On Becoming Shallow

Today I am 70 pounds lighter than I was a year and a half ago.  Congratulations, right? I should be celebrating.  I'm happy to be healthier, of course, but I can't seem to shed the nagging feeling that I've lost something important along with all the fat. 

When I was a bigger girl (to the tune of 250 lbs), I didn't get my self worth from the appearance of my body.  I was so clearly outside the norms of feminine beauty standards that all I could do--besides staving off regular bouts of "I'm different" induced malaise with pints of Ben and Jerry's Americone Dream--not give a fuck.  Yeah, I knew I was fat, and yeah I didn't wear bikinis ( I still don't), but it wasn't something we talked about.  It wasn't something that mattered.  In a way, my exceedingly generous curves made me feel voluptuous and luscious. 

When I went on dates, I knew that the men who agreed to spend time with me either liked my body as it was, or were interested in my mind and intellect, rather than my temporary packaging.  I could run go places without being notices (sure, I craved attention at times, but preferred my anonymity), and surprise people with my wit rather than my waistline. 

Days when I hated my belly, or the rolls of fat that adorned my frame, I just didn't look in the mirror, wore red, and applied chocolate.  Now, I feel pressure to look good all the time--wherever I go.  Men stare when I'm sweaty and smelly from the gym, or wearing my ugliest clothes so as not to be noticed.  But they still notice.  I MISS BEING INVISIBLE.

And oh the mind of a beautiful fat woman!  I knew I wasn't going to make it in this world based on my looks, so I nourished my mind.  As a highly sexual creature clothed in adipose, I found other ways of making meaning and transferred my eroticism into the world of the intellect.  Rather than losing myself in endless lusts and hookups, I fell in love with poets, ideas, and rousing conversations.  I masturbated with my mind and prided myself on my intellectual fitness, since I could say nothing of my physical fitness.  And knowing that the body in time would fade and grow weak, regardless of it's beauty or lack thereof, I was proud of what a hottie I was on the inside.  Learning to find deep and lasting value within myself that had nothing to do with my dress size was incredible empowering.  I was deep and thick and wide and fucking delicious.

But when an honest lover regaled me with an adoring list of what he loved about my body one evening: "I love your hair, your eyes, your lips, your mind....your arms, fingers, legs, toes...(everything but my midsection)" I tried to accept the compliment.  He loved me, and found me beautiful.  BUT the elephant in the room my was tummy, my overweight, stretch marked, post pregnancy wasteland.  I gazed back into his love filled eyes as my lip quivered and my eyes welled with tears.  All I had heard was..."I love you but I hate your belly."

Struggling through tears, I said "That's what people say to fat girls!  You've got a great personality...Tell me the truth!"  And he did (though I must admit I put him in a terrible position). 

He said, "I'm attracted to you but not to your tummy."  There.  It was said.  I cried.  I cried all night, in fact.  I cried for caring what I looked like, I cried for not looking like all the girls with flat tummies, and I cried to feeling unloved for something as stupid as my belly.  For the first time, I said something aloud that I had never even allowed myself to even think: I was curvy, voluptuous, and sensual, but never fat."  But the truth needed to be said.  "I'm fat."  He looked back at me, grieved at my sadness, and said "What do you want to do about it?  I'm here to support you whatever you want to do, but you don't have to do anything.  I love you as you are and I think you're beautiful."  I could hardly hear him through the pain. 

And that's where it started.  After a year and a half of a no sugar, limited carbohydrates, endless exercise, and no small amount of obsession, I now weigh 170 pounds and have a BMI of 27.  I'm a mere two points away from a healthy BMI for the first time in 13 years.  But I feel so fucking empty.  According to the Tanita scale at the gym, I still have another 30 pounds to lose before I'm at a healthy body weight.  I don't know if I'll ever get there.  My body is practically refusing to let go of anymore weight, dropping a pound to give me two back a few days later.  But you know, all this talk of weight and diet and BMI is exhausting, isn't it?  That's why it's so hard to stay on a diet and exercise regime unless you enjoy it for it's own sake.  It's dehumanizing.  It reduces you to endless obsessions over calorie counts, dress sizes, muscle mass and essentially makes you (or at least it has made me) extremely focused on external things like my appearance. 

When is it enough?  When, if ever, will I be satisfied?  How do I even know what healthy looks like beyond the measurements?  Because despite the fact that my numbers are healthier, frankly, I feel like a hollow, shallow bitch.  I've come to believe that my worth really and truly only lies in what I look like.  And you know what?  Even though I'm 70 lbs lighter, I still have a tummy.  I still have stretch marks and cellulite, and I'm starting to get wrinkles on my forehead from all these years of getting that quizzical look on my face when I'm thinking hard about something (which is pretty much always).  I'm getting wrinkles around my mouth from smiling my gigantic smile and more wrinkles around my eyebrows from raising them snobbishly at some absurdity or another.  So, truth be told, even if I keep losing weight, I'll still be, gasp, human.

You see, when I was 250 pounds, I was fat and unhealthy by just about every physical standard.  But I threw out the scale, stopped looking in the mirror, and ate and dressed how I pleased.  And that left so much time for delicious contemplation, for connection, and for being present.  Do you know how much it fritters one's mind to obsess over calories and food and exercise constantly?  It reduces you to a simpering and shallow nitwit--well, perhaps some of you have fared better than I.  I certainly hope so. 

Now the mirror and the scale have become wicked fixations, and I truly (most days) believe that my value as a person, and more specifically, a woman, is reduced to my weight, my clothes size, and the frequency of my workouts.  I've come to believe that success is rigid self control rather than a blissful acceptances of life's inevitable fluctuations.  And now, on the eve of deciding to try to create another child, I find myself poised between the deep desire to let go and allow my body to blossom with new life, and the paralyzing fear of gaining weight.  In my world these last few years, gaining a pound is a terrifying recognition of failure, so how will I handle gaining 15?  or 20?  or 30?  How do I open myself to the loss of control once again that is pregnancy and motherhood, and truly, what it means to authentically be a woman?

I just want you all to know--the women especially, that no one is immune to this creeping cultural phenomenon of reducing ourselves to something external--whether it be our weight, our grades, our success, our marriage, our ability to give or cause orgasms--but all of this isn't who we really are.  Even I, women's right's activist, feminist, and champion of healthy body image, fall short every damn day.  I struggle to see myself as beautiful, and I've struggled with it my whole life.  Whether it was the time I asked my gynecologist what was wrong with my vagina because I'd never seen another one in my life, or all the times I felt something was wrong with me for my generous hips and breasts (still here after all the weight loss), or felt bad for having a tummy.  It got even harder to feel beautiful after giving birth, when my belly was something closer to Santa Clause's bowl full of jelly than it was to the flat bellies we see advertised everywhere.  And even now as I am beginning to do burlesque, I experience anxiety about exposing my belly--still NOT flat and covered in silvery stretch marks. 

