WHAT WE'RE ABOUT
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.
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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.
I am taking my fiancé’s name for a number of reasons.
First of all, my own last name is descendant from a man who started a family with my Great Grandmother when she was 19 and left her in the dead of night with a newborn (my grandfather) and a toddler (my great uncle) in the midst of a harsh Detroit snowstorm, parting with the most cliche of last words - “I’ll be back, I’m going to the corner for cigarettes.”
He went on to do all manner of things I’d rather not speak about, but most importantly - he never came back, although his name remained.
My grandfather once even entertained the idea of changing our family name, due to my great grandfather’s past transgressions. I think it ultimately became more trouble than it was worth, and he decided against it.
So you see, I really feel no particular affinity for it. Sure, it is part of my identity and my family’s history, but identities change. Lives transform. You become connected to others and start to think about leaving behind your own legacy - and the possibility of a fresh start with the person you love most in this world begins to sound more and more appealing.
In a way, I kind of wish my fiancé (Jamie) and I could make up our own last name. When prompted to make one up, he immediately came up with “The Boopingtons” - not an entirely unworthy option.
As it is, we don’t have the luxury of becoming Mr. and Mrs. Boopington. I could keep my name and Jamie could keep his, I could take his, OR accept a hyphenated mash-up of the two.
On the surface it appears to be a pretty simple decision to make. And at first, I felt pretty confident about it.
When I told Jamie I’d like to take his name, his reaction was not unexpected.
“Don’t you want to keep your name?”
My argument against this was also quite simple - “I am going to be with you for the rest of my life and I want to share a name with you. I want our children to share our name and I want us to be a unit, a force to be reckoned with. I want your name to be OUR name.”
This exchange would start a discussion between us that lasted for months. Just when I thought I’d finally made a decision, I’d start to feel like maybe Jamie wasn’t on board with it. For some reason, he seemed to care more about the preservation of my surname than I did.
We even thought for a while about the possibility of Jamie taking my name. I brought this up at Thanksgiving dinner with my parents, to which my dad replied (in Jamie’s absence), “You may as well chop his dick off.”
Because his name…Is in his dick?
Turns out that for a lot of reasons (mostly due to the fact we are applying for a fiance visa so that he can finally move to the states) Jamie is stuck with his name. But that still leaves my own name to contend with - and a decision that is mine alone to make.
There is a part of me that is wary of being perceived as a “bad feminist”, surrendering myself to the very patriarchy that I’m meant to be fighting against - but that’s not how it feels, to me.
We are both feminists. We both understand the implications that come with sharing a name or not sharing a name.
It doesn’t make me any more or less dedicated as a wife or a partner. It doesn’t mean that I would begrudge any other woman the right to keep her name, or that what I decide on is the best option for everyone.
The bottom line is, I know that Jamie doesn’t view me as his “property” and taking his name doesn’t make me “his”. It makes us “us” in a more obvious way than if we had two different surnames. It’s about what’s right for US. And that is all.
I realize that I am in the majority. Even now that we’ve had the option not to for quite some time, the bride still prefers to take the groom’s surname 90% of the time.
I still feel that this is something that deserves to be challenged, for those of us who feel a particular affinity for our surnames - but I am not one of those women. So I don’t feel particularly empowered to take it on as a personal issue.
The truth is, I quite look forward to changing my name and starting a new chapter alongside my husband.
While my name may change on paper, I can still bring it back as I please. I may even continue to use my maiden name situationally, especially as it is so engrained in the history of my work as a designer, activist, and writer.
So, does taking my husband’s name make me a hypocrite? Have I lost my right to be critical of patriarchal traditions because I’ve chosen to go along with one, for my own reasons? Do I really care? What’s in a name, anyway?
I am totally with Haley, even though when I get married I have no intention of changing my name, and told my partner this in no uncertain terms (to which he replied “duuuh”), I don’t think it is at all anti-feminist to take your husband’s name. There are many circumstances (like Haley’s, or say if they woman’s family or origin is abusive) where taking your husband’s name is in fact a feminist decision. As long as it is a freely-made, conscious choice to either keep your name or take your husbands, then either choice is completely consistent with being a feminist, in my opinion. I think feminism is fighting for the freedom for women to make the choices in her life, not dictating what those choices should be.
Hi! I’m Zoey, and I’m 16. I’m the girl in this photo :)
It’s taken me ages to come to terms with my body. I’ve hated it so much, and struggled with eating disorders of many types. I’ve also struggled with self-harm and depression. But I’m starting to get better, and starting to realize that I’m beautiful just the way I am.
Part of it is finding trendy clothes that fit, like this dress! I’m kinda in love with “plus size” stores because they have amazing clothes that ACTUALLY are made to fit us bigger girls, and have styles that look good on us.
I had an amazing time at my TOLO dance this year, with my great date. It was so much fun, and I loved it, and the way I looked that night. First time I’ve felt that way in a long time, and I’m so happy to be getting to this point.
