women's human rights: Canada & the world @padaviya - Tumblr Blog

Ugly, by

Sanobar Sabah

So I turned 43 on February 14th.

Contrary to popular opinion, being in your 40s isn’t as bad. It’s like climbing a mountain, reaching its peak and enjoying your victorious, hard-earned view from the top. It’s nothing short of breath-taking. You’re brimming with confidence, you’re aware of what works for you, what doesn’t; you know your likes and dislikes and by now, you’ve learnt to say no.

Picture of me clicked in February 2023

My insides hurt at the thought. Someone knocks at the door. I open it; shocked to find Ugly.

Ugly was an old friend - a friend I had a fallout with many moons ago. I thought I’d never see her again; Ugly was a closed chapter. Or so I thought...

My life flashes in front of me hauntingly, making me feel dizzy. The school exams that made me feel suicidal, jobs that paid well but made me feel worthless, nights spent crying, the number of times I was a disgrace as a mother, as a partner, the rolls of fat, the stretch marks all over my body, the skin-whitening creams that never worked, the mistakes that cost me my respect, my dignity...Urgh! How I despised Ugly!

Healing, they say, can be quite grieving. One regrets and mourns the time, energy and opportunities lost over the years. And then you suddenly find yourself racing against time because you want to make up for the past.

I chauffeur my kids from one playdate to another, hopping like an excited bunny, basking in their adorable little experiences that they innocently share with me. My heart swells with love. I change my career, study for a new degree, feeling like a brand-new kid. I have a new lease on life; I feel empowered. Eating healthy and working out for years has paid its dividends...

I binned the skin-whitening creams when I became a mother to a beautiful, brown baby girl; we enjoy our time on the beach together, hugging the sun for all the love and warmth it showers upon us. I make time for family and friends that matter and savour every quality time spent with them.

I’m running as fast as I can, as hard as I can. And yet, I lack peace. How many likes, views and approvals before the hunger in me feels satiated? When will the grotesque self-loathing go and why is it still there after all these years?

Turning 43 makes me feel drained; exhausted. Adulting was supposed to be my ticket to freedom. Freedom from school. Freedom from the pressures of grades. Freedom from having my life being choreographed by adults at all times. Freedom from society’s beauty standards set for women. Adulting wasn’t supposed to be hard. I did not sign up for this.

I find myself running out of breath just thinking about it. Dad passed away recently - he’s gone far beyond my reach. He was my loudest cheerleader. Mum’s slowed down - mentally and physically. She was the fast one, the quick thinker.

This wasn’t supposed to be.

Regressing against years of hard work, I’m spiralling downward into a self- sabotage mode. Sugar is my best friend these days; after calling off all my training sessions, I’ve gained back all the lost inches and some more. It’s as if I’m knowingly stalling my own progress, with a vengeance.

A prisoner, trapped in my own body.

Suddenly, I find my body covered with my mum’s scars! The scars she inherited from her mum. They gnaw deep into my skin - red and raw. How can that be?! I’ve tried so hard not to be my mum, not to make the same mistakes. How are we bearing the same scars?!

And, oh my god! Are these scars contagious?! Would I pass them on to my little girl too?!

Scrub! Scrub! Scrub! I must scrub the scars away quickly.

My skin’s peeling off. I’m bruised - inside out. But the scars refuse to budge.

Nauseous, I want to howl for help.

Ugly watches me calmly from afar as if to say, “The scars are here to stay. No-one’s coming to save you from them.”

I want Ugly to shut up and go away. Please.

But, what if Ugly’s speaking the truth? Is there really no-one coming to save me?

I want to collapse on the floor and cease to exist. The voices in my head are way too loud for me to bear.

I ask Ugly to sit anyway. I need closure.

There’s awkward silence as we sit ourselves down.

Funnily enough though, soon Ugly makes me feel comfortable – just like good old friends do.

Ugly is my oversized pink and white striped shirt that I want to wear every day. Ugly is my baggy black, fleece-lined joggers

that have pockets in them and a tiny hole made by my cat’s claws.

Ugly is freedom from judgement.

What if Ugly’s earned a bad name simply for speaking the truth? The bitter, uncomfortable truth I’ve been running away from all my life?

I have so much to say to Ugly. But more importantly, I want to listen to Ugly.

