brightrosefox: (Default)
Holy random acts of kindness, Batman.
After getting my flu vaccine, I went to look at the cane rack, because they have this beautiful blue and silver one that looks like dragon scales, and I have been waiting for discounts and coupons so I could get it. The price is under twenty dollars, but still.
A middle-aged man who looked so much like Idris Elba that I did a second take, also reached for the blue silver cane. Our eyes met, I smiled briefly. He said, "You know, I bet this would make an awesome magic staff for cosplay."
I grinned and said, "Good plan! I should at least join a game just so I can brag. Or just be my paganish elf self and cosplay every day." Which was blurted out because my filter is so thin.
The Idris Elba lookalike chuckled. "I adore that idea. I just pray to all mighty Atheismo that we aren't going too deep. Like that Tom Hanks movie."
My jaw dropped. "Duuude," I said. "Futurama reference plus obscure D&D rip-off movie nee book reference? Cripple high five!"
We high fived and missed on purpose, stumbling. "Mild cerebral palsy, spastic hemiplegia" I said. "Mild cerebral palsy, diplegia mixed," he said. "And knee arthritis."
"And sciatica," we said in union, surprising ourselves.
"Fibromyalgia and epilepsy and autism too," I added.
He said, "My twin nieces are autistics! Their world is so awesome. I think they prefer me to my brother when they're in meltdowns, they talk about what's going on in detail."
"Awesome!" I said.
At this point, we had been staring at the canes and I had been avoiding too much eye contact. I was about to ask the Idris Elba lookalike about advocacy. Then I saw a gleam in his eye and sensed a topic shift. "Hey, listen," he said. "I'm a proponent of the pay it forward thing. I know we're strangers, but I do know enough about you that you really want the dragon scale cane."
I tilted my head. "Yeeeaah?"
"So, okay." He pulled some pieces of paper from his pocket. "I've got a buy one get one half off for this brand of canes. I will buy you your cane. What do you think?"
I blinked a few times. I looked at him. He wasn't hitting on me. He wasn't being creepy. He was just a fellow cripple offering help.
"Okay," I said, "thank you! That's really kind."
"Hey, the community needs all the assistance we can get from each other. Cripples helping cripples, you know?"
I smiled. "Totally."
As we walked to a register, he said, "I want you to know that I had no intention of hitting on you. I see your rings, and for all I know they could mean something else. But while I think you're a gorgeous-looking person, I have no plans on being a That Guy. I punch Those Guys on a regular basis."
"Huh?"
"Physical trainer. Not so much punch as pinch in sensitive areas. Men can be scum."
I giggled. "Hashtag Not All Men!"
He laughed. "Anyway, let me pay for everything." He nodded at my basket, which had a few comfort items. I immediately said he shouldn't, since he was getting me the cane.
He then put my basket on the conveyor belt, looked at me until I noticed that his eyes had gold rings, and said, "Then pay it forward. Help another cripple." The corner of his mouth turned up. "Even if it's just donating to help someone get better access."
I nodded. I was going to cry any minute. He paid for everything, put his things in two totes and put my things in two more totes. He saved me almost forty dollars.
He said, "I would offer you a ride, but my friend's picking me up so we can go back to Philly. It's been a great road trip so far."
I nodded. "It's cool. I'm going to take the bus home anyway." I was feeling giddy. "Well, obviously we had this encounter for a reason. So. It was lovely meeting you, clone of Idris Elba."
He threw back his head and laughed. "I get that a lot. Same to you, clone of Mia Sara. Anyway, I'm Laurence."
"Joanna."
We fist-bumped and he helped adjust my cane for my height. We walked outside together, and he stood at the curb to wait for his friend while I walked across the parking lot. I turned and waved. He waved back and kept looking at me. I realized it was to make sure I was safe.
I got to the sidewalk crosswalk and peered back. I saw him get into a green SUV. I realized I would probably never see him again.
I am definitely going to Pay It Forward.

***

Also! Links! For future reference!
http://www.neurodiversity.com/main.html
http://cerebralpalsy.org/about-cerebral-palsy/associative-conditions/
http://www.disabilityscoop.com/2013/10/03/autism-common-cerebral-palsy/18775/

***

Also!
PMS is vicious. Although with oral contraceptives, it's technically withdrawal bleeding rather than menstruation. Besides, I haven't truly bled in over a year. Being on the highest dose of birth control for over fourteen years will do that to some women.
PMS is vicious. A veliciraptor chewing through my pelvis. There's a photo out there of a plastic female human skeleton, with a toy raptor stuck head-first through the pelvic bone.
And the bloating and bizarre fluctuations on the bathroom scale.
Having slid back to psychiatric anorexia after failing to control neurochemical anorexia, I know damn well I should not stand on that scale especially during this time. I know damn well that numbers don't mean as much as how my clothing fits. But paranoia bred from life-long anxiety over disordered eating patterns is paranoia. And then there was the entire food=growth=death connection when I was little. And then there was being under a hundred pounds until my mid-twenties. And then there was the anorexia voices insisting that I needed to get back to that, being under five feet tall. I was never overweight. I used to weigh something around the high "set point" - but I have no idea where I've constructed this memory of being convinced to lose twenty pounds. Unfortunately, my illness has burrowed deep enough into my subconscious that my thoughts have turned to the classic hallmarks of anorexia: "I absolutely must be below X number or I will never feel right". The unwillingness to stop. The belief that everything is wrong. I know where I am. I know what's happening. I've been able to compartmentalize and separate enough so that I smack myself when those thoughts occur, so that I at least eat an apple or two, or cheese, yogurt, celery, even cheesecake or dark chocolate. My friends are with me.
Sag Harbor will happen next week, with Thanksgiving. Part of me is in a total blind mute panic. That part doesn't want to eat anything. That part wants to Be Good, Be Perfect. It doesn't matter that I'm over thirty, says the panic. It only matters that I am extremely small and I must keep being extremely small.
To bring everything around again: PMS is not helping. PMS is several numbers upward on the scale because of fluid retention, bloating... losing that fight to not overeat. PMS is barely fitting into the purple dyed jeans yesterday and having them slightly loose today. It isn't helping anything.

