badvertisements (i’m so clever)

critical thinking comes to me naturally.

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(also: TRUTH.)

if you couldn’t tell.

i ask ‘why’ all the time. i always have. sometimes it gets me in trouble. sometimes it winds up hurting me. sometimes though, it helps in sorting through the bullshit.

like advertising. i am okay with judging the shit out of advertisements. especially those aimed at men, women, weight and appearance. my heart goes fluttery fast whenever i watch television commercials in particular.

like the progresso commercial where a woman calls and speaks with a male chef who, because he is male clearly (clearly) doesn’t care about the customer’s weight loss and the joy she expels. so she asks for a woman, instead. because, obviously, all women turn into dithering piles of giggles and claps whenever one of us loses weight.

or the nutrisystem commercials claiming prepackaged, processed, gnarly foods covered in plastic will help you shed the weight you so-desperately-need-to-lose. maybe it will. but nutrisystem won’t help you develop tools to build a foundation with food not in little boxes. it won’t teach you how to view food as nourishment and as enjoyable. because, for real, boxed food rarely compares to homemade, hand crafted deliciousness.

or how about the workout programs we see in between our shows? the ones showcasing dramatic body transformations? yes, i do believe discovering a healthy weight will increase a person’s confidence as well as health. but no, i don’t think focusing solely on physical appearance as a means to happiness and wholeness is good. it’s superficial. it leaves out the person inside, the one who believes her outsides matter more than the solidity of her character. additionally, what happens when and if you stop the work out regiment? what happens when you lose that “ideal” body and gain your natural one?

or what about proactive commercials? zits are unseemly. be smooth. be clear. be perfect. hide your flaws because they’re offensive.

or, man, the over-the-counter speed pills playing dress up as diet pills?

what the fuck are we selling here?

according to american media, our outsides matter over any other piece of our selves. the size of your waist directly affects the number of friends you have. no one will like you if you’re not thin, wearing straight hair, and a white smile proving your happiness. there is always something to fix. there is always something to improve. we’re never enough.

we’re selling unobtainable ideals. we’re selling body-consciouness and food obsession. we’re selling guilt and shame and depression. we’re selling inauthentic, pitting fake against real.

i am so angry. so frustrated.

because it doesn’t matter how smart you are (i’m pretty smart and i fell for this shit). this type of advertising weasels into all lives. it catches people unguarded. there is a reason western culture breeds eating disorders and self-esteem issues. there is a reason women trade dieting tips like old family recipes and don’t bat an eyelash when a friend complains about her thighs.

what kills me the most is the apathy, the blind acceptance, of the culture we live in. i know people fight against the negativity brought by american media. i know of body acceptance movements and women’s empowerment organizations. but i know intimately the shrugging, the “it is what it is” statements.

during the oscars my aunt kept referring to the “fat lady in the background”. pointing at the screen, at her, like some displaced wild animal in the zoo of perfection. my dad joined in eventually. i simmered. i bubbled. until, eventually, i boiled over, almost yelling as i spilled, “can we not call her fat? she’s a person, in a dress. she’s a person.”

it kills me how easily we attack one another and ourselves. how we judge without reason. how we build self-worth from the surface and stop there.

i encourage you to start asking questions. to start seeing the not-so-subtle messages tucked between dippy dialogue and uppity commercial jingles. further more, i encourage you to share your opinion, even if others think you’re nuts (e.g: my parents think i’m crazy every time i spout off at the t.v.). because, whether american would like to acknowledge it or not, some malicious force is sinking into our conscious. this isn’t okay anymore. this wasn’t okay, ever.

imagine a world in which depression, anxiety, body-shame, and self-esteem were not the biggest personal issues our culture faced. imagine if we started to consider our character, if we started to measure our worth in how much we loved, how much kindness we shared? what would we look like, then?

we have more power than we think. this doesn’t have to be forever “it is what it is”.

this doesn’t have to be shrugged off anymore if we don’t want it to be.

namaste

zoe

(p.s: ironically, i post this the week after nation eating disorder week. yeah. i would)

(p.p.s: i know it’s music monday but i wrote this last night and am still pretty fired up so. music later. and really, does anyone care? eh.).

music monday + monday lessons

mmm monday.

