The Struggles of the Larger ‘Regular-Sized’ Woman

I don’t really know what I want to talk about today, but I know that I do. Maybe it’s a way for me to subconsciously put off my essay research, but I hope not.
I was just browsing Facebook when I came across a post from The Curvy Fashionista about the launch of a new store, Lovesick, and I really love the look of it. What I find most satisfying is when I see a store with models similar to my own shape and size, working their clothes. This is more common with ‘plus size’ stores, like Lovesick, than with shops that stock the ‘regular sizes’. Which I find odd, considering they usually begin in the UK at around 18, maybe even 16, but America is a bit different. Lovesick begins at ‘US10’, which is a UK 14. I myself am 12-14. And yet, many of the ‘plus size’ models, mainly in America, don’t look ‘plus size’, just like larger ‘regular sized’ women and I say larger, in comparison to the smaller women that the shops here use to advertise their clothes on.

It’s quite confusing really, seeing these great clothes on women that look like myself, but are not actually stocked in my own size because I’m ‘too small’; which makes me laugh due to all I’ve ever heard in my life, except for 1 time in a million, is how large I am. And while clothes for ‘regular sized’ women look great on the small models and the hanger, I can never tell what it will look like on me. Half the time shopping is a nuisance. My thighs are larger, in proportion to my hips and bum, and my boobs are much bigger than my waist. Shops don’t account for any of these factors and the models for ‘regular sized’ clothing don’t seem to struggle at all. The clothes seem to fit like a glove or a second skin. The same can be said really, for when some of my friends go shopping. It can be so frustrating seeing how successful try-ons are for them, when the dress I really like in my size won’t even go over my chest.

Or likewise with the tall ranges, which to me are a rare occurance, other than New Look, I can’t even think of one without looking at hideously over priced shops. I remember the excitement of finally finding a playsuit that didn’t produce both front and back wedgies. It was plain black and pretty basic, but I was so happy. I have had struggle after struggle in terms of length, where my torso seems longer, in proportion, to my legs. I remember a day I went in to Primark with one of my friends, of the ideal ‘regular-size’, and we tried on some stuff and I fell in love with a ridiculous looking playsuit covered in gigantic sunflowers, as is my style, and it only managed to reach half way up my chest, without causing unnecessary discomfort and camel-toe.

I dream of the day when women of many different sizes can be seen modelling clothes and this confusion of being a larger ‘regular sized’ woman is no more.

If you are a US10 + I’d definitely recommend looking at these clothes from Lovesick, they are so gorgeous and I’m quite jealous actually.

Day 2 of feeling shit

Today I’m going over things that were talked about last night; about weight, size and attractiveness. I don’t feel very beautiful today. I feel like I need a change of face and body. I feel like I don’t want to be me any more. I’m tired.

I’m perfect as I am, he says. Please don’t put on any more weight, he says. I wonder if he’d love me better looking like someone else. I feel like I could scream at myself but really, I just want to scream at someone. Someone that could change my mind. I feel awful. I don’t understand where all this awfulness is coming from. I wish I could understand better.

I wonder if my mum is free today. I’m sure she’d come and get me if she was. Oh wait, no. She’s not. I’m so lonely. Maybe this is what this is. I think I really will post all of this today. I feel desperate. I don’t really know what else to say. I need something in my life but I don’t know what it is. A life maybe, to begin with. I don’t even know who I am. I’m a mess. I want to be able to enjoy things other people enjoy. It’s like life and everything in it has worn me down so much that I’m just this weak and fragile thing. I don’t even know what I like to do. I don’t have anything in my life that I enjoy. Who the fuck am I!???? I hate it. I hate… I can’t even go in to it.

Day 1: Cracking Up

I feel stressed. Really fucking stressed. Or rather, distressed. Very distressed. The thought of finding time is always distressing. I can’t function against time. Days aren’t long enough and I’m always tired. I’m tired now as I hurriedly type out this blimin’ paragraph of who knows what. I’m trying to get uni work done, despite having little motivation to do so. The thought of writing something is not even a shadow in my mind. The thought of reading is more objectifiable, but only of Armadale. All my other reading looks relatively dull. Then there’s the pressure that I feel from everyone to get a job, so I decided to go off of my own innovative and become an Avon representative. I’m excited and confident. However, I’m still getting put down for it. As usual, I hear the words: Nothing I ever do is good enough. There are still people trying to push me towards other jobs for the summer. There are still people trying to push me for an answer about what I want to do with my life. I’m lost. I’m always fucking lost. That’s nothing new to me. Then there’s the fact that I’ve been home for nearly three weeks. I have done vary little worth remembering.

I was repeatedly disappointed with the amount of time I got to spend doing things with George. I’m disappointed with how little I saw of my family. I’m disappointed with how little work I have done. However, it’s still a considerable amount more than last Easter, I believe. Although, anything was more than last Easter but I believe I did next to nothing. My nerves are shot and some days I just lie awake hoping for some kind of death to take me. And last night I looked like an absolute idiot, bursting out into tears when George and I were supposed to be going to sleep because of how awful I felt during the day. Feeling like I have no skill, no purpose in this life is awful. I feel absolutely fucking worthless. I don’t want to be a waster. I don’t want my life to be a baron one with nothing worth mentioning in it. George was lovely and comforted me, but even he has prospects. He knows where he wants to go and he’s useful. He’ll earn lots of money and he’ll do what makes him happy, even if I don’t and can’t understand it. He says I’m still learning my trade but no one believes I can do it, no one but him. Or at least I hope he does. I mean, I can’t ever be certain of anything. I’m not a mind reader. I often think that I’m empathetic but I can’t even be sure of my own beliefs. I’m so used to being shot down that I have no confidence in myself and what I can do. ‘Heads in the clouds’, ‘chasing the butterflies and faeries’, I get told. So the moment I come up with ‘real’ suggestions, I get shut down for not having higher hopes. I can’t fucking win in this piece of shit we call life.