Many days I feel that I am not good enough--I'm no longer plus-sized, but am a bigger than "normal" (whatever that is).  I'm "almost" a size 6/8 but not quite, almost acceptable, almost loveable, but not quite.  My thighs still touch at the top, and the second I take my shirt off you can tell I've had a baby.  Is that something to be ashamed of?  Society would say it is.  But I say that's fucked up.  And it's time we began asking THESE questions rather than "What's wrong with me?"  Why, as women, aren't we shown images (and NOT DOVE images, thank you) of real female bodies of all sizes?  Why aren't we shown galleries of vaginas along with all the horrifying pictures of STD ridden cocks and cunts?  I mean, who wants to spend time looking at the variety of wart covered labia?  Why aren't we exposed to breastfeeding women so we know how it's done?  Why don't we proudly share pictures of our post-natal bodies the way we do our firm, swollen pregnant ones?  Is it because it doesn't turn people on?  Fuck that!  We need to learn to see the beauty in out bodies in all their crazy cool manifestations and stop feeling ashamed when our bodies do what they're supposed to do.  We're supposed to get hips and curves, supposed to gain a some weight when pregnant, and it takes time for our bodies to put our organs back into place after we've given birth. 

Who is perpetuating all these lies?  Culture, obviously, but just shouting that angrily doesn't get us anywhere.  We need to start talking about our bodies, loving them, and sharing them ESPECIALLY when they aren't perfect.  And you know what?  If my body was perfect, I'd look like every other flat and homogenous Victoria's Secret model out there, which is completely boring.  It's my wrinkles, my stretch marks, my curves, dimples, freckles, fat, and birth marks that make me ME and different from every other person on this planet.  So--take a look at what you think are your flaws and begin to see them as trademarks--unique aspects of an original work of art.  I'm not saying this is easy--I struggle with it every day.  But let's talk about it and commit to finding the beauty in our imperfections.

Happiness! Excitement! Short Skirts!

Hi everyone!

My life has gotten so full and exciting that it has been a challenge to stay on top of the blogging!  But never you worry I am percolating on some exciting topics for you in the days to come--femdom marriage ceremonies, burlesque sexiness, kinky photo shoots and more.

I am really stepping into my dominance, thanks to my husband and my wonderful submissives, along with a few long distance admirers.  When I began this journey I very much wanted to believe that I could be beautiful, powerful, and in control--no matter my size, fears, and insecurities.  But when I began this journey, I was still very shy, tentative, and self conscious.  And today, right now at this very moment I am happy, confident, proud, excited, and very much in love with the life I am living and the people in it. And today, I am wearing a short skirt out of the house because I look hot and I feel like it!  How fun to tease all those horny and helpless boys at the grocery store! Haha!

Opening up my marriage has been one of the hardest things I've done in a long time and it requires a lot of work and self honesty, but having the freedom to explore my kinks, passions, and sexuality is truly a gift.  And I love my husband all the more for his willingness (and work) to love me as the woman I am--a woman with an insanely high libido, a kinky, dirty mind, a love of connection, and a lot of curiosity about human sexuality.  Without my beautiful and loving husband, I don't know where I'd be.  With his support, I'm in graduate school and working towards my sex educator certification (by the way, when anyone asks what I do, or what I'm studying, I reply perkily with a great big grin--I'm studying sex, isn't that awesome?), practicing and training as a dominatrix, and dancing with a local burlesque group.  For nine months of the year, I'm studying furiously, writing papers and teaching classes, and it has been a huge blessing to spend the summer getting my hands dirty as it were (if you don't know what I mean, read the previous post), and gaining the experience I need to re-enter my studies with new questions to explore.

And the biggest surprise of the summer--loving my body, just as it is!  I've never had the perfect body, and certainly becoming a mother brought with it changes, some expected and some unexpected.  The great thing about being a female dominant is that when you have a good and true slave, they adore and worship you no matter what.  It's incredibly empowering.  So even though my thighs are not perfect, my belly has stretch marks and I have a tummy that will probably never go away, it is ALL a part of who I am and my submissives worship me in my entirety.  As a dominant, it isn't about the submissives wants and needs.  If I want to dress sexy and show off my body, so be it.  And if not, that's fine too.  I can grab one of my sluts by the hair or the collar and shove his face into my cunt if I so please and there's not a damn thing he can do about it.  And you know what else I've learned?  Confidence and comfort in your own skin is sexy as fuck.  A gorgeous and perfect woman with no confidence, no personality and no fire inside of her is not hot.  A size 10 woman with stretch marks and thigh dimples who loves who she is, knows what she wants and makes it happen--now that gets a cock hard!  So, dear readers, get out there and do what you love inside of the bedroom and out, because that is what will make you feel strong and sexy--no matter your external packaging.

And on that note, here's something hot I wrote about nakedness, vulnerability and stretch marks just a few months after I gave birth.  I think I've come a long way.  Enjoy!

I'm driving myself towards loves and lusts and lives of passionate intensity and yet stopping short as I raise my hand to knock on the door. Heart pounding in my chest, I stand frozen, looking through opaque windows, unable to predict what waits within.

I am not afraid of what I might find within, but how my lover will find me. Rejection is always painful, but to be seen and potentially refused by my living dream threatens every bit of my tenderly woven being. Not wanting to leave, and afraid to enter, I am caught in my own liminal purgatory. Standing there, sweating, wanting to meet the object of my long tended desires, desperate for connection and overexcited at the thought of imagined pleasures, wetness spreads between my thighs and seeps into my jeans. I smell of fear and desire, and I blush hot, knowing that my desire and quivering frame will betray me at first glance.

I walk away, rushing down the sidewalk, cool wind rushing around and through me. I near the safety of my waiting car, and stop again, feet frozen to the pavement. Gathering every last bit of courage, I peel my shoes up from the rubber ground, sticking in the heat, and force my feet back to you. Waging an internal war, both sides losing, each step is a profound effort.

Ascending the stairs a second time, I stand upon the doormat and take a deep breath. Unwilling to wonder for the rest of my life, living but a shadow of desire, I press the little yellow button, hearing bells chime within. Hand holds hot hand, thighs tightly pressed together, nipples insinuate and breasts heave. I'm dying for you to answer the door, and desperately hoping you won't. As I turn to leave, you open the door wide.

You take one look at me, ragged and disheveled with desire, clothes damp and limp, and grab my slick hand, pulling me in. I stumble across the threshold and stare open mouthed as the door swings shut, sealing us inside. Unable to escape, eyes turn to gaze shyly on you, knowing you're unashamedly running your eyes over my dripping form. You ogle me, knowing that I want you to look, want you to see me.

Without a word, still rooted to the floor, I pull my shirt up over my head, dropping it onto the floor, revealing heavy swollen breasts cupped tightly in a black bra. Barely containing me as it is, I reach around and unhook the bra that digs into my tender flesh, leaving red marks on shoulders and back. My bra joins my shirt on the floor, and huge breasts fall free. I want you to see the way they lay on my stomach, nipples dark and eager, belying my shyness.