(san francisco on saturday on random street walks with my friend)

a light breeze, fat clouds, sunshine kind of monday.

i woke up intending to work out the whole day because i ate cake last night and militant, dictator zoe ordered it to be done. under strict authority, i laced up tennis shoes after i slipped out of my sheets and dreamy early morning haze. i skipped breakfast too for good measure. funny how plans figure their way out, though.

because the television spazzed out. and my brother came home sick from school. and my stomach grumbled loudly. and i picked up a pen and undid my tennis shoes. and i wrote into my journal. and i realized: “i still think my weight matters in the measure of happiness. so i still chase it as being the problem of all my problems” (journal quotes). silly anxious and negative self. it’s just cake, not the devil. calm yourself.

so i ate some breakfast, ate some more cake, laced up my tennis shoes, and took the walk i actually wanted. i listened to two pod-casts, did some yoga in the park under the sun, felt the grass beneath my feet. three or so hours later i am home, rested and happy and not thinking about that cake from last night or the cake from earlier. just how awesome my legs feel and how settled my heart is in my chest.

and how awesome this song is.

because i am in love with bon iver.

and mondays, for that matter.

namaste

zoe

(p.s: please don’t steal my photos. thanks!)

naked

the naked body is a beautiful body.

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(this picture is beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. if it offends you, that wasn’t my intention.)

but to a lot of people, a lot of american people, the naked body is a shameful body. birthday suits are worn without celebration. we keep backs turned. lights down low. mirrors become things to be avoided, sleeping a thing to do clothed (well, unless you live in snow in the wintertime).

why so much embarrassment over our physical selves?

i avoided my naked reflection for years. stepped out of the shower and toweled up quick. changed in front of dressing room mirrors without long observant glances. i did not grow up viewing my body as a positive thing. just an embarrassing, incorrect thing. too squishy. too round. too wide. too much.

a year and a half(ish) ago i woke up to the insanity that was my life. the running. the broken down knees. the tears, always. the numbness. a year and a half ago i took a deep breath and vowed to love myself, to love my body. i dove into yoga. i bent and stretched, spilled and splayed in ways i never wanted to be seen. i held my breath, waited for the remarks, the “zoe, we’re offended by your body” comments. no one said anything. i kept breathing.

eventually i, the forever naked-phobe, stepped onto my mat — sans clothing. i giggled, a pre-teen once again. the brush of skin against skin was so foreign. alone, in my house, i flowed dressed in the most natural clothing i owned. at the end, as i lay in blissful, sweet shavasana, freedom tingled just beneath my skin.

i learned how to be naked elsewhere, too. one night during summer, sunk in the middle of the heat trapped in my apartment, i stripped off sweaty pajamas and delighted in the coolness of sheets against my warm skin. i never put them back on. winter simply means more blankets now.

during the summers my roommate left the apartment. for three whole months i lived alone, the small space my own for endlessly stretched out days. in the mornings, before clothes, i putted around the house nude. waking up unrestrained guarantees waking up comfortably. i promise.

the more i practiced at nudity, the more comfortable i got sitting with my own body. i felt more connected to myself. i found i liked what i saw when i took the time to look. and i find now i indulge in the naked time i do get post shower, in bed, or on my yoga matt.

if you can’t look at your body or be naked with you body, how do you expect to cultivate any sort of self-love?

nakedness is the epitome of physical vulnerability. we cannot disappear or conceal anything behind clothing, behind layers of fabric. we present ourselves as we really are — squishiness, dimples, roundness and all. all the bits and pieces we call flaws are put on display for other people. kind of terrifying, especially if you and your body do not get along.

