I'm sorry

This past weekend has been hectic. A barrel of fun, but hectic. I had a charity benefit to attend on Friday, terrible weather, Autism meltdowns and a movie on Saturday, and a photos shoot followed by another night at another bar on Sunday. I had great moments and terrible moments this weekend. The highlight of this weekend however was getting approached by a friend whom -to be honest- I am not as close to as I would like, and getting the most profound shock.

To give some back story, this friend is both a man and a drag queen. My blog is, naturally meant for everyone, but marketed toward women. So what he said to me that night took me a back first and foremost because of his gender. With that being said, sweeter, more uplifting words have never been spoken to me before that moment.

He told me that he read my blog. I was shocked. My heart reached out to him when he told me that he was being willfully single, it was time for him to get back to himself, yanno? Without anyone else, because love always starts from within. I was in tears when he told me that, because of my writing, this thing that I started doing without direction, he was able to look at his naked body in the mirror. He was able to look at his naked form in a mirror and compliment himself because he has been reading this blog.

I sobbed. We wept together, hand in hand, in the middle of a crowded gay bar as money was being raised for an organization trying to help homeless LGBTQ youth, while the world around us celebrated the Supreme Courts decision to legalize what can now be called the nation over: marriage, marriage for me, marriage for you, marriage for ALL of us. Never had I felt more validated as a writer than when I sat with him crying.

I got called an inspiration, words I have longed to hear since the first time I picked up a pencil to write. I was told that my writing was touching lives in a way that I couldn't even comprehend. That is all I have ever wanted, even when I wanted so desperately to kill myself, I just wanted to feel connected.

That moment made me think of everything that I have gone through in my life. From about age eight to now, I have struggled with my weight, with my family life, with depression and anxiety, with self doubt, self harm, self hate and I have this to say about it.

Dear Body,

We have been through so much together, haven't we? I'm twenty-three now and you have been here all my life, the only person to truly be with me, to know exactly I go through on a daily basis since day one. The older I get, the more that I realize and truly understand that I have not been good to you. If I saw someone on the street treat a person the way that I have treated you over the years, I would call that person a monster. I would intervene, I would stand up to that bully. I would try to protect that poor person....I have been that bully. I bullied you for years, I didn't protect you from the outside world, but the most heartbreaking thing is that I never saved you from myself.

I never saved you from myself and for that I am sorry.

I am sorry for all the times that I insulted you. I have called you fat, I have told you that I hated you, I have tried numerous times to take you away.

I'm sorry for the three times I swallowed that fist full of pills out of the medicine cabinet. I'm sorry for how terrible that made you feel. I'm sorry for the way you had to vomit, sweat, convulse, and shit in an attempt to save me. You realized my worth when I was too blinded by my sorrows to see it.

I'm sorry for all the times I let the shower, or faucet run with hot water that caused steam to billow out and stuck my hand in, an arm in, to burn you, to cause you pain. I just wanted to feel something to prove that I could. I couldn't feel anything but the pain and it made me feel more human. I didn't want to be sad, I just didn't know how not to. So I had to feel pain to feel like I wasn't drowning anymore.

I'm sorry for all the times I have intentionally ground the razor blades into your flesh as I shaved, watching the blood run over Strawberry Skintimate shaving cream. I just wanted to feel. But it wasn't right to hurt you.

I'm sorry for all the times, I sat in bed late at night and grabbed you, squished you, flattened you trying to imagine what my body would look like if almost every aspect of you was changed. I shouldn't try to change you, not like that, that isn't how a healthy relationship works.

I'm sorry for all the times that I starved myself thinking that I would become this vision of beauty. I would sit for hours on end, with you crying for help but I ignored you. I ignored you and I'm so sorry. I thought that if I ignored you, my stomach growling, my insides feeling like they were going to scrunch together so hard that they would obliterate themselves. I'm so sorry.

I'm so sorry for all the times that I made you feel worthless in comparison to other women.
"She has a better shape than me."
"She is so much prettier than I am."
"I could never look like that."
"I will NEVER look like that."
"She has everything I want but will never get."
"I hate that she looks better than me."
"She looks so much better than me."

