several things wrong with these kinds of situations. For starters, they happen waaaay too frequently for my liking (that they happen at all is truly horrifying). Secondly, that most women I know are locked and loaded with their answer. As soon as the question is asked its like a bomb goes off and body parts are suddenly flying across the room. I hate my thighs. My boobs are too small. My arse is so flat. When did hating your body become a hobby? And third, why does loving your body now equate to narcissism? This may be a cultural thing, I’m not sure – in Australia we have a national case of Tall Poppy Syndrome and if you value any of your natural assets, you are swiftly deemed “up yourself”.

In any case, when will women start giving themselves and each other a break? The girl who loves how she looks is not an egocentric maniac and the girl who hates how she looks is not digging for compliments. We are not a threat to each other! We live in a hostile, media-saturated environment and are constantly told we’re not good enough. We are so good at being down on ourselves and consuming (make up, clothes, anything to attain an unrealistic ideal) that we perpetuate the cycle and convince others to do the same. The system is rigged. We’re actually doing advertisers’ jobs for them!
Let’s not make it so easy for them. Let’s reframe the question… What do you love most about your body?

Posted on by taithannah 4

“You could be a model!”

Thanks to kirstyskears for this post.

My Nan came round this morning. She was reminiscing about last weekend’s family party and suggested that I wear make-up more often as I ‘look quite pretty with make-up’. I sarcastically replied, ‘thanks Nan’ to which she suggested that my mum ‘could do with some lipstick too’. She then went on to tell me that I could be a model if I wore make-up more often. I generally only wear make-up when I am going somewhere nice, like to a party. Whereas, I rarely even brush my hair before leaving the house for everyday adventures. I told my Nan that even if I was pretty enough I am far too shy to model. In which she argued that ‘to make it with my photos I have to get over all of that silly nonsense anyway’. To be fair, I realise that there is truth in this matter, I am going to find selling my work very difficult while I find talking to strangers excruciating. But what intrigued me was that my Nan was hinting that it would be better to get over my shyness to be a model, rather than getting over my shyness to be an artist/photographer. Does anyone know a Model who is a positive female role model? What’s so great about being a model? Why does she think it’s a better idea than my chosen career? Why, oh why does she want me to be a model? Does she think that the stereotypical narcissistic, anorexic models that she has seen in the media are really something for a young woman to aspire to? Does she think that I could make better use out of my ‘looks’ than my brains? I am really not sure where she was going with this! The comment about my mum intrigued me too. Why does my mum NEED to wear some lipstick? Why will this benefit her? Will it get her promoted? Are there health benefits that I didn’t know about? Is she secretly planning on meeting someone new and ‘needs’ to attract them with shiny colourful lips? No, I don’t think that any of these Ideas apply. My Nan’s opinions of her family’s appearance come from the expectations that our current culture enforces. Women must be beautiful at all times. Beauty is all we have. It is our only power. The only way to become rich is to look perfect at all times. Using our brains to gain power and wealth is out of the question, the best thing we can do is stay pretty and passive so that a ‘Prince’ can whisk us away off into the sunset.

HAHAHA how ridiculous! Get lost celebrity culture. I couldn’t care less if my hair is not perfect every minute of every single bloody day. I am happy. Not because my Nan thinks I’m ‘pretty’, but because I am alive, and know what it feels like to be alive, and it’s so damn good! Be a model? Pull grumpy faces and be rude all of the time? I’d rather be covered in mud, growing vegetables in my allotment or playing tag with my little sister, thanks all the same. A smile is all I need to have on my face.

Posted on by taithannah 0

“I have faith in my naked body for all it can do, and I look forward to what I’ll go through with it – as scary as it all does seem.”

I think what I’m struggling with is the fact I am a lot slimmer now than a few years back and I’m not used to it. I still feel chubby and squished. People often tell me how slim I’m looking and I don’t really get it. I don’t feel any slimmer, and I sure as hell don’t eat like I’m slim – I enjoy cake and pizza on a regular basis. So although I am slimmer, I still wobble and have podge because I don’t really exercise (because I don’t want to, I’m a waitress so am on my feet all day and I tend to walk everywhere). Sometimes I wonder if I should exercise, my body would be healthier, I could be toned or at least shape up, but I don’t want to lose weight, I often feel embarrassed when people comment on my weight as I don’t fully understand why I am this size.

