Asked by Anonymous
why thank you :)
Asked by Anonymous
I also want to say I totally respect you for the civil way you phrased this ask. thank you.
Asked by Anonymous
It has meaning to us too. I understand that the purple heart is awarded to those wounded or killed in battle. We didn’t choose to be a part of this war. we didn’t even choose to call it a war (the government did). Please understand that lives are at risk in this war. that lives are being taken all of the time, that lives are being destroyed in every way possible from physical assault, to child abuse, to suicide. people are getting sick, they’re dying, they’re suffering. I understand that the purple heart holds a special meaning to many people but please understand that it holds a special meaning to us as well. All we want is to be taken seriously so that we can stop the dying, stop the suffering, and live peacefully, free from this government sanctioned war. My condolences to your loved one.
Asked by Anonymous
lmao! Okay okay, firstly, do you not think we haven’t heard this exact same thing a billion times? Did you honestly think it would phase us in any way? Hurt us maybe? I’m sure you thought we’d have *some* reaction other than laughter and pity for you. Sadly you were mistaken.
You honestly sound no different from any other bigot I’ve encountered whether they’re a racist piece of shit, a homophobic piece of shit, a sexist piece of shit- whatever. you’re just a fatphobic piece of shit with, really? nothing better to do with your time? How very very sad for you.
You had to even to it under anonymous, didn’t you? Because you’re a fucking coward! lol! Your views coincide with the vast majority of society- what do you have to hide from?? Yourself maybe?
I”ll quote the beautiful Mary Lambert here: “I can’t change, even if I tried, even if I wanted to” But even if being thinner were a way to “improve” yourself (which it’s not), there are a number of ways to improve oneself- like being a decent, compassionate human being for one. It seems you’re lacking in that department. Perhaps your looks are all you have and that’s why you’re so protective of them. How pathetic. Try improving who you are as a person. Take a women’s studies class or two (since there’s an obvious intersection of feminism and fat politics) and try being less of a fatphobic fuck, okay?
Asked by Anonymous
frankly, I don’t care what your opinion is. When you create a war against half of the fucking population of your country- when your own government declares a war against you, against your children and your family, when it starts costing people their wellness and even their lives, then you lose the ability to criticize what the antiwar activists do to protest it. I don’t think you understand that this war, like any other, is *killing* people. It’s costing people their lives, their loved ones. Fat children are at a higher risk for suicide, self injuring behavior, anxiety, and depression as well as abuse from peers and family. So gtfo with your holier than thou pissy attitude.
The shame, blame, and ridicule was heaped on me from a very young age. Obesity is genetic in my family, as most of my relatives are what doctors consider “overweight” or “obese”, even though they eat healthily and exercise. I was about four when my parents got custody of me back, and at the time, I was a healthy, chubby little pre-schooler. I remember my mother grabbing my chub, and saying “we got to put you on a diet, you little porker”. I had no clue what a diet was at that age, but I remember those words ringing through my head. I remember eating my spaghetti at about the age of 5, and my mother and father were getting ready to go to a party. My mother said to my father “we got to get someone to supervise that pig eating over there” (looking for a babysitter). I still didn’t take those jabs to heart, because I didn’t understand what she meant, but I did later on, and it hurt. I was put on my first diet in kindergarten. I was only allowed steamed veggies and salads, and small bowl of plain oatmeal in the morning. My mother said to me one day as she swept me off the ground that summer and showered me with affection “you’re skinny! You did it! you’re perfect now!” I think I was still only 5 years old at that point, because she lifted me in the air without struggling, I remember now, that that love was only conditional, and it still is.
I was on and off parental-enforced diets until I was 11, when I started hating my body and restricting on my own. Whenever I lost weight, affection, love, and approval shone down upon me. If I hit a plateau or gained anything, abuse ensued, physical, mental, verbal, emotional, forced exercise and calorie counting. I became obsessed with “safe” foods, and became fully vegan, then I decided proteins and other higher calorie foods (beans, brown rice, nuts and seeds, oils) were off limits as well. My father got me a scale for my birthday (thanks a million, pop) and I began weighing in several times per day. My dad would shame me, I remember, for every morsel I ate. “You’re going to die alone if you eat that (insert food here), you know”. And “It must hurt you to exercise because your thighs rub together”. I hated his jabs, so I tried not to eat around anybody, and my days revolved around avoiding food, and how to lie to friends when they asked me if I’ve eaten or offered snacks. “I ate before I got here” or “I have an upset stomach” almost became my mantras.