I'm sorry for all the times that I told you weren't small enough, that you couldn't dance like that so you weren't fit to have fun at a club, or that your thighs were too thick, misshapen "baby legs" to ever rock that dress, that skirt, that outfit that you wanted to. Body, I have been so cruel to you. I have made you feel like nothing, I have had no regard for how I treated you and I am so sorry.

For so many years, I have harbored so much hate and resentment for you in my heart, looking back on it now, thinking about all the things that I have said and done breaks my heart. I hated you and you did nothing wrong. I cast you aside over and over, and when I finally decided to love you, you welcomed me back with open arms. You took me into your heart again as if I had did nothing wrong, as if I hadn't broken your heart, let you down, riddled you with scars, and bad memories. You loved me when I loved you.

So, I want to make you a promise, Body, if you'll listen to it and allow. I promise, that I'll always love you. I know some days I will have missteps, I might say something that I don't mean. I may have a bad day and act like an a** and have to come crawling back for forgiveness. But I promise that I'll never forget how much I love you. I promise that I won't try to change you by drastic, dangerous means, but as a collaborative effort between the two of us: mind and soul. I promise to never harm you again. I promise to accept you for what you were, what you are, and whatever it is that you may become. I promise to stop having hate for you in my heart.

Please believe me....

You mean the world to me. I can't lose you, not until the very end. I love you, with all my heart, and I promise that things will get better for us. It won't be easy, even though we have come such a long way together already, but I promise that I will always try. I'll never stop loving you, not now, not even again. I swear it.

With the utmost love,

Rachel Furr

P.S This is the you that I always want to embody: confident, full of love, striving to make dreams come true, accomplishing goals and paving a way for myself in this world with my ambition, dedication, and journey. This path is long, this path is hard, but it is my path, our path, to travel together. I cannot wait to see how this journey ends.

My Big Fat Fantastic Sex Life

Let's talk about sex, baby! Why? Because, let's be honest with ourselves; who doesn't love sex? The champion reliever of headaches! The stress-reliever! The intimacy, romance, the heat, sweaty bodies, heavy breathing, and the insurmountable passion! Ahem....err....I think I got a little carried away for a moment. The point however is this: sex is amazing. This blog post is not for the faint of heart, nor the overly religious, nor is it, by any means necessary meant for prudes.

I like sex. Hm, maybe like isn't a strong enough word. Love sounds too generic and clichéd...I am enchanted with sex. I have no problem admitting it, see no point in denying it. My adoration for sex doesn't make me a slut: it makes me HUMAN. There are a lot of misconceptions out there about plus size women, sex, relationships, and love. Well, listen up all you fat shamers, because boy do I have news for you: contrary to popular belief, fat women get laid....A LOT.

Before I started writing this blog, I had already gotten laid twice. It felt phenomenal, if I do say so myself. See, the thing about sex, is that just like the above gif "If you say you haven't, you're a prude. If you say you have, you're a slut. It's a trap." My question is, why the hell does it have to be this way? We all have or are going to have sex at some point in our lives, except those choosing to be celibate for whatever reason. Some of us have a lot, some of us have a little, and some of us meet comfortably in the middle. So why is talking about sex so taboo? Why when I decide to have an open and honest conversation about sex on the bus or in a public space, why oh why, is that considered indecent?
"
This is the year 2015 and people still recoil at hearing the word "clit" in general conversation. It's a crying shame. Clit, clit, clity, clit, clit...there, I hope I made you all sufficiently uncomfortable.

Moving forward. When I reached high school, a point in time where most of my peers had already had sex, or at the very least done something sexual, I was probably already pushing 300 pounds. I was still more trapped in the proverbial closet than R.Kelly, I had no boyfriend, and naturally boys didn't look my way anyway. But, I had the internet and I had stumbled upon erotica at an admittedly young age (about twelve, don't judge me ha ha) so I knew a fair, fair amount about sex. I would frequently day dream about what it actually felt like, how good it would feel, how close and connected I would feel to the person making me feel so incredible, how sexy it would make me feel. I spent, like any other teenager, a mass amount of my time thinking about sex.

