naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
So this video came across my Tumblr dash, and it triggered a rant.
Basically, the gist is this: a researcher fed volunteers milkshakes. One group got milkshakes that were labeled as low-calorie. The other group got milkshakes labeled as high-calorie. The group given the “high-calorie” milkshakes felt less hungry afterward.

This is an interesting example of the placebo effect, for sure. However, it is now being bandied about as “You can change your metabolism with your miiind!” And, predictably, people are discussing it almost solely in the context of weight-loss dieting. As if it offers hope.



Because I’d like it preserved for posterity, here’s what I said on Tumblr (with a few minor edits):

The fact that this works for one feeding with a single milkshake means nothing. It’s basically a trick to fool your body into feeling fuller, temporarily, but it says nothing about how your body treats hunger over the long term.

See, there are three kinds of hunger.

There’s mechanical hunger, which is your stomach being empty and growling. It says “PUT FOOD IN YOUR STOMACH.”

There’s mouth hunger or aesthetic hunger, which is your need to eat food that satisfies you psychologically. Comfort food, the native foods of your culture, foods whose tastes and textures satisfy you innately. It says “PUT YUMMY THINGS IN YOUR MOUTH!”

And there’s chemical hunger. Chemical hunger is craving … something. That feeling you get when you don’t eat enough fruit for a while, and suddenly you crave citrus. The feeling you get when you are bleeding from your vagina for the tenth day in a row, and would literally murder old ladies for a steak and/or a bucket of bone marrow. The feeling you get when, for no reason you can name, you crave something like almonds or anchovies or really dark chocolate. At its most immediate, it’s the low-blood-sugar shakes and dizziness. At its most insidious, it’s the thing that leads you to eat and eat until you are satisfied. It says “MEET YOUR NUTRITIONAL REQUIREMENTS BECAUSE YOUR CELLS ARE STARVING, YOU NUMBSKULL.”

Reduced ghrelin may not have much effect on mouth hunger, and it absolutely isn’t going to affect chemical hunger. It will affect mechanical hunger, but only for a short time.

As someone who, out of a hateful illness, starved herself for years like nobody else could do it right, I probably know more about actual hunger than most people ever, ever will. I can tell you all kinds of things about it. Things you probably don’t want to know, honestly.

I can tell you right now that I tried all the tricks.

I tried using smaller plates.

I tried drinking loads of water before each meal.

I tried chewing slowly. (SOOOO SLOWLY.)

I tried filling up on really bulky, low-calorie foods.

I tried really small, frequent meals.

I mean, if there was a trick, I tried it. If I’d known about this, I’d have tried this too.

And none of the tricks worked. I was still hungry pretty much every few hours, and the less I ate, the less time it took for me to get hungry. Eventually, I was hungry all the time. Like, I was so hungry I stopped being able to feel mechanical hunger.

No, stop, think about it. My body had become so used to my stomach being empty that it stopped sending me those signals completely. And yet … I was hungry. All the time. Even when I satisfied my mouth hunger, I was hungry. I needed to eat. I can’t even describe what that felt like, except to say that it was overpowering.

When I finally started recovering, I ate whatever I wanted. And for two years, two years, all I wanted to eat was salt, fat, sugar. For several months, I still never felt hungry, but I couldn’t stop eating. I would eat until I felt physically sick, and I still WANTED to eat more. Because I had been starving myself, and that is what starving yourself does.

Because my body knew, it knew, that 700 calories a day was not 2,000 calories a day. It knew it was starving. It thought it was dying.

You cannot fool that. You cannot permanently change your body’s metabolism with tricks. Just because it works once doesn’t mean it will work the nine hundredth time you try it.

So, unless it can trick your body into literally thinking that 100 calories is 300 calories forever and ever, your weight loss tricks are not going to work forever, you will rebound, you will gain back the weight you lose.

Research like this is useful, because knowing how the human body and mind interact is useful.

Research like this in the hands of people who aren’t qualified to draw conclusions from it is not useful. This will no doubt somehow enter the vocabulary of weight-loss “tricks” intended to help desperate and misguided people fool themselves into thinking they are smarter than the literal cells in their body, when they are not. And that is a sad thing.

So for the people saying “If you think of your kale/wheatgrass/quinoa/goat placenta smoothie as really indulgent, you won’t feel hungry afterward!”, you’re wrong. Do it often enough, and you’ll feel hungry constantly.

There’s not a shortcut. I don’t recommend weight-loss dieting to anyone, but if you’re going to pursue it — again, just don’t do this if you still believe all the crap about being thin being a somehow magical state that will insulate you from all kinds of physical and psychological and social ills — you should know that you are working against literally every cell of your body. There’s not a work-around for that. It is a bone-scraping, desperate hunger you will feel every minute of every day, worse and worse the longer you go.

Clever “tricks” like this are sops thrown to you to say “Look, look, it’s easy, look how easy it is! Look how stupid the human body is! Look how much more powerful your brain is! You can totally fool yourself out of being a meat-popsicle that craves fat and starch and salt if you just work at being satisfied with less.”

Lies.

All they do is make it easier to start, and easier to keep limping along pretending nothing is wrong, when you can feel with every fiber of your being that there is.

Whenever new “science” shows something that implies, from research based on a single event, one single meal or item of food, that there is a faster way to lose weight, or an easier way to not feel hungry, give it the stinkiest of all stink-eyes. Because one meal? One meal more or less is not hunger. Not really. The measure of hunger is what happens once you have depleted your body’s reserves enough for it to start eating itself away … and then you keep going. And going. And going. What you feel then is hunger.

You know what else probably kills your appetite? Videos of surgery. Nobody’s suggesting that we take up watching those before our meals so we don’t feel like eating as much. And if we did? We’d get used to it pretty fast, as the large number of surgeons, nurses, veterinarians, and techs who can still eat will attest.

They get over it because our bodies need food. We need to eat, both physically and psychologically, to be healthy. And that is stronger than pretty much any other urge we have except maybe thirst — I don’t know, I never tried to dehydrate myself to death. Hunger takes longer to kill you. (And yeah, you feel every minute of it.) It is stronger than the urge to lick Ben Barnes. Stronger than the urge to pet kittens. I could stop thinking about those things for hours at a time. I never forgot that I was hungry.

Also, as one final note, there’s a huge error in this research. Food is not neutral, okay? We have such a guilt complex around food these days that if I give a random person a 600-calorie treat, it’s 99% certain that they will feel some guilt. And they will feel less guilt over a 100-calorie treat. And guilt? A surprisingly good appetite-killer. Which is why the diet industry is so huge on guilt and shame. So unless you could find someone who had literally no associations with food/calories/guilt — and these days, even finding tiny children who do not have that is going to be a job of work — your study might be measuring something other than what you think it is.

(And guilt doesn’t work long-term, either. I was still hungry enough after four years of 700 calories a day to eat a whole goddamn box of Pop-Tarts. I felt pretty fucking guilty after the first one. I still ate them all, and every piece of fruit in the house.)

(Also, anyone who expects you to endure that sort of hunger just to access a higher tier of respect in the pecking order is a fucking douchebag and you can safely disregard anything they say as toxic bullshit.)

Ugh. Rant over. I’m going to go eat something bad for me, because I fucking can. The best way not to feel hungry — eat when you want to eat.
naamah_darling: The Punisher skull with a red ribbon barrette. (Punisher Ribbon)
Last night I had a dream I was in some sort of godforsaken upscale organic food market place, like Whole Foods, and this really cute woman in a nice suit came up to me and tried to sell me her weight loss plan thing.

She was like "We have this revolutionary new system that will allow you to--"

And I was like "Get. The FUCK. Away from me."

And she kind of backed up and sat down in a chair that was by the wall, eyes wide, and I felt a little bad for being so angry so I explained the whole deal to her. I told her I was an eating disorder survivor, that my body was nobody else's business unless I chose to make it so, that I might not be happy with it but that it still deserved love and shouldn't be starved, and that what she was doing -- I was adamant on this point -- was genuinely hurting people.  And she needed to stop encouraging people to do this to themselves.  And if she was doing it to herself, she needed to stop it.

I told her about the books I'd read that set me straight, took her notebook away and wrote down the names and titles, and gave it back. And because it was a dream, I knew that I had planted the seeds of doubt, and that she would change her mind and stop doing what she was doing.

And I think that was a pretty amazing dream to have. I literally wasn't buying what she was selling.  I've had other dreams like it, but that was especially good.  A dress rehearsal for when I have to meet the new doctor I'll be seeing late this month, I guess.  I've already called the office and explained the deal, and I explained it again on my intake forms, but that doesn't always do the trick.

So yeah, I think that's a victory of some kind.  We are at the mercy, in dreams, of what we really think about ourselves.  There's no filter there.  And yet, all this time, it's been in dreams I've seen the first flashes of acceptance.  Meaning it's been there the whole time, quietly growing without me knowing about it.  A dream like this is proof of that.  Proof of how far I've come.

I am pleased.  I am really pleased.

(Originally published at Silver Into Steel.)

naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Stabbity at Not Just Bitchy brings us "Oh, just stop worrying about what other people think", which is a nice thought-provoking read that can be summed up by this worth its weight in gold quote:

A depressingly common piece of advice I’ve seen given is to "just stop worrying about what other people think". That’s not advice, that’s a goal.


FUCKING A. The piece is about the difficulty submissive men have accepting their identities and shrugging of societal pressures, which is a fantastic thing to be talking about. The entirety of it also applies to basically everything else. I'm feeling it on the "being a big fat fatty" front, and the "being a crazy person now officially on disability" front especially, those being more or less the only remaining difficult things I am still struggling with accepting in myself.