I used to be pretty curvy, although I had a small waist. My boobs were massive, as were my hips. I don’t really remember it bothering me to the point where I did much about it, although I recently found a diary entry where I’d written tips from a ProAna site, and that sort of bothered me. It was like I wanted a quick way to get slim, but I was too lazy to even do it properly. The weight did start falling off me when I was about 18 though, I was dancing a lot more and changed my eating habits unintentionally – I stopped snacking, which was a big problem for me when I was 14-17 (echo bars and a lot of cheese especially). Then I think I had another unintentional weight loss after the break up from my last boyfriend. I just sort of lost my appetite, and it’s not really returned. I basically eat what I want when I want, which is usually little and often, and I think my body reflects this. Thing is, I talk here about losing weight, and my weight is often on my mind but, I really don’t care. I find that I am happier when I eat and do what I want (or not do if it involves exercise), my body constantly changes and I try not to keep up with it and be too involved but I think that is where I need to change. I don’t see myself as slim because I don’t know my body, I don’t even feel like I have much control over it. But yet, sometimes I worry I may be too controlling. I would never not eat another biscuit or cake because I was worried of the fat content, but sometimes I just forget to eat and a small voice inside says “that’s probably a good thing considering all the crap you ate last night”. It’s like the chubbier girl I once was is wanting me to be slim and the person I am now doesn’t care but is still listening to that part of me. I went from no hips or boobs when I was 13 (I vividly remember being laughed at for not having to wear a bra due to them being so small) to having these massive boobs and curvaceous hips, and then to lose them (sort of) – part of me is like ‘yes!’ and part of me is like ‘no!’. I’m still as self conscious of my body, which makes me fully aware of the fact that being slimmer does not equal happiness. I think being healthy does though. I don’t want to look like models or actresses or whatever, but it doesn’t stop me from gazing at their smooth blotch-free legs and wishing mine were a bit more like that. But it’s fucking unrealistic and what I’ve recently come to believe is that flaws are what make woman beautiful. Real women can never look flawless and that is a good thing! That’s what makes us beautiful.

I guess what I’m trying to say is my feelings towards my body have been quite confused, are quite confused, but I’m hoping to sort that. With time, I know these things don’t happen over night, nor do they stay consistent, but I have faith in my naked body for all it can do, and I look forward to what I’ll go through with it – as scary as it all does seem.

Posted on by pinkapplejuice 0

“I think we need to let go of this control.”

I think for a lot of woman we feel we need to take control of our bodies, that in order to be happy with how we look and feel we need to reign in each part of it and mould it into something we feel comfortable with. This is just insane because we are trying to mould ourselves into the same woman, the same figment of the media’s imagination and obviously it’s an impossible task. This attempt to control our bodies is destroying us, I don’t know one woman who honestly doesn’t wish in her heart of hearts she could just be thinner, or taller, or have that perfect hair. I think we need to let go of this control, just let go in general, but it’s so difficult when we have been coerced into feeling this way all our lives. I can’t see anything changing in the media, or in the population at large; let’s be honest, someone is making a lot of money out of our self-loathing. But, if just some women can change how they feel about their bodies then they can pass it down to their daughters and there will be some girls saved from this quagmire.

I can say that right now I am almost happy with my body, most of the time, well, some of the time. I have scars and hairs, all the things that make women hate themselves (and men feel proud). But I feel happy being naked, I’m comfortable changing in front of my friends – although sometimes their horror at glimpsing my naked body makes me wonder. I will sunbathe topless if I can when abroad, though sometimes I am a little uncomfortable around other naked people. I haven’t always been happy with myself, I remember lying in bed horrified by the realisation that I would probably have to diet for the rest of my life to be a normal size. I was completely wrong, and I learned that dieting didn’t make me thinner, just more miserable and inevitably led to comfort eating and yo-yoing weight. I don’t diet at all anymore, but I know so so many women whose lives revolve around it. I still look at pictures of gorgeous women and feel a twang of regret, why wasn’t I born looking like that? I still walk behind tall, statuesque women and hate them a little, and hate myself for feeling that way. But, I have come such a long way from looking in the mirror and hating what I saw, willing myself to be different, from clutching at towels to cover every inch of my naked body so no one would see even a bit of me. I feel freed from it, it is an amazing feeling to just let go of all that bitter pain and just be exactly who and what I am. I would love for the women around me to let go of it too, because they are beautiful and healthy and perfect.

Posted on by pinkapplejuice 0