My mother got me teen-aged targeted magazines with these airbrushed, impossibly thin images, and these became plastered on my bedroom wall, the refrigerator and cupboards, and on the bathroom mirror. I was severely depressed, and looked to cutting/burning to alleviate my anxiety and emotions. I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror without seeing myself as fat, contrary to what my friends were telling me. I remember on several occasions, taking a black marker to my thighs, stomach, arms, hips, circling what I thought I needed to lose in order to gain approval and acceptance. I started writing “thinspiration” quotes on my mirror with eyeliner, and writing body-hatred quotes on post-it notes on the refrigerator.
Self-hatred was put into all three of us girls, my sister suffered from Anorexia, too, but I don’t think she will admit it. My mother compared us to each other constantly, and one of us was the favorite based on a weekly weigh-in. The inner dialogue was enough to kill me inside. I didn’t mind other people around me being overweight or chubby at all. I thought, all the power to them, I wish I could love my body as they love theirs. But I thought for myself, it was “morally reprehensible” for me to be happy with my own body the way I thought it was.
I had a few exes, too, which if I had fat on any other part of my body other than my breasts, then I was fat. I had a bit, I was considered “normal”. He pulled the trigger by pointing out on tv when a model or actress was on the screen, stating that even some of the Victoria’s Secret runway models were “fat”, or if he saw what most considered underweight, he told me to take an example. I soon found out I was pregnant with my first child, and I started eating better for the baby. I gained weight from the pregnancy, but the fat shame kept being thrown my way. I overheard him joking with friends that I looked like a beached whale and that he was considering cheating on me, and that he was ashamed to be seen in public a fat chick, that I would order half of the entire restaurant menu if he took me out to dinner. He constantly told me that the pregnancy made me look fat. I paid no attention. I kept eating healthily. He left me shortly after the birth, because he said I looked warped and disgusting, and left me for a skinnier friend of mine.
Fast forward to 2008, I was newly married, and was pregnant with number 2. This was a time I still was recovered and loved my body, then my mother came back into my life shortly after the birth. I was called a balloon, a blimp, a whale, a porker, at several family dinners, including my aunts and uncles jabbing at me. I was afraid to even eat in front of others, and with the withdraw of love and affection, the negative inner dialogue came back, I was fighting it, but it came back, and I started a vegan diet again, for the weight loss, but it wasn’t working, and my family made a point of bringing it to my attention that the diet wasn’t working. I also had a group of friends my age, and they made cracks at people in public who walked by who happened to be people of size. I went to stores to find nice clothing, and sometimes the workers said, sorry, we have nothing in your size, why don’t you try the plus-sized stores? and laughed as I walked out. I’m 6’2”, so you could picture that I do have wider hips and a wider frame. I was ashamed of shopping, and started dressing in baggy black clothing to hide myself away.
Fast forward to 2010, my (now ex) husband had problems with libido, but him and his ego, went into self-preservation mode. He blamed it on my weight. He told me that no woman should ever outweigh or be larger than the man she’s with, though I was nowhere near his size at the time. So I started restricting my already vegan diet again, and added exercise. I did so in the rain, the snow, windy weather, it was part of my routine. I joined calorie counting websites which shamed me for a small spread of butter on a piece of rye bread, labeling the “food grade” an F, even though the calories were low, so I cut out entire food groups. I still had the scale my father got me some time ago, because I wanted to track the progress, this site prompted you to weigh in every so often, with a “progress chart”. As I lost weight, I was getting increasingly depressed, because my goal was always set and reset to lose more. I cut from time to time when the pain and hopelessness felt like too much. Starving felt like elation and serenity, an so-called “hunger high”. I went through a small recovery period from 2011 to early 2012, (I was pregnant with number 3 late 2011. My changing body shape scared the living daylights out of me. I was (again) shamed, this time, by myself. I feared weight gain at this point, and restricted, severely. I lost more weight, and my ex-husband’s family didn’t know I had an eating disorder. They were telling me how good I looked, how beautiful I made pregnancy look, they thought my eating rituals were strange (cutting up food to tiny pieces, water in between, etc) but thought nothing of it. They told me they like how I slimmed down, and ask me how I did it, I had to lie, I told them diet and exercise, forced a smile, and walked away to distract myself. All of their gatherings were about food, and I would have to do anything to avoid eating, and if I did eat, I didn’t want people to see me. I keep remembering my mother’s and father’s harsh words as a little girl.
