If Only, If Only

I've never been quiet about my living with/dealing with/treatment for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  I have always felt like because I live part of my life in the public eye, it was a perfect opportunity for me to showcase this disorder in a light other than war-experienced soldiers.

My disorder comes from multiple experiences caused by a male who decided he needed to be in my life without my consent.  I wasn't ever physically harmed or assaulted by this male, but his actions led my body and brain into this disorder.  He decided that he should be allowed into my bedroom in the dead of night; he decided that my locked front door was an invitation to kicked it in while I wasn't home; he decided that after multiple calls to the police that I surely still wanted his attention.  

I sought out treatment, and was doing great!  I had gotten my sleep schedule back to something normal after a couple years, and my tiggers were under control.  My PTSD had merely become watered down into the occasional anxiety and distrust around new men in my life.  I considered that to be a win after the shit I went through!

Then, last weekend happened.  The pervert who showed me that I was nothing but a sex object by jacking-off to my body in the middle of a fucking field.  He breached my bubble.  He took it upon himself to eliminate my comfort for his pleasure.  This man re-traumatized me.  

My paranoia took hold within minutes.  My insomnia came back with full force.  My anxiety, worry, and doubt is turned up to 11.  This experience has brought me back to a place I didn't want to be in ever again.  

Fuck.  That.  Guy.  

I hope karma finds him, and slaps the shit out of him for this.  I truly do.  People with no respect for others make me physically ill.  I don't wish PTSD upon him, but I hope that he learns the errors of his ways before he hurts another person.

I'm not writing this to get pity, or comfort, or anything else.  I'm writing this to show people that mental health is important, that the majority of humans deal with some kind of mental health issue and that is ok.  I'm writing to show you how influential one person's greed can be; how one person's entitlement can lead to years of mental health issues for another.  

I have talked about this to a few people in my life, and considered going back to therapy.  I have conquered my paranoia, and now attempting to wrangle my insomnia.  My anxiety is back to a "I can deal with it" level, and it hasn't been affecting my work.  I would really love to have a partner in my life right now, but that isn't happening any time soon.  Someone to talk to on an intimate level is what I'm yearning for.  If only, if only...  

Full Moon In Virgo

This is a story.  You’ll want to sit down for this. 

 “Virgo is blessed with the ability to serve. The ability to work. The ability to make a masterpiece out of a mess. Virgo is blessed with a relentless drive to get it right. To get it working. To get it to those who need it. Virgo is blessed with the ability to see what doesn’t fit. What doesn’t add to the situation. What doesn’t lift up the meaning of what it is making. Virgo is blessed with the natural ability to understand the systems of the body. To trust nature. To tune into the rhythms of life. Virgo is blessed with the desire to heal. To eliminate what is toxic. To digest and integrate what will restore it to health. Blessed with the knowledge that sincere efforts help to assuage our anxieties, Virgo knows that using its abilities is imperative to experiencing any kind of calm.” - Chani Nicholas

Sunday marked the full moon in Virgo, which is personally a weird point for me, as I am a cusp of Leo-Virgo.  Moon moving out of Leo and into Virgo can sometimes be awkward - this weekend was no different.  I’m going to tell you what happened this weekend and how I plan to deal with it. 

Saturday:

I woke up feeling a little “eh” and knew that I was shooting still and video on Sunday so I decided to stay home, relax, eat things with cheese, and watch Numbers for the 5th time.  By the time I got around to packing and organizing for my shoot Sunday, I realized my makeup bag and contents inside (literally, my whole “model face”) were nowhere to be found.  I tore apart my car and my apartment with no avail.  I texted Samantha (my bestie and temporary roomie while she is in town) furiously asking if she had seen in.  I went over the last time I had it and used it.  I retraced my steps.  Nothing.  Fairly positive it has been stolen from me, I went online to Target in hopes of ordering “Pick-up In Store” everything I would need to beat my face Sunday.  It was fairly successful, and I knew I could just run in and pick up my things Sunday morning before heading out to the shoot.  (Side note: thank you to everyone who helped me out in replacing my snatched makeup.)

Sunday Morning:

I tried to sleep in - knowing my anxiety kept me up until 3 am and that I didn’t have to be on the road until 11:30 am - it didn’t work.  I finally got out of bed, showered, and set my hair in foam rollers.  Then, I spent nearly 30 minutes trying to get fucking wrinkles out of a satin robe.  Made me late, but Samantha didn’t seem to mind.  I was ready to head out on my adventure, and had errands to run before picking her up at the train station. 

Sunday Noon:

Target on Sunday is a madhouse.  I was so glad to have already purchased my makeup.  In and out, hardly anytime at all.  Next on my list is coffee at The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf in Orange before I pick Sam up, because who doesn’t love free coffee?  Coffee Bean was offering free coffee for the time change at a handful of locations; I made it to one of these locations….about 10 mins after they stopped doing the promotion.  I did buy coffee and made it to Samantha at the train station about 1 pm, which is what I told her after I fought with the fucking robe wrinkles.  We were off to get gas and go find some poppies!  

