Lindy West: the Perfect body is a deception, which trashed my life Bashny.Net

Lindy West since childhood, explaining that she is "more normal". In the excerpt from his latest book "the Squeal" a writer with a sense of humor tells how she otmuchivshis in his youth, was able to accept myself and live happily ever after.





I've always been a big man. In the first months after my birth the doctor was so concerned about the girth of my head, forcing my parents to bring me to the hospital again and again, to weigh, to measure and compare lying beside the "standard" newborn. She said that my head is off the charts.

Pediatric science literally ran out on me the scale divisions is not enough to measure my huge pot. The expression is off the charts (beyond all expectations, more than the norm, but also luxurious, homicide, just a space — approx. TRANS.) remained a joke in the family Westow for many years — I always retorted that it's due to the fact that I have a big brain, but nevertheless the meaning was deposited. I was too big at birth. Excessively large. Anomalously large. Immeasurable.

There were people of normal size, and I was. What can you do if you're too big in a world where the fullness is not only something aesthetically unacceptable, but immoral?

You fold like origami, trying to make himself smaller in all ways, take up less space with your personality, you're not going to reduce body. You're on a diet. Torturing yourself with hunger, run to the bloody taste in your mouth, count eaten nuts, trying, sacrificing the kilos of flesh, to purchase the right to feel human.

I soon learned to be a little — not physically but socially. On people until I was eight, I was only talking with my mother, and then only in a whisper, pressing his face against her leg.

In search of the vents I immersed myself in fiction novels, movies, computer games and Comedy — where he could feel safe, to assume any form and fit into any environment. Drawing, which carried away all the other kids, it was just too much blatant act of creativity, too much arrogance.





My father was friends with Bob Dorough, the elderly jazz musicians who wrote the songs for "Cartoon rock", an educational show for children. It's his raspy frog voice can be heard in the "Magic number three" — if you grew up in the States, you recognize.

"Men and women were a small child, Yes, a small child. They were tro-Oh-Oh-e in the family..." Bob signed for me on vinyl "Cartoon rock" when I was three years old. The inscription reads: "Dear Lindy, grow big!". As a teenager I kept this record for fear that someone will see and think "she's too literally understand those words."

I don't like the euphemism "big", perhaps because it is most often used by people who love me who are nice to me and trying to spare my feelings. I don't want people who love me, shut my eyes to the reality of my body.

I don't want them embarrassed by the size and shapes, silently podpisyvaet under the assertion that being fat is a shame; to pretend I'm something I'm not, out of respect for the system that hates me. I don't want to see me make a fuss like I'm some kind of dangerous wild animal. (If I want to become wild and dangerous I'm wild as she wants). I don't want them thinking I need a euphemism.





"The big one" we used when entreat child: "Be a big girl!", "Act like big kids!". When this word is used in relation to an adult, it's a hidden reminder of what is most fat people are infantile and asexual.

Fat people are helpless babies, enslaved to their whims. Fat people don't know what is best for them. Fat men, like children, need to be told and scolded. From early years through to maturity I was forced every day to carry the burden of this stupid baby words — no wonder I prefer hot chocolate, whiskey, and psychotherapy, I replace the audio books of Harry Potter.

Every cell in my body would rather like to be called "the fat" than "big" or "krupnikas".

Day by day the belief that I'm too big, I narrowed and narrowed my living space.

I announced that "my theme" is a shoes and accessories because friends didn't understand that I simply can't buy clothes in regular stores, but I would have burned with shame explaining it to them. I've refused invitations to dinner parties if they learned that the restaurant has only narrow chairs or unstable chairs.

I ordered a salad, even when others were eating fish and chips. I pretended to hate skiing because my giant men's ski pants made me look at the stove pipe, and I was afraid that the weight of his body fell out of the chair lift.

I stayed home while my friends were backpacking, rode bikes, swam under sail, climbed over rocks, went diving — I was sure I couldn't keep up with them. What if something happened?

They couldn't raise me on the mountain, or get me on the mound, or to push me through the narrow gap, or to raise higher, to rescue from the bear's fangs. I never confessed their love, convinced that the submission of my disgusting body as a sexual object immediately would cause people — even those who loved me — vomiting (or worse, pity). I swam for ten years.