But I look at that blue and silver dragon scale cane, bought for me by a total stranger with the same disability as me, and I think the best way I can Pay It Forward is to make sure someone I care for stays as mentally healthy as possible...
brightrosefox: (Default)
Cut for currently uncharacteristic whining and grumping about menstrual weight gain, bloating, body measurements, and numbers. Because damn it, I need to let this out somehow.
Read more... )
Body health and muscle health doesn't happen overnight. I'm over 30; my body is changing. And I am not helping myself by mentally snarling at people who whine about their perceived imperfect weight issues when they have absolutely none. I am also not helping myself by imagining my mother telling me that I was becoming overweight because I weighed more than 110. She essentially wants me to be as thin as I can because for her, thin means healthy. I love her so so much, but I really do think she has a mild eating disorder of some kind.
I am fine. My health is fine. My doctors say I'm fine. I eat small portions of healthy food daily with occasional small portions of junk food. Nobody can force me to eat or exercise a certain way.
And that's what I tell myself during my mental bitchslaps to myself.
I'm fine. I'll be fine. I'm also stressing too much about next week's hearing.
Dear Joanna: BREATHE. FUCKING RELAX ALREADY, GODS ABOVE AND AROUND, JUST BREATHE.
brightrosefox: (Default)
I don't think anymore, I know I will have body issues for the rest of my life. Not resignation, only fact. It is how I come to terms with this, how I work with it, that will help me remember that I'm beautiful and desired. Etcetera.

At the party on Saturday, I wore tight-fitting jeans that fit me like a glove. Tommy Hilfiger capri jeans in a size six, bought thriftily for eight dollars. The inseam hits just below my ankle bone at a smooth twenty-five inches. The waist fits so well that there is no gap at all. The hips and thighs are snug and stretched. My round Sicilian butt looks glorious in these jeans. I also wore a thrift-bought lavender long-sleeve Gap tee shirt, tight-fitting and curve-hugging. Unfortunately, it hugged the unflattering curves too - the little roll of fat I have on my midsection is clearly visible in one photo. I know damn good and well that it is stupid, irrational, and pointless to obsess over that fucking fat roll. Almost everyone with a decent body fat percentage has it, because when you shift and lean a certain way in a tight top, you're going to have that little muffin top below the ribs. And then you'll have that bit of fat on the lower abdomen, especially if you are female-bodied. Not everyone has it, but most do. It's there. Even when I was at my skinniest - emaciated - I had it. I remember spending five years trying to get rid of it. (The concept of "flat abs" is really a myth. You can have cut abs, muscled abs, low-fat abs, but "flat" seems to be a misnomer. Even a flat abdomen has a shape and a curve.)

So I keep staring at the photo. In it, I'm leaning into Adam and I'm looking happy and content, and my excess fat is right there, poking through the shirt, and I am logically aware that nobody cares. I rationally understand that I am not a model in a magazine photo shoot, sucking in and tucking in and holding myself in precarious poses so my entire shape is smooth and streamlined.
But gods damn it... well, you know.

And the most ridiculous part? I am not actually overweight. According to my physician, I am well within my weight range for my height, frame, shape, activity level, and health. So I am obsessing over a tiny bit of flab that is nothing more than the result of not working out as much as I could. I don't need to lose a bunch of weight, I just need to tone and strengthen my muscles a bunch. I know this. I know. I know.
What I feel, however... that's something else.

And friends will tell me to stop, to quit obsessing, that I look great, that I'm fine, that compared to someone taller and heavier, I'm a tiny wee little thing. I know this, too. I know all of this. I can recite verbatim all the words that doctors have said, psychologists and nutritionists and physical therapists. I know, I know, I know.

But please, give me just this once to feel. Just this one rant to get emotional and flail and cry "Oh my gods I look so fat!" I'm not fat. I know I'm not. That's not the point. Mild body dysmorphic disorder is not logical or rational or understanding. I see things about myself that are technically not there. I see fat and red marks and blemishes and flaws and things that nobody else notices. I don't say anything to anybody, because I know they don't care. I know they see my pretty face and my awesome ass and my perky breasts and my shiny hair. "You are so gorgeous," they tell me - and I believe them with all my heart, I do, I do. But like everyone else, I still look at myself in the mirror, stripped bare, and pinpoint every single little thing I deem "wrong."
I spent my teenage years being ninety pounds. I spent the first half of my twenties being ninety pounds and also anorexic. I can't do that again. I won't do that again. But when I say out loud, "I'd like to lose ten or twelve pounds" and people stare at me like I've grown horns, I feel... I don't even know how I feel. Startled? I feel wrong. This body just feels wrong.

Maybe it's because of my skinny, organically-living mother, who once told me that "114 lbs is a little heavy for you." Right now, as I write, I weigh 119 lbs. I know what my mother will say when I see her this Thanksgiving. I know she will suggest that I lose ten or fifteen pounds. I don't know why I still hold on to that, why I think that telling her to shut up will make me break. My mother is amazing. She is nothing but loving and kind and helpful and joyful and positive.

Maybe it's because I am just so used to being so thin that even five years after I gained the weight I still can't reconcile the idea that being unable to count my ribs from across the room is a good thing. I can only see the ninety-pound girl wondering where she went. I can only think "If I just got down to under 110, I'll feel better and happier."

But I don't know what part of me thinks that more, the emotional part or the logical part.

This isn't anything more than ranting and rambling. I don't expect comments or advice or validation or anything. I realize this is a public journal and I won't lock this post, because that's just me. But I did need to get this out. Just for myself. Just so I can go back and read it and shake myself firmly and tell myself to get over it and do more strength training if I really want to do something.

Speaking of, I am now going to take a break from writing and pick up those mini kettlebell weights and do some squats.
brightrosefox: (Default)
I don't think anymore, I know I will have body issues for the rest of my life. Not resignation, only fact. It is how I come to terms with this, how I work with it, that will help me remember that I'm beautiful and desired. Etcetera.

At the party on Saturday, I wore tight-fitting jeans that fit me like a glove. Tommy Hilfiger capri jeans in a size six, bought thriftily for eight dollars. The inseam hits just below my ankle bone at a smooth twenty-five inches. The waist fits so well that there is no gap at all. The hips and thighs are snug and stretched. My round Sicilian butt looks glorious in these jeans. I also wore a thrift-bought lavender long-sleeve Gap tee shirt, tight-fitting and curve-hugging. Unfortunately, it hugged the unflattering curves too - the little roll of fat I have on my midsection is clearly visible in one photo. I know damn good and well that it is stupid, irrational, and pointless to obsess over that fucking fat roll. Almost everyone with a decent body fat percentage has it, because when you shift and lean a certain way in a tight top, you're going to have that little muffin top below the ribs. And then you'll have that bit of fat on the lower abdomen, especially if you are female-bodied. Not everyone has it, but most do. It's there. Even when I was at my skinniest - emaciated - I had it. I remember spending five years trying to get rid of it. (The concept of "flat abs" is really a myth. You can have cut abs, muscled abs, low-fat abs, but "flat" seems to be a misnomer. Even a flat abdomen has a shape and a curve.)

