For every survivor who’s ever been called melodramatic, for every “imperfect victim” who was drunk or high, for every “slut” who apparently has no right to say no if she has said yes before, for everyone whose friend, sibling, parent, child or self have been assaulted, it matters. It matters because we’re all people, and rape is a national issue.
And for Jane Doe, because she is who really matters in all of this. We’re on your side, girl, and we aways have been.
“You look so skinny,” my friends all eagerly complimented. It was the end of summer in 2010 after I had spent nearly three months running five miles each morning and obsessively counting calories. I was still throwing up on occasion, but I was also attempting to lose weight “healthily” — though there was obviously nothing healthy about my behavior. After just 10 weeks, I had managed to go from 150 pounds to 120, reducing my size from a 10/12 to a 6 (or 4, depending on the store). At 5’7″, 120 is just on the “normal” side of the medical spectrum, but I did not look like my normal self.
For more of my explanation on why I don’t think we should continue complimenting each other based on weight, check out the rest of my feature at The Gloss.
Seriously — just stop it. You’re not flattering anybody by hating on skinny girls, you’re not making us feel better by saying we “look healthy” (you can be healthy at nearly every size) and you don’t sound ~*open minded*~ because you tell everybody you’re “not into models.” This whole “real women have _____” is fucking annoying, and that’s coming from a 34DD with giant hips who doesn’t feel good about herself just because a guy puts down another woman’s body type. Stop comparing our figures to animal flesh cooked and consumed by humans. Just stop it.
Better cuff your chick if you with her, I can get her And she accidentally slip and fall on my dick Oops, I said on my dick I ain’t really mean to say on my dick But since we talking about my dick All of you haters say hi to it, I’m done.
He’s no William Carlos Williams. I know. There are no tasty plums. Just dicks. SO MANY DICKS. But I know all those words, and that is confusing, and I feel like an asshole because of it.
On each of my hips and along the sides of my breasts, I have a series of discolored lines. They’re thin, but noticeable (though I rarely see them anymore). When I do realize they’re still there — in the same spots they’ve been for years — I’m neither bothered nor frustrated. I bought a cream to “fix” them last year on a whim, but never used it because it just wasn’t a priority. If I run my fingers down them, I can feel a slight groove that deepens along the widest parts of me. The more that I stare at them, the more I remember how much stress they used to bring me.
In response to a ridiculous article, my feature today is about stretch marks. Check it out if you’re interested.
And a huge thanks to the beautiful Kayla for being an inspiration and letting me use her gorgeous photo.