Even though it's not as orderly as I'd like, here is my comment, distilling what I've learned about Not Caring What People Think. I am not an expert on this, but I've been around the block a couple of times, and I do think that what I have to say has potential value to people struggling. I offer it here in the hopes that it might help someone. Cheers. (Discussion welcome.)

Naamah says:

This applies to SO DAMN MANY of the ways in which we are encouraged to feel shitty about ourselves.

It’s not even about not caring what people think. As you point out, we all have to care what people think to some extent just on a practical level, and we all NEED approval from at least some people in order to feel fully human.

It’s a matter of narrowing your focus, until it’s ONLY the opinions of PEOPLE who matter to you THAT matter to you on an emotional level. That’s a thing I learned to ask myself often: Does that person matter to you? Do they have power over you? Now, do you REALLY care what they think? Sometimes the answer to one of the first two is yes, but more often, the answer is no, and I can feel free to be outraged by their bigotry but not personally hurt in the feels by it. You cannot allow yourself to define your value primarily by what people who do not value you think. Un-learning that, internalizing it, is difficult.

I don’t have to deal with this on the basis of being a submissive man, but I am fat, and I’m disabled, and so I have a lot to fight against when it comes to people looking down on folks like me, and I have had to undo a hell of a lot of damage. It’s a lot of work. So pardon me if I wax intersectional, and kind of random.

I try to surround myself with supportive people and supportive energy. And by “people” I absolutely do mean online contact. Tumblr has been great for that. I try to find places where people talk about their experiences, both positive and negative. I try to find people like me that I think are awesome and that I admire, and I remind myself “X person is fat, and she is awesome, and I LOVE her because she is an awesome fatty, and I am also fat, which means I CAN BE AWESOME TOO.” I remind myself that X person is also bipolar, and one of the best people I know, which means that I can be good, too.

Whenever I can — and I realize that this is something that’s difficult and risky for many people for many reasons — I start conversations. I talk about being mentally ill on my Livejournal a lot, and part of the reason for that is to increase visibility of people like me, so that others won’t feel as alone, and will have a space to talk about stuff if they’d like to that isn’t their own space, subject to scrutiny in a different way.

Another part of the reason is that doing all that talking has REALLY helped me come to terms with a lot of what I’ve had to deal with. It has helped me sort out feelings, and boosted my confidence, even when I am talking about being scared and hurt. Saying “here I am, this is who I am, this is what I am,” even if I am only saying it TO MYSELF in a private entry or in my print journal, helps. So I suppose I’m recommending something I always found annoying when people recommended it to me: journaling. But writing down the truth of yourself, writing your own story, can help you see the value and validity of it.

A lot of it comes down to that: seeing, believing in, your own value. And when you believe in your own value, you stop caring as much what people think. Rather, you do care, I — maybe most people — probably can’t ever stop caring that some people think I am pathetic scum, but it stops hurting as much. (Then you might go through a phase where you’re full-time pissed off, but that’s better than pain, and after that comes the blissful not-giving-a-single-fuck phase, which is glorious and worth the trip.) If someone looks at you like a bug, when they make it obvious they think you are worthless, you become offended THAT they think that, but WHAT they think stops hurting as much, because you’ve moved past feeling that about yourself. Does that make sense?

I consume media where people like me are represented favorably, when I can. This is often difficult, and I am sure it’s difficult for submissive men to find that sort of representation in a non-porn context (not that there’s anything wrong with porn, I love it — when it’s not fetishizing my identity in a gross way — but I don’t find porn featuring fat women empowering in the way that I find other stories and imagery empowering — people in porn are not often depicted as fully-realized people, just snapshots of parts of a person’s identity, but not a depiction of a whole person or character).

I am creative, so I have that outlet too. I can use that to tell stories or make art that affirm my identity. Not something everyone can do, but it should not be neglected for those who can. It can be very powerful. And I’m not talking about serious FINE ART shit, here, I’m talking about I make a custom My Little Pony and decide that part of her backstory includes having a girlfriend on another pirate ship, or I decide that the boy pony I made out of a girl pony is in fact a little trans pony. I draw fat mermaids giving people the finger. LITTLE things. Playful things. Silly, but that shit is actually really affirming.

And I have tried to create a support network — everything from doctors to friends to professional contacts — where as few people as possible are douchebags, so that the majority of my important interactions are safe. This is not possible for many people in all circumstances, and I understand that all too well, but it’s something worth striving for, and something to be aware of. It’s worth clinging to the relationships that don’t make you feel shitty about yourself, and reminding yourself that THOSE are the people who really matter. “Asshole McFuckstick thinks I am scum, and I have to deal with him every day, and that’s toxic, but Joe Awesome and Kickass Jane are good friends to me, and my online support group of People Who Are Actually Incredibly Cool is full of people who Get It, and one of my parents loves me.”

A lot of this feels to me hopelessly inadequate, because so many of these things are terrifically complicated on their own, or they are things that aren’t accessible to everyone, or they are things that aren’t going to appeal to some people or help some people (journaling, for instance, is not always good for people, it just makes things worse for some people by causing them to dwell on the bad/scary things — not how it works for me, but that’s why it’s a potential tool only, and not a solution).

We crave approval. This isn’t learning to not need approval, it’s learning to give it to yourself in enough measure to sustain you so that you are not seeking it from sources that are more likely to harm you. It’s learning to hold yourself up until you can hopefully form a support network around you, and if you can’t, if you have to go it alone for a long time, it’s learning to bounce back from the blows — ’cause you can’t avoid getting hit. You just can’t.

It’s a constant struggle to retain your sense of worth in the face of deeply ingrained society disapproval. The final piece of advice I can offer is that you aren’t going to win that struggle overnight, and it’s not a steady thing. You will be at 70% one day, and the next day is a bad day and you are down to 15% again. And those days are not failures. They are part of the process. You weather them, and in doing so you learn you can weather them, and they stop having as much power over you.

Gregory above points out that it requires a strong sense of self. That’s so very true. And a strong sense of self is not something everyone just HAS. I sure as hell didn’t. I grew up being told I was a spoiled, worthless, cowardly brat. I had to develop it, it took time, it was hard, some of the hardest shit I’ve ever had to do, and at the same time it was deeply worth it and deeply rewarding.

I wish anyone struggling with it the best of luck, and strength, and peace, and I offer my assurance that it’s a *skill* and you will get *better* with practice.
naamah_darling: The Punisher skull with a red ribbon barrette. (Punisher Ribbon)
I just wanna rant for a minute here.

So, what with the whole kerfuffle about Papa John's and Hostess and, a while back, Chik-Fil-A, there's been a lot of food-related assholery going around. Corporate douchebags doing what they do best: acting like total pricks.

And people justifiably protesting this stuff are becoming part of a different problem: food-shaming. Y'all, I can barely read a Facebook post or a Tumblr reblog or comments to something on LJ that doesn't eventually – or immediately – degenerate into food shaming. Which rapidly degenerates into body shaming.

"OMG that stuff is disgusting/bad for you/why Baby Jesus cried." "You shouldn't eat that crap anyway! You should eat healthier!" "That stuff contains pellets of arsenic/baby brains/cat poop dirt from an old woman's garden!" "Why don't you just cook? It's easier/better/healthier/cheaper/more fun to make your own!" "It makes you fat anyhow. Calories calories fat fat fat OMFG CANCER." "Maybe Americans wouldn't be so fat and unhealthy if they quit eating this stuff anyway. CHILDHOOD OBESITY EPIDEMIC! TAXPAYER MONEY! LARD-RELATED FINANCIAL RUIN!" And so on.

Can we not? Can we just . . . not? Okay? Because people are gonna eat what people are gonna eat, and I don't think that anyone is laboring under the misconception that Twinkies, Ding Dongs, chicken nuggets fried in crack, and that delicious cinnamon dessert pizza is good for us on a nutritional level. I mean, maybe there are some benighted souls who have not yet been exposed to enough health fearmongering that they aren't yet aware that eating anything but fat-free organic produce watered with unicorn tears, fertilized with fairy dust, and picked fresh by virgins bathed daily in the milk of flying white horses will make them fat and then kill them. But odds are, you are not friends with them on Facebook, Livejournal, Tumblr, or anywhere else. Odds are, they cannot read. And frankly, I think we should leave them comfortably languishing in ignorance for as long as possible, because honestly, that fearmongering hateful bullshit is far more harmful than a handful of Little Debbies.

So on a bigger level, just don't give people shit for eating "unhealthy" food.

Food deserts are real. I once lived in a neighborhood where the nearest supermarket with produce was . . . Jesus . . . six, seven miles away? Across a huge highway, through a series of really, really bad neighborhoods. You could not walk there. Bus routes in this city are a joke, and buses stop running at night, so you're fucked anyway if you have a job with weird hours. Not everyone can bike, or hike, especially in the boiling heat or deathly cold, which describes Oklahoma nine months out of the year, or if they have allergies, which is a problem for about the same amount of time. Or if they have small children.

Some stores have horrible food, period. The nearest store to us has a produce section. The stuff I bring home from it sometimes goes bad within hours of coming in the door. I should take a camera down there and just take a picture of the apples, then do the same for the apples at the good store, across the river where the rich people live. Sure, the apples at the "good" place are sometimes second-rate. But the apples at the Poverty Mart a mile away are bruised, dented, mushy, puckered, have slashes in them, are misshapen and often really small, or they are just plain unripe and give me the shits. Sometimes they are unripe AND bruised and mushy. It's fucked. They are certainly not organic -- not that I care, although I've had people hollering down my neck that I should for many years now. But the shitty apples are cheap. So I eat them if that's all we can afford that week. Unless they are unripe. Then I have some cookies. The broccoli at that place sometimes bends almost 90 degrees before it snaps. The carrots are leathery. The lettuce is all iceberg, and it's sweet because it's already going over. Berries? They have 'em, but they are fuckass expensive. I don't know if they're good, I can't afford to try them. Stores in poor areas get horrible produce. Rich people who shop at high-line stores don't realize this, I think, or they don't realize the scope of the problem, but it's true.

