Still…

I’m doing well. I really am. When I compare with my previous self there is no doubt that I’m in a much better place. Still, no matter how well I become, the devil on my shoulder remains.

That devil is destruction. Self destruction. Sometimes just flashes; a momentary thought of blood or blades. Other times I experience the deepest longing to ravage my skin. My reaction to pain is still, more often that I would like, the desire for more pain. Not the same kind of pain. A pain I can control. I have worked at working myself out. Learning healthy coping strategies, questioning myself, pinning down what I feel and why have been an ongoing process for decades. I am better. I haven’t self harmed in a very long time. I still want to, though.

Not everyday. Not in the compulsive ‘can’t think about anything else until it is done way’. I don’t berate myself for not cutting or create a mandatory timetable. That is gone. I have conquered that aspect of my demon. My problem is, the underlying urge never really goes away. In times of trouble my mind thinks it knows what will ‘help’. I suppose it’s like being an alcoholic. There will always be days when one really wants a drink, except in my case it’s a scalpel, not a bottle I want to reach for. The weird bit is that these thoughts aren’t reserved for awful days. Occasionally, for no reason whatsoever, a wave of craving will hit me. Honestly, my toolbox isn’t particularly helpful in those instances. It is very difficult to reason with a nonsensical ghost in your head. I’m left with sheer determination & an awareness of how slippery the slope is.

Strangely, I rarely hear anyone talk about this. There is much discussion about the warning signs for self harm, the damage it causes and how to stop. There is even information on how to treat wounds and hide scars. It’s all very much a before and after narrative. People are sick and then they recover. As I’m sure you’re aware, very few things are ever that simple. We generally understand the complex nature of addiction and mental illness. For example, much work has been done to educate people on eating disorders. Most people know how difficult they are to manage and recover from. It’s generally understood that people are not concretely cured. It is a process that involves relapses and continuous effort. Disordered eating becomes compulsive and corrupts thought patterns. Often nothing is as important as maintaining the disease. Likewise substance abuse takes over a person. The priority becomes obtaining the substance of choice. Whilst no one thinks that’s good or healthy, we do understand that people don’t want to be controlled by an illness. These are topics that are commonly discussed; we have compassion and celebrate those who have worked towards recovery. Not so for self harm.

Self harm is still taboo. There isn’t really any mainstream discourse of its realities. No one is making serious documentaries or accurate media portrayals. Celebrities aren’t telling stories of how they won their battle with self harm in the way they regularly do regarding addiction, eating disorders or issues like anxiety. The latter are viewed as brave and inspiring, self harm is still seen as disturbing. Even talk of relapse or the ongoing nature of recovery are received positively, but discussions like I had above is very much in the ‘crazy’ category for most. Despite the fact that statistics show the prevalence of ED & SH are fairly similar and that they share many commonalities, the public perception is very different. Even years into ‘recovery’ it frustrates me. The stigma sticks. I can carry the weight of other people’s judgement now. That wasn’t always the case and it won’t be for many still in the throes of illness. The fear of the judgement creates an impediment to seeking help. That delay is extremely dangerous. So, yes, I’m still talking about this because hardly anyone else is. I don’t believe people get better in silence and I think it helps to be prepared for what better might actually look like.

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Walking on sunshine…

It finally happened, the sun has arrived. We had two whole proper hot sunny days. It did rain yesterday, but that’s Glasgow for you. Anyway, my point is, summer is coming.

With it will come a deluge of diet talk, body shaming and unsolicited opinions. That means it’s time for my annual reminder; we all have a summer body. Everyone deserves to feel the sun on their skin and enjoy the summer. There will be many external voices proclaiming the need to change or hide your body. I implore you to ignore them.

I know it can feel scary to let the world see something you have been taught to believe is bad. I also know that when you release yourself from the fear of judgement it feels goooood. Nothing terrible happens if you go to the park in a sundress with your bingo wings flying free. The truth is most people aren’t paying you that much attention. We’re all busy living our lives. We’re chatting or day dreaming or stressing or thinking about what we need from Tesco. No one is focused on your body or outfit even a fraction as much as you are.

The fuckwits who will stare or comment on a photo are in the minority. Those are not your people. Those are mean, small minded probably deeply insecure folk. Do not give them power over you or your choices. Especially when there is so much at stake.