During the latest pregnancy, I decided to reach out to a doctor. I told him, when he thumbed through my medical history, that I was having a relapse. He chuckled, and said that my “ample fat storage” was enough to nourish my unborn baby. That meant to me, a green light. A go-ahead. I knew, deep in my heart, that I should have been eating healthily for the sake of the unborn baby, but I was terrified of becoming like my family after they had their children. They were all people of size. I gave birth to a healthy baby girl, with an insane amount of luck, she was fine. I regret letting the stigma and shame get to me during a pregnancy. I regret letting those words and encouragements put my baby girl in harm’s way, all because of anti-fat bias and crappy (dangerous) advice from a anti-fat obstetrician.
I still was mortified by the way I looked after the birth, and started taking diet pills in 2012. My heart already had problems, it was atrophied. My blood pressure was extremely low. I was hospitalized for extreme electrolyte imbalances, heart palpitations, heart racing for no reason as if I ran a marathon, and fainting spells. I went into cardiac arrest at the hospital twice (luckily I was already there), they kept me there for only a week, deciding that I was underweight, but was still deemed not severely underweight enough to have a problem with an eating disorder. The hospital psychiatrist booked me in for a few outpatient treatments with the least helpful advice ever; just eat. You can’t be possibly suffering, as you don’t quite make the weight cut-off. This is what I’ve been told by doctors over the years, because of my frame. “you look fine”, “you’re healthy-looking”, “I wish I was your weight”. I would have liked to give them a day with aching kidneys and liver, heart palpitations, dizziness, fainting spells, severe bloating, constipation. Skinny does not equal healthy, though most doctors beg to differ. You would think that cardiac arrest was enough to tell them that I had a big problem. I’m 25 years old; I shouldn’t have to worry about heart attacks, blood pressure, weight and shape. I should be having fun, and loving myself at any size.
What was worse, was my family telling me that I’m so strong and have great willpower for going through with my weight loss despite that it came from an eating disorder, they were well aware of the fact that I had one. How I must be so brave because of the hospitalization. I have since then, cut my family out of my life, threw out my scale, my tape measure, most of my mirrors, and “thinspiration” pictures. Gone. And I will never allow those things in my home again. When you add life-long abuse and weight-shaming, overly critical parents and aunts, crappy doctors who don’t take you seriously if you need help but happen to look “overweight” or “chubby” or “fine”, crappy doctors telling me that an ED is fine as long as it helps me to lose weight, family genetic predisposition to being larger, being a people-pleaser and over-achiever, with an intense fear of weight gain, and a general societal hate and ignorance towards larger people, and you have a deadly cocktail. My body still aches, but my mental clarity is becoming better. My heart is healing from those painful wounds, and I will pick up and carry on.
I just started to recover, January 2013 was my new years resolution to love myself, eat right, repair the damage done to myself, and not give flying **** about what others have to say about my body or size. I was happier being considered a person of size, than I was in the depths of an eating disorder. I am proud to say, that I am a survivor, a fighter, and I will be a role model for my children when it comes to Health At Every Size.
Asked by Anonymous
yes, anyone can submit a story. and no i don’t believe there’s a word limit :) we welcome stories!
I am thirty years old and I am crying my heart out. This makes our fifth therapy session about body acceptance and self-esteem. I cried the the whole time during those sessions too.
"What did he say?" my therapist asked.
I’m too embarrassed to tell her. And she’s been my therapist for four years. She knows my inmost thoughts and dreams, but I can’t manage to tell her this. So I tell her the story, hoping that by the end, I’ll have the strength to say what he said.
"I’ve been called all sorts of things. Bitch, cunt, much worse. They roll off me and don’t mean a thing. I’ve had internet trolls tell me I should be raped to death. Doesn’t keep me awake at night. But the thing that’s hurt me most, the worst thing I think anyone has ever said to me was when I was 12. We were getting ready for church. The whole family was already in the car, and as usual, I was the last in. I remember exactly what I was wearing. A blouse. A black, knee-length skirt. Some horrible early nineties dress shoes. And some dark hose, almost tights, to cover what I already thought were my huge, fat legs."
I stop here, remembering standing in front of the mirror, looking at myself in that outfit.
"My dad stopped me. He said "Your legs look like tree trunks." I’m not sure what he said after that, the blood rushing to my ears and my pounding heart made the rest of what he said a blur. I knew he told me to go back inside and change.
So I did. But I lingered another moment before the mirror, staring at my legs. I had started to get hips and thighs. I know now, that I wasn’t fat then, wasn’t even overweight.
But I changed into a long dress.