Regrettably, like most teenagers, high school kind of ruined my life. High school and the people within it are what helped me to formulate my screwed up perception of how I was and what I needed to be. High school is where I learned that everyone thought that when it came to sex, fat girls were desperate. No one is going to love them, so they have to be super freaks in the bed just to keep a man. But they can only keep a man on the side because, you know, who wants to be seen in public with them? Fat girls have to try ten times harder to be in any type of relationship and are destined to forever be either the side chick, or the one he settles for.

Day in, day out, I was always overlooked. I was taunted, teased, harassed because of my weight, and all the while, my self esteem was chipped away like a raging storm washing over a rock until the end of time. I had my little change purse of sexual experiences, but I remained a virgin, I told myself on a daily basis that I was unlovable, that no one would want me for the long term and if that was the case, I never wanted to have sex. I stuck to that too. I got myself a B.O.B and the rest was history. I tried to put everything that surrounded me out of my head but it was impossible. I spent a lot of time with my toys, and play time was fun, but I never achieved an orgasm. I tried and tried, but it, I, would never come and I was left with nothing more than mounting frustration and disappointment.

I didn't feel worthy of one.

It's a messed up thing to say, it's messed up that we as women can feel that bad about ourselves that we don't even believe that we are worthy of pleasure, to feel good about ourselves in the simplest of regards. I didn't have my first orgasm until I was nineteen, when I lost my virginity. It was absolutely incredible. I saw stars, rockets, the whole shebang, it all went spinning across my vision followed by an intense, lasting flash of white light.

My first orgasm literally changed my life. Granted, my life was already beginning to change because I made the conscious decision to say "f*ck it!" to the rest of the world and love myself. However, my very first orgasm changed me in ways that I never quite knew imaginable. It felt as if something magical within me had finally been unleashed. I felt like a dragon breathing fire for the first time. I was unstoppable. I actually eased into it so naturally, rocking my hips with abandon that my girlfriend's nail nicked me and I bled. I didn't even care. Up to that point my body felt like this radiating power house of energy that was rushing through me at speeds that seemed inhuman. Never have I felt more like myself than when I am having sex. Doesn't matter the kind; a quickie, slow, passionate lovemaking, angry, make up, it doesn't matter.

I once hated my body. I would look at myself with such disgust and scorn, I was ashamed and I had no problem with letting it display. Once upon a time, I used to be a really shitty person to this body of mine. I'm so sorry for that. My girlfriend makes me feel like an absolute Goddess in the flesh. The way she has to show restraint before entering me, so she doesn't get too eager, so it won't hurt makes me feel so desirable that I almost melt. The way she can barely keep her hands off me makes me feel like the most desirable woman on the planet. We all deserve to feel like that. I will be the first to tell you that it's a wonderful feeling. But it is a feeling that has to start from within.

I don't think my first orgasm would be anywhere near amazing if it hadn't been for the fact that I actually decided to find a way to love myself first. Having someone to share your life with, share your bed with is great, but you have to want to share everything with yourself first. Being a plus size woman is difficult. We are constantly told that we are lazy, worthless, and undeserving because we do not meet a standard of beauty that was constructed. When, in truth, beauty is within the eye of the beholder and who beholds your body more than you? Loving your body when you have spent so long not doing it is difficult. You will have days where you slip and slide up that slope to the point where you won't know what the point of it anymore is.

But the point is being happy. The point of climbing over this mountain of self hate is to be happy and to the love the body that you have now: not the one you will have or the one you used to have. There is a whole other side to life when you begin to love yourself. And let me tell you, the sex gets so much more spectacular than that. There are few things as gratifying as grabbing your sexual confidence by the horns and owning that sh#t because it feels damn good.

I know it is hard to wash away all that negative thinking, but there is so much more to life than the negative comments of fat shamers and people who should really remember that your weight is none of their business. So go on now, wear stripes, wear crop tops, wear bold colors, draw attention to yourself, laugh loudly, dance like you own the place, and always remember;

Verbal Respect: You're not FAT you're PHAT: P-H-A-T

So all last week I was super sick. I spent an entire week just gross, disgusting, bored, and sick. That's why there was no blog post for last week. Boo immune system, you suck!

With that being said...