It’s hard for me to articulate just how much happier I am since embraced the body I’m in. The freedom not just to wear whatever I feel good in, but also to enjoy what I do in those clothes has touched every aspect of my life. There were so many things that I just wouldn’t do. Activities that I love, like swimming or spa days were frought with anxiety. My career was hugely impacted by all the opportunities I didn’t think I could I take. Purely because I didn’t look the way I thought smart, successful people should look. A hot summer was just extended discomfort. Constantly trying to balance not being too hot, with not being too visible. Covering scars, flabby bits, dodging photos, worrying that I’ll embarrass people I care about. I missed so much big and small, pushing things off for a time when I’d weigh less.

Oh how I wish someone could have enlightened years earlier. I’m still fat. I’m still covered in scars. I’m peely wally, stretch marked, my boobs sag. And I’m living life more fully than I ever thought possible. My size and appearance no longer feature in my decisions. No one who matters in my life cares about the number on a scale.

I’m not denying that fat phobia exists. Nor am I saying no one will ever judge you or be unkind. What I am saying is that the joy you gain from being fully present in all of your endeavours far out weighs all that bullshit. Plus, there is no cardigan or floaty top that magically conceals one’s size. Feeling worthy of respect and happiness was my first step in being able to fight for it.

Please let me cut through all the negativity. Wear the shorts. Go to pool. Put on your sexiest outfit and strut your stuff. Our visibility allows other people to step into the light. Trust me, it is lovely out here.

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Who wants to be a millionaire?…

It occurred to me recently that had I ever followed through with my invention I may be rolling in it by now. I know I don’t seem like high powered entrepreneur, but I’ve actually had a few amazing ideas that turned into real money spinners. Join me as trawl through the ideas I should have got a patent for!

The Vajazzle

Yes. Really. Way back in 1999 I came up with that idea. I welcomed a boyfriend back from a trip at Xmas time with a glittery festive shape instead of a landing strip. It was a hit. A mere decade later those damn Essex girls stole my idea and made a mint.

ly is naked holding her boobs.  There are lovehearta hiding her breats and a sign  saying nothing to see in front of her vulva

Folding Flats

You know those clever little ballet flats that fold into a tiny pouch? My best friend and I had that idea in the 90’s too. Sick of walking around barefoot holding our heels after a night out we drunkenly came up with fold away shoes. As with most 4am ideas we did no follow through. A few years later some other more committed bugger actually made them. Another money making opportunity missed.

Nail Art

Oh I know, this seems unlikely. It’s still true. I’ve been painting designs on my finger nails since my early teens. Granted, I wasn’t always good at it, but I was absolutely doing it before it was a thing. My little sister even got in on the act way before any professional salons started offering it. We were trailblazers. These days we both pull off amazing nails, but other folks are raking in the cash.

Pale pink and blue manicure with half pink/half blue love hearts n

Armery

In the early 2010’s Mary Portas Lauched her Armery collab with Charnos (many brands have had similar designs since). She claimed it was her revolutionary idea, sleeves that could be worn under anything for women who didn’t want bare arms. Well, once again, I beg to differ. Portas was not the first to think this up. Myself & many other self harmers had been taking scissors to tights to fashion an identical product forever. Necessity is the mother of invention. Hiding the tell tale signs of our terrible secret had us innovating long before Mary. It’s pity some of us didn’t get together and launch the idea.

Torso of model wearing black vest and blue Armery sleeves

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Sit in the green garden…

Outfit posts are still thin on the ground because I hardly ever leave the house. When I do I rarely have the energy to put a look together. Now the sun is out I’m spending my days in the garden hoping the heat will work its magic on my joints & looking decidedly unglamorous.

So it’s all down to the nails to keep me in the style game. I’ve leaning into the summery manicures and liking the results.

Green manicure with pink peonies
It’s peony season & they’re my favourite flower, so why not paint some on.
Blue manicure with fox on ring finger.
Our nocturnal garden visitors inspired this design.
Orange manicure with sunflower design
A burst of sunflowers always cheers me up.
Bright manicure with smiley face, rainbow &  cherries
And a little 90’s doodle themed mani.

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Word therapy…

On one of my recent insomnia fuelled drives for distraction I stumbled upon an interview that persists in my thoughts. It was Anderson Cooper discussing grief & loss with Stephen Colbert. Both had significant losses early in life. Anderson talked of wishing he had been physically marked by the experience. This is of course a reality I am familiar with. Which led to some slightly self indulgent word therapy.