Hi my name is James and I am gender queer. Like so many, I was told that being fat was wrong and bad. That I was disgusting. I tried so hard to be what they wanted, which was thinner. Because of places and blogs like this, I learned to love myself. I learned, I was beautiful and that me being fat was not disgusting. What was disgusting was how my family or some of them handled it towards me. I want everyone to know you are not alone and there are people out there like you. You are loved and you are not disgusting. But you are beautiful.<3
I am chapped skin, gaping pores,
Angry spots and red welts.
I am a child of anxiety subjected
To states of over-everything.
Over-productive sebum,
Over-zealous picking,
Over-sensitive reactions,
Over-and-out.
I am stubborn coarse hairs
In “unladylike” places,
Self-inflicted scars from
Conditions so imposed
To wax and wane
Beyond my control.
I am good enough.
“Beauty” is elusive,
And I am happy to own “ugly”
When my lips form the words
So naturally.
This is what happens when the antibiotics stop working and your eczema gets infected.
I look like i have chicken pox.
The doctor was very unclear as to what is wrong exactly. He just said it was an infection and gave me more antibiotics (so now i’m on two different ones), more emollient, some painkillers and a different (much much better) antihistamine.
it still just keeps getting worse though. The pain in unbearable. I had very little sleep last night and the sleep i did have was only because i sedated myself with co-codomal and marijuana.
If it’s worse tomorrow i don’t know what the fuck i’m going to do.
I was just skimming some tags and came across your post. I just wanted to say that I hope you feel better soon. And that you are beautiful.
- Haley
Feeling “small.”
I can feel hurt and vulnerable all I want but “small” is not an option. And by small I mean weak and childish and invisible and scared and unimportant, but summed up specifically by the term small. I could use those words, but the term “small” hits the nail on the head for me. it encompasses all my feelings in one word, yet it doesn’t fit me. Thin women can feel small without ever having to think about how their physique may not match what they’re feeling inside. I can’t say I feel like curling up into a tiny ball without facing some ridicule because my body is not tiny.
I don’t have the luxury of claiming fragility because no matter my emotional climate, my body looks too unlike fragile, more like the protective insulation to prevent breakage more so than something like glass.
My emotions involving weakness and vulnerability and fear and triviality are more subject to invalidation and mockery based upon the size of my body and it’s bullshit. I’m expected to match my size with a big personality filled with gusto and sass.
I may be big, but I am not always powerful. I feel really fucking small today, I do.
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
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.
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.
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.
i used to be so afraid nothing could save me from myself.
it’s so hard for me to look myself in the face. it’s so hard to fight the urges to use camera angles and careful positioning to hide the fatness of my face and double chin.
it feels shitty that my self-documentation is so warped by internalized fat hate. time to try to take my body back. i’m so tired of erasing myself.
i want to know what i look like.
I’m pregnant with my third kid. I don’t love my body, I just have an issue with my stretch marks and my doula told me I have to go swimming to the beach in a bikini so I can start to feel comfortable with my body. If I can love my body the way it is then I will be able to give birth at home, to love my body is to trust my body.
I’m just so self conscious I don’t know how to start and just don’t care, just love it. Sounds easy but it is not.
I am so scared of showing it. Rationally I know my body is wonderful and I just love the fact I’m mothering a child but I don’t know how to love my body.
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I don’t know that you can love your body through sheer force of will. Just like falling in love with another person it took me a period of time, appreciation, and discovery to come to love my body, and I can’t say I do a great job of it every day.
If you’re already loving being a mom, I would suggest approaching your self love through the lens of motherhood. Your body has created, nourished, and nurtured two lives and is busy working on a third; and your stretch marks are a testament to it’s strength and versatility. Baring skin on a beach or in public can be a really freeing feeling, and I promise no one will be checking the pregnant mom for stretch marks.
OK, so this is kinda personal, but it is relevant so I’m putting it out there. I’m in an MFA program, and I had a studio visit today that was so frustrating and made me so angry. I make art about my body, which naturally involves me thinking a lot about how I can construct a positive identity for myself as a fat women, which as my followers might know is really hard to do in the face of the intense fat stigma in this culture. My ambition with my work is to create a sense of empathy or identification between the viewer and my work/my body: that’s all. Relatively modest goal, but the fact that my body is a fat makes it difficult because most people hate fat and have lots of ignorant opinions about it. Even so I have felt very supported in my program, and have generally felt that my teachers and peers have responded to my work with an open mind.