Don't start with me on farmer's markets. Don't. It's not happening. Too much walking, too many people, incompatible hours, too much being out of the house, too much of an anxiety disorder.

I realize this is sometimes super-hard for people who love cooking to grok, but some folks hate cooking. I mean, it makes us miserable to do it, actually sad. Some of us can't handle doing it every day. Some of us don't have the fridge space to store adequate fresh food, or frozen pre-made healthy meals. Some of us don't have fridges that work at all. Some of us have no kitchen space to prepare food. Some of us would rather spend time doing other stuff than cooking. Some of us have no time to prepare or plan meals. Or we don't have the mental or emotional energy to do it. Sometimes, on a party day or game day, you don't want to have to cook, because you've got nine other things going on and you're doing them all with one hand.

Some of us don't know how to cook. "It's not hard" doesn't help anyone; unless you are willing to come and teach in person, or offer detailed advice, don't go there. I appreciate that some people like it, and that it's easier than it looks, but I'm not learning before I am ready, period, thanks. And I won't be ready until I am not so fucking tired and batshit crazy that I'll often wait three hours to take my meds in the morning because I am too fucked to get up and get a drink of goddamn water because the cats knocked over the one I leave standing next to my meds basket.

Grow your own? I'd LOVE to have a garden, but that is not happening. I'm sun-sensitive, I have allergies, I don't have the energy for upkeep, let alone getting it started.

Some of us like shitty food. We find it comforting. It's filling. It's satisfying. It's sweet. It's got that slippery mouth-feel from all the fat that people love to scream and shit themselves about. It's crappy in a way that a lot of folks find enjoyable. And those are all legitimate things to like about things like Twinkies and those "chocolate" donuts that taste like candle wax and sweetened paper pulp. Yes, other foods are satisfying and happy-making as well, but, oh, hey, I just got a bulletin from Under A Rock University's Center for the Study of Really Obvious Things:

NOBODY HAS TO FUCKING JUSTIFY OR DEFEND THEIR FOOD CHOICES TO YOU, EVER. It really is that simple.

Some of us don't do our own shopping. Some of us don't have time or energy to argue with the other people in the household about what gets bought. That sounds lazy, like a cop-out, but it's not. When you live a rough life, and you don't have many emotional resources, and you live with people with totally different food tastes than yours, sometimes it's easier – and cheaper – to compromise and get the fucking Little Debbies that you both like, rather than get more expensive stuff for two people.

Some of us genuinely, for-real, put our "health" second, behind our emotional well-being. The fact that people get all het up about physical health, and think that emotional health should come second, is a seriously fucked-up manifestation of ableism, and a seriously fucked-up manifestation of just how deeply we equate "healthy" with "looking fuckable" (i.e. thin). If you start up with that shit to my face, it makes me want to puke Twinkie goo all over your sandals. Food, and how we acquire, prepare, store, and eat it, is actually a huge part of our emotional well-being. As far as I am concerned, my mental health is all I have, because if I lose the delicate balance on that, then I commit suicide, and if I do that, all those petty concerns about trans fats and empty calories and just have a fucking celery stick and some peanut butter go straight out the window. Giving me hack about how/what I eat? Not cool. At all. Because it is basically attacking my coping mechanisms and how I administer emotional care to myself. Do I have to explain, really, how not-okay that is?

As a sub-point of the above, some of us are recovering from ugly food issues. Shut up about us eating Twinkies. There was a time when I was so mentally fucked I would have had a breakdown if you'd made me eat one. The fact that I can eat them without blinking now is a fucking victory, fuck you. They are little golden trophies of I AM NOT STARVING MYSELF ANYMORE. Every bite is a raised middle finger to that skinny cunt inside me who WANTED ME TO KILL MYSELF because I was so fat I deserved it. So, you know, leave off.

And, finally, anyone who resorts to fat-shaming on the topic needs to have their head surgically extracted from their rectal cavity before they asphyxiate.

You may have YOUR reasons for not eating that stuff, and that's actually cool. I'm down with that. But don't you give people shit about THEIR reasons for eating it. You are not them. You do not know their deal. And even if they are a lazy-ass slovenly bastard who is too stupid not to be fat, or whatever dumb-shit thing you are thinking, that is none of your business, either. You can't shame someone out of being unhealthy, unsightly, or just generally not to your liking. Shocking, I know, but it's true. Otherwise, I would be a very different and much less entertaining person. Or I wouldn't exist. I can't quite tell. And pardon me, but I think that not having me in it would actually make the world a worse place. Not by much, maybe, but I do good things for people and animals, I make my friends laugh, I help people find things in the craft store I don't even work at, and I sometimes tell people they look beautiful if it seems unlikely to me that they realize it.

Also, don't fucking let these corporate assholes off the hook. At all. Okay? They are greedy shitheads. We don't need to talk about how shitty the food is, or how bad it is for you. That's shifting the point. We need to focus on their behavior, because they are slime-sucking bastards. It wouldn't make a fucking difference if they were purveying five-star cuisine made of stardust and unicorn butter. They would still be pricks.

So hold them accountable for that. Don't slag off the food choices people make. It's fucking annoying, and missing the point.

Here endeth the lesson.
naamah_darling: Cartoony snarling wolf in profile. (Werewolf)


This picture has been going around on Facebook, and I'm getting some serious rageface whenever anyone reposts it. Again. Maybe it's because I'm having a hard time not hating the way I look this month, so it's really in the forefront of my mind just how toxic this shit is.

I appreciate the fact that our culture demands ridiculous things of women and their bodies, and that a lot of skinny models and actresses may genuinely be wrestling with some sort of eating disorder (which is, by the way, not a valid reason to sneer at them) or may genuinely be at an unhealthy weight. Believe me. Look at this colossal ass. I was still "overweight" even when I was starving myself to death! Nobody appreciates the ugliness of our ideas about body shape and size more than I do. But this picture . . . seriously?

Tearing skinny women down is not going to make the world friendlier toward anyone's body. It does not make me feel better about my own body. It does not make me feel good at all. It makes me angry. It hurts me. It makes me sad. It makes me wonder what the fuck is wrong with everyone who responded with "RIGHT ON!" or "THIS!" or "REAL WOMEN HAVE CURVES!" that they can't see that they are spreading the same body-hating bullshit they claim offends them. For all y'all's sake, I'm going to assume that if you were one of those people, you just weren't thinking.

Breaking news:

Women of ALL sizes are subjected to pressure and shame about their bodies. That goes for thin, thick, and in-between, even for women with bodies you personally think are perfect. That "perfect" woman? She gets shit from someone about how she looks -- probably most of all from herself. We ALL get shit for it. It hurts ALL of us. Whether we listen or not, whether we believe it or not, we are ALL told we are not good enough, somehow, every day. Putting down one group of women DOES. NOT. HELP.

Saying there's something wrong with thinking thin women are attractive is just as fucked as saying there's something wrong with thinking fat women are attractive. What I think is attractive and what you think is attractive and what that person over there thinks is attractive and what that priapic dog in the street thinks is attractive are complete irrelevancies. People thinking I am attractive does not make me a better person, or excuse any features that in a fuckable person might be sorta okay but are otherwise considered undesirable.

Also, size acceptance is not about who is hot and who is hotter. Being considered hot is not what chicks, fat or thin, ultimately want. I mean, it's nice to be considered attractive, but it's not the be-all end-all. It's not what confers or denies our humanity.

And, finally, asking people to accept people for the size that they are does not mean forcing anyone to find fat people (or thin ones, or ones with curly hair) attractive. Imposing standards of attractiveness on other people is not what size acceptance is about. We kind of want the opposite of that. And, frankly, if you are the kind of person who needs to find someone fuckable before you will treat them with respect, I hope your next affair with a camel gives you projectile leprosy of the junk.

I realize with all of this "We'd appreciate it awfully if you could maybe not act like an asshole!" it's pretty confusing in here. What do fat people want?

What we WANT is to be seen as people. Not as a health risk because of our size, not as part of an epidemic because of our size, not as a burden on America because of our size, not an object of ridicule because of our size, not even as a sex object because of our size. People. Not because of our size, not in spite of it. Just. People.

We WANT people to step the fuck off and stop acting like it's okay to be heavy IF you are healthy or trying to eat right or exercising well or if someone thinks you're sexy, but somehow not okay to be heavy if you are unhealthy and eat junk food and never exercise and aren't sexy at all.

We WANT this "good fatty/bad fatty" fuckery to stop. Seriously. If you think I'm gross and are all up in my shit because whenever I want to, I eat chocolate cookies and ice cream and burgers and Cheetos and 'cause I drink non-diet Coke, but would lay off and show some respect if I ate naught but fresh-plucked greens harvested from the slopes of Mount Olympus and tender baby swans braised with the tears of happy virgins and drank only water from the Well of Insufferable Perfection, because then I would at least be *trying* not to be fat at you?

If you are that person? If you think I have some kind of obligation to not be fat because it's bad for me or costs imaginary people imaginary money?

Fuck. Off. I do not want anything to do with you. You. Are. A. Douchebag. GTFO.

We WANT people not to harass or deride us about what kind of bodies we have, whether they are considered sexy or not, because our bodies are not fucking public property and do not exist for others' viewing pleasure -- they are ours, they are the only bodies we have or are ever going to get, and what someone's body looks like does not ever, ever excuse treating them with a lack of respect.

If you think that it's my job to entertain you by being attractive or by serving as the butt of your jokes . . . GTFO. I'd also like to invite you to shove a flaming chainsaw up your ass and do a little dance on the way out. You know. For my entertainment.