He talked about how he felt it might be easier to have a permanent sign of the damage so that others may be aware of his condition. An idea I suspect he’d soon realise the error of if he actually did bear a mark of loss. He continued that he thought people should know that he wasn’t necessarily the person he should be. Tragic events had diverted him from the person he started life as. This concept felt lifted from my very own brain. Of course much thinking ensued.

When Anderson talked of being marked he suggested a scar running down his face. His reasoning being that in the wake of his mother’s recent death people had offered condolences, but also shared their experiences of loss. He found this sharing to be comforting and it’s not a thing that generally happens. The scar would show his pain & people would feel able to have those conversations. Colbert agreed in part as he recognised the feeling of his loss being a continual part of his life, whilst the world at large rarely considers it. All sentiments I relate to. I do often struggle with just how often I think of my babies when they’re rarely acknowledged by anyone else. That led me to ask myself questions I had thought settled.

I understand their reasoning, my experience just doesn’t bear it out. The look of my self harm was never a factor I gave much thought. Outside of the need to hide it from others, the visual of impact was a non issue. I never cared. Ugly scars were just a by product of a necessary thing. The pain & blood & release & expiation were essential. If mutilation was a consequence of that so be it. I don’t think it occurred to me that I had another option. Yet, now, clothed in the aftermath it does seem fitting.

If I could exclude third party reaction it would make sense. I can see a twisted symmetry in my flesh being ravaged, but still living. At my core that’s how I feel. I contributed to my destruction and then I toiled to repair the ruin. Of course, you can’t escape the opinions of others. Those who care about you are hurt by the reminder of your pain. Those who don’t know you are as often cruel as kind. Carrying your story everywhere is a complicated matter. Anderson might end up preferring the anonymity of a metaphorical scar.

The second part is harder to reason. For a very long time I wanted nothing more than to be the person I was before. It took me years to accept that wasn’t possible & several more to realise that wasn’t my fault. I still missed that fun, capable, handle it all girl. Still wondered what she may have become, but I didn’t hate the me that life had created anymore. Little by little I learned to like myself. I started to believe that might be able to take all the broken pieces & make something beautiful.

The universe had other ideas. It really does enjoy smashing me up. Each time I lost a bit making a whole seemed less & less likely. Now that I know for sure how unlikely, those other mes feel important again. I keep thinking about who I could have been. Which variation of myself was I supposed to be?

I can’t help but imagine that original version of myself would have made a shinier, happier life. That 19yr old was a powerful force. She’d have been unstoppable at forty. Even if I’d sustained the original hit there all there a still multiple variants. All these possible lys that could have existed if you subtract chips along the way. Sure, that could probably be said for anyone; I just don’t know if everyone can so clearly identify the points of impact. It makes it easier to compare the before & after.

I had made peace with the person I am. I don’t reject her now. The what if’s have simply grown louder. There could have been so much more. In the end I don’t care about the scars. I’d even take Cooper’s imagined facial disfigurement if it gave me a chance at one of those parallel lives. The older I get, the more certain I become; I want the more.

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My sign is vital, my hands are cold…

CW: Self Harm

Lately I’ve been having regular checks for the heart rate thing. The nurse who took my blood & vitals last week was really familiar. I had that strange I’ve definitely met you feeling, but also knew I didn’t know her, know her. I couldn’t place her at all until a loud clatter startled her. Her sharp intake of breathe shot me back in time.

She was the nurse I stunned with my self destruction in this same hospital many years ago. She either didn’t recognise me or correctly judged it best not to indicate that she had. She was friendly & kind, but the sound of that inhale shook me. I was back there, covered in blood & guilt.

I can so clearly remember walking into that triage room. Concisely explaining why I was there & seeing the doubt in her eyes. I could tell she thought the large towel on my arm was overkill. I knew she was weighing up how to nicely dismiss me. I was too tired to do anything other than unwrap the makeshift dressing & expose the truth.

Foggy picture of cars outside hospital. Words ambulance only painted on ground

The inner layers were blood soaked & the final one stuck to the wound. When I yanked it off with same the lack of self care that had led me to that room, she gasped. An entirely involuntary expression of what; shock? disgust? fear? I couldn’t discern, but I knew it wasn’t good.

The speed that she whipped through the triage routine was more about her discomfort than mine. I had long lost my objectivity. I sought treatment as a means of calling a halt to that cut. I had given up seeking enough. I knew that enough was a lie. When I looked at my arm I really couldn’t tell anymore if it was any worse than anything else I had done to myself. It was just another failed attempt to carve out some peace.

