Come on now..

Make it stop.  If you’ve got beauty, beauty, raise’m up.

There are standards that society places on us to be the right size.  We’re told we’re too skinny, or too fat.  (Usually too fat.)  All the time I see people (women especially) telling us that we should be proud of the skin we’re in, proud of our bodies.  We need to enjoy ourselves, and do our own thing.  Be confident in our skin, and do what we want with our bodies, modification, size, etc.  There’s a problem here.

Yeah it’s pretty clear. I ain’t no size two. But I can shake it, shake it, like I’m supposed to do.

Do what you want with your body, as long as it’s not what we don’t like.  I have a lot of female friends. I have a lot of guy friends.  The women are often saying how they feel like they’re judged by society and are “fat” by society’s standards, so they can’t find clothes that look sexy and are in their size, or clothes that fit them that don’t look like they’re wearing a bed sheet a-la-Casper.  They should be able to wear what they want, how they want, in their size, and look and feel sexy.

I see the magazines working that Photoshop. We know that shit ain’t real.

Women are judged by society (I’m using society loosely here, folks. That means other women, men, children, puppies, chickens, etc.) to maintain a perfect weight ratio.  And by doing so, we formulate opinions regarding choices that other women make.  Yes, I’m aware that this applies to men as well, but I have a specific point here, and it’s aimed towards women. Of which I am one, and am not excluded from this sad generalization.

I’m bringing booty back.  Go ahead and tell them skinny bitches hey!

When you see someone who is “fat” you think it. You think that they’re overweight, or chubby, or large, or OMG-GINORMOUS, or fat, or a fucking chunky munky.  But to her, she might be the perfect voluptuous embodiment of femininity. And she wouldn’t be wrong.  But there’s the other side of that.  When you see a girl who you see as skinny, or thin, or “anorexic” (adjective, not mental illness, here), or stick figure, you assume she’s happy being super thin.  But what you don’t see is that she might not be.  She might think that she’s fat.  She might think that she’s too thin.  She might think that she’s perfect.  You have no idea.  Hell, I have no idea.

But I’m here to tell you that every inch of you is perfect from the bottom to the top.

I lost a LOT of weight over the last two years.  Almost all of it last year. Over forty pounds.  I still have more I want to lose. I am pudgy.  I still see fat on my thighs, and on my butt, and my stomach.  But I have such anxiety about talking about weight, because every time it comes up, I hear “But you’re so SKINNY!”  or “You don’t need to lose weight, you’re already thin! You must be anorexic!” I’m not anorexic. I’m not bulimic. I’m just not skinny.

No, I’m just playing.  I know you think you’re fat.

I don’t know why it’s alright for someone ELSE to think they’re fat, or perfect, or too skinny.  Why is it that I’m not allowed to think that I’m too fat?  I’m not eating tape worms to make myself skinnier.  I’m not starving myself to make myself skinnier.  I just look in the mirror and know that I’m fat.  I’m not nearly as skinny as I could or should be.  I need to lose weight.  It’s embarrassing when I have to listen to someone berate me about my body image.  It’s depressing, embarrassing, and intimidating.  I just try to avoid talking about it to people.  I REALLY hate when someone says something like “Oh YOU’RE so skinny, I bet YOU look good in ALL of the slinky clothes.”  No I don’t.  No. No. No, I really don’t.  But hey, since when does what I think really matter to anyone else?

I will twist the knife…

And bleed my aching heart. And tear it apart.

I suppose I should feel grateful, or happy, or maybe just not quite as sad.  A few people, after reading my last few posts, have apparently been concerned.  I guess this means clarification hour is due.  I’m not suicidal. I think about it.  Every day.  It’s the first thought when I wake up.  And it’s the last thought before I fall asleep.  I’ve been this way, and thought this way as long as I can remember. I’ve planned it.  Multiple times. I’ve considered it.  I’ve thought about who would cry, shrug, laugh, or even notice.  I’ve wondered who would be happy, sad, angry, or indifferent.  I’ve even questioned who would show at my funeral.  But I’m not actually suicidal right now.  If I was, I wouldn’t talk about it.  I wouldn’t describe the thoughts.  This isn’t a “Cry for help.”  I wouldn’t have a “Cry for help.”  I’d just fucking do it. 

I would die for you.  I’ve been dying just to feel you by my side.  To know that you’re mine.

I’ve been afraid.  I have an internet stalker.  Nothing hardcore–yet.  I hope it goes no further than the harassment he’s caused in the video game I play and the stalking of my blog.  We used to be friends.  Very good friends.  He wanted more.  Thought I’d leave my life for his–despite my many protests and insisting the opposite. It all came to be too much with my headspace, and he went from someone I looked forward to talking to daily (I woke up early just to get to talk to him, since he lives across an ocean from me.) to someone I dreaded having a conversation alone with.

See your face every place that I walk in. Hear your voice every time that I’m talking.  You will believe in me. And I will never be ignored.

I hurt him.  I won’t deny or belittle that.  I told him I needed space and he couldn’t handle it.  He said it was cruel, hateful, and spiteful of me.  Then the snide comments started, blatant verbal attacks.  Also, veiled subtlety. Inside comments that no one would know was an attack but me.  I became terrified to be around my game family–that’s what they’d become to me.  I was–and am–so afraid of the things he’ll say and do.  Even writing this, I can only imagine the retribution and I’m panicking, but I need to get this out. He knows some of my deepest and darkest.  He knows about my past and the horrible things that have happened.  I’d trusted him.  But now, I just don’t know what to do.

Violate all the love that I’m missing.  Throw away all the pain that I’m living. You will believe in me.  And I could never be ignored.

The other day he made one final jab at me.  I couldn’t take it.  I gave up.  I left my friends. I abandoned them. None of them are speaking to me. I left them, my friends and family, because I couldn’t even handle a stupid insult.  Because I gave a CHILD power over me.  He was right.  I AM weak. I don’t even know what to do this time.  Because of him, my game, my release, my fun escape from my brain and reality became a trap, and I dreaded logging in.

I would die for you… I would die for you…

I’ve been thinking about deleting my blog since this started.  If I was giving advice to any of my friends, I’d tell them to say “fuck it,” and keep posting.  So why is it that much harder for me to follow my own advice and do it?

I will wash away your pain with all my tears.  And drown your fear.

I suppose the question of the day I have been ricocheting my inner cranium is whether or not all of this shit storm could have been avoided by my avoiding people in general?  Should I go back to being completely anti-social?  Should I have avoided trusting anyone?  Should I expand my bubble?  Sound-proof my cage?  Just the idea makes me sad.  For the first time in a very very very long time, I felt like I belonged.

I will sell my soul for something pure and true.  Someone like you.

I was wrong.