I'm not going to say that thin women have it just as bad as fat women. I'm also not going to say that they don't. I'm not going to say that women in the middle are the ones who are lucky. This is not the Pain Olympics, and we aren't competing for prizes in competitive self-loathing. It doesn't matter who has it worse on the whole, or individually, because these are things that nobody should have to feel. Not even a little bit. Skinny women don't somehow deserve it just a little less than fatties. Fatties don't magically deserve it more. Nobody deserves it, because we are all equal in one regard:

People. We are them. Deal with it.



And yes, you may link the fuck out of this if you feel so inclined.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Trigger warning: eating disorder recovery issues ahoy. Also, see disclaimer below.

I looked fine. At five-one and a hundred and forty pounds, I was not thin, but nor was I a size that aroused disgust or concern for my health. In fact, the extra squeezy bits were really effective camouflage for what was wrong, which is that I exercised for hours and hours every day even though I hated every second of it, and thought eating over a thousand calories in one day was a disaster.

Nobody caught it. Nobody knew. I was never formally diagnosed with anything. Officially, I never had an eating disorder.

People with eating disorders are super-skinny, right? Because they never eat, right? Or they're hugely fat, because their problem is that they can't stop eating. So just look for the chick who'd disappear into a dish towel, and the three-seater with the bucket of KFC, and you'll be able to tell who has an eating disorder, right? (Also, dudes don't get eating disorders.)

Yeah, no. That isn't how it works.

The fact that it isn't like that is a kind of proof that the less food = weight loss / more food = weight gain equation is seriously flawed. There are fat anorexics. Far more of them than anyone has ever bothered to count. I could probably have starved or exercised myself to death without ever getting under a hundred pounds . . . which is about where most folks seem to think a five-foot chick should be. My body is not meant to weigh that little.

There's this idea that if someone is truly sick, they will look sick, and this applies to eating disorders in a particularly awful way. It's not considered an illness until you get too thin. Until then, it's considered the least fatties can do.

The real sickness you can't see. It's the self-hate, the tightly-wound fear, and the anxiety and urgency to control something, anything, that propel eating disorders. And that can manifest at any size. Being fat doesn't make starving yourself okay, because it doesn't make hating yourself okay.

Before all of that, when I was what pretty much everyone would agree is "fat" (which I am again), I had people express concern for my health. Not because I looked sickly, or because I seemed to eat too much, or because I huffed and puffed and couldn't climb a single flight of stairs. Those things weren't true. Not even because I was mentally ill and was showing signs of it as early as twelve or thirteen years old, and was in obvious trouble by the time I was in my early twenties. Because I was fat. Only that. Only because of the size of my body. No other reason.

When I was at my thinnest, nobody expressed concern for my health based on my body size. I was also very, very sick.

Which tells you that assuming someone's unhealthy because they're fat is bullshit, and that assuming someone's healthy because they're thin is bullshit too, so clearly the idea of equating body size with health is pretty stupid.

To get back around to my point, nobody could see how much pain I was in. How anxious. How afraid.

What drove it, ultimately? Fear of being invisible, useless, undesirable. A desire to prove that everything I'd been told as a kid about how once you're fat, you're fat forever was wrong (which it was, not on its own merit, but because terrorizing a child with that is wrong).

But the whip I used to drive myself along, my justification for the way I was treating my body, was that fat was deadly, and every day that I didn't starve myself or exercise until I wanted to cry from boredom and hate and hunger, I was killing myself a little more. And every day I was "good," I was just a little bit immortal. Health. Because I believed the lies.

When I finally did the research and found out how wrong I was, when I finally was able to see what I'd become, it was agony. I wasn't just trying to recover from a grueling physical ordeal, I was trying to cope with the sudden awareness that I had been lied to by pretty much the whole world, and almost everyone who loved me, since I was a child. And I had to deal with the fact that I had become something I never thought myself capable of being.

Eating disorders? I never thought it could happen to me. I used to laugh at anorexic folks. That was a problem for rich white girls who had nothing else going for them and nothing better to do with their time. Seriously, how stupid do you have to be not to eat? Not very, apparently. Because that's not how it works. Nothing is that simple.

If someone had known, they might have been able to talk to me about it when it was early enough for me to shake it off or get help. Or it might not have done any good, because this sort of thing is intractable like that. Nobody is as good at not listening, at justifying, as someone in the depths of that hell. I think the only person I would have listened to is someone who had been through what I had been through, and at the time, I didn't know anyone.

So I want to say something to everybody who ever reads this. Even if you think you don't need to hear it. Even if you aren't ready to hear it. Even if you are never ready to hear it. Even if you agree but aren't ready to act on it yet. Even if you don't believe me. Even if you already know.

What value you have derives from you. Not from the shape or size of your body.

Your value as a human being does not increase the closer to the cultural ideal you are, or decrease the further from it you get. It is important that you know this, even though it's something you've probably been told countless times. It is always worth saying again.

Here's something that you might not have been told. If you are a sick person, sick like I was, the hate and pain and doubt you feel won't go away once you're thin. All of that anger and loathing and stubbornness you use to drive yourself to do just a little more, to eat just a little less, to wait just a little longer, to hold out, to overcome, to rise above and transcend something so basic and pervasive as hunger and tiredness and pain, it will not magically go away once you step on the scale for the thousand thousandth time and see that you are finally at your goal weight. It will remain there, grinding away inside you. There may come a time when you do not think you feel it, or a time when it is lying quiet, but it is still there.

You will never be able to sit back and say "I'm done, this is good enough." Because you can't. That is a part of what drives you to do what you do, it is why you are able to do extraordinary but awful things like starve yourself. Believe me. I know. If you get thin enough to not actively hate yourself, that truce is conditional. That hate is still there. If you get fat again, you'll hate yourself again.

Is love that is conditional really love? Would you accept that from another person? I'll love you unless you cut your hair. I'll love you until you start getting saggy boobs. I'll love you until you don't look twenty anymore.

I'll love you until you break a hundred and fifty pounds.

Is that love? Or is that just another lash to flog yourself with, another threat?

When I was at my worst, I used to say, I used to write in my bedside journal, "I will die before I let myself get that fat again."

I meant it at the time. I wanted it to be true. I would have preferred to die. I thought I would deserve it for allowing myself to be that weak, to get that disgusting again.

Over four years later, I am still in the process of coming out of that. It's not over yet. A part of me still crouches in the corner, hateful, resentful, stubbornly insisting that at least being dead would mean that the fat was dead, too. That I wouldn't have to look like this person who isn't me anymore. That I wouldn't have to feel a body that isn't mine all around me. And even if that part of me eventually withers up and goes away, I will always know that it was there, that I wished myself dead for something over which I have limited control at best. It's an awful thing, to know that it is possible to hate yourself that deeply. The only remedy for the awfulness is to struggle every day to forgive. And maybe, if I forgive enough, I will learn to love.

It's not easy. It is hard. Some days -- and there have been more of them as time passes -- it's only hard like ignoring something mean someone said about you back in third grade is hard. It's not that bad. But sometimes it is harder than walking twenty miles in Oklahoma August. Sometimes it is harder than saying "no" to food when at no time during the last week have you eaten more than half of what is required to keep a human being running. Sometimes, it isn't possible. Sometimes I fail, and I hate.

I am sitting here right now hating the way I look and feel, embarrassed simply because I exist, and I know that I could turn off that hate tomorrow, like flicking off a light, if I just went back to starving myself and walking twelve miles a day. It would buy me respite from the pain for as long as I was making progress. Sure, once I stalled out it would start hurting again, and sure, I'd have another breakdown once I realized -- again -- that in order to maintain even a modest weight loss, I have to exercise so much and eat so little that it actually endangers my health. But for that little time, I would not feel this sort of pain.

There are times when it seems worth it, just because the hate and the loathing and the pain are still there, and still rear up once in a while to trip me. I just have to stand firm and remind myself that this hate that comes over me, this loathing, wouldn't stop if I were a size ten, because it's not hate based on my actual size, my actual body, but based on how I feel about myself, the things I feel that I should be and am not, and cannot be.

You can't improve yourself by hating yourself. It just can't be done. I've got to remind myself of that as often as necessary, probably until the end of my life. And if I am reminding myself of it tonight, I might as well remind you, too.

Disclaimer: I'm not dissing exercise, which is wonderful if you can stomach it, nor am I saying that everyone who diets is ill. I am not up for a debate about the merits of weight-loss dieting, nor am I up for a debate about whether or not fat is inherently unhealthy, nor am I particularly interested in arguing with anyone over what they, personally, should or should not be doing, or why it's okay or not okay. The constant "But don't you realize. . . ." and "It's fine for other people, but. . . ." and "I'm not saying that. . . ." is part of what makes recovering from this shit so goddamn hard. "Well, you have to admit that there's a level of fat that is just not okay!" is actually more destructive than the stuff asshole trolls say. (That link will blow your Sanity Watcher's points, so don't click if you're not feeling up to reading some really nasty shit in addition to lolarious stupidity.) So, not having those debates here.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
New article up at Adventurotica! Free to read (as is everything on the site but the members-only story content).

Writing the plus-sized character.

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm a fat girl, and knows that I am committed to the principles of size acceptance. It's very important to me. So, in my stories, I try to make an effort to include women who are definitively not thin. There's trouble with this, though.

How do you write about a person's size so that the reader knows that they really are supposed to be capital-F Fat? A lot of sexy fiction (and unsexy fiction, but that's not our trade here) written from a woman's point of view has some version of this in the first fifty pages:

"Sexerella knew that she could stand to lose a few pounds, but nobody had ever complained about her voluptuous womanly body, and she knew that her new super-tight velveteen dress was going to look like leopard-print dynamite over her dangerous curves at the fuckerware party later that night."

Yeah.