Peace that I knew was never coming. I already felt stupid & ashamed & so horribly guilty. For all the usual reasons and now also because it was obvious I had ruined this women’s night. She hadn’t bargained for my level of determined self loathing; I’d upset her. I felt selfish for not being more clear. I shouldn’t have allowed anyone to be caught off guard.

I wanted to be better. Do better. I wished I could give this nurse & everyone else the explanation they needed. I yearned to be somewhere else. I didn’t even want to do this anymore. My blades had long since lost efficacy. I could never cut deep enough. Never shed enough blood. The quiet I needed was evermore elusive. I was desperate and so fucking tired. Yet, I still couldn’t stop.

As I waited for her to finish with my blood pressure I was stuck in the past. Mired in the dread. Reliving the experience of having my arm stapled shut whilst already planning the next assault. Knowing I couldn’t escape the nagging voice in my head that insisted I must cut. I must earn any rest. I had to atone for sins I wasn’t able to articulate. I had to release all the fetid emotion with my blood.

When I left I felt blessed. And cursed. Blessed that I was wrong. I did escape. I have hushed that internal need for penance. Cursed because I still haven’t silenced it. There will always be triggers pulling me back. Days when my scars itch to be opened. You can’t play with fire & not get burned. The magic is remembering I know how to make it stop. I just have to wake up every day and choose this new, better life. Easy, right?

Black and white photo oh plus size woman looking at scarred arm

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Not your pin up girl…

I recently received delightfully BoPo gifts that instantly inspired an idea. Since the presents in question are a hat & socks, they seemed perfect for a cute top to tail photo.

As I put my vision into action I became frustrated. My attempts to capture a simple, joyful picture of my fat body were complicated by the reaction I knew it would receive. No matter how carefully one covers provocative areas or unseductive the pose female presenting bodies are sexualised. Marginalised bodies receive even more pressure to up the sexy in order to be perceived as worthy of viewing.

Nudity isn’t inherently sexual on green and purple swirly background

As a fat woman I know from experience that any picture I put in the public domain will be insulted & ogled. No matter the context or reason for my showing the world the image I can predict a portion of the responses. Some creepy men will always make creepy remarks and fat phobic comments will appear. It can feel like I am being asked to either apologise for or eroticise my form to make it acceptable.

I’ll never apologise. I won’t forever play the sexy fatty either. My body is just as worthy as any other. I am attractive, I can be alluring. I’m also just a person. I like myself in jammies & unwashed bun. I like myself with hairy legs and tired eyes. I’m worthy when I’m limping along with my walking stick. I can find pleasure in my body just as it is.

Plus sizesd naked women sitting on floor one arm across her breasts and one leg crossed to cover pubic area.Wearing a hat & socks
Riots not Diets Beanie – The Spark Company
Socks – Crudely Drawn
Glasses – Where.light

Naked doesn’t equal sexual. All bodies are glorious and remarkable. I Iove the idea of embracing the normal. I want to celebrate all the different incarnations of me. I want others to see that they are enough.

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You’ve got stuck in a moment…

You know how they say you can’t smell your own perfume, so you have to careful not to wear too much? I feel a bit like that about my body. Specifically, my scars.

I’ve lived with the damage for so long that I cannot judge how severe it is. Mostly, I don’t think about my scars at all. They’re not a consideration in dressing anymore. I’m not ashamed or embarrassed of what they may signify. I usually find any rudeness engendered by my patchwork skin says more about the observer than the observed.

However, every once on a blue moon I have a moment. Often it’s my own doing. I catch sight of my reflection at an unusual angle or change under different lighting and I’m shocked. Horrified maybe. Not so much at my appearance as the fact that I did this to myself.

More rarely it’s as a result of another’s extreme reaction. A gasp or frightened look stirs much more than judgemental comments. When my battle scars scare others it stirs the old guilty feelings.

Sun shining through trees

In either case it is doubt that knocks my confidence. I find it impossible to determine if my body is hideous or merely slightly disfigured. Without a clear grasp of what I have done I feel adrift. It takes me back to my days in the self harm trenches; never knowing how serious a wound was. Unable to grasp onto any equilibrium.

Am I a dramatic fool over nothing or inflicting horror on innocent parties? And which would be worse? The uncertainty shakes me. I feel an imposter. For all my proclamations of body confidence there are times when my self inflicted seams run deep.

I’m stuck in a moment right now. I fight the urge to hide. Steal myself against thoughts of splitting those seams open. It’ll pass. In the meantime I’ll have the long sleeve weather to regain my surety.