I let you gaze upon me, showing you my beautiful, imperfect body. I run my hands along my belly, tracing the paths of dark stretch marks, a map left of former fullness. My belly still slightly swollen and newly empty, not entirely realizing that a child has been born. Unbuttoning the top button of my jeans and fumbling with the zipper, I wiggle out of my jeans, sliding them down to my ankles. Bending over, I let you drink in the way my breasts fall forward and the curves of my ass beg for you to grab them. But you don't.

Stepping out of my jeans and leaving them in a crumpled pile upon the floor, I stand up and look back at you, eyes meeting for the first time. Heart beating frantically as I stand there, letting you see all of my vulnerability, my new body, neither mother nor girl. Breasts milky and full, both sexual and practical, I am a complicated mess of a woman.

Curves in new places, marks tattooed on flesh, muscles firm and strong from carrying a baby nine months inside and four months outside. You don't need to do anything. Just watch me.

Hands caress exposed flesh, turning that you can see me from every angle, letting you take in every dimple and fold of supple flesh. Standing before you, my nakedness is barely concealed by a pair of wet, thin panties. I gently stroke the insides of my thighs, reaching between my legs to rub the swollen wet mound within.

Sliding hands down hips and inside fabric, I touch my hot cunt while you watch. Breasts bounce and legs sway as I rub myself harder, excited beneath your curious gaze. In an instant my damp modesty lies abandoned upon the floor. I stand naked and quivering, a human goddess, Inanna* stripped and bound, waiting to be reborn.

I am no longer the woman I was. I am changed, and I am shedding my former skin for wiser, fuller flesh. I want you to witness my transformation, recording the ineffable events upon your heart. There I will grow and thrive, impervious to threats of unbelievers. This is the closest we will come to the divine.

In my vulnerability, stripped of pride and beauty, flesh unbound and skin transparent, I find ecstasy. Fingers finding exposed, erect clitoris, unashamedly taking my pleasure before you. Risks taken and pleasure sought, I press onward, no longer content with a life of mediocrity. Pulsing with life, I come to orgasm right there, knees weakening and mouth uttering screams wild and dark.

Still rubbing my clitoris, not daring to let go, I cum again and again, not caring if you like what you see, forgetting that I am made of mere flesh and blood. Dreams mingle with reality, each moment made of orgasm. We could share a cup of coffee or sit and read the newspaper, and still I'd be unfolding in ecstasy. With each spasm of my tight cunt, I approach my deepest self, and imbued with pleasure, continue upon my crooked path to the Goddess.

It's time for me to pull out my mirror again and take a look at the new cunt resting between my legs. I'm ready to open my knees and let you see what lies within. I'll show you my scars if you're willing to look. I'll get off on your perusal, letting your glance drive me towards divine ecstasy.

So read my words and learn my heart, for I live and breathe in these pages. Here I lie spread open and exposed, an ever changing woman, seeking pleasure in all its forms. I am not a goddess, but merely a woman striving ever towards union with the gyrating world.

*Inanna was the ancient Sumerian goddess of sexual love, fertility, and war. Legend has it that Inanna undertakes a journey to the underworld of spiritual and sexual initiation. In order to descend to the depths of her dark femininity, Inanna must remove each article of her clothing, one by one, until she is completely naked and vulnerable. Only then can she enter the underworld. She removes her crown, stripping herself of her divinity, her earrings and strands of beads around her neck. She unfastens her gold breastplate, engraved with the words "Come man, come," forsaking her sexual charms, abandoning her woven girdle, and finally her royal breechcloth.

Naked and mortal she descends to the realm of her infernal sister, Erishkigal, and there she is crucified by the wrath of the dark feminine. Her flesh is hung on a meat hook, and her corpse rots until her consort Dumuzi and his sister, the self-sacrificing feminine, each undertaking their own journeys to hell, to resurrect the crucified Goddess. Thus the journey to the inner, dark self of the underworld becomes a task of both the masculine and feminine. It is only when both male and female confront their sexual and personal darkness, that they are united with each other and the earth.

While we cannot control the journeys of our lovers, we can endeavor to bare our bodies and souls, knowing that until we do so there is no hope of true ecstasy.

Me, Interviewed on What it Means to be Gender-Bendy

Laura: Hi, thanks so much for agreeing to be my first-ever interview here! So, you recently came out as genderqueer on facebook. What made you decide to do that?

Inanna: Hi there.  Great question!  There are several reasons that I decided to share my personal story as a transgendered person on Facebook, the first being that I had recently posted an article on trans issues within feminism and received a very pointed question about FTM people from a friend that I wanted to address.  It struck me that there are a LOT of misconceptions about trans folk, and I wanted to show people that gender and gender-bendiness isn’t always obvious or weird, and certainly is very personal.  That’s why I chose to share my personal story.  I feel it is harder to hold on to stereotypes when someone is opening their heart and sharing their personal story.  I also believe deeply in feminist, gender, and sexual advocacy, both in the personal and political spheres, and I want to use my writing for that purpose.

Laura: Can you tell me what being genderqueer means to you?

Inanna: Genderqueer, by definition is an umbrella term for any gender identity that exists out of the gender binary (i.e. male, or female).  This can refer to anything from a woman who, perhaps, like you, exhibits what are considered traditionally male attributes, such as drive and determination, but identifies as a female person. (I would argue that we should refrain from gendering such behaviors, but there has been a tendency to associate passivity, meekness, and submission with femaleness, and aggression, dominance, and bravery with maleness.  If that is how we are defining gender, then I am most certainly a man!)  Some other terms that I like are” genderfluid”—moving between genders, or openly expressing different gendered aspects at different times, and “gender-bendy,” which refers to someone who expresses gender differently—someone who might be male and who enjoys exhibiting feminine traits, or a female bodied person who identifies as male.
Interestingly, many trans and genderqueer people refer to their gender identity as a “third gender” and prefer to use gender-neutral pronouns such as one, ze, sie, hir, co, ey, or “they,”their” and “them.”

Laura: What’s the difference between being genderqueer and transgender? Is there a difference?

Inanna: According to GLAAD,  “’Transgender’ is an umbrella term often used to refer to people whose gender identity differs from their assigned sex at birth. However, people whose gender identity differs from their assigned sex at birth may not self-identify as transgender; some may identify as transsexual, trans, genderqueer, a person of transgender experience, etc.  Transgender people may or may not use a different name or pronoun than the one they were assigned at birth, and they may or may not pursue hormone therapy or surgery.  When in doubt, always defer to the way a person self-identifies.”  So, both transgender and genderqueer ar terms that someone might choose who defines their gender in ways that defy the gender binary.  I chose “genderqueer” because my current experience of my gender is somewhat fluid and malleable—it changes in response to my life experiences and hormonal fluctuations.  For example, if I do end up having to undergo estrogen treatments to be able to conceive my second child (this is the ONLY instance at this point that I would consider taking hormones), I both fear and expect that my gender identity and experience will undergo changes due to an influx of estrogen.  I also don’t full identify as a transgender pre-op FTM because at this point, I do not desire gender reassignment.  Though the tensions between my internal male-ness and external femaleness cause me a good deal of conflict, I very clearly identify as BOTH.  I value both my masculine and feminine qualities, and would not want to sacrifice one of them to be more fully the other.

