part two.

you know what’s so wild?
I talk a lot about body positivity and inclusivity.
I’m the first one to shout at my friends if they begin
to talk about themselves negatively.
I beg customers to try on those “risqué” pieces.
But it’s all shit, man.

I’ve become really comfortable showing off parts of my body that I like. I’ve never feared showing my arms, which too, are large and in charge.  My thighs have never bothered me and these are some clappers, my friends.  There are more chins in this bed currently, than there are girls named Kristen.
And I don’t really give a fuck about any of that.

And with showing off these parts of my body, I’ve been told that it’s inspirational. That people have seen my size 26 body in a bralette and skirt in public and were “moved.” And that’s dope, truly it is.

I’ll whip a tit out in a second. Sorry, mom and dad. But when you find something about yourself appealing, it’s pretty normal to show it off. I’ve learned to love my hips, so I’ll wear more structured pieces that flatter them, because goddamn they’ve been through some shit and deserve some love too.

But there’s parts that I hate. Despite everything. I hate my stomach. And what I call, my cutlets, aka my under arm side boob waterfall of chub.

shocker here, but if you didn’t know, I work in a clothing store and have studied and worked retail since I was 16. A wee child, ya know. And where I work now makes me feel so confident. I wear things I love because I fucking can, and there’s nothing but support. I help style and dress all types of people, and have for a while, in many different jobs.

I’m learning to embrace myself day by day, and that includes my stomach. Styling clothes on others is easy. I’ll wear a crop top in a heartbeat, but there was always something about wearing high waisted jeans that terrified me. The other day I literally woke up thinking of this outfit that would be so cute, and almost immediately changed my mind, because in my head, my shirt would be tucked in, and that was a no from me fam.

But I did it. And no one laughed. No one said anything. No one pointed. Buildings didn’t fall and children didn’t run away in fear. A mind fuck, indeed.

I chose a paid of distressed high waisted old navy rockstar skinnies (which, quick note to the big bitches reading this, are so so good) with an off the shoulder cotton swing top from torrid, some gold hoops and sling back pointed toe ballet flats. I felt like a bad bitch, let me tell ya.

I know this is ramble-y, but it’s so freeing doing something that scares the shit out of you. Wear a print or a neon for God’s sake. You won’t be everyone’s cup of tea, but be your own, add some sugar, and call it a day. It’s lovely.

So I conquered the stomach fear, kind of maybe, a little.
And maybe you’ll pick a piece that makes you nervous, and love it too.

Wear what makes you happy, even if society is telling you something different.
And just embrace it.


All my love,
K.

embrace me

I’ve realized recently, after hearing the cliche for many many years, that it is impossible to love someone, until you love yourself. In the last year, I’ve felt the furthest from my “self” that I’ve ever been. I stopped loving. I stopped caring. I stopped feeling. And that fucking terrified me.

I remember hearing girls in elementary school talking about me. And I remember having to be on the defense all of the time. In middle school, I learned that if you made jokes about yourself first, the ones that others made about you, didn’t hit as well. So I started cracking jokes about my weight. Being the funny fat girl was a role I played. When you make people laugh about something else, they’re laughing with you, and not at you, and that saved me, somewhat.

Bullying was a fucking bitch. I don’t talk about it often, but it completely changed me, and formed me into the person I am today. I had pictures of pigs put in my locker. I had groups of girls, (who to this day like my pictures on social media and comment “yes queen”) mock me at parties, online, and in class.I remember being in high school, and specifically having a very popular, athletic, attractive boy, message me on AIM. He asked me if at a pool party, he could “grab my ass” because he thought I was pretty. I never felt pretty, and I remember taking this as a huge compliment. Turned out, in a shocking turn of events, that he showed this to all of his friends, and it became a huge joke among groups of friends, whom I avoided for the rest of my time on Long Island.

As a 26 year old, single, plus size girl, I’m tired of being the funny girl. Laughter is medication, but laughter, as I mentioned before, is also a building block to a wall that we surround ourselves with when we’re afraid of reality. I’ve worked in retail for a very long time, and see day to day that women like me aren’t portrayed in media, in stores, in movies, unless we’re funny. Think of all of the big bitches who actually make it. They’re not serious reformers. They’re comedians.

I follow incredible women on social media who are not afraid to show themselves in bikinis, in underwear, or even nude, and I envy them every fucking day. Because every fucking day, I strive for the confidence to feel THAT beautiful in my own skin. I believe that I have the same right as a woman who weighs 140 lbs to wear whatever the hell I want, and feel good as I wear it. It shouldn’t be considered “brave”to wear a bathing suit, or a pencil skirt, or to show your arms or your stomach.

I haven’t written anything in a very long time because I had nothing to say. I felt like I had said it all already. The “love yourself body posi bitch” went away for a while and didn’t leave her bed. And I missed her. I lost a great love, and lost myself when it happened. And I wanted to be her again. So I fucking did. You’re not a slut if you post something on the internet that isn’t the norm.

So I got out of bed, propped up my iPhone, and took a picture of myself in my panties. And I stared at it for three days before I put it on social media. I stared at my rolls, my cellulite, my split ends, and then I posted it. I fought to be her. I’ve been through my darkest days. Let’s just say I’ve seen some shit. And when I looked at that picture, I didn’t feel angry anymore. I stared at the line of the curve of  my hip and I felt beautiful, for the first time, without having to have someone say it first. I embraced it. And that shits wild.

I’m writing because I missed it. Because I finally felt like I could stand behind myself and the words I was saying. I believe that at any size, you should be able to stand in a mirror naked and think “I’m that bitch.” Any gender, any body type,  any race, any disability, any sexual orientation, any human fucking being, should be able to feel love for themselves.

Thank you to anyone who has stuck around, reached out, and came the fuck through for me this past year. I’m happy to finally be in a place where I feel comfortable doing something I love again.

Go out; wear what the fuck you want, show off your skin, and enjoy.

All of my love always,
Kristen.