Some readers read that and go "Well, who couldn't stand to lose a few pounds?" Others read it and go "Sheeyeah. That chick isn't fat, she's just got some meat on her bones. She's sexy and curvy."* They think that because those thoughts are familiar to them; because, as a result of nasty social conditioning, women in real life tend to have an internal monologue that goes "Holy shit, I have an ass the size of a Belgian draft horse's and nobody will ever want to fuck a woman with a horse-sized ass!"** at least a dozen times a day. That mindset doesn't seem odd.

The point being, readers don't parse that as meaning the character is actually fat. They parse it as being typical female self-deprecation, and go on to classify the character as being "sexy, not fat."


I talk a little bit about my experience writing Witches' Mark, where the heroine is decidedly a fat girl, and what it's like to write a character like that in a real-life culture that is kind of down on fat heroines, and in a genre that is notorious for marginalizing certain bodies. Any of y'all that run size/fat/body-acceptance blogs who wanted to link to it, that would be most welcome.

Also, consider joining or contributing. The free section of Sky Pirates of the Rio Grande is going to end pretty soon, so you'll want to get in on the action if you possibly can. Five bucks a month, three fiction updates a week, two articles a week, and we're only going to be adding more as time goes on.

We have around 30 subscribers right now, and our pageviews have been between 100 and 500 most days. We hit a high of 900+ at one point. These are pretty good numbers for a new site, but I would love to get them higher.

The site will continue to evolve as we work out kinks and build community. We would love for y'all to be part of that. All proceeds go toward the mortgage payment so we can keep our house, medical expenses so I can keep my health and my sanity, and this month I need a new pair of shoes.
naamah_darling: The Punisher skull with a red ribbon barrette. (Punisher Ribbon)
The context is long-gone, and I remember nothing else about the dream, but I woke up to this written on my bedside paper:

I am invited to a game of hide and seek. I point to my ass and quip: "How in the hell do you hide something that big?!" Everyone laughs.


I may have body image issues, and there are days when I have a hard time, but it is really, really nice to know that when I'm dreaming and at my most vulnerable, I retain my sense of humor about it, and don't tend to dream hateful things.

The question is still a good one, though.
naamah_darling: The Punisher skull with a red ribbon barrette. (Punisher Ribbon)
The context is long-gone, and I remember nothing else about the dream, but I woke up to this written on my bedside paper:

I am invited to a game of hide and seek. I point to my ass and quip: "How in the hell do you hide something that big?!" Everyone laughs.


I may have body image issues, and there are days when I have a hard time, but it is really, really nice to know that when I'm dreaming and at my most vulnerable, I retain my sense of humor about it, and don't tend to dream hateful things.

The question is still a good one, though.
naamah_darling: The Punisher skull with a red ribbon barrette. (Punisher Ribbon)
I'm still having memory problems, chiefly an inability to remember words when I am trying to speak and, to a lesser extent, write. Also, concentration problems, difficulty prioritizing, and a short attention span (max of ~2 hrs., after which everything dies). I'm forgetting what I was talking about in the middle of talking about it several times a day. Also, I'm making a lot more spelling errors, chiefly with homophones. This makes me so angry.

These are scary symptoms. Upping the thyroid meds was supposed to help with the dullness of thought. It has, somewhat. Not completely. I'm upping it again to see if that helps. If it doesn't . . . I don't even know. I'm worried about it, probably for no real reason, but I'm not about to let it slide. I take my brain really seriously. I don't like feeling like it's not working right. And this feels different from anything I've felt before. More stubborn, more disruptive.

Other than that, progress on the novel continues. No word yet from the potential publishers re: eligibility of the manuscript. I wish I could go on posting, because it's lonely and boring and the feedback was a real bright spot in my week as well as a powerful motivator, but . . . I have to try this.

I cut about four inches off my hair. Still well past my shoulders, but shorter than it's been in a long, long time. I love having long hair, but I've never had the kind of hair I wish I had. Mine is very fine and I don't have as much of it as I would like. Thankfully I don't need or want hair that "does" anything. I don't want it styled or anything. I just want it to be long and soft. Split ends were getting in the way of the soft part, so I cut them all off. Feels better.

Been in kind of a down patch for reasons too complicated and trivial to go into here, and no doubt the bipolar thing is playing its role as well. I'm feeling frustrated and inadequate, in no small part due to my inability to brain properly and the negative effect that is having on my ability to get shit done (which is terrible on a good day).

Amazingly! Body image woe is still at an unprecedented low following the epic ass-beating of August 02. The hate-beast has stayed pretty much quiet, despite a couple of events that should have caused terrible, terrible emotional pain. Whatever. I've just decided to not give a fuck what people think of me when I'm not trying to be attractive. I'll worry about what people think of my appearance if I'm trying to look sexy or appealing, but not before. And frankly, if I'm trying and someone still doesn't like what they see, they have a serious problem. I'm pretty, and when I make something out of it, I'm beautiful. I'm not saying I have to be everyone's type, but there really is no arguing that I'm not attractive. I wish I looked different, but . . . I can't look the way I want. And I am learning to be okay with that.

If I had known that going and getting my backside striped in front of everyone and their undead monkey was going to have such a long-lasting salutary effect, I would have done it years and years ago, and maybe never would have fallen into the sick trap of starving and abusing myself. It's at least given me a reference for what it feels like to have that particular part of my brain go quiet, so I might conceivably be able to find my way back there should I ever go too far astray. Interesting, and completely unexpected. I'm still not sure what to make of that.
naamah_darling: The Punisher skull with a red ribbon barrette. (Punisher Ribbon)
I'm still having memory problems, chiefly an inability to remember words when I am trying to speak and, to a lesser extent, write. Also, concentration problems, difficulty prioritizing, and a short attention span (max of ~2 hrs., after which everything dies). I'm forgetting what I was talking about in the middle of talking about it several times a day. Also, I'm making a lot more spelling errors, chiefly with homophones. This makes me so angry.

These are scary symptoms. Upping the thyroid meds was supposed to help with the dullness of thought. It has, somewhat. Not completely. I'm upping it again to see if that helps. If it doesn't . . . I don't even know. I'm worried about it, probably for no real reason, but I'm not about to let it slide. I take my brain really seriously. I don't like feeling like it's not working right. And this feels different from anything I've felt before. More stubborn, more disruptive.

Other than that, progress on the novel continues. No word yet from the potential publishers re: eligibility of the manuscript. I wish I could go on posting, because it's lonely and boring and the feedback was a real bright spot in my week as well as a powerful motivator, but . . . I have to try this.

I cut about four inches off my hair. Still well past my shoulders, but shorter than it's been in a long, long time. I love having long hair, but I've never had the kind of hair I wish I had. Mine is very fine and I don't have as much of it as I would like. Thankfully I don't need or want hair that "does" anything. I don't want it styled or anything. I just want it to be long and soft. Split ends were getting in the way of the soft part, so I cut them all off. Feels better.

Been in kind of a down patch for reasons too complicated and trivial to go into here, and no doubt the bipolar thing is playing its role as well. I'm feeling frustrated and inadequate, in no small part due to my inability to brain properly and the negative effect that is having on my ability to get shit done (which is terrible on a good day).

Amazingly! Body image woe is still at an unprecedented low following the epic ass-beating of August 02. The hate-beast has stayed pretty much quiet, despite a couple of events that should have caused terrible, terrible emotional pain. Whatever. I've just decided to not give a fuck what people think of me when I'm not trying to be attractive. I'll worry about what people think of my appearance if I'm trying to look sexy or appealing, but not before. And frankly, if I'm trying and someone still doesn't like what they see, they have a serious problem. I'm pretty, and when I make something out of it, I'm beautiful. I'm not saying I have to be everyone's type, but there really is no arguing that I'm not attractive. I wish I looked different, but . . . I can't look the way I want. And I am learning to be okay with that.

If I had known that going and getting my backside striped in front of everyone and their undead monkey was going to have such a long-lasting salutary effect, I would have done it years and years ago, and maybe never would have fallen into the sick trap of starving and abusing myself. It's at least given me a reference for what it feels like to have that particular part of my brain go quiet, so I might conceivably be able to find my way back there should I ever go too far astray. Interesting, and completely unexpected. I'm still not sure what to make of that.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (El Dorado: Little Voice)
TRIGGER WARNING: body image/eating disorder issues

I have started I don't know how many entries about body-image type stuff. This entry right here has been in my composition window for something like three days. Every time I start a post like this, I break it off because it feels like I have to give this long, involved history before I can talk about what is bothering me.

So maybe I should just give you the history so I can go on and talk about other stuff.

There is shit that I have never told you guys. I haven't talked about it because it's a long and painful story, and telling it always means dealing with other people's reactions to it, some of which are guaranteed to be inappropriate. This sort of thing is not something that people tend to be able to comment about in a civilized fashion. There's always someone who comes around and says "But it's fine to lose just a little weight. That's totally possible!" When, you know, way to miss the cunting point.

There is no way to talk about this honestly without making other people feel bad because they have done things or do things that hurt me. That's less of a concern that it used to be, frankly, because I am around pretty universally awesome people, but it's still a concern.

And as a result I don't talk about this shit, and it builds up.

Anyway. I just want to lay this out. Today you just get the quick version.

For several years, five or six, I was acutely ill. I was never formally diagnosed with an eating disorder, but I am pretty sure I had one. I covered it up, I hid it, I thought a lot of my dysfunctional behaviors were normal or healthy. I exercised a lot. I ate really healthy food. Isn't that what people are supposed to do? Especially fatties? And if doing those things is good, surely doing them really hard is better, right? Right?

Yeah, I can hear some of you not-laughing, because you know.

The gist of it is this:

For several years, I was eating 700-1000 calories a day, from a very limited menu of fresh vegetables and lean white meat.

For several years, I trained with weights every other day, intensively.