And I never wore another skirt that showed my legs again. I didn’t wear a bathing suit for nearly twenty years after that. I still haven’t worn shorts. I never wore another tank top. Or sleeveless shirt. I stopped participating in sports because I’d have to reveal too much skin.
It helped start a terrible cycle of self-hatred, low self-esteem and obsession with my weight. I’m still fighting it.
-Amy from Wellington
TRIGGER WARNING, for body hate, self injury, and eating disorders.
I was an active, chubby kid. I played softball, I ran around the neighborhood, I rode my bike and climbed trees. I did yard work and was proud of my ability to lift and pull heavy things. My uncle called me “husky” and it was a compliment because it implied a kind of sturdiness that I wanted.
But at school, to everyone else, my body was worthy of ridicule. I remember the feel of eyes on my skin, the burning feeling, as if hatred could be sent across a room and physically painted onto me. I remember the constant reminders that I was taking up too much space. I remember feeling that I shouldn’t exist, because I obviously brought up something unpleasant to the people who had to look at me. The insults, half-whispered, that I tried to tell myself were not for me, but they were. I remember groups of girls ganging up on me after school and having to run away while their voices followed me.
Toughen up, my mom always said. If you laugh with them, they’ll stop laughing.
But they never did. And how can you laugh at cruelty to yourself? People stole my things, wrote on my clothes, pushed me into lockers, and made fun of my friends, so that soon it was a liability to be with me.
At some point I discovered that I could hurt the body, the body that was the source of all this torment. Why shouldn’t I? Perhaps it was practice for getting rid of it. I didn’t know all the reasons, I just knew I hated this body as much as everyone else seemed to. I tore at it. I bruised it, I cut it, I burned it. I climbed high into trees and flirted with falling. By the time I decided I wanted to die, I was too suspicious of other people to actually receive any help.
I suppose I was lucky that I didn’t develop my eating disorder until later, after I’d stopped growing. The behaviors had started in high school, but I didn’t recognize them for what they were. Being thin was a good thing, so it didn’t matter how I got there, right? In my early 20’s, when I was deep into a sport that stressed not just fitness but size, I succumbed. My coach told me I’d be better if I lost ten pounds. It’s not her fault, though. I actually stopped eating to fit into a costume. I remember that moment so clearly. It’s as if the mirror I was looking into shattered, breaking me into pieces.
I almost died because I tried to erase the body that people had poured their hatred onto, hatred that had soaked into me. Getting skinny didn’t change my feelings. I hated the body just as much as before, and it was just as ugly to me. Yet now the positive affirmations came. “You’re so trim,” people would say. And “You look wonderful!” while I was dying, starving and dying. Then I turned into a bone person, and people didn’t say that anymore. Still, the response was almost affectionate; “You’re so frail,” as if that were a good thing, a feminine thing to be.
Seven and a half years later, with ruined teeth, a ruined metabolism, and thousands of dollars spent, I finally started eating again. As most people do when recovering from an eating disorder, I gained weight very quickly. It was very, very difficult, but I kept going. I was never going to go back. I nearly lost everything, and slowly things were restored to me. I was able to eat socially again. I was able to exercise and participate in my sport again, and learned to let people look at my body and not take their judgments into myself.
I am lucky I got away, escaped from a lifetime of disordered eating. So many people never do. I mostly get along with my body, even with its lumps and bulges. My body is strong and muscular, not ‘frail’. It never deserved my hate or the hate of anyone else. I didn’t choose it. I do what I can to be healthy, and that’s all I can do. I will not engage in any type of radical body modification ever again. If people compliment my body, while I appreciate that they are trying to be kind, I am deeply suspicious. My body’s shape does not determine my worth, or it shouldn’t. I want people to tell me they like the muscles I worked hard for, not the genetics I didn’t.
The scars all over my hands and arms remind me of the hatred, how it seeped in and spilled from me. They advertise to others that something went terribly wrong. Because it is apparent what they are, no one asks. If they do, I don’t know which narrative I will tell them; the narrative of self hatred or the narrative of hatred brought forth by the shape and size of my prepubescent body. They became intertwined.
I wonder if I will pay a price later for my seven plus years of starvation. But right now, I am grateful that I can live in my body, that I can eat and enjoy food, that I can try to spread the message of body acceptance to my circle of friends and family. When people say critically, “My arms are fat!” I always interrupt with a contrasting message: your arms are beautiful and so are you. There’s no need to say those things and ascribe any type of value to them. We don’t have to play that game anymore, any of us.