By now it’s entirely likely you’ve seen it: Dove put out an ad where a bunch of women sit down and describe themselves to a forensic artist. Then, a stranger they just met describes them to a forensic artist. Surprise! They’re not as ugly as they think they are!

Look, here’s some real talk: I do not know a single person who doesn’t struggle with body image on a daily basis, male or female, to varying degrees. And when I first watched this ad, I was moved. Of course I was — they’re paying a lot of people a lot of money to ensure I am moved. And it is, in fact, moving to see an advertisement so clearly focused on pointing out that people are often their own harshest critics, and that being hard on yourself isn’t fair. I loved that. Let me repeat: I loved that, and was nearly in tears for a good part of the ad. 

I am all for things that make people feel more beautiful. To paraphrase Margaret Cho, I’m gutted by those who don’t find most others beautiful, because they’re missing out on a lot of beauty in the world. I have no doubt that the women featured in this ad did feel shitty about themselves, and might still. Listening to them describe themselves felt like… Well, like listening to myself. Can’t be too vain, here. Gotta be “honest.” Gotta play ourselves down, all the time, as if admitting that we like something about ourselves is a cardinal sin.

God, it hurt.

And then we got to the strangers, and the first stranger says, “She was thin, so you could see her cheekbones… And her chin? It was a nice, thin chin…”

God, that hurt too.

Thin, thin, thin. The mantra I’ve been repeating to myself my whole goddamn life. No part of me is thin or ever has been. My wrists, maybe? Uh?

Of course, they show the women seeing their portraits, too — the ones they described and the ones others did. And most of them tear up. I would, too. Hell, I did, too, because when I watched this the first time I was emotionally tangled up in it in a way I didn’t expect. I wanted to like it; I wanted to be moved. I was moved.

One woman looked at the portrait of herself that she’d drawn and said, “This one looks more… closed off. Fatter. And sadder, too.”

Ah.

I wanted to love this ad. I wanted so badly to believe that an advertising company is using its considerable powers for good. I wanted to feel like acceptance is a thing, like at least one ad company really is trying to expand the ideas of what beautiful is and what people want to see.

Instead, I got more of the usual: Thin good. Fat bad. It triggered serious body dysmorphia in me today that I had a lot of trouble dealing with and tried to ignore or circumnavigate instead of approaching head-on.

Why are we so validated by this dichotomy of fat versus thin? Why are we so relieved when others tell us we’re thinner than we think we are, or that we’re not fat? I ask these rhetorical questions because I have answers: we equate good traits with thinness and bad traits with fatness. Thin people are friendly, open, healthy, beautiful, and good. Fat people are lazy, stupid, gluttonous, unhygienic, ugly, and bad. When you tell someone you don’t think they’re fat, what you’re usually telling them is that you don’t associate any of the aforementioned traits with them. This has nothing to do with whether or not they are actually fat.

Ultimately, Dove is trying to sell us something, and that something is a cosmetics product. Given this, I understand that my frustration is probably a little unfair, but God, am I sick of feeling alienated by campaigns promoting “real beauty” that want nothing to do with my fat ass.

• Tags
• feminism
• fat
• fat acceptance
• body image
• advertising
• media criticism

ihaveabsolutelynoidea:

part of the reality of being a fat woman is that your body is treated like public property, and we have no right to complain because we “let ourselves go”

it’s okay to take pictures of us without our consent and post them on the internet to mock us 

it’s okay to treat our bodies like an epidemic that needs to be solved 

it’s okay for thin women to complain about their “fat” days while simultaneously being allowed to openly enjoy food

it’s okay for the evening news showcase some bullshit expert who calls for the eradication of our bodies

everyone else has a say on our bodies except for us, because we aren’t allowed to exist publicly 

(via unapologeticfatty)

• Tags
• fat acceptance
• fatphobia
• sizeism
• tw-food

redefiningbodyimage:

I’ve gained another 6 pounds this year. My head hurts too much right now to articulate how I feel about it. I hate that I can’t keep myself from looking at the scale when they weigh me at the doctor’s office, but at least my doc isn’t a fat-shaming butthead. GODDAMNIT WHY DO SCALES EXIST.

