Author’s note: I am usually of the school of thought that unfiltered expression is a great thing. Anything good I’ve ever written is usually a product of tapping thoughtlessly away at my keyboard half-concentrating on something else. And I have never, ever edited anything. However, I wrote something the other night which was angry. It was okay writing, sure, but I wasn’t happy enough with it to post it straight away. So I left it for a little while. Here is my first ever second draft. Anger removed and replaced with pure love, because pure love is what I want. I am tired of anger.
Here is a revolutionary statement: I am in love with my body.
I am in love with the marks and lines I have, that map out a life of rebelling against society’s ideals.
I am in love with the way you can touch my tummy for hours, and it will still surprise you.
I am in love with the way I give the best hugs in the world because I have strong arms and great padding.
I am in love with the way some girls really are just bigger than others.
I am in love with the fact that you will NEVER be ready for this jelly.
I am in love with my thunder thighs that look so good in a short skirt.
I am SO in love with the way my big old boots make a satisfying stomp every time I strut down the street feeling fierce in my plus size dungarees.
I am in love with the way my body carries me to my friends when they need help.
I am in love with the way my body gives love.
I am in love with the way I am the best lover I will ever have.
I am in love with the way my hands can touch-type and smoke a cigarette at the same time.
I am in love with my tiny little nose.
I am in love with my body hair for sprouting tiny rebellions all over me.
I am in love with my scars and my stretch marks and the messy artwork they pattern across my stomach.
I am in love with my cake shelf (it’s where I keep my cake)
I am just truly, madly, deeply in love with the whole of my fine-ass curvy equal parts Miss Piggy and Beth Ditto self.
And if I lose weight, well, that’s cool, but it’ll always be riots not diets with me.
(Despite the irony of me being unable to find that tshirt in my size)
Here are some more revolutionary statements:
Every body is a good body.
My body is nothing more and nothing less than the place where I store the important stuff. This body contains my head and my heart, and yeah, probably a few dozen doughnuts too.
Nobody who really matters will ever really care about my fat rolls when my hands write words that inspire people and my tongue speaks love bilingually.
Nobody will be counting calories when I’m sharing my experience, strength and hope.
I am in love with your body too. And yours. And yours. And Clare’s. And Elloa’s. And Jacquie’s. And Jemma’s. And my mum’s. And every body I have ever seen, met, touched, kissed, loved or just passed on the street. They’re all perfect, whether your abs are wobbly or washboard.
The scars and stretch marks on my stomach are interchangeable now, from when I used to cut my stomach because it was the focus of all my hatred. I would never let anyone touch my stomach then. I was ashamed that I had added to my own ugliness. But now, I let my friends rub my belly for luck. I place my hand on it to centre myself because it’s where my soul resides. I see the scars and stretch marks and rolls as part of me and I love them like I would if they belonged to someone else. Every body is a good body.