So I keep staring at the photo. In it, I'm leaning into Adam and I'm looking happy and content, and my excess fat is right there, poking through the shirt, and I am logically aware that nobody cares. I rationally understand that I am not a model in a magazine photo shoot, sucking in and tucking in and holding myself in precarious poses so my entire shape is smooth and streamlined.
But gods damn it... well, you know.

And the most ridiculous part? I am not actually overweight. According to my physician, I am well within my weight range for my height, frame, shape, activity level, and health. So I am obsessing over a tiny bit of flab that is nothing more than the result of not working out as much as I could. I don't need to lose a bunch of weight, I just need to tone and strengthen my muscles a bunch. I know this. I know. I know.
What I feel, however... that's something else.

And friends will tell me to stop, to quit obsessing, that I look great, that I'm fine, that compared to someone taller and heavier, I'm a tiny wee little thing. I know this, too. I know all of this. I can recite verbatim all the words that doctors have said, psychologists and nutritionists and physical therapists. I know, I know, I know.

But please, give me just this once to feel. Just this one rant to get emotional and flail and cry "Oh my gods I look so fat!" I'm not fat. I know I'm not. That's not the point. Mild body dysmorphic disorder is not logical or rational or understanding. I see things about myself that are technically not there. I see fat and red marks and blemishes and flaws and things that nobody else notices. I don't say anything to anybody, because I know they don't care. I know they see my pretty face and my awesome ass and my perky breasts and my shiny hair. "You are so gorgeous," they tell me - and I believe them with all my heart, I do, I do. But like everyone else, I still look at myself in the mirror, stripped bare, and pinpoint every single little thing I deem "wrong."
I spent my teenage years being ninety pounds. I spent the first half of my twenties being ninety pounds and also anorexic. I can't do that again. I won't do that again. But when I say out loud, "I'd like to lose ten or twelve pounds" and people stare at me like I've grown horns, I feel... I don't even know how I feel. Startled? I feel wrong. This body just feels wrong.

Maybe it's because of my skinny, organically-living mother, who once told me that "114 lbs is a little heavy for you." Right now, as I write, I weigh 119 lbs. I know what my mother will say when I see her this Thanksgiving. I know she will suggest that I lose ten or fifteen pounds. I don't know why I still hold on to that, why I think that telling her to shut up will make me break. My mother is amazing. She is nothing but loving and kind and helpful and joyful and positive.

Maybe it's because I am just so used to being so thin that even five years after I gained the weight I still can't reconcile the idea that being unable to count my ribs from across the room is a good thing. I can only see the ninety-pound girl wondering where she went. I can only think "If I just got down to under 110, I'll feel better and happier."

But I don't know what part of me thinks that more, the emotional part or the logical part.

This isn't anything more than ranting and rambling. I don't expect comments or advice or validation or anything. I realize this is a public journal and I won't lock this post, because that's just me. But I did need to get this out. Just for myself. Just so I can go back and read it and shake myself firmly and tell myself to get over it and do more strength training if I really want to do something.

Speaking of, I am now going to take a break from writing and pick up those mini kettlebell weights and do some squats.
brightrosefox: (Default)
I don't think anymore, I know I will have body issues for the rest of my life. Not resignation, only fact. It is how I come to terms with this, how I work with it, that will help me remember that I'm beautiful and desired. Etcetera.

At the party on Saturday, I wore tight-fitting jeans that fit me like a glove. Tommy Hilfiger capri jeans in a size six, bought thriftily for eight dollars. The inseam hits just below my ankle bone at a smooth twenty-five inches. The waist fits so well that there is no gap at all. The hips and thighs are snug and stretched. My round Sicilian butt looks glorious in these jeans. I also wore a thrift-bought lavender long-sleeve Gap tee shirt, tight-fitting and curve-hugging. Unfortunately, it hugged the unflattering curves too - the little roll of fat I have on my midsection is clearly visible in one photo. I know damn good and well that it is stupid, irrational, and pointless to obsess over that fucking fat roll. Almost everyone with a decent body fat percentage has it, because when you shift and lean a certain way in a tight top, you're going to have that little muffin top below the ribs. And then you'll have that bit of fat on the lower abdomen, especially if you are female-bodied. Not everyone has it, but most do. It's there. Even when I was at my skinniest - emaciated - I had it. I remember spending five years trying to get rid of it. (The concept of "flat abs" is really a myth. You can have cut abs, muscled abs, low-fat abs, but "flat" seems to be a misnomer. Even a flat abdomen has a shape and a curve.)

So I keep staring at the photo. In it, I'm leaning into Adam and I'm looking happy and content, and my excess fat is right there, poking through the shirt, and I am logically aware that nobody cares. I rationally understand that I am not a model in a magazine photo shoot, sucking in and tucking in and holding myself in precarious poses so my entire shape is smooth and streamlined.
But gods damn it... well, you know.

And the most ridiculous part? I am not actually overweight. According to my physician, I am well within my weight range for my height, frame, shape, activity level, and health. So I am obsessing over a tiny bit of flab that is nothing more than the result of not working out as much as I could. I don't need to lose a bunch of weight, I just need to tone and strengthen my muscles a bunch. I know this. I know. I know.
What I feel, however... that's something else.

And friends will tell me to stop, to quit obsessing, that I look great, that I'm fine, that compared to someone taller and heavier, I'm a tiny wee little thing. I know this, too. I know all of this. I can recite verbatim all the words that doctors have said, psychologists and nutritionists and physical therapists. I know, I know, I know.

But please, give me just this once to feel. Just this one rant to get emotional and flail and cry "Oh my gods I look so fat!" I'm not fat. I know I'm not. That's not the point. Mild body dysmorphic disorder is not logical or rational or understanding. I see things about myself that are technically not there. I see fat and red marks and blemishes and flaws and things that nobody else notices. I don't say anything to anybody, because I know they don't care. I know they see my pretty face and my awesome ass and my perky breasts and my shiny hair. "You are so gorgeous," they tell me - and I believe them with all my heart, I do, I do. But like everyone else, I still look at myself in the mirror, stripped bare, and pinpoint every single little thing I deem "wrong."
I spent my teenage years being ninety pounds. I spent the first half of my twenties being ninety pounds and also anorexic. I can't do that again. I won't do that again. But when I say out loud, "I'd like to lose ten or twelve pounds" and people stare at me like I've grown horns, I feel... I don't even know how I feel. Startled? I feel wrong. This body just feels wrong.

