#I also have a plethora of obnoxiously patterned shirts

[brw]

We lost something when they stopped giving Hank obnoxious patterned shirts...

[itsmooglepom-blog]

How I Learned to Not Hate Myself (And Other Women)

I grew up in the 90’s, and like most other millennials, I flourished in a unique and unusual time span also known as “The Age of Technology.” With the revolution of the internet and the explosiveness of the media, it was (and still is) easier than ever to spread thoughts, notions, and ideas.

During my most formative years, I was a huuuuuuuuge “Tomboy.” Imagine: A small girl who fancied video games, comic books, action figures, and computers as opposed to the expected barbies, baby dolls, purses, ponies, and/or anything else obnoxiously pink. Don’t worry- Even as a romp I had my fair share of stuffed animals, too, you can ask my mom. She had a hay day when she finally donated them all to the Salvation Army, believe me. Not many girls were very nice to me when I was in elementary school. The majority of my friends were boys. I saw girls as these mean, catty creatures I didn’t understand. I avoided them and refused to associate myself with them. I was DIFFERENT. Even at a young age, we’re taught to compete. And in this competition, I wanted nothing more than to WIN. Even from as far as I can remember, I didn’t want to be like “other girls.” Being like “other girls” meant you were bland, boring, and outright insufferable. It meant you didn’t have any ideas of your own and you conformed to a predictable stereotype. Girls were seen as weak and incapable. If you did something “like a girl” it was seen as an insult. And, of course, I did not want to be insulted. Why would I want that? I had a lot going for me, I already didn’t like the same things I thought other girls liked, so I was good.  …Right?

These impressions became fundamentally etched into my being. They allowed me to be “The Cool Girl™” and quickly I adopted the moniker of “One of the Guys.” Because, to me, being (like) a guy was way more desirable than identifying as a girl. Sometimes, I would even say things like, “Aren’t you glad I’m not like those other girls? They’d be mad if you said/did xxxxxx thing. But not me.” I was an obelisk of obscurity, a commodity to be coveted.

Latching on to those sentiments was so easy for me. I didn’t have a great history in dealing with other double x chromosomes; it just fit like glove. Throughout junior high and high school, I had a handful of female friends, but only clung to those with similar interests. I recall very distinctly feeling both a sense of jealousy and superiority toward other girls simultaneously. Jealousy because I suffered through unsurmountable insecurity as a teenager, and superiority because I was nestled in the perfect presumption that I would always be better or smarter than them collectively. These were thoughts that existed somewhere deep, down in the darkest reaches of my being only to resurface later in life.

As I got older and matured, I found myself in some questionably abusive relationships. Often, I would agree with their misogynistic tendencies and somehow blame myself for the mistreatment I endured. These types of relationships became a pattern, resulting in a few different things: -Me hitting rock bottom in terms of dealing with my own self-esteem.

-My hatred for other women reaching an all time high.

-The eventual realization of how and why I was wrong all along.

These realizations started in my early twenties. Becoming an adult was exceedingly difficult for me, because I already had so much mental and emotional baggage I lugged with me. Around the age of 22, I started getting over an eating disorder I had been battling. Anorexia was a problem of mine that stretched from my teenage years to my early adulthood. And, admittedly, it’s all because of misogyny.

The magazines, the ads, the books, the posters; every where you looked, there was a thin, beautiful woman in your face. That was desirable. That was what I needed to be. What I needed to maintain. Sometimes, I would eat only a small sandwich and a banana in a day. Other times, I would restrict myself to oatmeal and juice. I kept justifying why I wouldn’t eat to make myself feel better. “Oh, I’ve been so busy with work. I didn’t have time to stop and eat.” I’d be with guy friends and they’d see an overweight woman jogging and it was open season. “Haha. Look at that fatty!” They would cry out, laughing.

I felt a knot in my stomach, it didn’t feel right to judge her. I mean, she was trying! Look, there she is! Making an effort!

“At least she’s running, though!” I replied, vehemently trying to defend her.

“Yeah! Running to go eat a donut, I’m sure.” One of them would bleat. I knew that feeling. I spent endless hours at the gym doing cardio to punish myself for a single cosmic brownie I didn’t have the will power to say no to. I would run and sweat and sweat and run, until my face was numb. Sometimes, I saw double. I remember looking in the mirror, blacking out, and waking up on the floor with a bump on my head. I was so dedicated to confining myself within this small body. I wasn’t allowed to take up space. Eating less and working out more was the answer. My overall health didn’t matter as long as I was “desirable.”