Laura: You are a crusader for women’s rights. Do you feel any conflict between being pro-woman and being pro-trans-rights?

Inanna: Not at all.  In fact, I feel that feminism has an obligation to ally with and champion groups that are marginalized in society.  In fact, I was for a long time, a member of a women’s group for gay, bi, and straight women and have not been able to return since I discovered that the group leader refused to allow trans women into the group.  That is discrimination, pure and simple.  Furthermore, the idea that a person with a penis cannot be a woman, cannot be a feminist, and is somehow fundamentally anti-women and women’s issues is just absurd.  I feel that a person with a penis who identifies as female should be allowed in women’s groups.  Discrimination on the basis of what’s between our legs is the same as discrimination against someone for the color of their skin, and it is EXACTLY what the women’s movement was about!  Women didn’t want to be judged or forced into certain roles based on their vaginas.  Having a vagina doesn’t make a person anything other than a person with a vagina.  Whatever else they decide to be should be up to them and them alone.  In fact, my version of feminism is more like humanism—I believe in advocacy for human rights, male female and third gendered.

Laura: How do you feel that the feminist movement has addressed the transgendered community? What have we done right? Where have we failed?

Inanna: I don’t feel that the feminist movement has addressed the trans community.  I think that trans folk within the feminist movement are trying desperately to speak up and have their voices heard, but let me tell you…in a world where lesbians and straight folk have struggled to accept bisexuality as a valid experience, try explaining the complexity of opposition between body and gender identity!  More than anything, the majority of folks don’t even understand the concept, much less the experience of being trans or genderqueer.  Furthermore, due to the extreme violence, discrimination, and stigmatization of genderbendy folks, most of us are in deep, deep hiding.  Some, like myself, were so deeply indoctrinated in societal gender expectations that we didn’t even realize until late in life who we actually are, and why we always felt such deep inner turmoil at being the wrong person, or a person who doesn’t fit.  More and more articles are beginning to pop up on the desperately needed union between women’s rights and trans rights, but I think it is going to be a long road.  What grieves me on this count is that I believe that trans people are in a powerful place between genders and can act as intermediaries between male and female experience, and can stand outside of prejudice in a way that traditionally or cis-gendered folks cannot do as a result of their inherent privilege of being gender normative.  And yet, because we don’t understand trans folk, we marginalize them and pretend as though trans folk don’t exist.  The first step is to begin educating ourselves about what transgender actually is, and creating safe spaces for people of all genders, and those who are between genders.  Then, slowly and powerfully, we can begin to build relationships and activist movements between groups.  There are already a large number of transgendered activist groups—but often, it is trans people acting in isolation.  I’d like to see the trans and feminist activist groups begin to merge into one big badass movement.

Laura: There is a lot of (sometimes confusing to me) vocabulary involved here: gender, identity,  sexuality, attraction, etc. In regards to self-identification, what do you see as the most important piece of the puzzle?

 Inanna: I don’t think any one piece of the puzzle is more important than any other.  We are complex human beings with bodies, sex organs, sexualities, minds, souls, and complex experiences of being in the world and being in relationship with others.  I think we should be careful to boil gender identity and sexuality down to the issue of what type of genitals a person has.  Yes, genitals are a part (and only a part, mind you) of gender identity, sexual identity, and sexual desire, but they are a part of a much larger whole.  Furthermore, the existence of intersex people (people born with dual genitals—with characteristics of a penis and a vagina) and asexual people—folks who are not particularly sexual, illustrates that even the proposition of attempting to understand gender or sexuality based on genitalia is inherently flawed.  And when I say that the majority of sex is actually in the mind, and that the brain is the largest sex organ, I DO hope you know what I mean!   I’d also like to take a moment here to say that, for those of you who do not know, intersex “correction” (oh god, I shudder at the term) surgeries are still being performed in the United States.  They are unlawful in Canada, but happen every day here in the U.S.  How horrific!  Why can’t we just leave a person’s genitals alone and let them develop as they may?  I think having a penis and a vagina, or perhaps a vagina with an extra-large clitoris would be amazing!  Besides, how big does a clitoris have to be in order to be considered a penis?  How small does a penis have to be in order to be considered a clitoris?  Human sex organs are all formed out of the same material.  Clits and penises are the same thing; just different sizes, the vulva and scrotum are made of the same material, as are the testicles and ovaries.  Makes sense, right?  Who cares what ultimate formation they take?

Laura: What does total equality look like to you, in any form:

Inanna: What a loaded question!  First of all, I have to be honest and say that I have no idea what total equality looks like.  I’m not even sure if it’s entirely possible or entirely desirable.  I have no desire to be the same as anyone else, I simply want the freedom to be who I am, whatever that looks like, provided, of course, that I am not doing harm to anyone else in the process.  But let me clarify— “doing harm” IS NOT pissing people off because they disagree with me, or challenging assumptions or pushing the limits of what is societally acceptable.  These things may be painful—paradigm shifts always are, but just because I am outside your limits and it causes you some discomfort does not mean I am doing anything wrong and ought to stop.  Setting aside the terrifying totality of the concept of “total equality, “ I would just say that I would like to see people on the fringes of anything and everything working together and seeing each other as fellow travelers on a similar path.  GLBT folk, polyamorists, polygamists, and many others who do not fit into society’s norms are all fighting for similar things.  Nothing saddens me more than seeing one of these groups discriminating against another.  Talk about not practicing what we preach!

Laura: What is the thing you want most for cis-gendered people to know about  you?