I let Ugly hold my hand. Maybe, just maybe, I could give Ugly a chance.

Besides, I don’t owe the world pretty.

Ugly asks me to visit the top of the mountain again and soak in the stunning view. I’ve made it so far; I’ve been so brave. It’s time I own it and allow myself a break.

Perhaps the scars don’t need to remain hidden anymore. The scars, passed down from generations before me, have shaped me for who I’ve become. Why erase them?

What am I running away from? And how long will I keep running like mad?

Ugly suggests I need to stop trying so hard and slow down a bit.

“You can’t rush destiny,” Ugly says, warmly.

I feel a slight smile lighting up my face. I’m breathing better.

Ugly makes me want to put on my reading glasses and type my heart away on my laptop - with my legs folded - in my baggy, black joggers.

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The fertility treatment that gives people hope, explained in a comic.

Tennessee law prohibits women from having abortions in nearly all circumstances. But once the babies are here, the state provides little hel

#Youtube

mouseratz

the concept of fatphobia isn't "skinny people have never ever been shamed or insecure about their bodies ever" but rather "society literally doesn't want fat people to exist at any cost to the point healthcare systems are willing to let fat people die rather than address any other possible medical issue, in addition to facing insults and disgust at every turn socially". online the fact u can't make a body positive or even neutral post without somebody going "but what about us naturally skinny and petite people" is so fucked man

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gatheringbones

[“Ultimately, anti-fatness isn’t based in science or health, concern or choice. Anti-fatness is a way for thinner people to remind themselves of their perceived virtue. Seeing a fatter person allows them to remind themselves that at least I’m not that fat. They believe that they have chosen their body, so seeing a fat person eat something they deem unhealthy reminds them of their stronger willpower, greater tenacity, and superior character. We don’t just look different, the thinking goes; we are different. Thinner people outwit their bodies. Fatter people succumb to them. Encounters with fatter people offer a welcome opportunity to retell that narrative and remind themselves of their superiority.

Over time, I have come to learn that these moments—the threats, the concern, the constant well-intentioned bullying—run even deeper than a simple assumption of superiority. It is a reminder so many thin people seem to desperately need. They don’t seem to be talking to me at all. They seem to be talking to themselves.

Thin people don’t need me to know about a diet or a surgeon. They don’t need me to hear them expound on the evils of the obesity epidemic or the war on obesity. They need to remind themselves to stay vigilant and virtuous. The ways that thin people talk to fat people are, in a heartless kind of way, self-soothing. They are warnings to themselves from themselves. I am the future they are terrified of becoming, so they speak to me as the ghost of fatness future. They remove food from my cart as if it is their own. They offer diet advice forcefully, insisting that I take it. If I say that I have, they insist I must have done it wrong, must not have been vigilant enough, must not have had enough willpower. They beat me up the way most of us only talk to ourselves. As if in a trance, they plead with me, some terrifying future self.

Sometimes, the trance breaks. Maybe it breaks because they realize, with great discomfort, that they have made extraordinary judgments, issued intrusive mandates like some petulant prince. Maybe it breaks because a fat person asks them to stop. But whatever breaks the trance, the thinner person seems to return to themself, recognizing that they may have overstepped. And without fail, they will offer the same rote caveat, a hasty waiver, unsigned, disclaiming any injury caused: I’m just concerned for your health. And just like that, all that judgment, all those assumptions, all that cruelty suddenly becomes a humanitarian mission.”]

aubrey gordon, what we don’t talk about when we talk about fat

enchantedbook

'Winter Night' by Carol Collette

enchantedbook

Art by Bernadette Carstensen

pagewoman

Starlings in Snow ☆ ✮ ✯

brigantias-isles

Fountains Cottage, North Yorkshire, England

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thomas--bombadil

Finally, a bit of snow.

catchymemes

breakfast-sandwich-deactivated2

What really fucks me up about a 40 hour work week and I’ve tried to explain to people over and over is that like of you do the math you have maybe 3 hours every day to just like. Rest and be with your family. And that’s kind of it

Like the average adult needs about 8 hours of sleep every night, so that cuts your 24 hours to 16 right off the bat.

You’re working for 8 hours, so 8 left.

