My name is Rachele (pronounced "Rachael"), queen of homemade haircuts and hairy pits. I'm not the kind of blogger that knows my cat's birthday or has an adorably decorated house or knows where anything is in their closet. Not that there is anything wrong with that. I am more of scatterbrained, over-worked social worker, feminist killjoy that reads a lot. In another life, I got married way too young at 19 but am lucky that we are still two peas in a pod 10 years later. I love that bearded, nerdy and bipolar boy of mine. He does things like actually listen to me when I sleep talk and say "I have a great idea! Write this down! A comedy club called Lady Bits!". Unfortunately, the idea was already taken.
My style is "fifties by way of the nineties" according to the nosey gentlemen at the UPS office. I am a size 22-26. When I am not glued to my iPad reading a book, I am out thrifting for clothes and records, watching shitloads of Netflix or cooking a vegetarian feast while listening to any band with a female lead singer. I have approximately one million pairs of glasses and 3 pairs of flats. So you can tell where my priorities are. I also have no eyebrows and I am okay with it. The lady that does my nails might disagree but it's cool.
I am a fat bitch spreading the word on positive body image and the fat acceptance movement. I post about fatshion, feminism, and lessons about loving your fat body, living a fierce life and feeling confident. Sometimes I draw and write good. I shoot from the hip and can swear like a sailor.
MY BODY STORY
When I was a child, nobody told me that it was okay to love myself. To love my body, weight or the way a pair of jeans hugged my wide hips. It was okay to be happy that I was tall and had long hair. But as I saw my pear shape emerge and fill out, I was told I was doomed to live a life of misery like my mother, grandmother, aunts and great aunts. Somehow, I had been taken into this tribe of self-hating, always dieting and judgmental women without ever been given the chance to just love myself.
I searched for approval at 16 in a man 10 years older than me and forgot about my self-hate when he courted me. So the blow was hard and unforgettable when he told me that he preferred bodies that were more like Liv Tyler's. Everyone tracked my weight as I struggled with depression and suicide. I was more likely to be taken to fucking Weight Watchers than to a psychiatrist Only one of them would be able to keep me from stepping in the street during busy traffic or swallowing all the pills I counted night after night. But no one seemed to mind as long as I stuck to the cabbage soup diet or kept a can of Slimfast next to the cereal. Nobody told me it was okay to love myself.
I mimicked my best friend and gave up my soul and mind to be part of a club of God-fearing missionaries that listened to rock music, wore promise rings and voted for Bush. But I still hated my body. Church ladies met every week to talk about lapband surgery, go over the list of foods they ate that week and insist that 1000 calories a day was enough.
I met a slightly rebellious and shy, skinny nerd boy and we ate pizza after school and watched "That Thing You Do." But nobody said anything about Liv Tyler's body. He wanted to touch my body, not hers. He wanted to fuck me and not what I would look like after a year of starvation. We ate meals with food that was never available to me and ate until I was full, and not the kind of full I felt when I snuck in two bagels after school before my mom got home. I still didn't quite love myself though.
I squeezed into a $20 size 16 dress from the mall and walked down the aisle proud of my cleavage but hoping the flowing fabric covered my round belly. My insecurities grew as my body did so I looked for someone to look to. This southern short and fat brunette that I once scowled at 10 years ago as she stripped down to her bra and stomach rolls on stage, was now a role model for who I wanted to be. I found a store that carried pink leopard print and rockabilly dresses in my size and the self-hate faded a little. I found myself reading about fat acceptance online and started becoming comfortable in my own skin.
I let my young husband off the hook and made it my own responsibility to find the confidence that I admired in Beth. My journey was not well-accepted by my religious friend when I stopped looking like her reflection. My diet journals gathered dust, my funky wardrobe grew, I didn't need or want church anymore and I started to love myself. I met radical fatties that sold vintage in their basement. I adored their clothes, went to their parties and met my role model. She must have transmitted some of her bad-ass attitude into me as we danced and shared a joint on a Portland sidewalk, because it wasn't long before I became a warrior of self-love and fat acceptance.
I am a fat feminist that doesn't give a fuck about mainstream beauty standards or misogynist shitheads that tell young girls their bodies aren't good enough. No amount of diet talk bullshit is going to make me feel unworthy and I have zero shame or guilt about my size. At 300 pounds, I wear a bikini, am not shy about second helpings, dye my hair bright colors, glorify my body with tattoos and keep my double chin held high!
Thanks for stopping by! You can email me at firstname.lastname@example.org.