Empathy/solidarity internet fist bump. I think this is a pretty good moment for some story-swappin’.

I get anxious even looking at a scale, even one that I have no intention of climbing on. My mother has one in her bathroom — always has, probably always will — and I can’t take a shower in her house without thinking “I should weigh myself,” which is something I did every day for most of high school, and something that inevitably triggers my eating disordered behavior, then and now.

It’s fucking TOUGH. Like, my housemate brought one to the apartment we rent together, and she had it out in the bathroom for like a day and not only myself but another of my housemates were really, really unhappy with it being there. It feels to me like a constant reminder of the pressure that a number is supposed to define us as women and that we, as fat women, fail every time. 

They’re tools of shame in the worst way, because never have I gotten on a scale and been like, “Oh, damn, I’ve suddenly lost 35lbs and had no idea, guess I’d better get to a doctor!” That’s the reason they’re supposed to exist, right? In case you go to the doctor and you’ve had a dramatic weight fluctuation, as if you wouldn’t otherwise notice? But fun fact! I had dramatic weight fluctuations in high school, when I was studiously ignoring that a medication I’d been put on to treat my Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome was essentially forcing me to purge one or twice a day. I would lose 3-5lbs a week (mind you, healthy weight loss is 1-2lbs, tops) and my doctor never batted an eye. She as like, “Oh, you’re losing weight! Great!” Everyone was telling me that I should be so proud of myself, and I looked so good, and wasn’t I happier?

To say I wasn’t happier was a lie. But I didn’t like my body any more than I used to. I was happier because I was finally getting pseudo-positive feedback about my body, instead of overwhelmingly negative. And everyone was telling me that I should be happier, and that I was so much prettier and better this way, so I figured… what’s a little chronic dehydration and fainting spells and heart problems compared to being thinner?

That was seriously my thought process. How fucked up is that?

Let me just emphasize: I got really sick. I started fainting, like, once a week, and getting dizzy/blackouts on a pretty regular basis. I was chronically dehydrated and probably malnourished. I wasn’t gaining any muscle whatsoever. I found myself unable to do things I’d previously been able to, like lift heavy objects (I’ve always been strong) or jog up a couple of flights of stairs. I would break into a sweat, get dizzy, and have to sit down after even a quarter of a mile jog. It was really bad.

And I did not tell a damn soul. I still haven’t told anyone the whole thing, until uh, right now.

No one noticed, either! Except my stepmother and my father, who expressed gentle concern about the rate at which I was losing weight — and my dad wouldn’t have noticed on his own, except that my stepmother was severely anorexic as an adolescent and recognized that something was wrong, even if I was eating as I always had. My endocrinologist asked if I had problems and sent me to a cardiologist when I complained of dizziness and fainting, and nothing. But I was losing weight, so it’s like nothing else mattered.

A scale is intrinsically linked to all of that for me, because the relief I felt getting on a scale and realizing I’d lost another chunk of weight and that not getting told I was disgusting was going to continue is impossible to put into words. I lived in fear of going back to the place where the only time I was noticed for my body was when I was being ridiculed for it. Absolutely nothing else mattered.

Eventually I realized how fucked up this was and told my endocrinologist how the medication was affecting me. She was horrified, immediately took me off of it, and told me that I should have told her at the outset. And I slowly gained the weight back.

That’s okay. Or, I guess it became okay, because it wasn’t for a little bit, but I’d kind of realized that what I was doing was incredibly detrimental and damaging, and that stopping it would result in weight gain. I just stopped getting on a scale. I’d kick it under the cabinets whenever I went into the bathroom. Hell, I still do my best not to even look at a scale when one appears in my life. And all that is why. 

Literally no woman I know can interact with a scale without a ridiculous amount of anxiety and guilt. And I’m not entirely sure what to do about that, except to never ever ever buy one myself and to suggest that if you don’t need one to monitor health things for yourself or whatever, don’t use one. They’re the worst.

• Tags
• weight
• personal
• vent
• fat acceptance
• trigger warning
• wow this got long sorry