But you actually work 8 to 5 at most offices, not 9 to 5, and that lunch is basically just long enough to retrieve food and eat. 7.

It took you 20 minutes to shower this morning, 10 to get dressed, and 45 to make a bowl of oatmeal and eat it. We’ll say 15 to get your stuff together and out to your car. 5 and a half.

You get home and have to cook dinner, 30 minutes min for that, probably more like an hour, so somewhere between 5 and 4.5 hrs left. And then you’ve got to eat it, 30 minutes if you’re being healthy about it.

So at best you’ve MAYBE got 4/4.5 hours left every week day and that’s assuming you ran exactly zero errands, didn’t stop by the gym after work, didn’t have to stay late, have a wicked fast transition time between tasks AND a commute of like 5 minutes by car. If you have to go to the store after a quick run at the gym, pick your kids up from soccer across town, and you factor in a 30 minute commute both ways, you’ve got enough free time for like one episode of show Monday through Friday. And weekends have got to be for cleaning the house and going to visit your mom for a few hours.

When do you write, or paint, or read or sew or go on hikes? When do you go on spur of the moment adventures with your wife and try to perfect your grandma’s soda bread? What happens when it rains on Saturday after being sunny all the rest of the week so you can’t go to the zoo that day and you don’t have enough money for the museum? Why are we all just content to postpone our whole lives, put off “happy” and “healthy” for a miniscule amount of extra value we’re producing for someone else?

And it’s also a thing that fascinates me about hustle culture like. When do y'all rest? When do sleep and food happen? How do you make 3 different jobs work without dying?

Idk idk like I said I’m real fucked up about it. It amazes me that more office workers aren’t great big socialists because we have this miserable job where we’re monitored constantly and just have to sit. Still. And maintain focus on ONE THING for EIGHT HOURS in a BORING GRAY ROOM with exactly two short breaks at designated times and I just?? How does that not suck for literally everyone else?? You said yourself, Angie, you’re useless after 3 pm so just?? Organize with me and negotiate for shorter days??? Like you’re literally already only producing 6 hours of value, you don’t need to be sitting there for longer than that.

mckitterick

…then add the Neurodivergent Tax of taking more time to do these things and recovery time afterward, and you’re looking at a deficit that has to come from somewhere

futureevilscientist

I saw a discussion of this on Twitter and honestly people defending hustle culture blow my mind. There were so many responses along the lines of “who needs 45 minutes for a bowl of oatmeal?!” and just… missing the point.

Of course you don’t need to take 45 minutes to cook a basic meal and eat it. You could hustle it. You could, say, “optimise” your lifestyle by taking time once a week to cook a batch of nutritious paste or whatever and just grab it out of the fridge each morning and stuff it into your mouth, chew while getting dressed, and be out the door in five minutes.

But is that any way to live? Did we, as a species, spend thousands of years developing the culinary arts and recipes so that most of the population could eat nutripaste each day?

Cooking is an art and a social activity, eating food is a social activity.

Hustle culture defenders are so ready to speedrun every aspect of their lives that doesn’t relate to work and it’s honestly horrifying. Why are you all content to just… not live?

#Youtube

octoswan

“But the 8-hour workday is too profitable for big business, not because of the amount of work people get done in eight hours (the average office worker gets less than three hours of actual work done in 8 hours) but because it makes for such a purchase-happy public. Keeping free time scarce means people pay a lot more for convenience, gratification, and any other relief they can buy. It keeps them watching television, and its commercials. It keeps them unambitious outside of work. We’ve been led into a culture that has been engineered to leave us tired, hungry for indulgence, willing to pay a lot for convenience and entertainment, and most importantly, vaguely dissatisfied with our lives so that we continue wanting things we don’t have. We buy so much because it always seems like something is still missing.”

— Your Lifestyle Has Already Been Designed (via becoming-vverevvolf)

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A woman in Ohio is being criminally charged for how she handled the remains of a miscarriage in her home, according to a report by The Washi

wizardpotions

Christmas as a cultural icon is starting to get really dystopian in a climate sense, december has historically been a time of year in which there would be snow in a significant portion of europe and north america, and the fact that its not even icy this time of year and all the christmas songs and decorations reference a time of year that will likely never exist in the same way again in my life time is so strange.

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