So Sad Today Read Online Free

eat as a woman. There would be so much pizza. The Mountain Dew would runneth over and it wouldn’t even be diet. If I do not believe that I as a woman deserve pizza, what does that say of my views of other women? If I do not love my body, how can I love the body of any other woman? I could say “I love my body” so that I appear to be a good feminist. But that only means pretending to love something I hate.
    But I am an eater who is a good feminist, maybe, because I am being honest with you now. I am telling you the truth: that I have not yet dismantled the many warped schemas that define the way I see my body and the bodies of other women. I am giving you permission to tell the truth about where you are in your process of dismantling your fucked-up schemas. I am not pressuring you to dismantle anything. I am saying let’s be here together, undismantled, and just accept that this iswhere we are. Let’s love each other right where we are, even as we compare ourselves to one another. I am saying, yes, baby, I know it’s hard.
    But I am an eater who is a hypocritical feminist. I lust the body I do not allow myself. I lust the zaftig female body. The women I am most sexually attracted to are considered obese by today’s (and yesterday’s) standards. I don’t watch a lot of porn, but a typical search term for me is “fat lesbians.” What a beautiful fantasy: to be accepted and embraced and adored as your biggest self, the most you, by a woman who is her fullest her. To gorge together, uncontrollably, with no need for limits—and then to devour one another—to lick and hump and rest in the acceptance of each other in your grandest
is
ness. That, to me, is freedom. The ultimate letting go. It’s sexy as fuck. It really turns me on. I want to let go all the way, but it’s a freedom I cannot allow myself in my daily life. Is this feminism or is it just desire and objectification?
    But I am an eater who is the worst feminist, probably, because I objectify other women. I compare my body to the bodies of other women. Occasionally, I win. What does it mean to win? It means that my body fits more closely to the bodies of the models in magazines on which I grew up. It means that I am skinnier. It means that I am in some way beyond reproach, or further from reproach. I am terrified of reproach. But reproach fromwhom? Who is the voice of the reproacher? Does it even exist? Is anyone beyond reproach?
    I am an eater who feels safest at a place of very thin. I want to live in a body that is so far away from being fat that it has room to gain weight and still not even rub elbows with chubbiness. Fat, for me, in terms of my own body, represents terrible feelings: shame, disintegration, self-hatred. These are feelings that I experienced as a child and want to protect myself from feeling ever again (though that is, of course, impossible and I feel them every day in whatever body I have).
    I am an eater who still longs, sometimes, for the full binge. There were moments in my life when I was mid-binge that felt like some beautiful return to self. I would be so caught up in the flow of the action, the pure pleasure of no restrictions and uncontainability, that I felt as though I had entered a silence that existed before words. But the words always returned. They were in my head and they yelled at me.
    What was that silence? Was it the spiritual space of true freedom? Or was it simply another coping mechanism—food as a drug—to block out the world? Is it my true self to eat until my stomach can hold no more and I am repulsed by the sight of any more food and I cannot do anything but lie in the fetal position and groan? Or is that a reaction to restrictions that were placed—first by others, then by me—on some othertrue self? Is there a part of me that knows how to feed herself enough, only what she loves and what nourishes her, and never feel shame or fear if she overindulges a little, because it tastes so good? Did that part of me