Maybe it's because of my skinny, organically-living mother, who once told me that "114 lbs is a little heavy for you." Right now, as I write, I weigh 119 lbs. I know what my mother will say when I see her this Thanksgiving. I know she will suggest that I lose ten or fifteen pounds. I don't know why I still hold on to that, why I think that telling her to shut up will make me break. My mother is amazing. She is nothing but loving and kind and helpful and joyful and positive.

Maybe it's because I am just so used to being so thin that even five years after I gained the weight I still can't reconcile the idea that being unable to count my ribs from across the room is a good thing. I can only see the ninety-pound girl wondering where she went. I can only think "If I just got down to under 110, I'll feel better and happier."

But I don't know what part of me thinks that more, the emotional part or the logical part.

This isn't anything more than ranting and rambling. I don't expect comments or advice or validation or anything. I realize this is a public journal and I won't lock this post, because that's just me. But I did need to get this out. Just for myself. Just so I can go back and read it and shake myself firmly and tell myself to get over it and do more strength training if I really want to do something.

Speaking of, I am now going to take a break from writing and pick up those mini kettlebell weights and do some squats.
brightrosefox: (Default)
I don't think anymore, I know I will have body issues for the rest of my life. Not resignation, only fact. It is how I come to terms with this, how I work with it, that will help me remember that I'm beautiful and desired. Etcetera.

At the party on Saturday, I wore tight-fitting jeans that fit me like a glove. Tommy Hilfiger capri jeans in a size six, bought thriftily for eight dollars. The inseam hits just below my ankle bone at a smooth twenty-five inches. The waist fits so well that there is no gap at all. The hips and thighs are snug and stretched. My round Sicilian butt looks glorious in these jeans. I also wore a thrift-bought lavender long-sleeve Gap tee shirt, tight-fitting and curve-hugging. Unfortunately, it hugged the unflattering curves too - the little roll of fat I have on my midsection is clearly visible in one photo. I know damn good and well that it is stupid, irrational, and pointless to obsess over that fucking fat roll. Almost everyone with a decent body fat percentage has it, because when you shift and lean a certain way in a tight top, you're going to have that little muffin top below the ribs. And then you'll have that bit of fat on the lower abdomen, especially if you are female-bodied. Not everyone has it, but most do. It's there. Even when I was at my skinniest - emaciated - I had it. I remember spending five years trying to get rid of it. (The concept of "flat abs" is really a myth. You can have cut abs, muscled abs, low-fat abs, but "flat" seems to be a misnomer. Even a flat abdomen has a shape and a curve.)

So I keep staring at the photo. In it, I'm leaning into Adam and I'm looking happy and content, and my excess fat is right there, poking through the shirt, and I am logically aware that nobody cares. I rationally understand that I am not a model in a magazine photo shoot, sucking in and tucking in and holding myself in precarious poses so my entire shape is smooth and streamlined.
But gods damn it... well, you know.

And the most ridiculous part? I am not actually overweight. According to my physician, I am well within my weight range for my height, frame, shape, activity level, and health. So I am obsessing over a tiny bit of flab that is nothing more than the result of not working out as much as I could. I don't need to lose a bunch of weight, I just need to tone and strengthen my muscles a bunch. I know this. I know. I know.
What I feel, however... that's something else.

And friends will tell me to stop, to quit obsessing, that I look great, that I'm fine, that compared to someone taller and heavier, I'm a tiny wee little thing. I know this, too. I know all of this. I can recite verbatim all the words that doctors have said, psychologists and nutritionists and physical therapists. I know, I know, I know.

But please, give me just this once to feel. Just this one rant to get emotional and flail and cry "Oh my gods I look so fat!" I'm not fat. I know I'm not. That's not the point. Mild body dysmorphic disorder is not logical or rational or understanding. I see things about myself that are technically not there. I see fat and red marks and blemishes and flaws and things that nobody else notices. I don't say anything to anybody, because I know they don't care. I know they see my pretty face and my awesome ass and my perky breasts and my shiny hair. "You are so gorgeous," they tell me - and I believe them with all my heart, I do, I do. But like everyone else, I still look at myself in the mirror, stripped bare, and pinpoint every single little thing I deem "wrong."
I spent my teenage years being ninety pounds. I spent the first half of my twenties being ninety pounds and also anorexic. I can't do that again. I won't do that again. But when I say out loud, "I'd like to lose ten or twelve pounds" and people stare at me like I've grown horns, I feel... I don't even know how I feel. Startled? I feel wrong. This body just feels wrong.

Maybe it's because of my skinny, organically-living mother, who once told me that "114 lbs is a little heavy for you." Right now, as I write, I weigh 119 lbs. I know what my mother will say when I see her this Thanksgiving. I know she will suggest that I lose ten or fifteen pounds. I don't know why I still hold on to that, why I think that telling her to shut up will make me break. My mother is amazing. She is nothing but loving and kind and helpful and joyful and positive.

Maybe it's because I am just so used to being so thin that even five years after I gained the weight I still can't reconcile the idea that being unable to count my ribs from across the room is a good thing. I can only see the ninety-pound girl wondering where she went. I can only think "If I just got down to under 110, I'll feel better and happier."

But I don't know what part of me thinks that more, the emotional part or the logical part.

This isn't anything more than ranting and rambling. I don't expect comments or advice or validation or anything. I realize this is a public journal and I won't lock this post, because that's just me. But I did need to get this out. Just for myself. Just so I can go back and read it and shake myself firmly and tell myself to get over it and do more strength training if I really want to do something.

Speaking of, I am now going to take a break from writing and pick up those mini kettlebell weights and do some squats.
brightrosefox: (Default)
Goodbye, Frank Frazetta.
Naamah Darling says it well. http://naamah-darling.livejournal.com/443200.html
I've known Frazetta's works since before I could talk. He was a legend. My parents, being artists, kept so many Frazetta art books in the house. My mother's female figure drawings were very similar to those of Frazetta. I grew up thinking that curvy round bellies and strong round thighs and heavy round hips were how all women were supposed to look. But of course I quickly realized that all women came in all shapes and sizes, and I was no exception, weighing ninety-five pounds at four-foot-eleven for my entire teen and young adult years. Frank Frazetta's works showed WOMAN in such a way that... oh, it is hard to find words. Beautiful and intense and muscled and soft and sweet and strong. The woman with the sabretooth tigers, remember her? Most everyone does. The hourglass and pear figures and intense curves that screamed POWER. I spent hours staring at them. Yes, I still stare at women's backsides if they remind me of the buttocks of a Frazetta female.
Confession time. It was the work of Frank Frazetta that made me realize that gaining healthy weight after anorexia was a beautiful and strong thing.
I'll miss him. He helped change my life. His art made me understand that I didn't need to force myself to be unhealthy to be slender. I had a Capello body. I had an hourglass figure, a Frazetta figure, a figure full of angles and curves and shapes that were uniquely Joanna, and it was ME and nobody else. I could be skinny or fat or everything in between and it would all be beautiful.
Thank you, Frank Frazetta.

