It could be worse

I am not doing well right now. On top of my normal every day crap, I have a festering tooth that I have to get a root canal on in a few days, and I have my period. Before you go running for the hills thinking I’m going to bitch about feeling crap, I do have a point to make here.

No matter how bad I feel, I remind myself it could always be worse. It helps me feel better and whine less. More people should do that. I don’t know where I got this from, maybe it’s from my parents saying things like “oh you’re bored, well children in Africa are starving.” The downside of this is when your life is worse than someone else’s, and they’re bitching and complaining, there’s not a nice way to tell them to get over it.

For example, I know someone who became a drug addict because her parents got divorced. I’ve never said anything to her, but what a whiny bitch. My parents were crack addicts, I got molested for 6 years by a “family friend”, and then my parents got divorced. Did I become a drug addict? No. Because someone has it worse than me. In all that time that was happening to me, some 12 year old girl in a 3rd world country was probably raped, forced to marry her rapist, then turned into a prostitute by her shitty husband. That’s way worse than my life.

I know that I’m supposed to remember that everyone’s life experience is different, and each persons experiences have their own value. I’m not good at that though. Stop complaining, your life isn’t that bad. Unless you’re that girl in the 3rd world country, then it really is, complain all you want, you totally deserve it.


I’m Fat?

I’m putting it as a question mark because fat is subjective.

March 2012, Cuddling with the worlds softest, squishiest cat, Vali Pierre

I have all of those things, reasons I know why I’m fat, and that I know there’s not much I can do about it. What I’m more concerned with is being healthy. Fighting the idea of fat = unhealthy is difficult in America, other places too. Being sick with whatever it is that I have makes doing any activity difficult. I love to stretch, dance, and run, but my body betrays me and just getting out of bed hurts most days.

These are all reasons I give myself to forgive myself for gaining weight. To remind myself it’s not my fault. After that, I remind myself that I’m not horribly ugly as much of society or the media wants me to believe, because of my weight. Whenever an article pops up about fat acceptance, or a celebrity who has told the media to stfu about her weight, I read it. I try not to worry about how I look past how comfortable I am and how good I feel about myself. I spend more time dressing in ways that feel good to my body than ways that make me look smaller than I am.

Just a reminder

Outside, on days I leave the house, I can sometimes feel the stares. Or I think there are stares. There’s this evil little voice that gets fed by every “remove belly fat” website ad, every Jessica Simpson lose weight commercial, every Olay skin firming lotion ad. I want to not see them, to ignore them, but it seems you can’t escape the advertising, the way the world around me wants me to know that how I look is not acceptable. The voice speaks up when I’m in public. They think I’m lazy because I’m using a motorized wheelchair, because I’m fat. I shouldn’t eat whatever I’m eating because everyone around me thinks I need a salad. They think I’m sweating because I’m fat, even though it’s a panic attack. Shut up little voice. I don’t feel well, and you are not helping. I didn’t wear makeup today, do my hair, wax my eyebrows this week, and I am wearing pajamas outside. I don’t care, remember, I don’t care. I am having a good time, and my girlfriend loves me. Every moment I can have not being in pain is more important than any moment I could have trying to lose weight.

True love is not conditional on weight or sickness.

Whenever I gain weight, there is a need to buy new clothes. Mostly bra’s and pants. I accept my weight when I do these things. Instead of insisting that I squeeze into my smaller clothes because I am going to work out and lose weight, I give in. I accept that my bra’s do not fit, my pants make me feel awful and sore.  I like to buy my pants at goodwill because they’re already worn in, so they’re more comfortable than new pants. I get my bra’s at Lane Bryant, because they’re pretty and usually on sale. I wear high heels while sitting on the couch, because it hurts too much to actually wear them anywhere anymore.

I refuse to get rid of these shoes, even if I can’t wear them outside anymore.

This is my body now. I am 5 feet and 5 inches tall. I tell people I am 5 feet and 6 inches tall. My weight is 248 pounds. I wear  a size 22 or a 2 XL. My bra’s are a 44 F. My feet are still a size 8. My ring size is an 8 now too. I don’t “suck it in”. I’m growing my hair back out, because I like it long, even though I forget that every couple of years.

I don’t have many pictures of myself right now. Even the one on my website is a few years old. Mostly that is because I don’t take many pictures of myself. What do I need pictures of myself for? I know what I look like. I am going to ask a friend to take some pictures of me to update things here, and on my social media sites. I don’t want any perception that I am ashamed of how I look.

Meeting Anne Rice, 2011. I remember talking to her more than worrying about how I looked for this picture.

Lastly, I ignore people who call me fat on the internet. I know these people are coming up with the only thing they can think of to insult me with, because they are too stupid to argue properly.

I refuse to be ashamed of how I look, even if I have to remind myself that.

The calming manatees always get it right.