I’ve been doing so well. I’ve been happy. I got out with my friends, despite the hideous specimen they still choose to associate themselves with. I still hate her. I hated her two years ago. And I’ll hate her for twenty more. The last thing I need in my life, with all this stress, is a spiteful bitch thinking she claims the time to ‘best friend of the year’. She’s no one’s friend, she’s an asshole. And then she complains and wonders why she has no friends, which in itself is a lie because for some reason, people still invite her out, even though she doesn’t deserve the kindness. George is so supportive of me, bless him. I would have gladly not have gone out and told her to go choke on a dick.

I want to make a difference. I don’t want my suffering to be for nothing. I don’t know how to help though and I don’t even know whom I want to help. I only know that I want to write. I don’t know what to write though. Not when the people that mean the most to mean can’t even be bothered to read my shit. I just don’t understand where I’m meant to get this sudden confidence from. Everyone seems to expect me to, well, I don’t even know what people expect. They expect me not to fail and have pride in myself, but they don’t expect me to do anything notable. They don’t think I can reach the stars. When people are constantly picking faults, how do you look beyond them? I grew up being told from the get go, that I couldn’t sing and would never get to perform like in my dreams. I was told dreaming was bad and that I wouldn’t get further than emptying bins in school by a teacher. An English teacher, funny enough. If I ever become a teacher, I’d encourage it. Maybe when they become an adult, they wouldn’t feel as depressed as I do. Maybe they would feel as though they were actually meant to be on this planet. I was told that I was fat. I was told that I was clumsy. I was told that hurt people. I was told I was too soft. Too emotional. I was told that I was too tall. I was told that I had no friends. I was told that I was ugly. Many times, actually. I was told that I have no common sense. That I can’t think properly. I’ve been told that a person rarely grows beyond their family circumstances. I refused to believe that. I try to refuse to believe a lot of these things and sometimes I win. Today, I am losing.

My head is swimming. I don’t want to go back to Falmouth, although I know I need to. I’ve spent the last three weeks wishing I could go back. I find coming home too stressful. I find being at university too stressful. I find being alive too stressful.

As a kid I was told that I had nothing to stress about. That I was just being silly. I was told this as a teenager too. And now, as an adult, I am still being silly. I’ll probably die of old age and silliness.  You hear of this kind of silliness causing heart attacks but they don’t call it silliness then. They call is stress. But they only call it stress, usually, when you get older. As a child, or a young person, it’s just silliness. However, no matter what age I get to, or was, I could always produce a long list of all the things that I am, or was, stressed about. I never expected someone so unlike myself to understand the stressors. How could they? They aren’t me and they don’t live my life. More often than not, they barely even listen to what it is that is trying to strangle me and most often than not, I can’t produces the sounds to describe it.

I feel a bit better now that I have spouted out all of this nonsense. I should probably see a counsellor again when I get back. It doesn’t so me any favours to have it all locked up in my head, preparing my brain for an explosion. I’m undecided about whether I will post this. It feels far too personal to post to my blog but at the same time people don’t know about your troubles if you don’t talk about them and people won’t talk to you if they don’t know your troubles and you won’t feel better until you have talked so it looks as though that’s my only option. I do think logically, or at least I try to. If you read this, for whatever reason… I don’t even know how to end this. I don’t even know whom I am writing to anymore. Myself, or the hopeless fool that lands their eyes on this page.

Writing for Happiness

Right now,  I’m feeling pretty bloody miserable. As many of ny usual readers may know, this is nothing new in my life. Ever since I was a child, I went through these motions: of sadness, frustration,  distant obliviousness. I’ve felt these things at every awful thing that I’ve seen,  heard and be involved in. Unfortunately,  the fictional often gets confused with reality because I’ve been there. I don’t like to think about it, but I’ve been there. That’s hard for many to understand because they don’t know. I’m jealous of those that have never had to witness the true evil this world has to offer, and no, I’m not referring to the woman that just cut you up on the roundabout or the young man next door that blasts his music up loudly at stupid hours. Real evil.

I recently watched 10 Cloverfield Lane. Hated the first one; thought it was lame. The new one had me quivering and left me shaken for hours after because there are monsters like that in the world. The worst horror movies are the ones based on true life or could pass off as reality. The character of Howard could be your relative, a family friend,  your neighbour. He could be the guy that delivers your pizza. It may seem ridiculous but I’m afraid of men because in my life, women have been my protectors, my comfort and men have been a weapon in so many different ways. Why would anyone want to watch something bad they relate to for entertainment? Why would they choose to be reminded of when moment X actually happened to them?

I don’t know where I’m going with this. I just feel crap and whenever I feel crap, I write. From the age of 10, I wrote to escape my crappy home life. At 15, I wrote to escape my parents crappy divorce. And since then I’ve just wanted to escape this world in general. This isn’t one of those. This is confrontation,  not escapism. Both are apparently meant to work.  I don’t feel any lift though.