Sunday Afternoon:

The drive was pretty, and congested.  I mean, it was the 15 on the weekend, so I didn’t expect a completely clear route.  We rolled up on the exit and noticed cars parked everywhere immediately.  My heart sank.  The whole idea was that Samantha and I would shoot nudes in the poppies and be in a somewhat private location.  Managing to get to the dead end of the road, we noticed there was kind of a “back entrance” to the park the poppies were in and there was much less foot traffic.  It was only about 2 pm, so we decided to hop out and scout for our shoot later.  We soon realized this might actually work, and that it was hot as hell.  AC was needed for me to put my makeup on, so into a town we went.  Once we were at McDonald’s, Samantha went to grab her debit card only to realize the pouch it was in (as well as her license and portable charger) was missing.  Then, she tore apart my car.  (My poor car this weekend…)  No luck.  So, we worked on how to fix her missing info card issue while enjoying a greasy burger, and unwrapping new makeup.

The makeup.  I love NYX makeup; I’ve never had a bad product.  Until now.  Do not buy the contour palette.  Don’t.  It made me look horrendous.  I quickly had to figure out how to fix my face.  Literally.  There happen to be a Target sharing the McDonald’s parking lot so guess who was making a return.  I told Sam, “it’ll be quick, I know exactly what I need.”  I lied.  Not only was I forced to wait for the Guest Services clerk, but once I got into the checkout line, it was nearly a 20 minute wait.  This put Samantha and I back about 45 mins total, and I still had to redo my makeup and take my rollers out. 

Sunday Evening:

There was still traffic on the 15 at 6 pm headed to the poppies.  What should have been a 5 minute drive was 15.  Now, we were really pushed back on time.  Once at the poppies again, I had to do my hair.  Easier said than done apparently because the hair gods were not smiling down on me Sunday.  Vintage brushed curls were out of the question.  A rat’s nest is what ended up happening.  “Oh cool!” came out of Sam’s mouth, so that is what stuck.  We finally hit the trail and discovered a man in the first area we scouted.  No worries, Samantha turned around and said “but this is cool.  I can photoshop the background.”  Wardrobe Change #1.  We start shooting and all is good.  

Until I see the man that was in our location hiding behind a tree.  I thought “maybe he was just embarrassed for me, didn’t want to be seen” but that’s when I saw his pants down around his knees.  This fucker was masturbating.  I could see him behind Sam a few hundred feet.  I tell her, and she tries to see him, but is at the wrong angle.  We wrap at location one, and move to location two.  It isn’t far, but the trees are cool.  Guess who shows up?  About 200 feet from us this time, and we can hear him.  Samantha was taking video of me and I’m positive you can hear his voice on the audio in the playback.  By this time, I’m just disgusted, and pissed, and wishing I had a taser or pepper spray.  You don’t do shit like that.  I was trying to work, and this fucker invaded my space and used me as his porn.

Samantha can see I’m obviously not on my game, and we move to the poppy field which is location three.  We talk about calling the cops, but know it will take them forever to get to us, and where will he be by then?  Not to mention, how do you explain to (most likely male) police officers two (fat) women are in a wildlife reserve shooting nudes?  We did tell the group of females we met on the trail about the pervert up ahead and they changed courses.  Good thinking, ladies!

By this time, my paranoia is at peak performance so my modeling is not.  That PTSD demon starts showing his face and I’m trying to shake him off.  Location three is beautiful, but the poppies have already closed, as we are definitely at, or past sunset at this point in time.  This only upsets and frustrates me more, as I get the feeling of “I’ve just wasted my time.”  Between us, Samantha is definitely the more “lets make lemonade out of lemons” than I am, so she keeps me shooting.  I see the pervert again, but this time much further away, and there is nothing for him to hide in as we are in the middle of a field.  He does leave, but after I’ve already experienced my trauma.  Thanks, dickhole.

It’s dark.  Like, there is no more light.  Sam is trying everything to use all the light possible.  We were convinced we might get 3 photos to use from the whole shoot.  So, we end up packing up before we were actually done, because I’m complaining, paranoid, and pissed, and there is no light for Samantha.  The whole walk back to the car, I’m waiting for this pervert to pop out of the brush.  Again, thanks, dickhole.  Super glad you got off on retraumatizing me.  Loading the car and getting the fuck outta there was definitely what I wanted to do. 

Sunday Night:

We stop at a cafe in Corona and eat too much mediocre food, with a too-big dessert, and find that we actually have about 12 good photos!  Hallelujah!  By this time, it is past 9 pm, and we are both done.  Just done.  The weekend kicked my ass.  The full moon tried me.  If I hadn’t had Samantha with me, things could have been significantly different.  Someone who didn’t know my PTSD past and experiences, someone who wasn’t as experienced shooting in low (no) light, someone who was more shook up than I was could have resulted in a much worse experience.  On the bright side, I have a great story.  Samantha and I have some beautiful photographs.  I know how to cope with my PTSD - paranoia and anxiety, included.  The universe may have had it out for me, but I trusted nature and myself.

It. Ain't. Real.