which is why i write to you today with gentle words of encouragement. notice how often you wear clothing. notice how often you don’t wear clothing. become aware of the emotions that come up while you are naked. notice the thoughts that float up and try not to attach to them. try not to believe them. remove eroticism and just be, for a moment, in your most free physical state. see what happens. see how long you can stay undressed. practice nakedness in small doses if you’re just beginning — in the morning, at night before bed, in front of the mirror before and after showering. it’s not as scary as it sounds. really, i promise (and i don’t promise much).

lack of body confidence seriously affects lives. think about it. think about all the places you hesitate over because you question the beauty of your body. the beach. the pool. the dance floor. the bedroom. think about all the beautiful moments you forego. think about all the life you shut the door on.

body confidence does not happen over night. it takes effort. it takes consciousness. it’s a practice. which is why i am nudging you in the softest of ways towards little naked baby steps. waking up to the gorgeousness that is the landscape of your body will benefit so many areas of your life. other people already see the beauty you hold. imagine what would happen if you saw it, too.

namaste

zoe

body conscious

february first?

(uh. don’t type ‘body’ into weheartit unless you have an iron clad sense of self-worth and self-love.)

for real? for real real? for real.

now that we’ve i’ve successfully named the date…

i never intended to write today. lately no words show up eager and ready to present themselves. i am not one to force blogging (or writing in general). yes, i am thinking (naturally), though on a more personal level. additionally, the things floating around up there cannot quite be put into words yet anyway. no use sharing shit i still need to figure out.

so i am surprised to be sitting here, alone in my room, crossed legged on my yoga mat at 11:11 typing away. i am tired. i should be in bed. something nagging wants up and out of me though.

you ever start the day feeling photogenic? (stick with me). ever wake up vain? pose in front of the mirror basking in the sexy reflection you cannot quite believe is you? i woke up like that today. confident. my hair fell into place. my skin looked clear. my body decent enough (to me). after i showered i pulled on a quirky, feminine outfit…and proceeded to snap too many photobooth photos for the facebook i don’t have.

(in case you’re wondering, i wore black boots, purple tights, a black skirt, a blue tie-dye shirt (love), and a sweater i stole from my mom).

i spent the day in san francisco (yet again. honestly, i just need to move there already. enough with this bridge toll and gas bullshit), wandering around downtown at the asian art museum with a close friend. i liked feeling dressed up. i liked feeling curvy and confident. i felt good enough all day to return home and, surprise, have another little photobooth session.

(you can arch your eyebrows all you want — i know all of your with mac’s out there do this from time to time, too. that and it’s fun capturing the moment you feel sexiest.)

the other photos i will not share. just know i spent a good ten minutes feeling good in front of the camera. then ten minutes hit eleven and the fun stopped. i caught sight of my stomach. paused to absorb its roundness. lost any and all shreds of confidence to the unsightly rolls. to the thickness. just thought, “why the fuck do you ruin everything, body?”

occasionally, i forget the way my body looks now, further highlighting how out of touch with it i really am. i forget i gained weight on top of weight and developed brand new slopes. i forget the extra padding. the roundness.

i allow my stomach (and my weight in general) to keep me from engaging in life. i allow myself to believe i am not beautiful the way i am. i allow myself to hide my body. why am i capable of loving only pieces of my body (like my face and my hair)? why do i rejoice in the different shapes of other people yet prescribe myself to a different, torturous standard?

for someone who spent all day in general comfort and confidence, i sit here now thinking “disgusting” and “i hate the way ____ looks now”. earlier today actually, i caught myself thinking, “i never used to have back fat what the fuck?” i am so tired of loathing my body. i never loved it. not even when i was skinny. now i sit here numb and detached simply because i don’t want to acknowledge the way i look. i just don’t want to fucking think about it. so i remain disconnected instead.

i don’t know when i will feel fucking decent about my body. i hate to say this, but i will probably feel better when i lose weight. in this present moment, here on my floor, here in this cushier body, all i feel is shame, disappointment, and an overwhelming lack of love.

i wish none of this mattered. i don’t even know why it does. i don’t know why i can’t get it into my fucking head that no one gives a shit what i look like and, furthermore, that weight does not determine a person’s worth. i don’t understand why i am bound by beliefs i outgrew a long time ago.

i just know this: i’m so tired of being unable to feel my body.

namaste

zoe

(p.s: i say unsightly because i do not like the way i look. i find bigger, curvier women beautiful. i just cannot bestow the same appreciate onto myself.)

today (with fat-talk)

our family gathered to celebrate my grandma’s upcoming ninety-first birthday today.