For several years, I was practicing dance for upwards of an hour every day, longer on days I did not do weight training.

For several years, I was walking every day for miles. Miles and miles. A bad day was not zero miles, a bad day was three miles. An "okay" day was ten. On one occasion, I walked twenty miles in circles around the local park. In addition to both of the above. That was a "really good" day. (I remember it really well. For about four hours I didn't hate myself.)

I did this six days a week.

For years.

Until I stopped being able to feel hungry because my body just got used to it as background noise.

But I didn't think I was ill.

If you are reading this and thinking that what I was doing sounds reasonable, you should probably just click away. It wasn't reasonable. It was killing me. I was going crazy from starvation. All because I wanted to be thinner. And yet, that's what our fat-hating culture would have me do, because better a dead fatty who was trying to be thin than a happy fatty who is content to remain that way. When fatties kill themselves, well, it's the least they could do, really. And if you think those views are impossibly hateful and that nobody really believes that, well, all I can do is envy your ignorance, because I would probably be happier not knowing that to a lot of people the sum total of everything I am and was and might become is unimportant enough to be completely negated by how much I weigh.

And I will never understand how it is that I came to drink that Kool-Aid. I will never understand it and on some level it will always remain unbelievable to me that I let it go on for so long. It felt like the actions of another person. It seems so out of character for me. I don't understand. I mean, there were factors in my family and childhood, yeah, I can see that now, but why didn't those come to a head when I was a teenager? Why did it wait until my late-mid twenties to start?

I managed to get down to 128 for one half of one day. Never could get below that. Never could get into the "normal" BMI category. Most of the time, because I was muscular in addition to being fleshy, I was about 140. I thought I was horribly fat. I told myself I would rather die than gain back the seventy pounds I had lost. Worse, I thought I truly deserved to die.

I had a breakdown sometime shortly after my mother died. This untenable way of life collapsed in on itself and I could no longer sustain the incredible effort it took keep it going, running as hard as I could, starving myself, exercising myself to exhaustion every day, not even to lose weight but to stay exactly where I was, with any relaxation causing an immediate uptick in my weight.

I became suicidal. A combination of starvation, a bipolar mixed state, and stress from where I was living and our monetary situation, both of which were awful. The drugs I was put on fucked me up, and I gained weight. The aftermath of starvation fucked me up worse. I gained everything back, every pound, with interest. Which is what happens when you do what I did, which was even worse than the Minnesota Starvation Experiment*, and went on for far longer.

It was reading about that experiment, actually, that jarred me out of the worst of it. Those men were living on 1,560 calories a day and were expected to walk 22 miles a week for 24 weeks -- 6 months. I was on 700-1,000 calories a day for something like three years, and at my peak I am guessing I walked half again to twice that amount.

It was, specifically, the guy who CUT OFF THREE OF HIS FINGERS and then COULD NOT REMEMBER WHETHER HE HAD DONE IT ON PURPOSE OR NOT that finally reached me. Here was a man, a young man who had passed rigorous physical and psychological health exams, and who volunteered to do this -- he knew it would end, and when -- and he couldn't make it six months in a controlled environment with a great deal of mutual support. And he didn't just wash out -- these were 36 committed, determined individuals, and only two of them, two, failed to complete the program -- he fucking CUT HIS FINGERS OFF. And was psychologically damaged enough by that point to be unsure if he had meant to do it. And again, I will emphasize: he knew when the starving would end.

When you are starving yourself to stay thin like I was, you don't know when it will end. At some point, if you are biologically like most people, you become aware that to stay where you are you will have to keep the effort up forever. That if you stop or relax even a little, you will start losing ground. At some point you realize it never will end. You stare at that fact and you can either 1) give up and let it go, gain it back, and render all of your effort meaningless and destroying the results, or you can 2) keep going and keep fucking yourself up worse, in which case you'll do #1 eventually anyway.

I put as many hours into it as some people put into jobs. It still didn't work permanently. I had been lied to my entire life. By family, friends, doctors, and every book and article I had ever read. Until I read the right book.

After reading about this, I lay down the book in which I had read about the experiment, and I went into a different room and sat there until I no longer felt like throwing up out of disgust and rage and sorrow and pain. And I stopped what I was doing to myself that day even though it hurt like ripping off my own skin. It had been building for a while, but that was the proverbial straw. The fingers.

So. That's the history. That's all the stuff that I feel like people need to know when I talk about this particular kind of pain. Some of that is stuff that I haven't said openly, all together like that.

Someday I will transcribe a bunch of entries from my handwritten journals and I will show you just how diseased my inner life had become. Someday I will scan in the scrawling sketches I did when I couldn't do anything else, the really horrifying ones. I will show you the ugliness that I didn't want to acknowledge.

That day is just not today.

Today I just want to go pretend to be someone else for a while.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (El Dorado: Little Voice)
TRIGGER WARNING: body image/eating disorder issues

I have started I don't know how many entries about body-image type stuff. This entry right here has been in my composition window for something like three days. Every time I start a post like this, I break it off because it feels like I have to give this long, involved history before I can talk about what is bothering me.

So maybe I should just give you the history so I can go on and talk about other stuff.

There is shit that I have never told you guys. I haven't talked about it because it's a long and painful story, and telling it always means dealing with other people's reactions to it, some of which are guaranteed to be inappropriate. This sort of thing is not something that people tend to be able to comment about in a civilized fashion. There's always someone who comes around and says "But it's fine to lose just a little weight. That's totally possible!" When, you know, way to miss the cunting point.

There is no way to talk about this honestly without making other people feel bad because they have done things or do things that hurt me. That's less of a concern that it used to be, frankly, because I am around pretty universally awesome people, but it's still a concern.

And as a result I don't talk about this shit, and it builds up.

Anyway. I just want to lay this out. Today you just get the quick version.

For several years, five or six, I was acutely ill. I was never formally diagnosed with an eating disorder, but I am pretty sure I had one. I covered it up, I hid it, I thought a lot of my dysfunctional behaviors were normal or healthy. I exercised a lot. I ate really healthy food. Isn't that what people are supposed to do? Especially fatties? And if doing those things is good, surely doing them really hard is better, right? Right?

Yeah, I can hear some of you not-laughing, because you know.

The gist of it is this:

For several years, I was eating 700-1000 calories a day, from a very limited menu of fresh vegetables and lean white meat.

For several years, I trained with weights every other day, intensively.

For several years, I was practicing dance for upwards of an hour every day, longer on days I did not do weight training.

For several years, I was walking every day for miles. Miles and miles. A bad day was not zero miles, a bad day was three miles. An "okay" day was ten. On one occasion, I walked twenty miles in circles around the local park. In addition to both of the above. That was a "really good" day. (I remember it really well. For about four hours I didn't hate myself.)

I did this six days a week.

For years.

Until I stopped being able to feel hungry because my body just got used to it as background noise.

But I didn't think I was ill.

If you are reading this and thinking that what I was doing sounds reasonable, you should probably just click away. It wasn't reasonable. It was killing me. I was going crazy from starvation. All because I wanted to be thinner. And yet, that's what our fat-hating culture would have me do, because better a dead fatty who was trying to be thin than a happy fatty who is content to remain that way. When fatties kill themselves, well, it's the least they could do, really. And if you think those views are impossibly hateful and that nobody really believes that, well, all I can do is envy your ignorance, because I would probably be happier not knowing that to a lot of people the sum total of everything I am and was and might become is unimportant enough to be completely negated by how much I weigh.

And I will never understand how it is that I came to drink that Kool-Aid. I will never understand it and on some level it will always remain unbelievable to me that I let it go on for so long. It felt like the actions of another person. It seems so out of character for me. I don't understand. I mean, there were factors in my family and childhood, yeah, I can see that now, but why didn't those come to a head when I was a teenager? Why did it wait until my late-mid twenties to start?

I managed to get down to 128 for one half of one day. Never could get below that. Never could get into the "normal" BMI category. Most of the time, because I was muscular in addition to being fleshy, I was about 140. I thought I was horribly fat. I told myself I would rather die than gain back the seventy pounds I had lost. Worse, I thought I truly deserved to die.

I had a breakdown sometime shortly after my mother died. This untenable way of life collapsed in on itself and I could no longer sustain the incredible effort it took keep it going, running as hard as I could, starving myself, exercising myself to exhaustion every day, not even to lose weight but to stay exactly where I was, with any relaxation causing an immediate uptick in my weight.

I became suicidal. A combination of starvation, a bipolar mixed state, and stress from where I was living and our monetary situation, both of which were awful. The drugs I was put on fucked me up, and I gained weight. The aftermath of starvation fucked me up worse. I gained everything back, every pound, with interest. Which is what happens when you do what I did, which was even worse than the Minnesota Starvation Experiment*, and went on for far longer.

It was reading about that experiment, actually, that jarred me out of the worst of it. Those men were living on 1,560 calories a day and were expected to walk 22 miles a week for 24 weeks -- 6 months. I was on 700-1,000 calories a day for something like three years, and at my peak I am guessing I walked half again to twice that amount.

It was, specifically, the guy who CUT OFF THREE OF HIS FINGERS and then COULD NOT REMEMBER WHETHER HE HAD DONE IT ON PURPOSE OR NOT that finally reached me. Here was a man, a young man who had passed rigorous physical and psychological health exams, and who volunteered to do this -- he knew it would end, and when -- and he couldn't make it six months in a controlled environment with a great deal of mutual support. And he didn't just wash out -- these were 36 committed, determined individuals, and only two of them, two, failed to complete the program -- he fucking CUT HIS FINGERS OFF. And was psychologically damaged enough by that point to be unsure if he had meant to do it. And again, I will emphasize: he knew when the starving would end.

