WHAT WE'RE ABOUT

RBI focuses on using expressive writing, design-oriented work, photography, media, research, and community input to fuel fat positive, body acceptance, discussion, and outreach. Our goal is to redefine the way we view and think about body image, size, fat, discrimination, health, fitness, wellness, mental/chronic illness, stigma, and other related topics.

We are constantly redefining our own perspectives, and therefore tend to write a lot about our personal experiences. Many followers and contributors are living with anorexia, bulimia, body dysmorphic disorder, depression, and a variety of other body image disorders or mental illnesses, so please be respectful and remember that health applies differently to everyone. Any and all potentially triggering content will be prefaced with a trigger warning.

RBI supports all races, genders, classes, and sizes. We try our best to make this a safe space for everyone. If we are not doing our job or checking our privilege, we invite you to please inform us.

Some of the artwork you see here has been created by our founder or moderators, some sourced when applicable. Please be kind enough to source this blog whenever you share it's content.

We are not health professionals. Any and all advice provided on this blog is supported only by our own research, studies, and personal experiences; nothing more.

This blog is part of the Safe Space Network.

(tw: fat shaming, disordered eating, self harm, suicide)

Let me tell you a story.

There is a girl who is 7. She wants a snack but it is late at night. Momma, a great grandmother promoted due to absent parents, says no. It’s too late she says. Bed time is soon. But the girl begs and begs and before long Momma has her at the table with chocolate milk and a slice of bread, the girl’s favorite. Her father comes in, not absent for a moment, to yell and curse. His daughter doesn’t need that. It’s too late. She’ll get fat. Momma tells him to leave. Tells him he doesn’t have the right. The girl is in tears. Momma consoles. The girl gets bread and chocolate milk every night after that.

The girl is 12. Soccer has filled her out. Muscle beneath the sturdy fat frame. She loves it. She feels athletic. She watches Mia Hamm and feels like her. But other girls don’t feel the same. They say “Look at snow white. Look how pale.” “More like a marshmallow  other girls laugh. The girl feels ugly and for the first time, feels fat.

The girl is 13 and wants to wear this cute tankini that she found to summer day camp. Mother, biological mother, disagrees. She says “You’ll just be embarrassed ” The girl asks why. Mother pokes her stomach and says “Do you want people to see that?”.  The girl doesn’t care. She wears it anyway and is ridiculed by her peers but she won’t cry in front of them. She’ll hit them with the ball while they’re playing kickball and make them think it’s an accident. She won’t cry until she is at home and hiding and digging her nails so far into her thighs that they draw blood.

The girl quits soccer at 14. They won’t let her play anymore because they don’t think she’s “right for it”. She’s good, she thought. Great a defense. Just couldn’t really run. Too fat, her teammates whisper. The girl changes in the bathroom during her last practice.

The girl is 16 and holding a bag of pills. A bag she had made a year earlier just in case. An emergency escape when the scratches on her arms and thighs are not enough. When her mother and father screaming that she is fat because she is lazy is too much. She takes the pills out one by one and sets them side by side arranging them in a perfect circle and thinks. Today might be the day, the girl decides. But there is a knock at the door and little sister is there. She’s five and scared because the girl had been crying again. The girl puts the pills back in the bag and comforts little sister.

The girl is 18 and going to college. She flushes the pills. She’ll get thin in college. She’ll show mother she can.

The girl is 19 and mother has her on a strict diet. She finds a bag of chips beneath the seat of the truck. A friend of the girl’s put it there. But mother screams and ignores her and says she’s lying. That she wants to be fat and ugly.

The girl is 19 and sobbing. Mother said she never did anything to deserve the love that she gave the girl. Your my mother, the girl thought. But then she thought of Momma and that woman was not her mother.

The girl is 20 and at a family function. She gets a second burger. Mother says angrily, “One day you’ll regret having no control.” Later mother cries and says she’s just afraid of the girl dying. Fat people die, you know. The girl cries. She feels fine. She’s just fat.

The girl is still 20 and Momma dies. The girl feels she lost the one true source of love in her life. She wishes she had the pills. She uses scissors on her thigh instead. She feels ugly in her dress next to her thin mother at the funeral.

The girl is 21 and falls in love. She cries the first time they make love and asks “Why? Why me? You could have anyone.” Her partner is confused. “What do you mean? Why would I want anyone else?”

At 22, the girl is still afraid to eat in front of her mother.

The girl is 23 and finds blogs on tumblr that are fat girls and they love it. She begins to love it.

The girl is 24 and she joins a blog about body image. Hoping to make a difference.

The girl is 24 and she takes a hiatus, not realizing how many bad memories she had locked away.

The girl is almost 25 and she thinks it’s time to live.

