chin, that my right butt cheek is smaller than my left though that does explain my perpetually uneven wedgie?" />


Self naked fat pictures

As I enter into middle age, I hear a lot of my female contemporaries lamenting the fact that they have very few photos of themselves holding their babies. Now, ten or twenty years later, they realize the folly in their decision. They only have a handful of photographs reminding them of those special early days with their babies. By the time I was in my mid-thirties, this propensity for female friends to throw up an objecting hand when I pulled out my camera already annoyed me. But on the other hand, I got it. The idea of taking photos of our imperfect selves can even feel downright scary. As someone who suffers from body dysmorphic disorder, I get it more than anyone. And not only that, but to take it one step further and take naked photographs of themselves. I can remember sitting at their house in the evenings, looking through dozens of shots of our closest friends, completely naked them, not me. Somehow, there was nothing at all weird about having naked breasts all over the coffee table, or that those naked breasts belonged to people I sat next to in class.
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In , photographer and self-described "Uppity Fatty" Substantia Jones started the Adipositivity project, which "aims to promote the acceptance of benign human size variation and encourage discussion of body politics," by publishing images of women, men, and couples of larger proportions. The idea is described on her website as "part fat, part feminism, part 'fuck you. I recently talked to Substantia about body positivity and the ins and outs of her photographic practice. VICE : How do you find your models? Substantia Jones: I'll occasionally ask someone if they're interested in dropping through for my camera, but mostly people contact me, asking me to photograph them. Model search isn't really a part of the equation. How do you approach them? Not every fat person is an "out" fat person—unapologetic and openly accepting of the place their body occupies on the spectrum of benign human variation. The word fat is a morally neutral descriptor, while overweight is a term of judgment, and obese pathologizes that which is naturally occurring. So approaching a stranger with a pronouncement about their body—any pronouncement about their body—is likely to be unwelcome.

Back in November, I had the first nude photo of myself taken. At 21, and as someone who has had smartphones and romantic partners to send such images to for your years, I realize that my lack of body positivity was probably to blame for something of a delayed start in loving my nude form. Previously, I had felt pretty insecure about my nakedness , which manifested in difficulty having sex without covering up multiple parts of myself up. Going through sexual trauma only exacerbated my relationship with my sexual body even further, as I continued to make efforts to cover myself up even more, and sometimes making efforts not to touch myself at all. I grew afraid of my sexual body, and nervous of its ability to lead to vulnerability and victimization when sexualized by others. Taking nudes was crucial for me in my journey toward reclaiming my sexual agency and continuing to live my life as body positively as possible. Snapping these photos meant I was sexualizing myself in a way that didn't necessarily have to involve touching. I was controlling and creating the image for my enjoyment only. Essentially, I was sexualizing myself , a concept that was hard to execute through other means. I could strike a pose, snap a pic, and gawk over how lovely I looked

There is nothing a thinner body could give me that I do not already have. On a down comforter-covered king-size bed, in a Courtyard by Marriott hotel, I got naked for Substantia Jones and the Adipositivity Project. I don't mean that I took off my pants or my shirt. I mean that I took off my clothes, all of them , even the ones underneath.

Just me and my bare-naked ass and Substantia and her camera and my daughter, Kelsey, to tell me I'm a badass. It's a radical act, I guess, stripping for a relative stranger — showing someone your wobbly bits, your unkempt bikini line, the topographical map of varicose veins that run across the back of your thighs.

Let me hit you with this hard fact: Ninety-eight percent of the bodies we see displayed in the media are a form less than 2 percent of us can achieve. When I say you can't look like the woman on the cover of Cosmo, I mean you literally cannot look like the woman on the cover of Cosmo.

People will say this sort of brazen nudity is an act of exhibitionism or narcissism, that bodies should be kept private, sacred, covered. I will bare my dimpled ass to prove that the body is just flesh, bone, fat.

I will show you my body so that you might see a body that looks like yours. I'm here, saying, fuck flattering, fuck filters; the rolls you see don't need to be Photoshopped.

I've put my body through a lot in its 41 years — six babies, countless pointless diets, anxiety, stress, too much wine, not enough sleep — and it's still showing up every day to breathe and walk about and generally exist in a completely functional manner.