When you are starving yourself to stay thin like I was, you don't know when it will end. At some point, if you are biologically like most people, you become aware that to stay where you are you will have to keep the effort up forever. That if you stop or relax even a little, you will start losing ground. At some point you realize it never will end. You stare at that fact and you can either 1) give up and let it go, gain it back, and render all of your effort meaningless and destroying the results, or you can 2) keep going and keep fucking yourself up worse, in which case you'll do #1 eventually anyway.

I put as many hours into it as some people put into jobs. It still didn't work permanently. I had been lied to my entire life. By family, friends, doctors, and every book and article I had ever read. Until I read the right book.

After reading about this, I lay down the book in which I had read about the experiment, and I went into a different room and sat there until I no longer felt like throwing up out of disgust and rage and sorrow and pain. And I stopped what I was doing to myself that day even though it hurt like ripping off my own skin. It had been building for a while, but that was the proverbial straw. The fingers.

So. That's the history. That's all the stuff that I feel like people need to know when I talk about this particular kind of pain. Some of that is stuff that I haven't said openly, all together like that.

Someday I will transcribe a bunch of entries from my handwritten journals and I will show you just how diseased my inner life had become. Someday I will scan in the scrawling sketches I did when I couldn't do anything else, the really horrifying ones. I will show you the ugliness that I didn't want to acknowledge.

That day is just not today.

Today I just want to go pretend to be someone else for a while.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Kate Harding has an article up at Broadsheet about the whole Kevin Smith vs Southwest Airlines / Flying While Fat thing. It's right here and I recommend you read it. It's a first-rate piece, and heartbreaking. If this can't humanize those horrible flying fat people for you, well, kindly go fuck yourself and get the fuck away from my corner of the internet.

Also, [livejournal.com profile] neintales has a good post here.

The Rotund takes it on here, discussing how you don't have to be happy with your own body to believe that other people should be treated well. WORD.

All I have to say about it is that it is absolutely fucking absurd that this cultural hatred and revulsion for fat and for fat people has gone so far. And it is offensive as hell. I'm not going to play the "last acceptable prejudice" card, because that's a pile of horse shit if ever there was one, but I am going to say that the ubiquity of this shitty fucking attitude toward other human beings based solely on what their bodies look like and how much space they take up is really goddamn tiresome, and yet I hear it even from people I otherwise respect every single day.

This kind of shit has been going on for a good long time, and only now has SWA finally put its foot in it by booting off a celebrity. It's disgusting that people will only pay attention once it affects someone they know or someone famous, but hey, if this winds up being SWA's Maytag Moment, fine. If that's what it takes to end this shit, then that is what it takes.

When you go out in public, and that includes using public transportation like airplanes, you run the risk that you will be stuck near some guy in a camo jumpsuit who smells like a combination of three-day-old onion sweat and those cherry-flavored urinal cakes (true story), some horrible woman who is loudly discussing with her friend how rape can't be rape if you enjoy it (true story), a loudmouthed business asshole constantly yowling into his cell phone at such high volume it is impossible to hear oneself think (true story), a family of seven with two kids who won't sit down and are constantly fighting with one another and one infant who screams for an hour straight (true story), some evangelizing asshole who wants you to try his god/diet/money-making plan (true story), or someone who tries fucking grope you (true story), or some fuckheaded fuckblister who fucking WHISTLES (true story).

Very few places make a policy out of throwing those sorts of people out, and fat doesn't even hold a candle to that shit. Fat's just a physical thing. It's not something that we fat people do to piss other folks off, or something that we can stop doing just to be polite. It's not bad manners to be fat, or somehow tasteless or gauche to have a body that differs from the ideal.

Bad manners is treating someone poorly because of assumptions you make based on their appearance. It's not the duty of fat people to impinge as little as possible upon the senses of those who disapprove of us. We aren't required to spend as little time as possible out in public. We have no obligation to try to lose weight just to make other people more comfortable with us, or to prove that we're the virtuous and sympathy-deserving kind of fatty who is at least trying not to be fat. And we have no obligation to take this kind of shit from an industry that is not only inconsistent in its treatment of us, but has been working for years to make flying as awful as possible for everyone, even skinny people. That shit ain't our fault.

Incidentally, whining in the comments here about how you had to sit next to a horrible fatty on some twelve-year transplanetary flight and it caused you to cry because their grody, annoying lard was smooshed up against your perfect supple gracefulness, or playing devil's advocate because you think it would be clever or cute to repeat the same shit we have already heard a hundred times before like some sort of malfunctioning robot parrot, or going into how fat people can just eat less and exercise more and stop being fat at people, or in general starting with the "But don't you know fat is so bad and unealthy! Oh, god, won't you think of the children!" obesity epidemic ZOMGdeathfat! panicked bleating is only going to get you banned.

Also, if you're tempted to play the pearl-clutching disbeliever and say that surely this can't be routine, no, why would a business act in a way that's not in their own best interests? Go away until you've read up on it. This shit happens all. The. Time. And most of the time the airlines don't even try to fix it or make real amends to the people they have screwed.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Kate Harding has an article up at Broadsheet about the whole Kevin Smith vs Southwest Airlines / Flying While Fat thing. It's right here and I recommend you read it. It's a first-rate piece, and heartbreaking. If this can't humanize those horrible flying fat people for you, well, kindly go fuck yourself and get the fuck away from my corner of the internet.

Also, [livejournal.com profile] neintales has a good post here.

The Rotund takes it on here, discussing how you don't have to be happy with your own body to believe that other people should be treated well. WORD.

All I have to say about it is that it is absolutely fucking absurd that this cultural hatred and revulsion for fat and for fat people has gone so far. And it is offensive as hell. I'm not going to play the "last acceptable prejudice" card, because that's a pile of horse shit if ever there was one, but I am going to say that the ubiquity of this shitty fucking attitude toward other human beings based solely on what their bodies look like and how much space they take up is really goddamn tiresome, and yet I hear it even from people I otherwise respect every single day.

This kind of shit has been going on for a good long time, and only now has SWA finally put its foot in it by booting off a celebrity. It's disgusting that people will only pay attention once it affects someone they know or someone famous, but hey, if this winds up being SWA's Maytag Moment, fine. If that's what it takes to end this shit, then that is what it takes.

When you go out in public, and that includes using public transportation like airplanes, you run the risk that you will be stuck near some guy in a camo jumpsuit who smells like a combination of three-day-old onion sweat and those cherry-flavored urinal cakes (true story), some horrible woman who is loudly discussing with her friend how rape can't be rape if you enjoy it (true story), a loudmouthed business asshole constantly yowling into his cell phone at such high volume it is impossible to hear oneself think (true story), a family of seven with two kids who won't sit down and are constantly fighting with one another and one infant who screams for an hour straight (true story), some evangelizing asshole who wants you to try his god/diet/money-making plan (true story), or someone who tries fucking grope you (true story), or some fuckheaded fuckblister who fucking WHISTLES (true story).

Very few places make a policy out of throwing those sorts of people out, and fat doesn't even hold a candle to that shit. Fat's just a physical thing. It's not something that we fat people do to piss other folks off, or something that we can stop doing just to be polite. It's not bad manners to be fat, or somehow tasteless or gauche to have a body that differs from the ideal.

Bad manners is treating someone poorly because of assumptions you make based on their appearance. It's not the duty of fat people to impinge as little as possible upon the senses of those who disapprove of us. We aren't required to spend as little time as possible out in public. We have no obligation to try to lose weight just to make other people more comfortable with us, or to prove that we're the virtuous and sympathy-deserving kind of fatty who is at least trying not to be fat. And we have no obligation to take this kind of shit from an industry that is not only inconsistent in its treatment of us, but has been working for years to make flying as awful as possible for everyone, even skinny people. That shit ain't our fault.

Incidentally, whining in the comments here about how you had to sit next to a horrible fatty on some twelve-year transplanetary flight and it caused you to cry because their grody, annoying lard was smooshed up against your perfect supple gracefulness, or playing devil's advocate because you think it would be clever or cute to repeat the same shit we have already heard a hundred times before like some sort of malfunctioning robot parrot, or going into how fat people can just eat less and exercise more and stop being fat at people, or in general starting with the "But don't you know fat is so bad and unealthy! Oh, god, won't you think of the children!" obesity epidemic ZOMGdeathfat! panicked bleating is only going to get you banned.

Also, if you're tempted to play the pearl-clutching disbeliever and say that surely this can't be routine, no, why would a business act in a way that's not in their own best interests? Go away until you've read up on it. This shit happens all. The. Time. And most of the time the airlines don't even try to fix it or make real amends to the people they have screwed.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Wolf Woman)
From an older interview with Clarissa Pinkola Estés, author of Women Who Run With the Wolves.

Estés added, "I think that it is all right if people want to control their weight, as long as they don't make themselves sick about it. But I also think that there is something to be said for not causing a woman to spend a huge amount of her entire life preparing food, shopping for food, fixing food, and eating food in order to maintain a weight that's less than her body would like to be.

"Robbing women's creative life from them - to set them after a foolish task - that happens in fairy tales and in mythology a lot. It shows the separation of the person form their own soul life. The person is set upon a foolish task, and finally in the midst of their life they wake up and say, 'Oh, my, this is a foolish task.'" Estés laughed.

"I can't even imagine that we were put on the face of this Earth in order to be thin. I think most of us are here on a mission different from a job or a career. I think we're here to do helping and healing and discovery and creation.

"I think the idea of body size is a diversion and a distraction from the real work. The process of being here is the most important, and we must honor that with respect and love."


Okay, one comment. Women Who Run With the Wolves is an incredible book. Dr. Estés is incredible.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Wolf Woman)
From an older interview with Clarissa Pinkola Estés, author of Women Who Run With the Wolves.