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a story for another day, perhaps. because today, i want to talk about a conversation my parents had in the car today. a conversation i overheard.

my dad: e (my cousin, his niece) looks like she put on a few lbs (pounds).

my mom: well and that dress she was wearing was not flattering at all.

my dad: yeah.

my mom: so few people can wear those dresses. you have to have like, nothing on you to wear those dresses.

up until this conversation, i only looked at my cousin in the long-sleeve, floor length, oceanic blue dress and thought, “e looks really, really nice.” (because she did). true, she wears a body with more curves. true, her stomach is round (like mine). true, most people believe semi-form fitting dresses belong only to the “skinny people” (referring to them as the “skinny people” like they’re a class above, worthier of all things (we’re all equal)).

no one, however, owns the rights to insulting someone else’s body. if someone feels her most comfortable in a mini skirt and a tank top but wears it with unfamiliar curves (because how often do we see larger people in tighter clothing?) let her dress as she pleases. people are people are people. we’re not bodies. we’re what’s on the inside. we’re souls with words to speak and love to share. we’re not the size of our legs or arms or stomachs.

i am getting to a point where judgmental fat shaming comments are starting to really piss me off.

they’re kind of everywhere.
in movies.
on t.v.
in jokes.
in conversations between your parents in the front seat.

the thing is, making fun of or speaking poorly of fat people isn’t funny. it’s insulting. it’s demeaning. it’s condescending and wickedly inappropriate.

what message do we send little girls dreaming of growing up and wearing pretty dresses and tops and skirts? you have to be this tall and this wide to qualify for said clothing. what cultural messages do we perpetuate, no matter how much we realize how fucked up that message is?

i don’t like listening to people comment on other’s weights. i don’t like the assumptions, the low-brow insults, the mockery. why are overweight people a target (especially by other overweight people!)? why do we think it’s okay to totally tear down a person based on his or her outsides?

i think a lot of the time the jokes or the comments or the blatant disrespect aren’t spoken consciously. the statements come from our cultural influences about fat and what it means. we thoughtlessly reiterate the doctrine of bullshit we’ve been submerged in our entire lives. in our society, we’re conditioned to view and think about overweight people in particular, generally negative ways. but, when you really get down to it, there are worse things to be than fat. you could hurt people. you could manipulate people. you could be selfish or greedy or rude. so why all this focus on fat? why so much shaming and chastising and judging? when are we going to stop seeing people as bodies and start seeing them as souls?

the body image revolution starts when we get angry enough to speak up. when we stop body snarking other people along with ourselves. when we see each other as equals, not as “you can wear this dress” and “you can’t“.

namaste

zoe

sixteen hours alone

last week shook me off the tight rope.

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the weirdness started on wednesday. i woke up thinly veiled in sadness. i spent the majority of the day working my mind around the reasons why. nothing really came up. i got frustrated and panicky and desperate.

soo i up and drove eight some odd hours to san diego to stay the weekend with my best friend. it was a much needed get away. much.

unfortunately, i’m still sad. but. now i know why.

eight hours there and eight hours back gave me a lot of time to think and sing really loudly and really obnoxiously. something like sixteen or so hours. i thought some funny thoughts. some sorrowful thoughts. weird thoughts. insightful thoughts.