Fitness and gym culture became a large influence on my day to day life. One of my other more prominent epiphanies resulted from a common argument: “Why do girls wear makeup to the gym?” At first, I assumed it’s because they want “attention.” They must be there with a full face of foundation, perfect eyebrows, and contoured cheeks because they NEED constant validation. I mulled it over and realized that my views were a result of internalized misogyny. Not everything women do is a performative action to appeal to men. Women wear makeup for a plethora of different reasons. And the fact that I wanted to knock them for it was simply out of jealousy. I wasn’t brave enough to wear makeup to the gym, nor did I ever look as good as they did while doing it. Why did I even care in the first place? What caused me to be so brash? Why did I want so badly to dislike someone for something so simple? I became honest with myself and the answers flowed in. As a result, more topics of scrutiny  began to arise. Dress codes, for example: I used to think that women should cover themselves as to avoid negative attention from the male gaze. I recalled the abuse I dealt with and how I was called a whore, a slut, a skank, you name it, for wearing a skirt, a tight shirt, and eyeliner. When discussing sexual assault or rape, people say things like, “Look how she was dressed! She deserved it!” trying to place blame on the victim as opposed to the perpetrator. I thought of myself, as a victim of rape and assault. I thought of how my abuser tried to make it my fault and how I reflected those actions unto others in the same situation. The fact of the matter is, a lot less rapes would happen if a lot less people would stop raping other people. Period.

My early twenties consisted of working in a largely male-dominated industry. I was often the butt of jokes, the target of blatant sexism, and a victim of harassment. A lot of my male coworkers expected me to balk to this behavior, but I was growing ever tired of the constant barrage of backhanded remarks and unwanted advances. I was accused of working at a video game store to “impress men.” But, I wasn’t. That wasn’t my intention at all. I loved video games. I always had. Yet, now, somehow, I had to PROVE that I loved them and that it wasn’t for attention. I saw myself as the woman in the gym with makeup, the one who wore it just to wear it, but got accused of doing it for someone else. Everything was starting to make sense to me. All of these circumstances were linked. My hatred toward women was more of a coping mechanism than anything else. It let me feel better about myself and provided me with a false sense of security. What I kept forgetting is that *I’m* also a woman, no matter how much I try to set myself apart. I couldn’t justify the disdain.

Ironically, fitness also acted as a significant step in my healing process. I connected with women who power lift and dare to look “masculine” without fear of judgement or ridicule. I learned to eat and treat food and respected my body as a vessel of my mind, as opposed to a temple of temptation. I started lifting weights and doing yoga. It was for me. Not for anyone else. And it felt great. I started wearing compression shorts, not to show off, but to be comfortable in my movement. Each time I would stretch them up my waist and walk out the door, I would recall how I used to see women who would wear them and think to myself, “How wrong was I!?”

What remains constant is that women can (and should) like what they want, but it never comes without ridicule. Ridicule is a reaction that is bred from one of three things: envy, projection, or insecurity. People are so ingrained to automatically have contempt for anything a woman does. Society takes any and every chance it gets to paint women in a negative light and perpetuate the terrible stereotype that has become commonplace. When you start seeing women as people with value, and not as objects, competition, or second class citizens to scorn, you become more satisfied with yourself as a result.

Internalized misogyny is a very real thing. It’s what caused me to see myself as less of a person due to my gender, develop an eating disorder, allow myself to be abused, and convinced me that I should act a certain way just so I could be called “cool.” That’s right, I used bigotry against other women just to gain brownie points with other people. And I’m not proud of it. What’s important is that I admit it, and hopefully my honesty will influence others to understand how easy it is to fall prey to this phenomenon.

Women are wonderful. Women are powerful. And there’s nothing to be ashamed of if you’re a woman.

[m-madeleine]

i know i said i wasn’t great about clothes these last few years but actually i have come into the possession of quite a lot of cool clothes that really furthered my aesthetic during that time

good glasses god i cannot stress how important that was. they are basically your standard rectangular oversized hipster glasses but a little smaller than standard to fit on my smol face 

a fuckboy snapback, damn i am very proud of that one, even though i barely wear it and also it had a glittery sticker on it and i peeled it off bc i thought you do that but apparently you don’t??? (i’m getting old)

a fuckboy sweater in black that says “brooklyn” down one arm and “new york” down the other, i am also so proud of that

light brown leather winter boots that have 2cm platform all over and a 5cm heel and i know that doesn’t sound like a lot, but as a sensible shoes person they literally make me feel like i’m walking on stilts and also i christened them by falling down the stairs so 

a shirt that says “property of NASA”

which is best paired with sweatpants with an absolutely obnoxious blue and pink-ish red flower pattern (another gift by my great aunt who occasionally has bomb fashion sense)

or my blue and red knee-length plaid skirt that my grandma made for my ma back in the 80s and which, together with that shirt and my blue keds, makes me feel like i’m just missing the white bobby socks to pull off A Look 

a leather choker that is a lot lighter than but still looks slightly like the actual dog collar i used to wear to school a lot and that i can genuinely not breathe in anymore

a plethora of high quality men’s scarfs that i bought for a ridiculously low sale prize bc women’s scarfs can mostly fuck off

though i did buy a wine red silk-ish scarf with a white and green flower print that i’m trying to figure out how to tie in a non-ridiculous way

bonus: not a new purchase but i found the black and white striped gloves i used to wear as a teen and totally took them with me bc of course

in conclusion my dream aesthetic is “ femme teenage scene fuckboy", which i want to hold onto as long as i possibly can, age-wise