(Edited to add: You know the painting Cat Girl II? Yeah, that's kind of what I look like now, just not as muscular or buxom. It's my favorite Frazetta painting, too. When I feel disgusted with my body, I stare at that painting and repeat, "Beautiful, shapely, soft and strong" until I get it.)
brightrosefox: (Default)
Goodbye, Frank Frazetta.
Naamah Darling says it well. http://naamah-darling.livejournal.com/443200.html
I've known Frazetta's works since before I could talk. He was a legend. My parents, being artists, kept so many Frazetta art books in the house. My mother's female figure drawings were very similar to those of Frazetta. I grew up thinking that curvy round bellies and strong round thighs and heavy round hips were how all women were supposed to look. But of course I quickly realized that all women came in all shapes and sizes, and I was no exception, weighing ninety-five pounds at four-foot-eleven for my entire teen and young adult years. Frank Frazetta's works showed WOMAN in such a way that... oh, it is hard to find words. Beautiful and intense and muscled and soft and sweet and strong. The woman with the sabretooth tigers, remember her? Most everyone does. The hourglass and pear figures and intense curves that screamed POWER. I spent hours staring at them. Yes, I still stare at women's backsides if they remind me of the buttocks of a Frazetta female.
Confession time. It was the work of Frank Frazetta that made me realize that gaining healthy weight after anorexia was a beautiful and strong thing.
I'll miss him. He helped change my life. His art made me understand that I didn't need to force myself to be unhealthy to be slender. I had a Capello body. I had an hourglass figure, a Frazetta figure, a figure full of angles and curves and shapes that were uniquely Joanna, and it was ME and nobody else. I could be skinny or fat or everything in between and it would all be beautiful.
Thank you, Frank Frazetta.

(Edited to add: You know the painting Cat Girl II? Yeah, that's kind of what I look like now, just not as muscular or buxom. It's my favorite Frazetta painting, too. When I feel disgusted with my body, I stare at that painting and repeat, "Beautiful, shapely, soft and strong" until I get it.)
brightrosefox: (Default)
Goodbye, Frank Frazetta.
Naamah Darling says it well. http://naamah-darling.livejournal.com/443200.html
I've known Frazetta's works since before I could talk. He was a legend. My parents, being artists, kept so many Frazetta art books in the house. My mother's female figure drawings were very similar to those of Frazetta. I grew up thinking that curvy round bellies and strong round thighs and heavy round hips were how all women were supposed to look. But of course I quickly realized that all women came in all shapes and sizes, and I was no exception, weighing ninety-five pounds at four-foot-eleven for my entire teen and young adult years. Frank Frazetta's works showed WOMAN in such a way that... oh, it is hard to find words. Beautiful and intense and muscled and soft and sweet and strong. The woman with the sabretooth tigers, remember her? Most everyone does. The hourglass and pear figures and intense curves that screamed POWER. I spent hours staring at them. Yes, I still stare at women's backsides if they remind me of the buttocks of a Frazetta female.
Confession time. It was the work of Frank Frazetta that made me realize that gaining healthy weight after anorexia was a beautiful and strong thing.
I'll miss him. He helped change my life. His art made me understand that I didn't need to force myself to be unhealthy to be slender. I had a Capello body. I had an hourglass figure, a Frazetta figure, a figure full of angles and curves and shapes that were uniquely Joanna, and it was ME and nobody else. I could be skinny or fat or everything in between and it would all be beautiful.
Thank you, Frank Frazetta.

(Edited to add: You know the painting Cat Girl II? Yeah, that's kind of what I look like now, just not as muscular or buxom. It's my favorite Frazetta painting, too. When I feel disgusted with my body, I stare at that painting and repeat, "Beautiful, shapely, soft and strong" until I get it.)
brightrosefox: (Default)
Goodbye, Frank Frazetta.
Naamah Darling says it well. http://naamah-darling.livejournal.com/443200.html
I've known Frazetta's works since before I could talk. He was a legend. My parents, being artists, kept so many Frazetta art books in the house. My mother's female figure drawings were very similar to those of Frazetta. I grew up thinking that curvy round bellies and strong round thighs and heavy round hips were how all women were supposed to look. But of course I quickly realized that all women came in all shapes and sizes, and I was no exception, weighing ninety-five pounds at four-foot-eleven for my entire teen and young adult years. Frank Frazetta's works showed WOMAN in such a way that... oh, it is hard to find words. Beautiful and intense and muscled and soft and sweet and strong. The woman with the sabretooth tigers, remember her? Most everyone does. The hourglass and pear figures and intense curves that screamed POWER. I spent hours staring at them. Yes, I still stare at women's backsides if they remind me of the buttocks of a Frazetta female.
Confession time. It was the work of Frank Frazetta that made me realize that gaining healthy weight after anorexia was a beautiful and strong thing.
I'll miss him. He helped change my life. His art made me understand that I didn't need to force myself to be unhealthy to be slender. I had a Capello body. I had an hourglass figure, a Frazetta figure, a figure full of angles and curves and shapes that were uniquely Joanna, and it was ME and nobody else. I could be skinny or fat or everything in between and it would all be beautiful.
Thank you, Frank Frazetta.

(Edited to add: You know the painting Cat Girl II? Yeah, that's kind of what I look like now, just not as muscular or buxom. It's my favorite Frazetta painting, too. When I feel disgusted with my body, I stare at that painting and repeat, "Beautiful, shapely, soft and strong" until I get it.)
brightrosefox: (Default)
I woke up feeling bloated and heavy, stiff and sore. I woke up covered in kitten. She licked my face, walked all over my torso, chirped at me until I moved. I went for a long walk, which turned into a ride to the Safeway. Random chance had me run into Charlotte and Billy, who were returning from the dentist. I spent some time with Charlotte. We danced in the car to Adam Lambert songs.