I want to start this blog post off by saying how much I absolutely adore all of my friends and family. However, no matter how sweet the intentions, I take issue with people trying to give my fat a persona that I simply do not care for.

I AM FAT.

Am I pretty? You bet your sweet ass I am. Am I hot? Scorching baby, just stepped straight out of hell; and am I thick? The answer is a resounding "yes."

This does not however change the fact that I am fat. I weigh three hundred and seventy six pounds. 376 lbs. Six years ago, I would have burst into tears trying to admit that aloud. Six years ago, I would have gone into a spiraling depression if I heard someone call me fat. But I am. This blog isn't called "F*ck It, I'm Fat" because I picture myself as a beautiful, "chunky" fairy princess or a "plus size" diva. This blog has the name that it does because I believe that we should be perfectly able to reclaim words and be comfortable doing so. Reclaim the words that have hurt us so that they can never be used to hurt us again. This is a lesson that I learned from listening to the song "Pussy Manifesto" by Bitch.

There is so much power in the reclaiming of words. Why be distraught and broken up over a word? Without we, as humans, words have no meaning. It's all just gibberish that we strung together in order to communicate with one another. Language as we know it is just the pretty, dolled version of the "ug uug ughn" caveman speech of yesteryear. If you are an American, and you go to China and speak English. Will they understand you, no. Your words mean nothing to them. If a Chinese man were to go to Guatemala and speak Mandarin, would he be understood? No! Because his words wouldn't mean anything, and they wouldn't make a lick of sense.

You guys see where I'm going with this one?

I am fat, and if I want to call my fat that, then let me do it. I don't need comments like:

"It's not fat, it's fluff"

What am I? A marshmallow?

"You're not fat, you're just big boned/thick/got cushion for the pushin'".....just......no, could you not?

I completely respect people's right to refer to my body how they wish. So long as they are respectful, mind you. However, when I speak about my body, this thing that I have carried around with me since before I was scientifically even considered a human being: don't correct me.

You can call it fluff if you want. Chub if you want. You could call it banana for all Is very well give a damn, but when  I refer to my body, don't correct me because your correction is made solely on the assumption that I do not like my body. My comments are not made for your assumptions. There are, sadly, plenty of women who are completely insecure with their weight, but I am not one of those women. I was one of those women for most of my life, it began when I was seventeen but I didn't completely come into myself, truly, until I was 19.

That was five years ago. I started getting fat when I was about nine, was fat by age ten. So for nine years of my life, I was this person, this girl I so self loathed.

I was the girl who called herself every word but "fat." I was/had:

Chubby
Chunky
Big boned
Curvy
Heavy-set
Plump
Juicy
PHAT
Fluffy

This asshat right here compiled an entire list of "funny" euphemisms for fat. I can guarantee you that when I was that girl; I like to call her Rachel 1.0, I probably called myself everything on that list at least ones. Some of them I used because I hated my body and some of them I used because it was easier, safer, better to call myself anything other than fat. I could be a juicy, plump, chubby little girl and stay in my little bubble of self-hate forever so long as I didn't have to hear that dreaded, painful three letter word.

F-A-T

I hated my body and I did terrible things to it trying to deny what was right in front of me. I'm not saying that everyone has to go out and go around calling themselves "fat" all day. You can call yourself whatever you like, so long as you treat your body with the same verbal respect that you require and expect from other people.

Verbal Respect. I like that, excuse me while I go add that to the title....

And I'm back!

I am fat. I'll say it until the day comes that it isn't the truest statement that I know. I am fat, but I am also many, many other things. I am a daughter, sister, lover, student, writer, artist, aspiring model, nail fanatic, nail obsessed, natural loving blogger who thinks that the media, society, and the people who follow these two things religiously can go suck an egg and choke on it.

Life is too, you only get one and no matter what you do, what you say or what you think, there is always going to be someone out there who is going to hate you. It sucks. It hurts. But does that mean you should be any less happy because of it? No! It means you should live your life for the only one that matters: you. So hold your head up high and splash on some fire engine red or bright pink lipstick, that is our shield against the bullsh#t of this world; with that, you are unstoppable and no force, no word, no person can touch you.