Inanna: Actually, what I want them to know has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with them.  I would want traditionally gendered boys and girls to know that just because they have penises or vaginas doesn’t mean that is who they are.  Sex is great and bodies are good, but who you are and who you want to become are entirely up to you.  Take what you want and what empowers you from all genders and create a fabulous smorgasbord of traits that is uniquely you—and in this way you are challenging the gender binary.  None of us is “traditionally gendered.”  We are all born with the sex organ we are born with, some of us are born intersex, and some of us chose to change our equipment, but we all get to choose who we are and who we become.  And that is the important part. Be wary of deterministic gender roles.  Don’t ever do something just because it is the lady-like or gentlemanly thing to do.  Do it because you like being kind, or because you enjoy wearing lace or frills and not simply because it is feminine or because your mother or society told you to do it.
Try cross dressing, just once.  This goes for both men and women and everyone in between.  Intentionally take on a different role.  Try it on at home, in the mirror, or in a play.  What does it feel like?  What does the role evoke for you?  What are the positives?  The negatives?  What emotions do you feel?  Women…what does it feel like to NOT be the bearer of children?  To be the breadwinner?  To be responsible for your family’s entire financial well-being?  Is it really so great to be a man?  Try hitting on a woman while dressed as a man.  Not so easy is it?  By stepping out of your chosen gender role for a night, you will learn things that never occurred to you about the other side.  You will learn things that you like better, and things that fucking suck that you never ever thought of.  And when you take off the mantle of the other gender, try and incorporate the things you liked about the other gender into your life, and be compassionate toward other gendered people who may have struggles of which you are completely unaware.

Laura: If you could wave a magic wand and change one thing (about anything), what would it be?

Inanna: If I could wave a magic wand, I’d want to make it so that we were all born without gender.  I’d love to live in a world where we could choose our sex organs and our gender at will, and move in between them freely and as we pleased.  I mean, c’mon, if you could switch genders without consequence and knew you could go right back when you wanted, wouldn’t you want to know what it was like to be a hetero man, or a lesbian woman, or anything at all?  And wouldn’t this go a looooong way towards helping us understand each other’s experiences?  Talk about cool, ACTUALLY being able to walk a mile in another person’s shoes, all Atticus Finch style.  For now, though, reading about other’s experiences, asking them about it, having an open mind, and yes, cross dressing, are the best suggestions I have for simulating this experience.

 Check out these resources:

Books

• Check out Jennifer Finney Boylan’s work.  She is a FAB writer and an inspirational human!

Stuck in the Middle (2013) by Jennifer Finney Boylan (my favorite)
She’s Not There: A Life in Two Genders (2003) by Jennifer Finney Boylan

• My Princess Boy
• Olivia and the Pink Princesses
• True Selves, by Mildred Brown (A

therapist’s perspective)

• Trans Forming Families, Mary Boenke,

editor (Family members tell their own
stories about transgender loved ones)

• How Sex Changed: A History of
• Transsexuality in the United States, by

Joanne Meyerowitz (Indiana State Univ.
history professor’s introduction to how ideas
about sex and gender have evolved)

• Becoming a Visible Man, by Jamison Green

(Green relates his insights into what it
means to change from female to male)
Movies:

• TransGeneration – Eight-episode

documentary focused on a year in the lives
of four transitioning college students.

• Ma Vie En Rose (My Life in Pink) – the

story a little girl born in a little boy’s body.

• Normal – the story of a husband’s transition

to female after 25 years of marriage (with
Jessica Lange and Tom Wilkinson)

• Transamerica – an MTF (Felicity Huffman)

awaiting sex reassignment surgery learns
she has a wayward teenage son whom she
bails out of jail. Together they take a road
trip across the country.

• Southern Comfort – documentary of the

final year in the life of a 52-year-old FTM in
Georgia dying of ovarian cancer that doctors
refused to treat.
YouTube:
Search “Jazz” and “Trans” and you will come up with a plethora of amazing videos about a little boy that began living as a girl early on and her amazing family.  Great stuff!  There’s also tons of stuff on YouTube and the internet with various testimonials by trans folk to watch.  Just start digging!

Gender Identity, PCOS, and Trans Talk

Ugh.  I've been sitting on this post for days--wanting to gather the courage, knowledge, and strength to write it.  Five days have passed and I feel no different, only grumpier and more writing-angsty than ever.  So, whether this post sucks or not, I have to write it.

The topic of transgender has only very recently crossed my radar.  I was raised in a world where there were only two acknowledged genders--I can't remember when I first heard the word transgender, but it was in the last few years only.  Homosexuality and alternate lifestyles weren't on my radar either growing up, and if they did become visible, they were used by those around me as an excuse to belittle, abuse, and bash other lifestyles.  I went to a white, privileged middle-upper class private school, so once again, my horizons were narrow and I saw little diversity of any kind.

I can tell you that I have felt different my entire life.  I didn't really know how I was different, just that I was, and not even knowing there were options when it came to gender identity and expression, or lifestyle choice just made me try all the harder to squeeze my very non-squeezable self into the boxes provided for me by family and culture: female, white, Christian, good, and so on. 

Parallel to these cultural constructs hemming me in on all sides, was my own personal journey.  At age 11 (just barely), I started bleeding, the second girl in my grade to get her period.  And you know what's sad, I was pissed that I wasn't the first.  I wanted to win at everything, even bleeding, even woman--whatever that was.  Well, sure enough, I started to "win" in that department a lot faster than I, or my parents (who were horrified at my sudden extreme womanhood) would have ever wished.  That same year, in fifth grade, I went practically overnight to a curvaceous, sexy woman with wide hips, C cup breasts, a period, and acne.  Oh god, the acne.  If someone wasn't staring at my chest, they were staring at my hips.  So I was painfully, and obviously thrust into womanhood with a big bang and an ever bigger chest.  A part of me liked all the attention, though.  It made me feel powerful to know that I could command the room with just my body.  I was proud of having curves and bigger breasts than my flat-chested friends.  I was a woman, never mind that I was 11 years old.

I remained at about a size 6 to 8 with C cup breasts until high school, when several extremely unpleasant things happened.  I broke up with my boyfriend (or did he break up with me, I can't remember), my parents separated and soon divorced, and my twin sister and I were left largely responsible for my younger, 4 year old sister, while my parents tended to their wounds.

I soon dropped out of all social life except for homework and school activities, choosing instead to spend time with my sister rather than hang out or party.  I also began experiencing "situational depression," began attending entirely pointless therapy, and started to eat.  I ate to comfort myself, to stop the pain, and to stuff the waves of emotion and sadness that I felt back inside where I could control them.  I started to gain weight.  A little at first, but by the time I graduated high school, I had intimate relationships with Walt Whitman and Catullus and Emily Dickinson, and chocolate, not with friends or partners.  I was a size 18/20 at the time my senior photo was taken.

I also noticed a small amount of facial hair appearing as I gained weight--thicker sideburns, mustache, and hairs on my chin, which was concerning, but I was already too ashamed of everything about myself to bring this up with my doctor.  What if something was wrong with me?  What if I was really a man? (Help!  Pass the chocolate!)

In college, I gradually lost weight again--finding an environment where my kind of weird was normal and not having access to much food dropped me down to a size 12-14, and in general, I was happy, in relationships and so on.  And as I said before, being weird wasn't anything out of the ordinary at St. John's College, so if I was strange, I didn't notice.  What did start occurring, however, was that I began to realize that my behaviors, socially and romantically, were largely quite different than those of the other women around me (though less so than out in the world--Johnnie women are a different breed altogether).  I was bolder in pursuing ideas, passions and dreams than the average woman.  I was more aggressive in the bedroom and in pursuit of sexual and romantic partners.  I tended to initiate the beginnings and ends of relationships.  And if someone tried to bring me down by challenging me (in the bedroom or out), I took it as a call to get better, and to kick more ass.  I also asked out and pursued just as many guys as pursued me.  I found out that men found me sexy and terribly intimidating, which was all quite baffling to me.