I am home, alternately writing and exercising. I've decided to slowly lose fifteen pounds, firm up more, and gain more lean muscle. Belly dancing and gentle Pilates should help. Eventually I will work with my fear of drowning so I can properly swim at a local pool. I also need to organize my disordered eating habits once more. I refuse to fall back into anorexia.
I don't talk about weight much, not after the ED recovery, after having struggled to come to terms with a constantly changing personal body image. I wish this society did not place so much reverence and taboo on size, on weight, on appearance. I want to feel more open, discussing weight and size, without making others feel awkward.
brightrosefox: (Default)
I woke up feeling bloated and heavy, stiff and sore. I woke up covered in kitten. She licked my face, walked all over my torso, chirped at me until I moved. I went for a long walk, which turned into a ride to the Safeway. Random chance had me run into Charlotte and Billy, who were returning from the dentist. I spent some time with Charlotte. We danced in the car to Adam Lambert songs.

I am home, alternately writing and exercising. I've decided to slowly lose fifteen pounds, firm up more, and gain more lean muscle. Belly dancing and gentle Pilates should help. Eventually I will work with my fear of drowning so I can properly swim at a local pool. I also need to organize my disordered eating habits once more. I refuse to fall back into anorexia.
I don't talk about weight much, not after the ED recovery, after having struggled to come to terms with a constantly changing personal body image. I wish this society did not place so much reverence and taboo on size, on weight, on appearance. I want to feel more open, discussing weight and size, without making others feel awkward.
brightrosefox: (Default)
I woke up feeling bloated and heavy, stiff and sore. I woke up covered in kitten. She licked my face, walked all over my torso, chirped at me until I moved. I went for a long walk, which turned into a ride to the Safeway. Random chance had me run into Charlotte and Billy, who were returning from the dentist. I spent some time with Charlotte. We danced in the car to Adam Lambert songs.

I am home, alternately writing and exercising. I've decided to slowly lose fifteen pounds, firm up more, and gain more lean muscle. Belly dancing and gentle Pilates should help. Eventually I will work with my fear of drowning so I can properly swim at a local pool. I also need to organize my disordered eating habits once more. I refuse to fall back into anorexia.
I don't talk about weight much, not after the ED recovery, after having struggled to come to terms with a constantly changing personal body image. I wish this society did not place so much reverence and taboo on size, on weight, on appearance. I want to feel more open, discussing weight and size, without making others feel awkward.

Bodysense

Dec. 27th, 2008 03:59 pm
brightrosefox: (Default)
Cut my hair. Sort of.
After a decade of growing it as long as I could stand it, delayed by trims and cuts, I decided the dead ends needed to die away. Put it up in a half ponytail to get the front ends out of the way. Threw the hair in the back over my shoulder, measured two inches, wrapped an elastic around it, took the scissors, took a breath, and snipped just above the elastic. I trimmed the front part, separated by the other elastic, barely half an inch. The back of my hair is approximately an inch shorter than the front, which is what I wanted. My hair now falls to just below my ribcage. It is still very long, just... less long. I'll keep growing it.

One of my gifts was a bathroom scale. Adam bought it for me. I've been wanting one for a while now. I can keep track. I'm still twenty pounds heavier than I want to be -- but here is the very funny thing: I have been wearing my size four pants since I came home from Thanksgiving, and those pants feel slightly loose. I have lost two inches from my waist and two inches from my hips, but my breasts are fuller. I don't look heavy, I just look like a full hourglass. My breasts are rounder, but so are my thighs. My body fat percentage is normal and healthy, says my scale. My clothes fit fine. Part of me wonders if the extra twenty pounds are not all fat.
Women's bodies are bizarre!
In related news, Adam has lost so much weight he can now be called skinny. We both gave up high fructose corn syrup and most sodas and have cut back on refined sugars and fats. But he seems to have shown more for it than I have. It's sort of like that SlimQuick commercial.
Mind you, I am not complaining. This isn't to whine, whinge, bitch, moan, or lament the fact that I'm a size four, an hourglass shape, and still unhappy with my weight (which would get me bitchslapped faster than I could blink). It's just a statement. My husband lost twenty pounds, and I found them.

Last night, Adam helped me stretch and massage out pain and cramps and spasticity and tension. It turned erotic and we made love three times, and my brain killed the remaining pain with endorphins, dopamine, serotonin, and oxytocin.

My dreams were intense and very weird. I woke up at noon. Adam had been awake for hours and had chosen to remain wrapped around me, waiting for me to wake up.
I made coffee, our blend of espresso and chocolate and kona, and added cactus honey powder instead of sugar. We shared a sandwich for lunch and snacked on exotic breads: pumpkin chocolate chip and cranberry orange. We had made a hearty veggie soup last night: Purple cabbage, potatoes, water chestnuts, bamboo shoots, carrots, celery, spices.
Charlotte and Billy will be here soon. They're bringing us a large smoothie from Robek's to share, an Acai Energizer.

Bodysense

Dec. 27th, 2008 03:59 pm
brightrosefox: (Default)
Cut my hair. Sort of.
After a decade of growing it as long as I could stand it, delayed by trims and cuts, I decided the dead ends needed to die away. Put it up in a half ponytail to get the front ends out of the way. Threw the hair in the back over my shoulder, measured two inches, wrapped an elastic around it, took the scissors, took a breath, and snipped just above the elastic. I trimmed the front part, separated by the other elastic, barely half an inch. The back of my hair is approximately an inch shorter than the front, which is what I wanted. My hair now falls to just below my ribcage. It is still very long, just... less long. I'll keep growing it.

One of my gifts was a bathroom scale. Adam bought it for me. I've been wanting one for a while now. I can keep track. I'm still twenty pounds heavier than I want to be -- but here is the very funny thing: I have been wearing my size four pants since I came home from Thanksgiving, and those pants feel slightly loose. I have lost two inches from my waist and two inches from my hips, but my breasts are fuller. I don't look heavy, I just look like a full hourglass. My breasts are rounder, but so are my thighs. My body fat percentage is normal and healthy, says my scale. My clothes fit fine. Part of me wonders if the extra twenty pounds are not all fat.
Women's bodies are bizarre!
In related news, Adam has lost so much weight he can now be called skinny. We both gave up high fructose corn syrup and most sodas and have cut back on refined sugars and fats. But he seems to have shown more for it than I have. It's sort of like that SlimQuick commercial.
Mind you, I am not complaining. This isn't to whine, whinge, bitch, moan, or lament the fact that I'm a size four, an hourglass shape, and still unhappy with my weight (which would get me bitchslapped faster than I could blink). It's just a statement. My husband lost twenty pounds, and I found them.

