Zewik7, 2.0 (yeah, again)

For all my life up to when I was 19, my father assaulted me, verbally-sexually-physically-emotionally abused me, neglected me, made me feel little and invisible and unimportant and like my body was HIS PROPERTY.

Fattening myself up was the main way I reclaimed my space in the world, made myself HARD to ignore, and the fatter I became (at 16 I was around 120 kg!) the more loud my voice and my thoughts and my opinions begun to sound.

It was not a coincidence that they tried to silence me with dieting and sports.

Do you know what was the totally normal reaction of my father to a 16 yo girl closing her door at night for privacy and comfort? HE TOOK AWAY THE DOOR. HE UNHINGED THE DOOR AND TOOK IT AWAY SO I COULDN'T CLOSE IT ANYMORE.

They took my money, they took my phone, my pc, all I had outside of sports and school was subjected to strict control.

I want to be free. I am free, now. And feedism is a big big part of this freedom. I can be big, if I want to. I can be hard to ignore. I can advocate for myself and others. And feedism is an important part of this... and of me. It helps me feeling grounded and mentally healthy. When I had periods of time I had other shit going around and I had to stay away from feedism for greater good... I had dreams where I indulged in endless banquets, fed by hand by cherubs or some other shit like that, and waking up I was ACHING from how much I missed this part of my life.

Document my gains, my habits, my diet, my personality. A journal to each category, photo collages and scrap books of every little milestone we find important. Measure me and take note of my stretch marks.

Draw on me and outline where you think the next few pounds of fat are going to end up at. Pinch and prod my body at your expense and even mention how it feels, the texture of it. Talk my ears off while you make me stand there on full display for your discerning eye. Not once caring how tired I get or how out of breath I am from having to stand on my own for so long

Make notes of when I manage to eat a bite or two more. How over the course of months and years that instead of bites, it’s evolved into plates and full dishes extra just to feed me. Explain my diet to me while you keep me down on all fours with my face in my dog bowl, sitting on my back and forcing me to hold you up. Patting my side when I’ve done good.

Keeping track of what foods turn me on more and coming up with meal courses serving to show my arousal rise with each bite, climaxing to me panting and grinding into my chair at the end of the dinner. Force desserts into me for the sake of consistent experiments, each meal has to end the same way no matter how full I am.