As soon as I got older — 14, 15, 16, 17 years — my friends stretched, without any difficulty acquiring a wonderful body. I waited, remaining a shapeless sack. I was not jealous, because he loved them, but felt cheated.

Each of us is given only a few years, during which we perfect. Young, with smooth skin, decorative, as the exhibits of the Museum collection. This convinced me.

I missed its finest hour. This thought gave me no rest, I was in despair. Deep down I knew that my perfect time are long gone — stretch marks and cellulite I had long before twenty, but I say, if you're sufficiently womenvideo yourself, you will be able to make myself at least a little to resemble the ideal. The pursuit of the ideal was your duty and your right from birth if you were born a woman, and I never found out what it is — the ideal, the most important thing in a girl's life.

I've lost it. I can't handle. I was not a woman. Each of us has only one life, and I missed.

Obsessive preoccupation with society on female thinness is not an abstraction that theorists are exploring gender, or which has been exploited by the tabloids in the "body-positive" list of type "Check out these eleven plump ladies, with them you still would want to have sex — the seventh almost looks like a normal woman!" It's a constant, omnipresent subtext that distorts the life of every girl. Moreover, from this obsession, from this implication and grow a new cultural revolution.

Women have value. Women are half of humanity. When women grow, assuring that they are nobodies is that they are wrong, sick, and that the only way out is hunger and unhealthy attention to the figure; when women are set against each other, kept in chains of shame and hunger, causing them to endlessly worry about their shortcomings, ignoring his power and capacity; when this is used with the aim of sucking women time and money — all of it becomes a lever of world governance.

The ship of humanity turns, going for the course of conservatism, back to the narrow interests of men. And we hold back in the Wake of on-site, where the pleasure and convenience of men are more important than the safety and humane treatment of women.





I watched as my friends lost weight and got prettier as they cling, as they dressed in branded items and fearlessly jumped into the fragile boat, but I also saw how they starved and mutilated themselves, lost and drowning. They picked up the bad men, deliberately causing them pain, corroding them from the confidence and not allowing to escape from the endless race.

The catch is that being skinny is not enough. It is impossible to win in this game. Perfection is unattainable.

In College, I every morning heard on the radio the Howard stern show. It was great fun. It seemed to me that Howard is a part of my family. Here are just a listener costly a sense of belonging to this family. The Studio was full of hot Chicks, and he judged them as the vet inspects the horses, running his hands at the withers and sides, exploring their bite and pace, feeling their bulk buffer and described in detail what did not suit it in their bodies.

Literally always had something to complain about. If the girl weighed 50 pounds she needed to lose weight to 45. If she was 38, it was too much. ("Why do you do this to yourself?") A size two? You'd look sexier with a third. Not worth it to overload yourself with training — your legs have become too muscular. 70 inches in the waist is unacceptable — come back when it will be 66.

And here I am: 100 kilogram, 100 centimeters in the waist, do not know what the size of the Breasts, because it never occurred to me to buy a good bra — who will look at him? Unkempt, pathetic, formless. Between my awkward body and perfection lay an impassable Gulf. To listen to stern, so even a perfect girl can never perfect.





I realized that if I want to be a part of the community that you like part of the family, which allows you to keep your sanity in this fucking boring world, part of a multimillion-dollar conglomerate that you, as the audience-men, support for those that consume its product, we have to smile to participate in their own destruction. Every day have to accept the fact that you — the secondary creature, whose dignity is measured by the unattainable bar set by men.

22 the only thing I wanted is to blend in and be like everyone else, and the inaccessibility that made me lonely, suppressed, and deprived me of hope.

Years later, when I was ready to stand out, understanding that the mainstream does not accept me that he won't have brought me liberation and new strength.

This understanding gave me what was worth fighting for. It showed that women is the army.

When I look at photos of 22-year-old himself, so confident in his own efektivnosti, I see a perfectly normal girl and I think about aliens. If the alien is in the form of gas clouds, plural of kothalawala or anything else — came to Earth, he could not distinguish me from Angelina Jolie, not to mention the fact to compare our attractiveness. He'd say, "uh, yeah, so here these two have poglycemia fat bags, and out of those pants hanging in the nose. Damn, these creatures are disgusting. I can't wait to return to the gardens of a thousand orgies Flexnode".