Last night, Adam helped me stretch and massage out pain and cramps and spasticity and tension. It turned erotic and we made love three times, and my brain killed the remaining pain with endorphins, dopamine, serotonin, and oxytocin.

My dreams were intense and very weird. I woke up at noon. Adam had been awake for hours and had chosen to remain wrapped around me, waiting for me to wake up.
I made coffee, our blend of espresso and chocolate and kona, and added cactus honey powder instead of sugar. We shared a sandwich for lunch and snacked on exotic breads: pumpkin chocolate chip and cranberry orange. We had made a hearty veggie soup last night: Purple cabbage, potatoes, water chestnuts, bamboo shoots, carrots, celery, spices.
Charlotte and Billy will be here soon. They're bringing us a large smoothie from Robek's to share, an Acai Energizer.

Bodysense

Dec. 27th, 2008 03:59 pm
brightrosefox: (Default)
Cut my hair. Sort of.
After a decade of growing it as long as I could stand it, delayed by trims and cuts, I decided the dead ends needed to die away. Put it up in a half ponytail to get the front ends out of the way. Threw the hair in the back over my shoulder, measured two inches, wrapped an elastic around it, took the scissors, took a breath, and snipped just above the elastic. I trimmed the front part, separated by the other elastic, barely half an inch. The back of my hair is approximately an inch shorter than the front, which is what I wanted. My hair now falls to just below my ribcage. It is still very long, just... less long. I'll keep growing it.

One of my gifts was a bathroom scale. Adam bought it for me. I've been wanting one for a while now. I can keep track. I'm still twenty pounds heavier than I want to be -- but here is the very funny thing: I have been wearing my size four pants since I came home from Thanksgiving, and those pants feel slightly loose. I have lost two inches from my waist and two inches from my hips, but my breasts are fuller. I don't look heavy, I just look like a full hourglass. My breasts are rounder, but so are my thighs. My body fat percentage is normal and healthy, says my scale. My clothes fit fine. Part of me wonders if the extra twenty pounds are not all fat.
Women's bodies are bizarre!
In related news, Adam has lost so much weight he can now be called skinny. We both gave up high fructose corn syrup and most sodas and have cut back on refined sugars and fats. But he seems to have shown more for it than I have. It's sort of like that SlimQuick commercial.
Mind you, I am not complaining. This isn't to whine, whinge, bitch, moan, or lament the fact that I'm a size four, an hourglass shape, and still unhappy with my weight (which would get me bitchslapped faster than I could blink). It's just a statement. My husband lost twenty pounds, and I found them.

Last night, Adam helped me stretch and massage out pain and cramps and spasticity and tension. It turned erotic and we made love three times, and my brain killed the remaining pain with endorphins, dopamine, serotonin, and oxytocin.

My dreams were intense and very weird. I woke up at noon. Adam had been awake for hours and had chosen to remain wrapped around me, waiting for me to wake up.
I made coffee, our blend of espresso and chocolate and kona, and added cactus honey powder instead of sugar. We shared a sandwich for lunch and snacked on exotic breads: pumpkin chocolate chip and cranberry orange. We had made a hearty veggie soup last night: Purple cabbage, potatoes, water chestnuts, bamboo shoots, carrots, celery, spices.
Charlotte and Billy will be here soon. They're bringing us a large smoothie from Robek's to share, an Acai Energizer.
brightrosefox: (Default)
http://www.mirror-mirror.org/set.htm
So, if this is true, then I think I know what my own set point is. Currently, my set point seems to be between 104 pounds and 114 pounds. Excluding fluid retention, bloating, heavy meals, and natural fluctuations, I've never gone above 114 pounds, not more than two or three pounds that always went back down quickly. I remember than being below 104 made me look sick and malnourished, and obviously my body was not meant to be than skinny. And my body knew that.

When I hit puberty at age eleven, I stopped growing taller than 4'11. I weighed 88 pounds. I stayed that way for a couple of years, then gained maybe seven pounds and stayed that way throughout high school. Throughout my teenage years I never went above 100 pounds. I ate healthily, I was as active as I could be with cerebral palsy and other health conditions. My metabolism was hummingbird fast.
When I entered college, I did gain weight, as many freshman do. Not the classic 15; only 8. I stepped on a scale at the campus gym, and when the scale read 101, I panicked, I admit it. I honestly believed that I "needed" to be under 100 pounds, because of my height. Over the next couple of weeks, those eight pounds disappeared with all the running around and sparse eating I did, and I was secretly extremely relieved. But I was not yet trapping myself in the endless loop of anorexic thinking.
When I was 21, at the end of the summer, I noticed that I was gaining some great muscle tone. My hips looked slim, my waist had a nice supermodel curve. I weighed approximately 98 pounds and I certainly could have gained five or ten more pounds and looked even better, but at that moment, in the full length mirror, I was thrilled with what I saw.
I believe that was the beginning. Some say than in regards to eating disorders, "genetics creates the gun, environment loads it, and extreme emotional experiences fire the ED bullet." I think that's very very apt. That's basically how it was with me.
For the next four years, I plummeted. I decided that weighing above a hundred pounds was unacceptable. Originally, I had been afraid of the college campus food, but once that concern subsided, what was left was far, far worse. The disorder had taken over and was eating me alive. My body struggled desperately to get to the lowest end of a set point it had never known. And I wouldn't let it. Not until one day, four years almost to the day, when I broke free.
So. Whether or not the set point theory works for everybody is not something I want to debate. But if my set point leaves me destined to have these curves and this padding, then I'm happy with that. I honestly do not want to go below those hundred pounds ever again. In fact, I remember a day shortly after I began recovery: walking back to the bus stop from a doctor's appointment, having weighed myself and reaching 101 pounds exactly. I took out my cell phone and texted excitedly to my best friend Beca: "I just broke 100 pounds!!" And then I called my husband and told him. I was delighted. I was happy. I was shining. I was climbing back to health.
I'm at that point now, and more. And I'm ready to go down a little, just a little because I'm okay with how I am.
I realize that everyone is very different. There are women my height who weigh 90 pounds and are quite healthy, other women my height who weigh 130 pounds and are quite healthy. In the end, the set point isn't about the weight that makes you look attractive to society; it's the weight that your body is best at, healthiest at, and ultimately most beautiful.