The girl sits in front of her webcam and takes pictures and doesn’t have to find one she likes. They are all beautiful. Her stomach, her petite breasts, she loves them. Self love.

“Momma, I found someone else that could love me unconditionally,” the girl says, “Me.”

Hello again everyone. I’m Sam, your absent moderator. I’ve been on an unannounced hiatus for some time now because when I first volunteered I had no idea how triggering this would be for me. I found myself crying daily looking at my tracked tags and the asks/submissions and realized I was doing no one a favor hiding. I had to take a break. Well. I’m back. I’m ready. Let’s do this thing. Let’s do this together.

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Just another example of how beauty standards and body hate are (and always have been) fabricated.

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Well, that was therapeutic. - Haley

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I started growing my armpit hair a few months ago and I have fallen in love with it. I never realised how happy it was going to make me!

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// SHOW YOUR FUZZY LOVE! //

// Submit photos of your body fuzz here! //

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Got fuzzy legs? Let us see them!

I’m feeling the love for all the body hair tonight.

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Just a friendly reminder.

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You know when life throws things at you like death and hate and the sorts of things you can’t control and you find yourself back in the land of disordered eating and anxiety and depression and you don’t ever want to come out from under your blankets? Or is that just me?

I’ve been in that space for a while. Visibility is a challenge, taking care of myself is a challenge, owning my body is a challenge. But I continue to dare myself and accept the discomfort, because it means I’m not giving up. I am in control.

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I went through a dark period in my life where depression knocked me right off my feet. I ended up being hospitalized at a mental health facility for 9 days. I got discharged and was doing better, but I kept falling into the pit of depression and going back to the hospital. Throughout this process I was using not only self injury but food as a coping skill to deal with my unhelpful thoughts and feelings. I gained a lot of weight in the past year. Starting last summer I began to completely hate my body. I would have panic attacks if I looked in the mirror too long because I couldn’t stand the skin I was in. Never in a million years would I have dreamed of submitting a photo like this. But I have found blogs like this and I am working as hard as I can to love myself, and it is paying off. I can now proudly say that I love my belly, my stretch marks, my thighs, my lack of collarbones, my arms, my scars, and everything in between. This is my body, and I am not ashamed. ♥ http://s-ecular.tumblr.com

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I am naturally a very hairy woman. I don’t have PCOS or anything like that - it’s because of my Italian heritage. After years of ridicule, feeling embarrassed, enduring painful removal, hiding it, and despising the whole situation, I finally came to fully embrace it and haven’t removed it in about three years. I am a model and performance artist, and I have always had an underlying desire to love my fuzzies, but felt unsure for many years if I could handle the negative attention that would undoubtedly come with it. Since learning to love and accept it fully, I have realized that it is soooo worth it. The positive far outweighs the negative. Many new and exciting opportunities have come my way as a direct result of being myself and embracing my body hair. Love perpetuates love. I encourage everyone everywhere to practice self love and acceptance deeply and fully as often as possible! We are all worthy of love and acceptance. I love blogs like this that are actively spreading this very important message. Thank you so much!

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Thank you for sharing your story with us. I think you are an absolutely gorgeous human being, and I am really envious of your fuzzies. 

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shinga-tumblr:

So, yeah, that first image is from a European Sony ad and I don’t know about you BUT IT CREEPS ME OUT. Ignoring the skeevy implications (woman’s body is a plaything for men, etc) it’s also just CREEPY AS HELL. Like “this is actually the new Silent Hill design” creepy.

So I decided to make it SUPER RIDICULOUS. If more boobs = OMG SEXIER OBVIOUSLY, then mine must be HELEN OF TROY LEVELS OF THE PERFECT WOMAN, RIGHT?! Line up, fellas!

re : the anon who is close to 200 lbs.

in highschool, at my lowest weight and when i was most athletic, i always told myself if i weighed 200 lbs, i would kill myself. i was never depressed or suicidal otherwise, for some reason, i just always thought to myself “if i hit 200, that will be it, i will have to kill myself.” it was 35 lbs away at the time, so i think i supposed i’d never reach it.

then i started taking birth control, i had a severe sports injury that ended my hopes of a competitive athletic future, and i started university. and i packed on that 40 lbs in the space of a little over 3 years.

when the scale first hit the big 200, i had a panic attack. despite being in a loving and committed relationship, i thought no one could ever love a 200 pound girl.

it took me a long time to get over that, and it is something that i still struggle with at times.

now a junior in college, i weigh a happy 207, and i have never been as at peace with my body as i am now. i go to the gym very regularly, i eat a healthy plant based diet, and my weight still barely budges (which is only made apparent when i go to the doctor, because fuck scales, they are worthless). although no one should have to justify their diet or exercise to anyone, i mention it to show that health is possible at every weight.

the pressure to be thin made me consciously want to end my life, despite feeling no depression, or sadness.

there’s nothing wrong with you, at any weight. at 185, at 195, even at 295. your size does not dictate your worth, you do.