Blurry lights through blinds

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Feelin’ good as hell…

Global warming has given us another insane heatwave. It’s hard to keep cool in this weather. If you are concerned about what others may say about any flesh you reveal, it’s even harder. So, I thought I’d cover some old ground just in case any new readers need some tips. Here’s my guide to getting comfortable with your body.

Look at yourself.

I think the first step is looking at yourself. Really look. Stop avoiding mirrors and rushing to get dressed after a showers. Get comfortable naked. And in your underwear. And different types of clothes. Touch yourself, not the way (well, that way if you want). When it comes to your body familiarity does not breed contempt. Getting to know your body leads to acceptance, which is the first step to self love. You’ll be surprised how quickly you learn to enjoy your jiggle.

Various images of body parts

Take pictures.

Photograph yourself every chance you get. Selfies, nights out, big events, pictures of your feet, anything. Get used to looking at yourself living your life. I used to duck out of pictures because I hated the way I looked in them. Forcing myself to be present in those pictures plus taking hundreds of myself is the only thing that let me see the truth. I didn’t like the things society had taught me not to like. I hated my rounder face, flabby arms & chunky calves because I thought I had to be something else to be worthy. Once I started appreciating those pictures for what they were; a record of living, I could enjoy them. The more I looked at images of myself and others the more I could see that everyone had those terrible unflattering shots where they look nothing like themselves. We all have those snaps that amplify their perceived flaws & pictures in which we miraculously look like a model version of ourselves. None of it matters. What matters is having the memory of that time & place. Capturing that moment of you living your life. Seeing myself living & loving in those pictures showed me that my body was absolutely good enough. Your body is just the vehicle that allows you experience the world. What you look like at any given time matters much less than what you’re feeling & seeing & loving.

Happy fat snap shots

Positive consumption.

Surround yourself with things that make you feel good. Change your reading, watching & following habits. Ditch investing in anything that is focused on diet culture & traditional beauty standards. Discovering the Body Positive community changed my life. For the first time I was seeing fat people who liked themselves. People with bodies similar to mine proudly taking up space & looking amazing. When you submerge yourself in spaces that reject fat phobia you start to feel differently about yourself. To begin with I was in awe of those plus bloggers. I thought I could never have their confidence or be so beautiful. As I discovered more about bopo and started unlearning all I had previously been taught about my body, I had a revelation. If these fat women I was admiring were stunning, sexy & elegant then I could be too. If I see beauty in other fat bodies then what I despise about myself is not my wobbly belly. Click unfollow on anything that makes you feel not good enough. Replace that stuff with content that embraces diversity and honours people who look like you.

Start doing

Make a list of all of the things you want to do but feel you can’t because you are fat. Not just wild ambitions, everything. Do you worry about eating crisps on the bus? Think you shouldn’t wear a short skirt or even shy away from getting on top with your lovers? Put it all on the list and then start doing them. Start living your life. Pick the easiest ones first. Trust me, your confidence will grow. There will always be someone who does not like you loving your fat self. There will sometimes be looks or comments. You will stop feeling crushed by them. When you realise how much you gain from accepting your body as it is and experiencing your life to the max, someone saying you’re fat no longer matters. Losing weight will not make you happier. All you problems shrink to fit into your smaller body. You can live now.Fat woman living

Stay tuned for my advice on avoiding all the discomforts summer can bestow on is chubs.

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And I think of you…

I’m off to an excellent start with doing things that make me feel good. After months of things getting in the way I managed to get a last minute tattoo appointment.

The whole tattoo process makes me feel kinda wonderful. I love the sensation; it’s a nice pain, if there is such a thing. I adore the results even more. My tattoos are mostly words that stir me. The latest addition follows that theme.

e e Cummings tattoo

It’s a little section of e e Cummings’ In The Rain. I’ve wanted these words on my skin for a long time. They’re beautiful and touch many of my sensitive spots. Cummings has always made my heart thump and it’s amazing to carry his genius with me.

I can’t praise True Colour Tattoo enough. It’s such a warm, friendly studio with incredibly talented artists. Chrisse was super lovely and her work is fantastic. Being tattooed by a woman always improves my experience.

Tattoo in progress at true colour

This is my first colour tattoo. I swithered about it, but green was definitely the right way to go. The tattoo is gorgeous. It’s aided a tiny bit of healing. Oh & it’s helping me tick off one of my 40 before 40. Not bad for a spontaneous Wednesday decision.

New tattoo ly h Kerr

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