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I’m afraid of being fat,

that it will make me invisible,




and God knows what else;

that I will not be taken seriously,

as if being female isn’t hard enough already;

and I’m afraid of being thin,

that will make me hated,


seen as a sell-out,

having drunk the corporate kool-aid,

a target for harassment,

an object.


I don’t know what to do.


The great irony is,

my body is no one else’s business,

unless we’ve made that agreement explicitly;

so beyond doctors and partners,

no one’s opinion should really matter.

But there’s so much business to be done,

talking about bodies,

praising them,

hating them,

eating them,

selling them,

selling to them.


At the end of it all,

I just want to feel happy,

look in the mirror and feel content,

be taken seriously,

be valued,

be loved,

be desired by the ones I desire,

have some fun in life,

know that I’m worthy of good things,

move easily through the world.

That’s the whole point.


I don’t know how much it takes to get to The Point.


I keep being told,

that after a certain number appears,

on a scale,

in a dress,

on a credit card statement,

that it’ll all just happen,

it’ll all just be there,

I’ll be there,

and then life will really get going.


What really baffles me,

is when it just happens,

when life gets going anyway,

without having to be there,

without having to be perfect,

all the people who are just happy,


without The Body,

and without The Stuff.

And when I catch myself happy,

without the prerequisites,

and when I catch myself loving people,

who are not there,

but I just like them anyway,

which is pretty much everyone I’ve ever loved, actually.


It makes me wonder how much it takes to really get to The Point.


This is not what I expected to post this week, since I don’t write much spontaneous, stream-of-consciousness stuff, or anything that looks like poetry. But after not having logged into my facebook account for about a week, I realized my newsfeed had aggregated only the most viewed posts, which, this week, were focused a lot on sexism and body hatred.


I’ve been having a number of conversations with a close friend this week about what I call the “toxic soup of awful,” which is really just the world with the sound turned on. We keep having to remind ourselves, in those moments of anxiety and anger and panic (and then meta-anxiety and meta-anger because what’s the big deal anyway, right?), that if it’s hard to deal with, it should be hard to deal with. We live in a hostile environment. It’s like living next to a coal plant and then feeling like there’s something wrong with you for coughing all the time.