Since graduation college six years ago, I have experienced pregnancy and childbirth, as well as a significant amount of weight gain and loss.  The facial hair increased, as did my, at this point, nearly insatiable libido.  The father of my child was an extremely aggressive, dominant and abusive human being, who refused to allow me sexual or personal dominance in  my life, and in the nearly 4 years since leaving that situation, I have uncovered a massive amount of knowledge about my identity that had been buried for 14 years under cultural indoctrination, abuse, and simply a lack of knowledge about different ways of being.

Since being in a healthy, nurturing relationship with my current partner, I have discovered the following about myself: I am a bisexual, polyamorous, gender-queer person and I have poly-cystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS).  For years, I have fantasized about having a penis, but have never wanted to give up my female body.  This has never been out of sense of woman-hatred, or love of patriarchy, or any such nonsense, but rather a desire to experience life from a male perspective, both physically and emotionally.  What is it like?  What are the fears, pressures, and joys?  And what does it feel like to make love from the other side?  To be the penetrator rather than the penetrated? 

I love being extremely feminine and curvy (see?) but inside, I feel like a man.  I am strong-willed, risk taking, impulsive, eager, driven, and approach sex and relationships like a dude.  I have an insanely high sex drive, and prefer multiple partners and a variety of sexual and intimate love-styles. Still, I didn't know what transgender always was.  I just joked about how I was more like a man than a woman, but it didn't matter since my body was more woman than most.  I've struggled when it comes to dating and pursuing a woman because I don't operate in that push-pull, hot and cold sort of way.  I'm like, "do you want me, or not?" 

But once I read Jennifer Finney Boylan's account of raising her children through and post the transition process, I knew I had hit on something.  Of course, it scared the shit out of me.  But I deeply related with JFB's accounts of her identity, and of simply feeling different inside than the ay you are outside.  It isn't about judging which gender or body parts are better--it's about a deep knowledge of which ones you feel you should have, and that sometimes what you feel is quite different than what you were assigned at birth.  JFB didn't want to be a woman because she felt that women were superior, she just WAS a woman.  As simple as that.  Are you going to judge a man and blame him for not being a woman, or accuse him of being anti-feminist or anti-women just because he has a penis?  Not all men are bad, and not all women are good.  One thing we all are is human.

At the recent AASECT conference, I attended all the sessions I could on the transgender experience, including one particularly powerful one on adapting sex education to be inclusive of trans experience.  I plan to write up an account of this session in a future post, but just to quickly sum it up--changing our language around sexuality is extremely important. We can no longer refer to sex as between a man and a woman, nor can we assume that all women have vaginas and all men have penises.  MOST women have vaginas, but not all.  MOST men have penises, but not all.

Around the time of this conference, I received results from my endocrinologist.  I had made an appointment with my local endo to discuss my irregular period, facial hair, and struggles with weight gain, despite the recommendation from my PC that "everything was fine."  And guess, what?  I have PCOS.  Folks with PCOS have cysts on their ovaries that cause increased production of androgens (testosterone) and inhibit ovulation, cause weight gain, and facial hair growth.  And, not surprisingly, most trans FTM folk wither have PCOS before transition (increased androgen leading to male ideation), and then, those that do not have PCOS often develop it from testosterone treatments.

So all this is to say, that there is a huge variety of gender identity and sexual expression in this world.  You may look at someone and assume a certain gender.  Take me, for example.  Breasts, hips, curves--feminine in body and dress.  However, my hormones tell a different story, as does my self-defined gender identity (my "affirmed" identity).  We need to start thinking beyond our genitals when it comes to gender and sexual identity.  It's also beyond time to start making assumptions about behavior or belief structure based on this supposed M or F identity determined at birth by what's between our legs.  There are more "masculine" women, such as myself (and perhaps Cleopatra or Elizabeth I, I like to think), and more "feminine" men and a whole range of everything else in between.  We need to give our children and each other choices when it comes to who they are, how they feel, and how they choose to express themselves.  Why does gender even matter so much?  How about just human?


And to answer the recent question of a friend:

"What's your take on trans men, though? I am very conflicted about how to think about women who transition to the male gender, because to me that seems like it's saying "I cannot be a woman because
women are X and I am not that" - which is a very limited way to view women. It's also effectively "passing" - buying into the male power structure, rather than resisting it. Men who transition to the female gender are fundamentally disenfranchising themselves: not so, the other way round. It seems anti-feminist and even anti-woman to reject female-ness and all it connotes in favour of joining the boys' club."

I think it's important to identity some the assumptions, and perhaps, prejudices that are at play here.  For one, you seem to hold the belief that it is better to be a man than a woman, or certainly that there is some value in the struggle of being a woman in a society that does not always value female-ness.  There is also the assumption that a person chooses to transition from female to male because she is dissatisfied with her role in society.  While I can see how it might look that way on the outside, most trans folk aren't attempting to make a larger societal statement with their transition.  They're just being who they are and who they've always been.  Transition is just about making the outside consonant with the inside.  A trans man IS a man, and has always been a man--or perhaps, developed into a man at puberty.  It isn't so much about choosing to be someone else, as choosing to be oneself fully, inside and out. 

Furthermore, I have great respect for transfolk and genderqueer people because, often, they have had to do a lot of inner work to discover who they are and figure out how to manifest that in the world.  Can you take a just a moment and imagine what it would feel like to be born into the wrong body?  To be you on the inside, but a chimpanzee or a giraffe on the outside?  How would you express yourself?  How would you let others know that you were really human, even though you appeared giraffe-like?

In my experience, most transfolk are incredibly gender respectful and tend NOT to stereotype others based on appearance, gender, or societal roles as a result of what they had been through.  So to your concern about a trans man opting out, or joining the "old boys" club--that seems highly unlikely to me.  Again, I would challenge your assumption that a trans man going through transition is attempting to make a statement against women, feminism, or anything of the sort, but is on a very personal journey to make one's insides match the outsides (damn pronouns!)

I think that transfolk offer us an incredibly opportunity to see humanity beyond the gender binary, and to appreciate a wide variety of gender and cultural expression.  If anyone is going to get us beyond the limited idea that feminism is just for women, and all men are evil, its a person who has been both genders, or who chooses to live a life somewhere in a gendered no-man's land, as both man and woman.  Please, do everything in your power to allow others to define their own gender identities and advocate for transgender rights, sexual education, and more.  Trans people are still the at the highest risk for suicides and bullying in the United States, and they are one of the greatest gifts we have been given.

How Big is Beauty?