Estés added, "I think that it is all right if people want to control their weight, as long as they don't make themselves sick about it. But I also think that there is something to be said for not causing a woman to spend a huge amount of her entire life preparing food, shopping for food, fixing food, and eating food in order to maintain a weight that's less than her body would like to be.

"Robbing women's creative life from them - to set them after a foolish task - that happens in fairy tales and in mythology a lot. It shows the separation of the person form their own soul life. The person is set upon a foolish task, and finally in the midst of their life they wake up and say, 'Oh, my, this is a foolish task.'" Estés laughed.

"I can't even imagine that we were put on the face of this Earth in order to be thin. I think most of us are here on a mission different from a job or a career. I think we're here to do helping and healing and discovery and creation.

"I think the idea of body size is a diversion and a distraction from the real work. The process of being here is the most important, and we must honor that with respect and love."


Okay, one comment. Women Who Run With the Wolves is an incredible book. Dr. Estés is incredible.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Alpha Female)
The Sodomite Hal Duncan has a wonderful letter to share with you all this fine Friday afternoon.

My own letter is below.

To Mr. Wright,

Two things, before I begin.

First, if people have attacked you for your religious views, I don't approve of that. I am an atheist, not an anti-theist. As easy as it is to take pot shots, I cannot insult you for your beliefs without also insulting people I love.

Second, I had not heard about the incident with your wife until after discovering your entry. Going into what I think of that issue would not be appropriate here; I merely wished to point out that I'm not part of the mob that descended on her, lest you believe that everyone who took you to task is simply nursing a grudge from that whole affair. That's all I have to say on the matter.

Moving on, I was not the only person to link to that entry, but I concede I was one of the first, and my readership, for reasons I have never quite understood, is wide. I never would have called out your appalling remarks had you not been a published author whose books I have purchased in hardcover, and as gifts for others. You aren't a random dipshit on the internet yodeling into the vacuum of his own ass. You are a published writer in a field I love, and thus you are a person of whom I had stupidly assumed better. As someone who does not apply her money or loyalty to those who believe that I or my loved ones are perverted or defective, I felt betrayed.

If gay and gay-friendly folks choose to support you despite your views, that is their choice, but I believe they deserve to make an informed choice. That's why I pointed them your way. The fact that I pointed 1,500 people your way while saying "fuck" a lot is just how I do things. Because if we don't laugh and make fun of people who use ridiculous arguments to deny the validity of our relationships and the humanity of our brilliant, brief lives, well, that would just be too depressing.

It is unfortunate that the people who came to comment on your journal were angry, and not up to your desired level of discourse. I asked them not to troll, and apparently I misjudged their restraint. That was an error on my part. I didn't rile them, though. You did that on your own. Your words were offensive. Your words were hurtful. When a person says offensive, hurtful things, those who hear will lash out. When compared to pedophiles and necrophiliacs, they will come in mobs and be downright cruel. This is not the most wonderful facet of human nature, but nor is it proof that you were right all along or that everyone who disagrees with you is an illogical maniac with no internal censor. When those people bitchslapped you for being offensive, that was proof that what you said was offensive. Your own words condemned you, and as many of us have taken screenshots of the original entry, they will continue to do so.

The fact that you were mobbed -- "trolled" does not apply to most of the comments, most of which were expressing genuine disgust and displeasure, and were not being made, as they say, for the lulz -- does not free you from the offense you gave. When you say something offensive and are called on it, even if the people you have offended are rude to you, you take responsibility for the harm you caused, you apologize, and then you listen to how you can do better. You turn the other cheek, not so you can show people how smooth and righteous it is, but to show that you are willing to listen, to put the hurt done to you behind you. You swallow your pride and you listen. Which, you know, I would have done, save that there was nothing to learn from your words. It was just more of the same fearmongering fags-as-monsters bullshit.

I'm not under the illusion you were just misunderstood, or your words taken out of context. You clearly hate and fear homosexuality, even if you probably wouldn't say you hate homosexual individuals (we'll leave the stupidity of that alone for now, and the matter of your own hypocrisy re: perversions). Love the sinner, hate the sin, blah blah blah. But you have been complaining about how rude and nasty and profane people have been. You've been using others' entirely justifiable anger to dismiss what they are saying, because you don't like how they say it. The tone argument. They aren't being respectful enough of you while you insult them. Your journal, you don't have to put up with people swearing at you or mobbing you, but it makes you look like an asshole to venomously insult a group of people that includes many of your fans and their loved ones, and then get all butthurt when they let you have both barrels in return. If nothing else, this should serve as a lesson to just how many of us there are, and that we are listening.

After comparing homosexuality to a litany of completely repellent nonconsensual crimes, you have no real grounds on which to complain about what anyone said to you. True, they said it in a great, rage-filled mass, but I will point out that each of those individuals felt personally wounded, personally hurt enough to comment and tell you exactly what they thought of your reprehensible screed. For them, your characterization of homosexuality as akin to bestiality, necrophilia, pedophilia, was not some abstract thing. You were talking about them, about people they know. Many -- self included -- actually held back or didn't comment at all. You're entitled to your opinion, hate-filled and foolish as it may be. Many might have engaged you in debate except for the fact that it was -- and is -- clear that your mind is tightly made up, the justifications you use for not listening so perfectly constructed as to allow no argument to penetrate.

Would you argue if you saw a published author whose works you own making ridiculous and stupid statements about Catholics? Called you lot baby-eaters, claimed that you engaged in incestuous orgies in secret temples, had congress with animals, and offered up the corpses of virgins for the carnal delights of your depraved priesthood? Would you engage such blatant stupidity in rational debate?

Adults do not answer the petty name-calling of a schoolyard bully with elaborate explanations of why we are not stinky dirty poopy-heads. That would be dignifying it with a response, which it does not deserve. You aren't a child, though. You are in a prominent position, and gay people and their friends pay to read your work, so we can't just ignore what you think of us or let it pass.

Protesting that you didn't mean your offensive words to reach so wide an audience is such foolishness I can't respond beyond pointing out your age. Few people actually mean to make enormous fools of themselves. They figure nobody's paying attention. But you are a published author on the internet, accessible to all of fandom. Your words can never be assumed to reach a small audience, and you aren't talking about abstracts solely to people who agree with you. You are insulting real people who are or who love someone who is gay. To those people, being anti-gay makes you look stupid no matter your reasoning. Defending or advancing that stance with blatant nonsense only means they will be more inclined to tell you to drop dead while throat-fucking a rabid weasel than actually try to educate you (which is not our duty, I might add, but yours) or debate with you.

If you want to argue the point, shore up your logic and start dealing with facts, stop regurgitating the same garbage. It's the internet. It's all computers. The rule of 5150, shit in, shit out, applies here. If you spout ignorant, hateful bullshit, you will get hateful bullshit in return.

I am posting this with comments disabled. This is not cowardice. I have no real desire to invite you to converse here, where such views as yours are not welcome, but I also have no real desire to allow the carnival of wank to continue in comments on my journal. That would simply make more work for me without putting people's scorn in front of you. If people want to register their displeasure with you, they can go to your journal to do it. If they wish to register their displeasure with me, there are many other entries where they can do so. I thought I would let this stand alone, a letter to you, in case you cared to read it.

I'm not holding my breath, but I hope that you will find some people to debate with you and perhaps help educate you. I hope that you will change your views. I personally suspect the damage has been done, and I know I won't ever have anything to do with you or your work again. I regret I ever did.

I am a generous woman, or try to be. I would wish you well, but I find the most I can wish you is wisdom, and a clearer vision. Those are not, as anyone who lives in interesting times will tell you, always pleasant things.

tiny permalink
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Gay Apocalypse!)
He's edited his entry and turned off comments. The edit is probably one of the funnier yet simultaneously sad things I've seen on the internet thus far. You should definitely go read it. I lol-ed. For so many reasons, I lol-ed. ETA: He's deleted the original entry.

He's apparently bent out of shape that we weren't arguing the way he would prefer, or kissing up. We're just a bunch of vulgar morons who would rather swear and make love with our faces than engage in some jolly good intellectual debate, by thunder. For shame, all of you, for upsetting this fine man. For shame.

I was willing to let it go, but he threw out a phrase so delightful that I just cannot resist. You see, apparently we are just a bunch of idolaters, bowing down to, and I quote:

The child-eating Moloch of political correctness!





Please, by all means supply your own child-eating Moloch pics in comments. If you can improve on my two-minute Photoshop mashup, feel free.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Gay Agenda)
John C. Wright, aka [livejournal.com profile] johncwright.

It is completely up to you if you want to buy books written by this guy after reading what he thinks about homosexuality.

ETA: he deleted the original entry.

On another note not related to the above in any way, I've got several hardcover books I don't want anymore. The books are in good shape, so I'm trying to think of a meaningful application for them. Like cutting them apart and using them to compose stories about gay perverts fucking. Or should I make them into hollow book boxes to hold my rosary of anal beads and my baby Jesus butt-plug? What do you all think?

In the meantime, I really have to make an appointment to assrape a dead goat with a crucifix strap-on in front of some schoolchildren. Like, soon. I have to commit obscene and corrupting acts or my pervert card lapses and I won't be able to get in on all the good cocaine-fueled mule-fucking pedophilia and abortion parties. I hear Hillary Clinton goes to those, and that she's a real cougar. Grrrowl.

Also, whoever has my homosex indoctrination DVDs? Please send them back if you're done with them. I've been asked to speak at the nearby grade school's recruitment assembly on National Convert a Nubile Youth to Homosexuality Day, and you just can't expect kids to learn about the joys of non-procreative pervsex from books or handouts anymore.

Lazy little shits.

(No trolling. Not that I care if you go into someone else's house and crap on their floor, but it would reflect poorly on me if I sent you over there to do it, so I'm not. I'm just letting you know what he thinks of most of you so that you can decide whether or not to reward him for it by paying attention to his writing. That is all.)

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