Which brings me to today. So, I’m in my last semester, working on my thesis, and we have a new critic in our department, whom I haven’t worked with before. I introduce my work by saying, in a nutshell, that my work is about my body and identity as a fat women and my effort to understand my body as beautiful and to create a sense of empathy/identification between the viewer and me through my art. This critic responds by
1) belittling my ambition to create empathy or identification with fat bodies, as if that were an easy/not worthwhile/immature thing to aspire to
2) say I am “playing the victim”, implying that my very real experiences with fat stigma and fat hatred were somehow invented or irrelevant to my artwork which is ABOUT MY FAT BODY
3) derailing the conversation/belittling my work further by saying “everybody has issues with their body” as if all bodies are treated the same in our culture which is so fucking ignorant in the face of rampant racism/sexism/homophobia/transphobia/ableism/sizeism etc I can’t even
4) claiming that fat is unhealthy - fucking no, dude, no. I have been studying this for two fucking years and you come at me with god damned conventional wisdom fueled by the diet industry and an “obesity epidemic” obsessed media. And that is SO not even what my work is about, even if fat WAS unhealthy fat bodies still deserve respect and empathy and beautiful images.
and 5) saying that I “can change” my body. This one at least I managed to shut down pretty quickly, by telling him the truth, which is that there has not be even ONE statistically significant scientific study where the majority of participants went from “obese” or “overweight” to “normal” (BULLSHIT TERMS) and stayed there for the long term (5 years). And even if I COULD change my body it would not justify bigotry!
UGGGGGH! I don’t know how I can work with this guy for the rest of the year (on my master’s thesis no less!).
Oh, and for the kicker, he told me that I was prejudiced against him for being a white male, and that he personally didn’t have aaaaaany prejudices at all. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! That is so funny because it is so ignorant! And by funny, I mean infuriating and crazy-making. And you know, I actually didn’t prejudge him for being white and male: most of the rest of my professors have been white males, and, as I said, generally supportive. But now that I have talked with him, I DO judge him to be a privileged asshole. Which many people had told me before, but now know it first-hand!
How do I deal with this attitude in the future? He didn’t even talk about my work? And I know I am going to run into lots of people with the same ignorant biases, so I need to figure out a way to keep the conversation on my work and their response to it, without constantly getting derailed into this toxic bullshit. Art about identities and bodies is always political, but I do my level best to make the actual images as open and beautiful and non-confrontational and provoking of compassion/empathy/identification as I can. The politics is very important to me personally, but it isn’t necessarily what defines the work, and I can’t keep having the same fucking health/diet conversation again and again or I will fucking lose my mind.
Help me followers, what do I do??!!??!?!
(liz)
OMG bb I’m so sorry, I hope you don’t mind that I post this here - I mean you’re a mod and everything but I hope you know you can always share things like this with the RBI community.
Is there anyone above this fucker that you can go to for guidance? I’m not quite sure what the role of a “critic” plays in obtaining your MFA but you are honestly being discriminated against and the way this person is treating you is beyond my imagination.
It’s one thing to be critical about your work, to be at least CONSTRUCTIVE - it’s quite another to speak over you, insist your experiences are invalid, and trample all over a project you’ve been working your way towards throughout your entire art career.
GOD I’M SO ENRAGED BY IGNORANT COCKBAGS I CAN’T HANDLE IT.
Thanks for the support Haley! I was planning on reblogging this here, but you beat me to the punch! :-D I am meeting with my main advisor this morning and I am going to talk to him about what happened. He is a wonderful man, and I think he will have some good advice for me. Thanks for all your love! And I love you ALL you guys here at RBI. I am very lucky to have this community.
XOXOXOXOXOXOX
A few days ago at dinner, a friend of a friend joined my group of friends for the meal at one of the dining halls on campus. As we got on talking friend of a friend, who like me is a pretty big girl, started describing the shape of her stomach to the table. She described the roundness of her rolls and the lovely lumps of her anatomy. In lieu of accepting her testimony my friends instead started to “comfort” her saying by things like “I’m sure that’s not really…” or “I don’t think you…” Friend of a friend said “no that’s literally how I look” and started pointing at and grabbing the different rolls that descend down her abdomen.
They thought they were being polite—saying things to make her feel better, but I don’t think friend of a friend was putting herself down.
To me it seemed like my friends were denying the reality that friend of a friend is fat and is shaped differently than they are. To me it seemed like they were refusing to believe that her body has a topography and curves that their bodies do not. I think she was just describing her body the way I say that I have red hair or brownish-greenish eyes. Being fat is something so ingrained in our culture as an insult or something negative, that when someone self-describes as fat other people jump on them with the quasi-comforting almost insults like “your hair looks fine” or ” you don’t look that….”
It was surprising—and the more I think about it the more insulting it becomes—to me that they were so distanced from how big bodies really look. But then I realized that my friends, like most people who are not fat, are not exposed to naked fat flesh. They don’t know about the large expanse of skin hiding under my shirt and the stretch marks that cover it. They don’t know about the rolls of fat on my stomach and my back.
And part of that is my fault: I used to hide myself and tuck myself away trying to look smaller. I’m done with that now; I’m no longer thinking about hiding—it’s pointless. I’m slowly learning how to treat myself like an actual person, and I’m thinking about looking for a bikini. (I’m not sure I would have the guts to wear it though). I don’t think of life in terms of “when I lose weight” anymore. I do my best to be myself and be fierce at my weight now, and it feels pretty good.