Ever since I began my weight loss journey (I've lost 60 lbs to date, and have 40 more to go), I've been confronted with cultural and personal ideas regarding feminine beauty.  When I was a bigger girl, I knew that I was overweight and was extremely self-conscious.  I disliked my body, and as a result, I consciously chose to invest my worth and my time on other aspects of myself.  I knew that potential partners wouldn't be choosing me for my body (at the time I wasn't aware of the somewhat substantial portion of the population that is attracted to people of size, and even if I had been, I wouldn't have been okay with it, since I wasn't okay with the size of my body.  I wouldn't have wanted to be celebrated for something I so desperately despised).  I'd often surmised by frequent observation of couplings occuring in my immediate social vicinity and, of course, pop culture and celebrity culture, that if a woman was beautiful, she could get away with murder.  In other words, if she was beautiful, it seemed that her other attributes didn't matter as much--she would still recieve privilege and opportunities because of her face and body, and she didn't have to work as hard to be smart and charming.  But I knew I wasn't drop dead gorgeous, and add to that the extra weight I was carrying around and I knew that I'd have to have a killer wit, intelligence and charm, as well as a healthy dose of fucking submission to be a desirable partner.  As I write this, two rather disturbing things occur to me:

1)  I valued being a desirable partner above all else--above being a kind, ethical, and worthy person. I also did not value myself as a whole and entire being--in other words, I was (and to some extent still have a tendency to) value myself in terms of other people's (particularly sexual and romatic partners) approval.

2)  My insecurity about my apparent "valuelessness" due to my weight, combined with some heavy-handed cultural and religious indoctrination in my youth, led me to be extremely apologetic for my thoughts, feelings, and actions, especially those that were assertive, brave, or in any way went against prevalent cultural and social perspectives.  This lead me to all too frequently submit to my partner's desires and opinions and suppress my own, with a resulting great deal of resentment and a fucking huge inability to say "no."  Saying no deserves its own post, as I know I am not the first, nor will I be the last woman to struggle with this small and incredibly powerful word.

Furthermore, since I disliked my body and my appearance in general, I didn't spend too much time adorning it.  I hated clothes shopping--who likes reminders of being a size 18 or 20?  Similarly, I avoided scales at all costs, and preferred to simply clothe my body as quickly and as simply as possible.  I did spend some time on my hair, and wore lip gloss, as my lips and hair were, at that time, my favorite features.

This lack of time and money spent on beauty rituals allowed me to instead spend time reading, writing, thinking, and engaging in coversation.  I valued my personal and intellectual development above all else, and the efforts paid off.  I was proud of who I was as a person, and prided myself on being a deeper, wiser, and more compassionate woman than women who were merely externally beautiful (I realize that now, this assumption is itself, flawed, as possessing external beauty does not preclude a person from having internal beauty and depth).  This is something I did not want to recognize at the time, as I so desperately needed to believe I had value despite my more than generous curves.

Finally, one night, while talking to my partner, I broke down in sobs, confessing as I'd done many times before, that I hated my body.  I said it out loud:  "I'm fat.  I know I am.  I'm heavy, overweight, no matter how you want to put it.  It's not just that I'm insecure, though there's lots of that too.  I was heavy when I got pregnant, and then I kept on the 30 lbs I'd gained after the pregnancy.  I'm just so sick and tired of putting on all this weight.  I'm tired of carrying it all aroud--both the physical and the emotional weight of it.  I want to find out who I am underneath."

And so there it was.  For the first time, I said aloud that I was fat and wanted to lose weight.  Acknowledging it was painful, and the process of learning to control my emotional eating and get my body moving has been long and extremely challenging.  But that isn't the focus of this post.  I had the suspicion that my weight was about more than just overeating and lack of excercise.  In fact, I had the sense that some part of me had intentionally put on the pounds in order to hide who I really was.  I was so deeply afraid of being rejected by a lover, and by the world at large that I did everything I could to make myself undesirable.  I felt that I could just hide away from the world in my books and journals and learn to love myself--alone, safe, and sequestered away from all those who might hurt me, push me away, or tell me that I was fat.  Fuck them, I knew I was fat and flawed, and at least I kept to myself so no one would have to see it.  Or fuck it.

Furthermore, growing up, as I've written in other posts here, I was very volputous from the tender age of 11.  At 11 I started bleeding, and overnight I had breathtaking curves and C cup breasts.  I, of course, thought I looked absurd, but there was an instant change in the way boys and men began to look at me--and treat me.  My mother started to shame me and acted as if I was overly sexual--even though nothing about my demeanor or behavior had changed.  My father acted strange around me and stopped talking to me altogether.  Boys teased me and teachers stared.  This sort of behavior continued through middle school, and when I hit high school I started to gain weight.  I wanted to hide my breasts and hips and curves and become invisible.  There was something about me that was different, bigger, louder, and more powerful about me--and I was terrifed about it.  I just wanted to fade into the background.  And so I put on weight.  Ironically, no matter how heavy I got, my curves never went away.  My breasts just got bigger, and my hips got wider, but the hourglass figure remained.  Of course, less and less people noticed me, and when they did look,  their gaze did not linger.

And so, some part of me was afraid to allow me to be ME.  I gained weight in order to hide who I was (and am) and ate emotionally in order to avoid my passions, desires, and deepest dreams.  And over this last year and a half, the process of shedding the weight, pound by pound, has not merely been a process of diet and exercise, but rather a painstaking and excruciating process of removing all the pain and shit and dirt that I'd caked onto myself to hide my body and soul.  Peeling off all my armor, and all the flesh and skin that encased my true being has been so fucking messy and hard.  And in the last year and a half, not only have I lost 60 pounds, but I've had to take a good hard look at myself and make some tough decisions.  I, the girl who is terrified of stability and commitment, proposed to my boyfriend and married him.  I accepted a job that I knew was wrong for me, and finally gathered the courage to leave it.  I enrolled and began classses in the Women and Gender Studies Department at the local university.  I wrote about motherhood and sexuality, and wrote my first "book" project (still unpublished and unedited as yet) on sexual health and first time experiences ( a manual for the soon to be sexual) in honor of my youngest sister's graduation from high school.  I've begun stepping out into the Kink community and will be attending my first AASECT (American Association of Sexuality Educators, Counselors, and Therapists) conference next week--the first step in the long process of becoming a certified sexuality educator, and oh so much more.  I just don't know what yet. 

And though there is far too much to say than I can manage in this one post ( you can be assured many more on the subjects of weight, body image, health, and beauty), I have been overwhelmed by the way the world has treated me since losing so much weight.  I am no longer invisible, and that scares the shit out of me.  People STARE all the time.  I get hit on just about everywhere I go.  And to be honest, I don't really like it.  In my day-to-day life, I'm still that girl that prefers to go about her buisiness and not be noticed.  I don't need people trying to get in my pants while I'm picking up a gallon of milk in the gorcery store in my sweat drenched workout clothes.  I really fucking don't.  All this male looking at my body, and forgetting that I have a soul and a life, and an inner person really sucks.  Why is it that only fat girls are allowed to have a soul???