I don't want to be Rachel 1.0 ever again and even Rachel 2.0 is getting a major update. Pouring my heart out to anyone that reads my blog, knowing that even if I don't know it, that I make just one persons day brighter makes me strive to be a better person. I have so many dreams and aspirations in this life, one of the biggest ones is to take you all with me on this journey

:-)

The Struggle for Beautiful

I just got done crying.

I could sit here and pretend that it's because of something major; a love one passed away, I had a stressful day, I just got into a fight with my girlfriend, but no: none of those reasons are why I just got done sobbing like a squalling newborn still drenched in my mother's innards. I just got done crying because I don't always feel pretty or liked.

Now, we can all sit here and pretend like we're all too grown to feel like that, or sh#t can get real for a second and we can cut the crap. I don't care how old you are, how much bullsh#t life has thrown at you and how much you have over come: we ALL have those days.

Those days where nothing fits right no matter how many sweaters you shrug over your broad shoulders, or jeans that you shimmy into just to find that they won't button, or tank tops you slither into like a snake just to end up looking like a busted sausage casing.Those days where friends leave you out of plans and even though ANY other time it doesn't bother you, today it makes you feel 13 all over again, sitting home alone on a Friday night while you're friends are at the mall.Those days where no matter how many people you logically know love you, you spend the entire day walking around feeling like you have the word "loser" rubber stamped to your forehead for the entire world to see. Those days where you feel so unpretty, uninteresting and unfunny you feel like you should have your own D List satire sitcom....until you remember that no one would watch, because you suck.

It's hard being a woman. Hell, a person.

There is so much pressure to be pretty, to be beautiful and there are so many f*cked up notions of what that means that the word "beauty," at least for this fat chick, has really lost most if not all of its meaning. I want to be beautiful. I want to feel beautiful all the time and I struggle so hard with finding what that really means. How does one become beautiful? I suppose it all begins by definition.

What is my definition of beautiful? 

For me, being beautiful means expressing yourself, your true self to the world and not caring what any shmuck has to say about it. I can usually do that, but at the same time I can't. I like to express myself through my appearance, the clothing that I wear, but I don't have the means, the money, the resources to fully do that. I have a big, bold style. I am so inspired and influenced by Chastity Garner, Georgina Horne, Essie Golden, and Tess Holiday....but you would never know it. I can't afford to show it and it makes me really sad....

I could pretend it doesn't, but I would be lying through my slightly gapped teeth and that just isn't something I will do. My closet is a mix matched war zone of handmedowns, pulling my style in the direction of three different people, one of whom hurt me so badly but I needed the sweaters to help keep me warm through the winter.How can I feel confident, feel beautiful, feel like myself in clothing from someone who hurt me? Someone I don't speak to anymore.The other handmedowns are from my sister. Some of the pieces in my closet have successfully managed to survive the 90s. I love my sister, we grew up five to years apart from one another and although at ages 23 and 28, I can finally both love AND appreciate her; I am well past the age of wanting to be just like my "big sissy."

Then there is me...desperately trying to peak through, to take charge and command, to break through the hangers and kick a** and take names. I have pieces in my wardrobe that I'm really proud of. But not many. Which means that most of the time. I'm either smoking hot, or a socker mom in my Lane Bryant T3 jeans which fit hug my curves in the wrong way and my famed striped sweaters....because that was what I wore to the bar Sunday night. I told myself I didn't want to "get cute" to go to the bar on a Sunday but the second I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror I felt deflated.

Should I have put on a bodycon dress and some slinky heels? No, probably not, but I bet anything else would have made me feel better than what I ended up with. Am I saying that being beautiful is the only thing a woman should aspire to be? No, and if you get that from this then, please, I say this most sincerely: f*ck you...

What I am saying is that to every woman, man, genderless person out there who doesn't always feel the greatest about their looks, expression, likeability and certain social circles: you are not alone. I am right beside you. I am right with you when you are crying. I am right there with you when you feel like crap. I am here and I will love you if you let me, and we can feel like sh#t together so long as we remember one thing.

This pain that we feel is only temporary. We are all beautiful. So let's stick together so we can always remember that.