the insightful thoughts are what i want to share. i spent a lot of time working over my emotions. the full moon fucked with some energy. PMS too (you guys. i cycled up with the moon cycle. wtf?) also, recently, the urge to binge has returned. the effortlessness of the past month and a half stalled, easy happiness right along with with it. i understand happiness cannot be constant (in fact, i don’t think it should be. that’s a thought for later.). however, the lack of enthusiasm and the sinking sadness are way too familiar and kind of scare me. troublesome thoughts that kind of scare me float into my consciousness sometimes now. that tightness is back, the one where it feel like i am a step away from the edge of some terrible uncontrollable, unknown. it’s like i’m hunkering down for the next storm.

the truth is this: i did not treat myself well last week. at all. far too little movement despite my body’s asking for it. far too many indulgences. far too many “steps back”. as a result, i am jumpy, unsettled, confused, and totally scared (on top of scared and deeply frustrated).

on the ride home today, i kept thinking about my body. some days i don’t feel it, but today i felt it. i still feel it. all the extra weight. all the emotion i am holding onto. often when i think about my body, i get angry. i get sad. i get weepy reminiscent. thinking about my body always triggers the urge to binge. i am so caught up in body-hatred sometimes. it stresses me out. i am tired of thinking about my body. i am tired of keeping tabs on it. i am tired of not trusting my intuition. i am tired of being angry, of continually fighting an impossible war.

then, a follow up thought:

I AM NOT MAD AT MY BODY: I AM MAD AT WHAT I DID TO IT. WHAT I DID TO IT. I AM MAD AT MY SELF.

you guys.

this is big. (for me anyway).

my therapist likes to tell me the body is neutral, that it reacts to your actions. it didn’t do anything but listen to you. you guys, why am i fighting myself? why am i continually choosing to hurt my body and my self? quite clearly, i am holding onto my past and punishing myself. i am sad i allowed myself to gain so much weight. i’m angry i lost all any sort of control. i’m frustrated and keep taking it out on myself.

i think that, in order to move forward, i need to truly forgive myself. i need to accept that what happened, happened, that every thing i am mad at already happened and i can’t change it. not a single thing. i need to meet myself where i am, now, and not where i dream to be (i don’t know that woman’s needs because i am not that woman. i only know the woman i am, right now). really though, i need to forgive me, just like i might forgive a friend who unintentionally hurt me. i need to stop being so hard on myself and be instead unbelievably kind. it’s time i relax. release. and move on.

this is going to be hard.

namaste

zoe

(p.s: always feel free to weigh in. i am a fan of honest feedback. it’s like a different perspective i can’t see, you know?)

i weighed myself

oops…

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here comes a long one…

i haven’t weighed myself in months. months. not to say i haven’t been tempted, though. i didn’t plan it. it happened because curiosity got the better of me while using the bathroom at my parent’s house. and i can’t quite say i’m terribly upset, either.

i know a number is a number and a woman and her body are not defined by where the little red line stops at but…

it’s not easy knowing this number. it’s not easy carting it around, up there in that brain of mine. sometimes it mingles with the disordered talk of my ED, makes me call myself names and doubt myself and feel uncomfortable, large, unworthy, ugly, and unloveable.

the sad part? i’m sure some of you lovelies think the same thoughts. who (or what?) the hell taught us to think the same way when we live cities and states and countries apart? what prompts us to think so poorly of ourselves and start believing weight loss will help us find the self-confidence we lost somewhere during the first moments of body consciousness?

i am so sick of fat-talk, self directed or otherwise. i am tired of body snarking and the obsession with the excess flesh of other people. i am tired of the body standards and the eating disorders and lack of self-love. i am tired of listening to the beautiful, warm, lovely women in my life use sharp, nasty words on themselves. am i wrong to think the problem only seems to be worsening? young women (and women of all ages, really) seem so devoid of self-love, self-confidence, and self-acceptance. the idea that we’re collectively suffering under the weight of our own hatred hurts my heart.

who taught us to feel so poorly about ourselves? who taught us to scrutinize every square inch?