And finally, weight loss takes LOTS of hard work.  And so, a good deal of the time I used to spend on soul-betterment is now being spent on body-betterment.  I work out at the gym 6 days a week, for anywhere from 6-7 hours a week, not counting driving time.  I cook 90% of my meals at home, and have overall become more vain--weighing myself regularly, examing my body for changes, and taking pleasure in my appearance.  There is a certain obsessive quality that comes with the determination to lose so much weight.  Counting calories, pushing harder and harder at the gym, resisiting dessert, and so on.  I struggle with the intention behind my habits--am I losing weight becuase I HATE my body, or because I love it and want to take care of it?  I began this journey becuase I hated who I had become, but try to continue it because I love who I am--whoever that turns out to be.

Stay tuned for more. 

Lots of love,

Inanna

Obsessed with Perfection

I have a problem.  No, it's not that I'm really, really into sex.  It's not my wildly liberal attitudes either, nor my gigantic breasts.  Those are only a problem for me--everyone else seems to like them!

I am a Type-A, driven, aggressive perfectionist.  About everything.  Well, except for laudry.  I absolutely despise doing laundry.  I don't mind the parts the the machine does, but when it comes to folding it and putting it away.  Forget about it!  I've been known to leave stacks of clean laundry lying about for weeks.

So, in reality, I am selectively obsessive and perfectionistic when it comes to things I care about, particularly:

1. My Body and Appearance
2. My Relationships and Partners
3. My Parenting
4. My Career
5. My Academic Career

I am honestly, just ridiculous.  I realized today as I was on a run how absolutely miserable I am making myself with trying to perfect.  So fucking what if I ate a Hershey's chocolate bar last night when I was bored and missing my lovers? GOD.  I only spent the entire freaking day traipsing about the state capital, and managed to get a good hard run in as soon as I came home.  But it's never good enough.  I always have to be the best and I always have to be perfect.  I have to excercise like a fiend, eat like a rabbit, look perfect, beautiful and thin, do all my homework, get perfect grades, be happy, and do everything right.  And clearly, I'm doing something completely wrong because it is impossible to do everything right, and yet I expect myself, and those around me to be able to do so.

It's a tough thing, because my drive and high standards are what make me incredibly successful and enable me to accomplish seemingly impossible things.  BUT, I don't seem to know when to stop or when enough is enough.  Honestly, it's never enough.  I can never just have one bite of chocolate, or one boyfriend, or one hobby.  I have to have ten!  I am never pretty enough, strong enough, nice enough or thin enough.  And I just don't know what to do about it.

So I strive, every day, to be perfect.  And then by the end of the day I am cross and tired, and end up trying to solve my pain with food, or sex, or a drink, or by wasting countless hours online talking to strangers to make myself feel better.  Why the fuck am I so insecure?

What did I ever do to deserve a cruel mistress such as myself.  So, I have 40 lbs to lose.  It used to be 100, and I've done something about it.  I haven't been perfect, but I'll get there.  So I have stretch marks.  It's not my fault.  I had a kid, and they're genetic.  I rubbed oodles of coconut butter all over my belly during the pregnancy, but I got them anyway.

I really need to stop all this.  It is absolutely exhausting to try to be perfect, and trying to please the entire world on top of that.  The more I gain the courage to be myself and speak up for what I believe, the more I am going to hear hard words from those who disagree.  It shouldn't matter.  Why should I care?

I was not put on this earth simply for the purpose of pleasing others.  My mission is simple: Take care of myself and be kind to others.  I don't have to love them, please them, or serve them, but I do need to be kind and gentle with them as they too are on a journey.  Most of the time, it's not even worth fighting those who confront me.  It's often wasted energy.

I need to slow down, breathe, and be okay with myself exactly how I am.  I am not who I was, nor who I will be.  But in this moment, I am whole and complete, and I accept myself.  I don't have to change the world in a single day, in fact movement, relationships, and ideas all unfold and unfurl over time. 

So rest and relax.  Allow yourself time to think and breathe, and make decisions out of a place of centeredness, not reactivity, anger, defensiveness, or fear.

There are going to be a lot of people in this world who will not like me.  Who will not find me attractive.  Who will disagree with me.  There will even be some who hate me.  But I do not have to define myself on their terms.  I have to be okay with just being me, and doing the very best that I can from day to day. 

I really struggle with accepting my failures.  My failures to keep the diet, to stay focused, to be a good wife and mom.  I am often selfish and self-absorbed.  I don't know how to stay positive and not succumb to depression which I try to numb with food, alcohol, or attention from others.  When I stay off the computer, and refuse food and drink, I don't know what to do.  I am terrified of being alone with myself in the quiet.  Afraid of what I might think and feel.  Afraid of boredom.  I'm afraid I might find something out I don't want to know.  I'm afraid I just might be terribly boring.

I wonder, too, if this is not a huge lesson for me to overcome (or perhaps embrace?  that seems more loving and less like my usual judgey self) in my growth into my role as a sexual Dominant.  There is still a huge part of me that is completely SHOCKED when another consenting, intellingent person wants to get on their knees and submit to me.  What the hell?  Good lord, get up!  I don't deserve that!  I tend to feel self-conscious about leading the scene, or allowing myself to be worshipped.  But when I forget to worry about what I look like, or whether I might look silly, it's incredible!  Mind blowingly, transformatively incredible. 

On my recent trip, I spent time with a lot of incredible women, of all ages and backgrounds.  I got to see women of all shapes and sizes.  And we all gathered together for community and to make our voices heard.  And you know what I realized?  ALL of those women were sexy!  All of them, from the size 2's to the size 20's!  It wasn't their size that made them sexy or un-sexy, but rather their confidence and self-love, and willingness to be themselves and speak their minds.  Wow!  Maybe I should stop being obsessed with what I look like, and what I want to look like, and actually remember to be a person!!!  Before I lost weight, all I cared about was personal development.  It's not like anyone was going to be into me for my body!  And so I was a hella interesting person--smart, creative, kinky, clever, and compassionate.  But now, the more I confirm to society's expectations of female beauty, the more obsessed I become with more perfectly becoming, well, perfect.  Getting in more exercise, obsessing over whether I ate or didn't eat that tempting cookie--all of this consumes so much of my thoughts when I could be thinking about far more interesting things, like the relationship between feminism and kink, or societal expectations and secret sexual taboos.

That's a big part of why I created this blog.  I need a space to think and explore, and it's time for me to re-elevate the development of myself as a person, a Goddess, a lover and a friend, and not just a body for someone else's viewing pleasure.  If I neglect myself in the process of becoming externally beautiful, I will have lost the true beauty that I've had all along.