Fiona Apple once said, “Don’t waste
your crazy,” and I don’t intend to. I’m full of subtly erratic energy that
needs to be channeled into something creative lest I waste myself on reality TV
marathons and mild bouts of OCD. You know you’ve got a problem on your hands
when you make viewing appointments with
The
Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Don’t get me wrong – certain reality
shows have their place in society, provided that the participants do more than
bicker and swill wine. Still, I doubt Fiona exhausts her cerebral gas tank on such
nonsense, and I don’t think I should continue to do so, either. So after what
feels like a lifetime of good-natured nagging from my mother, I’ve decided to
start a blog. I have to seize the moment, I have to shape my future, and I have
to spend my “crazy” on something worthwhile.
I wanted to first address an issue
that I’ve encountered time and time again on the Internet: the idea that fat
acceptance and fat blogging are dangerous tools. I could simply say that my
body and the bodies of fat bloggers everywhere are no one’s business but our
own, and that’s true. My health is none of your concern. What’s truly troubling
and, in my opinion, in need of acknowledgment is the inaccurate assumption that
fat blogs accomplish nothing, when I possess firsthand experience that states
otherwise. Let me give you a scenario: I’m in grade school, living on the
outskirts of the popular girls’ inner circle. They like me because they’ve
known me since kindergarten, but they’re beginning to struggle with the truth
of my nature: I’m fat, and according to our culture, that’s a bad thing. I’m
slowly but surely being ushered out of the group, desperately clinging to the
small scraps thrown out by my former friends. In a bid to reassert my
worthiness, I all but force my mom to take me to the same store where all of the
cool girls shop. Only I can’t fit into the pants, or the shirts, or the
dresses. I can only buy accessories, which, while not sizist, are stark
indicators of my differentness.
The shopping monster was
persistent. Throughout grade school, middle school, and high school, buying
clothes was a struggle. While other girls my age had their pick of the newest
and the trendiest, I was relegated to what would fit my body. I was defined by
my size, not by my tastes. I vividly remember spending hours digging through
dumpy, middle-aged sacks, becoming frustrated with the way the world of fashion
seemed to ignore my demographic entirely. I wanted to scream to those mirrored
security cameras that watched me like giant unflinching eyes: “I exist!
Acknowledge me!” Naturally, that sort of alienation takes a toll on a young
woman’s self esteem. Why was I different? I asked myself that question every
single day amidst snickers and stares, pranks and outright name-calling. And
the constant judgments eventually manifested themselves as a deeply rooted
depression that still lingers inside of me today.
It wasn’t until a few years ago
that I discovered the fat acceptance movement and realized that there were
alternatives to self-pity. In following blogs run by intelligent, beautiful,
fearless fat women, I began to understand that fat was only a bad thing because
I, like so many people, allowed society to tell me so. In reality, fat is little
more than a descriptive word, no different than saying I’m short, or I’m
brunette. But more than that, these blogs taught me that I need to put up or shut
up. Anyone who’s tried to lose weight knows what a battle it can be, and since
I’d been experimenting with diets since I was a kid, I knew that my fat wasn’t
going anywhere. So I could either continue to wallow in my own pool of grease
and tears, or I could adopt a positive outlook and a confidence that transcends
my size. I’d already wasted too many years hiding from my life, and for that
reason, the choice was easy.
By allowing myself to be happy and
by denying others the right to dictate the tone of my life, I’ve become an
activist in my very existence. The simple act of walking down the street with
my head held high is a middle finger to the people who would keep me down for
their own sakes. I’m not living for them – I’m living for me. I’m not saying
that what I’m doing is going to save the world, because it’s not. I understand
that my small ounce of activism is a drop in the bucket. But like the rallying
cry of the feminist movement, “the personal is political,” the small is big,
the everyday eternal. We live our lives in moments that build to something
greater than ourselves, and I’m trying my best to make every moment count.
If you still doubt the power of fat
acceptance, look to the hundreds of fat blogs that seem to multiply by the day.
Look to the pages of
InStyle and
Marie Claire, both of which feature
monthly columns by and for plus-size women. And most importantly, look to the
shopping choices that have infinitely improved since I stood in that frumpy
department store plus section all those years ago. There are trendy, stylish,
appropriately sized options for women of my size and beyond, and that tells me
that someone, somewhere, is finally acknowledging me.