in my world i can point to my mother. i can point to my aunts, to my cousins. i can point to my grandmother. i can point to the boy who called me fat in the fifth grade. i can point to the nine year old me on the scale for P.E and the circle of girl friends reassuring me i wasn’t the heaviest one. i can point to developing early. i can point to movies and magazines and thin girls in high school. i can point to the first rocky year of college.

do you ever stop to think, maybe it was me?

yes, people and society introduced me to the culture of women (and subsequent self-hatred), but i chose to educate myself. i chose to read magazines full of weight loss tips and healthy eating guides. i chose to listen to the idle chatter of weighty matters among my female relatives. i chose to participate in the ritual of tearing the self down, of believing in the holy bible of negative talk.

which stirs me to ask myself, by body bashing am i participating in a cycle?

do i continue the tradition of women every time i call myself fat, useless, and hideous? what am i showing younger girls (and girls my own age)? what am i telling them to think, about themselves and others? what kind of girl can gather confidence when her only role models choose to disregard self-love and self-acceptance? no kind of girl, really.

no woman deserves to feel so vehemently opposed to her body. a body houses your soul, the true beauty of your being. from your soul comes your heart, your warmth. our bodies protect us.

i guess i should thank the scale, perhaps, for triggering the race of my thoughts. the good and the bad. i guess i should thank the scale of reaffirming just how far in positive thinking i am progressing. i guess i should thank the scale, also, for gently reminding me to truly take my health seriously.

…honestly though, i should really thank the scale for reminding me of how utterly useless it is.

namaste

zoe

[EDIT: bah, i'm so inconsistent! i forgot today is MUSIC MONDAY! let's share the tunes, shall we?

today i bring you one from an amazing musical woman. the one, the only janis joplin! i unfortunately some how ended up without her music on my ipod. my roomie gave me one song though...and i can't. stop. listening to it. or belting it as loud as i can. in the car, in my house, on my bike...

janis joplin -- piece of my heart
]

some days

some days i wake up without happiness.

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today was one of those days.

shifting emotional spheres is just one of the many facets of all this humanness. it keeps me on my toes, really.

today i woke up without happiness and without self-love or self-acceptance. i felt uncomfortable in this body and in this mind. i got to thinking about the guy i know who i spent the better part of last night flirting with talking to. i got to thinking why he called me beautiful and why anyone might call me beautiful. i got to thinking about the weight of my body, how it feels so heavy and foreign. i got to thinking about relationships and how i feel my body keeps me from them. i got to thinking “it’s because you’re fat. no one wants to date someone bigger than them.” i got to comparing myself against other women. i got to thinking how i will never be able to wear the clothes i love because i look so horrendous. i got to appreciating the green vest i wear at work, the one obscuring my middle. and i got to wanting to purge — not binge, just purge.

unhappiness happens. i don’t know why. i don’t know where it comes from. and i certainly don’t know why it always, without fail, falls back onto my body. my image. my whole 5′ 1″ self.

days like this show me i can feel without completely falling over (binge free, purge free). days like this show me all is not well. days like this force me to reconsider and restructure. days like this force me to be honest. brutally honest.

some of this has to do with my body. some of this has to do with lack of movement (and vegetables). some of this has to do with guys. some of this has to do with my eating disorder. some of this has to do with sitting in an empty house alongside an unfulfilling dinner.

mostly though, a lot of this has to do with the fact that it’s impossible to feel great everysingleday. it takes some bad to appreciate the good. it takes some bad to learn some lessons. it takes some bad to figure out how to feel un-bad. it takes some bad to be human. fortunately or unfortunately, unhappiness happens.

but that’s all it is, really — just a happening.

namaste

zoe

meet yourself where you’re at

recently, i’ve caught myself thinking my body looks a certain way when, really, it doesn’t.