In adulthood, I've starved myself, run until I was broken. My metabolism is sluggish, destroyed by years of deprivation. My body that is now 40 pounds heavier than it ever was when I was dieting. It's fat. We can call it curvy, voluptuous, luscious. And yes, it is all of those things. But I live here. I wake up here, and I go to sleep here. I go on vacation here, and I wear a bikini here. I walk the streets here. I turn heads — and not in the way that people want to turn heads.

I haul my fat ass up on my beach cruiser. I take the criticism, the emails, the comments, and whatever other unpleasantries come with living in this body.

In spite of this — not because of it — I try to spend less time thinking about my body itself, and more time thinking about what my body can do, what it does for me every day. And it can do a lot see: breathing. But there's really no way to avoid thinking about your body when you're sprawling naked on a bed or kneeling on a sofa or reclining on a chaise lounge — or at least not with a camera trained on your every move.

I was looking at other nude fat people for a sense of solidarity, of self, when I hadn't quite worked out how to live in this fat body, the body I had stopped abusing and allowed to simply exist. I saw the radical beauty in the lumps of their backsides, the rolls of their waists, the double chins, the double knees, the stretch marks; I saw serenity and love.

I figured she must say that to all of the folks she photographs. Fat-photographer code: Make Them Feel Beautiful. I don't do anticipation. I fail at surprises. I shake the gifts; I get the early ultrasound. I can't even let bread rise without lifting the towel to beckon it to completion, to see and smell the yeasty dough in progress. When I did finally open them the next morning, it was on my phone, which was somehow less intimidating — as if the smaller screen would create a smaller me, the blow softened when dealt in scale.

How much could I shrink myself? On the 4. A Rubenesque Beauty, serene, smooth, supple skin, arching curves, beautiful lines? Someone that was smaller, smoother, softer? Just the same fat person I see everyday in my full-length mirror. The same birthmarks, the same cellulite, the same rolls — completely average in every way. Didn't I know about all the dimples, the stretch marks, the double chin, that my right butt cheek is smaller than my left though that does explain my perpetually uneven wedgie?

I suppose I did know all of those things; I just hadn't been able to really see them. And I didn't know I could be so shocked, and so utterly OK. I didn't know that I could see these pictures of myself objectively. I didn't know that, because I've spent very nearly my entire life packaging my body, my beauty, my worth, into one tidy Instagram-worthy human. I didn't even know I could be more than the sum of my fatty parts. I only knew that since I can recall being aware of my body, I've been aware of the importance of its beauty.

That is fine, not because I'm complacent or in denial, but because I'm keenly aware of my physical body, and I'm also keenly aware that it is not the most important thing about me. This body, even if it were thin, could not replace the warm embrace of a partner who loves me; the breathy, sweaty hugs of my children; the rich soil of my garden; the slice of freshly-frosted birthday cake. I see fat in these photos. I also see a mother, a wife, a sister, and a friend. A woman who has sacrificed, struggled, strained, and clawed her way through life.

I see a face built of the wrinkles of a million laughs — and just as many tears. I see dimples and lumps and bumps, and courage and tenacity and triumph. Life is hard, but it's better when you're not alone. Sign up for our newsletter and get our Self-Care and Solidarity eBook just because we love you! Congratulations, 2 percent. I salute your perfect bone structure. But I will get all the way naked to argue for visibility. I'm here for myself, too; loving this body is a journey, not a destination. In fact, it used to be pretty thin.

But it's not now, and that's real. Thanks, body, for showing up, even when I treated you like shit. There is no placating necessary. I tried to see myself. But I didn't open the attachments. Was I deluded enough to believe that her camera was magic? I mean, I knew I was a fat person. Didn't I know I had all of those rolls? Didn't I know about the back fat, the side fat, the arm fat? A little girl so desperate to be a big girl.

A teenage girl trying so desperately to be an adult girl that hair though. A self-loathing adult desperately trying to look self-assured. That is fine, because fat is one thing I am, but it is not the only thing I am. That is fine, because this — all of this, you see — is fleeting, erasable. I see much more than fat. If you like this article, please share it! Your clicks keep us alive! Articles You'll Love.

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