Okay, so for a while now I’ve been working on my body image issues. I’ve been on a mission to like myself, take care of myself, and just be happier in general when looking the mirror. 

I went shopping today with a friend. I wore a skirt that functions as both comfy and a little sexy. I bought a great pair of shoes I will refer to as my Zeldas because they remind me of 1920s fashion. During this shopping trip my friend and I were discussing various body-related troubles, and I found myself saying, instinctively, “There is one thing about my body I like.” 

“That’s great!,” she responded. “You should always have at least one thing you like. What is it?” 

“My breasts.”

“Yeah, I can see that!”

It’s true! I do like my breasts. They’re large Ds, but despite their size they are soft, supple, and firm, they don’t sag far, are pale and pink, and they look really great lifted in a bra. 

I’ve also been told by more than one person that they feel great, and look even better when I’m lying down. 

It felt really weird to type that, by the way…

Anyway, I should be able to like things about myself without the opinions of others, but I’m not quite that confident yet. So, I’ll say that my feelings are confirmed often. Men love them and compliment them both appropriately and inappropriately (though men tend to love breasts in general, so the relevance there is limited), and even women tend to love them. I’ve been to strip clubs a few times, and I cannot count how many times the dancers have come to me, sat down, and talked about my breasts. They ask if they’re real, they ask to touch them, express jealousy, and so on. 

Now, there are down sides to having them. Clothing sometimes doesn’t fit when it should, shirts that don’t appear too low-cut on other women appear so on me because I have so much cleavage I can’t really stop it from showing, and some men think just because my cleavage exists that gives them the right to comment on it. 

I mean, I understand they’re very much “there,” and it’s sometimes difficult not to take a look, particularly when I’ve opted for low-cut, but can you not control yourself enough to avoid looking like a deer in headlights? Or shouting really stupid shit like, “Look at them tig ol’ bitties!” 

I’d like to kick the man who made that up in the crotch. 

There’s also my mother, who thinks that losing weight, and breast size as a result, is a good thing.

What it comes down to is me, though. I found something to like, and that is a huge thing for me. Hopefully there will be a Part 2 to this soon. 

image

www.elizabeth-west.com

i used to be so afraid nothing could save me from myself.

..I long for the day in which we can enjoy runway shoes without being shown young Women forced into emaciation, when ladies don’t feel they need to starve themselves in to a 7 year old frame to be deemed beautiful enough; because until then I can’t appreciate the artwork of fashion whilst being heartbroken by having to watch someone waste away, paraded whilst she’s slowly dying. That is my fault with the fashion industry and I want to see a change.

xxhaloxkittyxx

Ever have one of those days when you’re unsure how much phobia, hatred and all the bullshit society throws towards us that you can handle?

If I see one more Special K advert telling me I need to weight x amount to have self worth, I’m going to break my fucking television. Thank you for making my day 5x harder.

If I see one more poster of some airbrushed model who prefers to stand for nothing but an unattainable level of perfection to an audience of young, impressionable Women; I’m going to rip it off the wall and shove it in the garbage where it fucking belongs.

If I have to be fronted with one more comment like “This is ONLY x amount of calories; feel less guilty and have this disgusting alternative”, I’m going to take it off the shelf and stamp on it approximately twenty times. Because that’s what I fucking feel like doing.

If some ridiculous company ran by people who clearly have the intelligence of a fucking fish, tell me that I have to be a certain size to fit their idea of beautiful, hot, sexy, whatever; I’m going to cut the label out of every fucking clothing item in their store because it doesn’t matter what size you are.

The next time someone compliments my body based on their like/dislike/preference, it isn’t a compliment because YOU like it. I like myself for myself, if you want to actually compliment me, then state it based on something that matters; like the fact I’ve got a sparkling muthafucking personality, not whether or not I’m the size you find visually pleasing.

The next time some uneducated, naive person tries to tell me what is right for MY body; whether that be how much exercise I should be doing, how many calories I should be consuming, or whether or not I can allow myself to eat such a thing; I’m going to honestly tell them to shove their idealistic standards up their fucking backsides and grab a reality check. If you really had any concern for my well being, you would focus on my happiness; not some ‘statistics’ (informal consent, look it up.)

If someone decides it’s within their right to tell me I have to cover up my acne excessively in order to look pretty enough, I’m going to smash ten bottles of foundation and tell them to fuck off.

The next time someone tells me my ass is ‘too big’, my lips are ‘nice and voluptuous’, or my ‘hips stick out a tad’; I’m going to tell them that my body is no concern of theirs, because their opinion is no fucking concern of mine.

(This could go on forever..)

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