Perfect body — is a fraud. For a long time I believed in him, allowing you to reshape my life and limit my real life, in which there was my real body. Don't let the fiction dictate your behavior. In the gardens of a thousand orgies Flexnode no one cares about your fat folds.

Now about thick female role models.

As a child, I never saw it on TV someone like yourself. Neither in movies, nor in video games or in children's theatre, nor even anywhere in my field of vision, just never met the small, funny, agile, strong, good thick girl.

A fat man could be Tony Soprano, Dan from "Rosanna" (still my love number one among the stars), John candy, funny, but not a walking joke. But fat women were asexual matrons pathetic jokes or disgusting villains. Don't believe? Okay, I have a detailed explanation.

Here is a list of fat female characters of my childhood:

Lady Kluck





Lady Kluck was noisy fat hen, nanny Virgo Marianne in the disney "Robin hood". Clack was so thick, that size could be compared with average bear. The 200-pound hen was not afraid to join battle with the lion and the serpent, despite the fact that Leo was her boss, and proudly carried a huge, non-sexual mother's breast. (By the way, strange that motherhood is the mark of asexuality. I know that most of society has no idea how the female reproductive system, but all babies have one thing in common: their dad finished in mom).

The red Queen





Difficult to understand what is wrong with this bitch is her only characteristic in the text of "Alice in Wonderland" is the phrase "likes the color red". She does not rule, only executes citizens for the loss of croquet, and she's married to a baby with a mustache. Now I see that it is the perfect caricature of a radical feministic fat, loud, irrational, brutal, constantly beating the hedgehog Flamingo. Hell, she taught me everything I know.

The ball





To help Robin hood to Rob a rich caravan, Balu (I know that technically this bear's name is Little John, but it is an exact copy of Baloo from the Jungle Book) obsessives scarves, rags, bracelets and spinning like a hurricane mischievous, charming rhinos guard the Prince. Baloo dressed up mockingly in a seductive fortune teller, bliss every curve of their sensual huge bear ass; he does not know what self-doubt, he sure looks great. The saddest: when I was compiling this list, I realized that the Ball disguised as a fortune-teller, was the most positive character of my childhood.

Miss Piggy





I have a dual attitude towards piggy. For many fat women piggy is the embodiment of the ideal. She is strong and uncompromising, she is confident in his own sexuality, her otlichaet gloss, which usually refuse to fatties. The fact that she is a pig, fat allows her fans to take the hairpin with irony — after all, she figured out how to magnify the fullness.

But, look, Miss piggy is still a rapist. If she is so like Kermit, she needs to respect his bodily self-determination. Dude literally runs from her.

Morla





Sad turtle from "the neverending story", which is so huge and messy that people literally take her around the mountain.

Auntie Shrew





Forgivable that one of the minor evil characters in "the Secret of NiMH" — grumpy woman, which is also literally the shrew (play of words: shrew — grumpy, but also the shrew — approx. lane) named Auntie Shrew, because the main character of the cartoon is also a woman, though strong and brave. But, seriously? Auntie Shrew? Thanks, that gave her a full mouth of sharp fangs, along with a set misogynic stereotypes instead of a person.

Trenbol





Of course, Trunchbull in "Matilda" — the fierce, intractable monster-sadist, which is not even a drop of solidarity in relation to the same a fat Bruce Bogtrotter, but you can imagine what it's like to be her? Don't forget kind huge ugly women. Sometimes the bile is the only method of protection.

Mrs. Potts





Question: how did the enchanted kettle with a Cup of "beauty and the beast", becoming a people: the Chip — 4-year-old boy and his mother, Mrs. Potts — hundred year old woman? You'd think I messed something up, and this kind gray-haired woman with the body of a snowman, probably the grandmother of the Chip. But, no! It's his mother. Don't believe me — check. She bore him four years ago. Besides, where is his father? Can you imagine a century-old single mother?

 

It will be interesting:

Somewhere there's a bridge where two souls meet...

Movies that made time stop

 

Obviously once you give birth, you become like the oldest woman in the world and at the same time a vessel of boiling brown liquid.

Book Lindy West "Squeal"

 

Author: Eva Tager

 

P. S. And remember, just changing your mind — together we change the world! ©

Source: knife.media/perfect-body-lie/