Still thinking.
brightrosefox: (Default)
http://www.mirror-mirror.org/set.htm
So, if this is true, then I think I know what my own set point is. Currently, my set point seems to be between 104 pounds and 114 pounds. Excluding fluid retention, bloating, heavy meals, and natural fluctuations, I've never gone above 114 pounds, not more than two or three pounds that always went back down quickly. I remember than being below 104 made me look sick and malnourished, and obviously my body was not meant to be than skinny. And my body knew that.

When I hit puberty at age eleven, I stopped growing taller than 4'11. I weighed 88 pounds. I stayed that way for a couple of years, then gained maybe seven pounds and stayed that way throughout high school. Throughout my teenage years I never went above 100 pounds. I ate healthily, I was as active as I could be with cerebral palsy and other health conditions. My metabolism was hummingbird fast.
When I entered college, I did gain weight, as many freshman do. Not the classic 15; only 8. I stepped on a scale at the campus gym, and when the scale read 101, I panicked, I admit it. I honestly believed that I "needed" to be under 100 pounds, because of my height. Over the next couple of weeks, those eight pounds disappeared with all the running around and sparse eating I did, and I was secretly extremely relieved. But I was not yet trapping myself in the endless loop of anorexic thinking.
When I was 21, at the end of the summer, I noticed that I was gaining some great muscle tone. My hips looked slim, my waist had a nice supermodel curve. I weighed approximately 98 pounds and I certainly could have gained five or ten more pounds and looked even better, but at that moment, in the full length mirror, I was thrilled with what I saw.
I believe that was the beginning. Some say than in regards to eating disorders, "genetics creates the gun, environment loads it, and extreme emotional experiences fire the ED bullet." I think that's very very apt. That's basically how it was with me.
For the next four years, I plummeted. I decided that weighing above a hundred pounds was unacceptable. Originally, I had been afraid of the college campus food, but once that concern subsided, what was left was far, far worse. The disorder had taken over and was eating me alive. My body struggled desperately to get to the lowest end of a set point it had never known. And I wouldn't let it. Not until one day, four years almost to the day, when I broke free.
So. Whether or not the set point theory works for everybody is not something I want to debate. But if my set point leaves me destined to have these curves and this padding, then I'm happy with that. I honestly do not want to go below those hundred pounds ever again. In fact, I remember a day shortly after I began recovery: walking back to the bus stop from a doctor's appointment, having weighed myself and reaching 101 pounds exactly. I took out my cell phone and texted excitedly to my best friend Beca: "I just broke 100 pounds!!" And then I called my husband and told him. I was delighted. I was happy. I was shining. I was climbing back to health.
I'm at that point now, and more. And I'm ready to go down a little, just a little because I'm okay with how I am.
I realize that everyone is very different. There are women my height who weigh 90 pounds and are quite healthy, other women my height who weigh 130 pounds and are quite healthy. In the end, the set point isn't about the weight that makes you look attractive to society; it's the weight that your body is best at, healthiest at, and ultimately most beautiful.

Still thinking.
brightrosefox: (Default)
http://www.mirror-mirror.org/set.htm
So, if this is true, then I think I know what my own set point is. Currently, my set point seems to be between 104 pounds and 114 pounds. Excluding fluid retention, bloating, heavy meals, and natural fluctuations, I've never gone above 114 pounds, not more than two or three pounds that always went back down quickly. I remember than being below 104 made me look sick and malnourished, and obviously my body was not meant to be than skinny. And my body knew that.

When I hit puberty at age eleven, I stopped growing taller than 4'11. I weighed 88 pounds. I stayed that way for a couple of years, then gained maybe seven pounds and stayed that way throughout high school. Throughout my teenage years I never went above 100 pounds. I ate healthily, I was as active as I could be with cerebral palsy and other health conditions. My metabolism was hummingbird fast.
When I entered college, I did gain weight, as many freshman do. Not the classic 15; only 8. I stepped on a scale at the campus gym, and when the scale read 101, I panicked, I admit it. I honestly believed that I "needed" to be under 100 pounds, because of my height. Over the next couple of weeks, those eight pounds disappeared with all the running around and sparse eating I did, and I was secretly extremely relieved. But I was not yet trapping myself in the endless loop of anorexic thinking.
When I was 21, at the end of the summer, I noticed that I was gaining some great muscle tone. My hips looked slim, my waist had a nice supermodel curve. I weighed approximately 98 pounds and I certainly could have gained five or ten more pounds and looked even better, but at that moment, in the full length mirror, I was thrilled with what I saw.
I believe that was the beginning. Some say than in regards to eating disorders, "genetics creates the gun, environment loads it, and extreme emotional experiences fire the ED bullet." I think that's very very apt. That's basically how it was with me.
For the next four years, I plummeted. I decided that weighing above a hundred pounds was unacceptable. Originally, I had been afraid of the college campus food, but once that concern subsided, what was left was far, far worse. The disorder had taken over and was eating me alive. My body struggled desperately to get to the lowest end of a set point it had never known. And I wouldn't let it. Not until one day, four years almost to the day, when I broke free.
So. Whether or not the set point theory works for everybody is not something I want to debate. But if my set point leaves me destined to have these curves and this padding, then I'm happy with that. I honestly do not want to go below those hundred pounds ever again. In fact, I remember a day shortly after I began recovery: walking back to the bus stop from a doctor's appointment, having weighed myself and reaching 101 pounds exactly. I took out my cell phone and texted excitedly to my best friend Beca: "I just broke 100 pounds!!" And then I called my husband and told him. I was delighted. I was happy. I was shining. I was climbing back to health.
I'm at that point now, and more. And I'm ready to go down a little, just a little because I'm okay with how I am.
I realize that everyone is very different. There are women my height who weigh 90 pounds and are quite healthy, other women my height who weigh 130 pounds and are quite healthy. In the end, the set point isn't about the weight that makes you look attractive to society; it's the weight that your body is best at, healthiest at, and ultimately most beautiful.

Still thinking.
brightrosefox: (Default)
I went to the doctor's this morning for my annual gyno exam, which as always was fine and normal. A nurse took my weight and height before the exam. And I suppose the height number needs to be acknowledged, and I need to admit that the pediatrician who measured me at eleven, when I hit puberty, may have made a mistake. I am an inch shorter than I have always thought. I'll change it in my userinfo and come to terms with being four ten and a quarter.
*pause*
No, I'm not happy. But I am in a healthy weight range, still thin even. I feel perfectly fine, and while I am not okay with my body, I like it most days.
If I exercise and eat well and lose ten pounds, it won't bother me. Twenty pounds would, since I would be back where I started in the anorexia years. But I do enjoy the cleavage when enhanced by push-up bras, and the way my closest friends compliment my backside constantly.

*chews lip*

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