(source)

i am bigger than i choose to see myself. i am not knocking myself down here. i am not fishing for compliments. i am merely telling it as it is. and it’s true. i’m not thin. however, i keep thinking i am. because i used to be and because the disordered part of me keeps wanting me to be.

this in and of itself is a form of avoiding reality. by choosing to view myself through a skewed lens, i am not seeing the real me. i am only seeing the past me as well as the me i wish to see in the future. if we see ourselves as we are not, we are also choosing to not accept ourselves. every time i believe i am thinner or smaller than i am, i am telling myself “you’re not good enough as is.” it has been incredibly important for me on this journey to love myself as i am now. not as i was or how i want to be. just now. round belly, big thighs, ass, chest and all.

some days i feel acutely the heaviness of my body. i feel the limitations extra weight brings. i feel a little too much the discomfort of dressing. i tug and pull and wiggle around in order to hide myself. on days where self-love inches away from me, it becomes easy to slip into self-hatred mode.

my therapist tells me i am in a process. and on days when i forget, i get hot with impatience. i am of the immediate gratification generation. sometimes, i grow exasperated at the image in the mirror. how are you still so big? how are you still so round? how can you not fit into those pants, still? negative thoughts spill out of their hiding places, bombarding me from every angle. it is here where the eating disorder voice shimmies out of the shadows. it is here where i start to feel the prickly sensation of anxiety. it is here where i start to believe again i am ugly, fat, worthless. binges come from this place. purges come from this place.

but, recently, i am finding the struggle more easily settled. because i remember to pause, breathe, and question the thoughts quickly piling up. i remember to tell myself, gently, lovingly, that i am in a process. processes do not happen over night. or in a week. or in a month. processes have different experation dates for different people. and punishing yourself with self-harm or self-harming thoughts will do nothing but draw you away from the happiness you seek.

on days when i most want to shed my skin, i try (and sometimes fail) to bring myself back to myself. i feel my body for what it is. even if i don’t accept it i at least try to meet myself where i truly am. i move my hands over the parts of myself i most dislike and try to not think a negative thought. instead, i try to tell myself i am beautiful as is. that i deserve to be treated well. that rolls and pouches do not, actually, sum up a person’s worth. by physically touching myself, i am reaffirming my existence.

when we meet ourselves where we truly are, we root ourselves more firmly in the present. i am a believer in the present. not the past. not the future. just the here and now, the time we fully exist in. we existed in the past. we will exist in the future. but right now, we exist here, directly in this moment. and by living ahead of ourselves, or behind ourselves, we lose the real us.

you might be overweight today. you might be underweight. you might be somewhere in the middle. but we are all in a process. and we all deserve to treat ourselves with compassion and love and understanding. we all deserve to meet ourselves where we’re at.

because, whether you know it or believe it, you are beautiful. just as you are. every square inch of mind, body, and soul.

namaste

zoe

(also, it’s totally music monday so here is a song i cannotcannotcannot get enough of. when the bass and beat kick in it totally unravels me. why did it take me so long to discover this guy???

minnesota, wi — bon iver

also, p.s: i updated my “about me” page. and uh, the web design. obviously )

self-love sunday

it’s raining.

(source)
i feel dark and explosive.

and vaguely nauseous.

if gaining weight was a competition, i’d win gold medal every time.
if eating and eating and eating was a job, i’d be the president and CEO.
if self-pity was a class, i’d ace it.

i know this blog is dedicated to recovery, which means including all the nasty bits this process has, but i am tired of feeling like all i do is whine. i don’t know what you all see, but i see someone creating her own misery and resisting, stubbornly, the change necessary for, well, change.

i don’t feel good about this week. i don’t feel myself winning. i just feel myself expanding. sinking. flailing. i feel trapped. i’m scared this is going to be my forever. i’m terrified food will always control my life. i’m anxious i will never love my body or my self. i keep asking myself, “is this it?”

dark thoughts from months passed continually creep up from the dark place i stuffed them into. during conversations with friends. right before i fall asleep. at work in the moments between helping customers. i am too preoccupied and distracted to actually live life. which makes me feel like a waste.

change is coming. i know it is. or, rather, i have to believe it is. otherwise, i think i might lose my mind.

namaste

zoe