#selfproclamations #identity #bodyimage #fatshaming

I am 5 foot even and 162lbs.

Fuck it. I SAID THAT SHIT.

And it feels humiliating to me. No, no, no. Not the number.

A number is a fucking number.
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And I truly think all bodies are beautiful. Just not my own.

Credit to: arewenearlybareyet, website: click image to see it.

GASP.

What?! A hypocrite?! Get the fuck out.

Yes. Me. [Raises hand timid, looking around]

Hello. I am talking about a lot of us.

12 years and change ago, I was a double fucking zero pants. A skinny teenager.
And then, I had a baby.

​For years after, my weight shifted around in my body like a jelly squeeze toy.
Some here, some there. Into the thighs, and back out into the back. Had a tiny butt, lost it, gained it back. Then adopted some cellulite and some fat in pockets all over the place. Fluff. Curves. Lumps.

I had 2 more babies at 25 and 27. And discovered after having both and breastfeeding that my metabolism is not that same at almost 29. Whoops.

I've been all sorts of pants sizes in the last 5 years alone and went through 5 different bra sizes.

It can get emotionally exhausting when you are running a marathon called motherhood and have pit stops to work, only glancing once in a while into the mirror as I pass by.

Nearly tripping over myself as I look in and scream "who the fuck is that?!"

My husband has loved me in a size 4. And in a size 14.

Should we applaud him?
​
No.

And sit down to the one fucker in the back who clapped.

It is just a body. A meat coat. I should not care, right?

Well last time I checked, I had a pulse and a social media platform showing me pinterest couches with circle glow eye twinkling, makeup divas in a size 2. Also, in a size 8. And 10. And 18.

Because we are in a time where beautiful is just beautiful. Where any size dress and any style of woman is fucking beautiful.

Megan Jayne Crabbe from BodyPosiPanda posted two images of her body — one with stomach rolls— on Instagram to show how deceptive pictures can be.

I just don't believe I am.

Why?

Because I am still healing.

Healing from the Facebook ads, the Pinterest boards, the cover girl commercials, the bathing suit rack at target, the Ipsy glam-diva postcard, the FAB-FIT-FUN beauty mama in only a silk robe and heels all sprawled out with products on her marble counter top bragging about how great 8 products in cardboard are for her laugh lines.

I am still healing from heavy doses of bullshit and morning supplements of "30 days til perfect".

I am tired. I am busy.

It has taken a lot to love me.

Through thick, thin, curvy, top heavy, top empty, torn crotch leggings and rib pain sports bras that promise to hide shit and never work.

I am finally peeling back the layers.

I am finally asking myself to just be healthy. And then somewhere in between find "happy".

I invite all women to stop worrying about their "number".

Whether it is the scale, the calories in your latte, the followers on your Instagram, or the damn exact amount of cookies left in the cupboard you so desperately want to dip in milk tonight when the kids go to bed.

I got so bad for a while, I wanted to curse at oreos every time I passed them in the grocery store.
But the only problem I have is me. And healthy is the only solution.

Healthy body, sure.

Healthy newsfeed, you betcha.

Healthy self image, working on it.

But healthy mind is the plateau.
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And I'm going to say I love you every step of the way until I get there.