Adult friendships are hard.  It’s no longer “let’s be friends because we like the same fruit rollups.”  Now, we have to find someone we can trust with our secrets, our personal lives, our business/professional lives, and also be willing to do the same for them.  Being willing to find that person or persons is also a thin line to walk; you can’t be too eager to trust another without knowing they are trustworthy.

With that said, adult friendships within a catty, manipulative, clique-y, superficial industry like fashion are even more difficult.  People start befriending you with hopes of networking and connecting, putting up a facade of trustworthiness only to turn on you when things stop going their way.  “Users,” that is what I call those people.  They don’t like that word because it is the most basic and concise label to use on them and what they do.  Being a user in this industry could be the lowest of the low, and that is a label no one wants.  

It comes down to “treat others the way you want to be treated.”  Your mother told you this when you were a child, and it was all the rage in school.  So why do we lose this basic concept as adults?  I think it is because as adults we learn that we can manipulate others through words and actions; this manipulation shrouds our true selves and allows us to become users of our “friends.”  We find excuses to try to justify our actions and words.  Excuses are excuses.  No one cares why you’re being a dickhole, only that you’re being a dickhole.  

Some people just aren’t clever enough to get away with being bad people in this industry, though people won’t call them on it.  Why?  Because their “other attributes” make up for them being assholes?  C’mon now.  Let’s be grown-ups.  Well...not everyone has the same definition of “grown-up” either.  Just because you are over the age of 18, and happen to be able to feed yourself doesn’t make you a grown-up.  Making good choices, paying bills on time, having intellectual and emotional conversations, understanding responsibility, and being able to stand on your own (alone) makes a grown-up in my mind.  Adults and grown-ups are different.  I’m tired of having friendships with adults who can’t/won’t grow up.       

Then we get to social media.  Social media literally allows people to construct their lives.  Girl.  If you knew the real lives of these people you follow on social media, you would laugh in their faces.  

It.  Ain’t.  Real.  

You think I walk around naked in public with my hair and makeup done and a professional photographer?  No.  I don’t.  I have a Monday-Friday office job where I am in jeans and a tee most of the time.  If I brush my hair, it’s a good day.  Just because someone can photograph well doesn’t mean shit.  People living in Mom and Dad’s basement; going on dates to get free food; agents that take more than they should; photos posted of the one gig they got that month.  We gotta wake up and smell the reality.  Stop celebrating people for being beautiful and see them for who they actually are.

Success

Sunday I threw a party to celebrate my 20,000+ followers on Instagram.  "Overwhelming" is the best word I can use to describe my emotions from Sunday, and not in any negative connotations.  I'm still not sure how to put into words how immensely grateful and ecstatic I am for the people in my life who support what I do.

My line of creativity is polarizing; people love me or hate me.  I push the envelope and am unapologetic for my art and my body.  The idea that 20,000+ people out there in the world have my back, feel something from my art, and are really fucking great cheerleaders blows my mind every single day.  

The week leading up to the party was extremely taxing on me mentally.  My anxiety and stress was through the roof.  I was hoping for a few friends to come through, and maybe sell a couple prints, listen to some great music.  We had roughly 40 (FORTY) people come by The Plus Bus on a Sunday evening.  For real.  I had so many people come out that I had a rough time making rounds for four hours.  There were too many times that I held back tears of joy from all of the words of encouragement, praise, and accomplishment.  (Right now I might be crying...)

I'm the first one to admit I have an ego, but this weekend humbled me.  It's easy for me to forget that my work goes on the internet for thousands [millions] of people to potentially view.  Moreover, it is easy for me to forget that a photo can have great emotional impact.  I know, because I've felt it personally.  I am forever thankful that during this point in my life, I can make another's life better, whatever that may be, through creating art.  

This weekend there has been a lot of talk about "success;" how it is defined, what it means, when one reaches it.  I don't know how I define my own success, or when I will know if I reached it.  I don't know if receiving fan art or having 20k followers on IG means I have reached it.  I feel like I have so much more to express.  Maybe I need to adjust my idea of success, that success isn't finite, but is unlimited.  Giving one person confidence means my art is successful.  Reaching 20,000 people on Instagram was successful.  Being published in multiple magazines was successful.  Celebrating with friends, combining music, modeling, and good times was successful.  My next goal will be successful.  

Thank you for making me a success.  Thank you for allowing me to feel the rush of success.  Thank you for supporting me in order to be a success.  

Here's to more.  

In My Feelings

I am an emotional person.  It wasn't until recently that someone called me an empath.  Some who know me would laugh at that sentiment because I generally hate everyone.  Just because I don't like people doesn't mean that I don't have emotions or cannot experience empathy towards others.  It just means I would rather not...

I'm that person who cries at sappy commercials, at happy reunions in sitcoms, when the jerk becomes the prince in rom-coms, when the dog dies in a drama, and when the deaf people in the Starbucks drive-thru are able to use video when ordering.  Yeah, that's right, I basically get on Facebook and cry the whole time.  Or, I am furious because our nation is going to Hell and a Cheeto is taking us there.  Ya know, normal daily emotions.  

Also recently, I discovered that what I do as a model has become directly linked to my emotions.  I suffered some pretty damn big heartbreak in 2016, and I tapped out of the modeling world for a bit.  I realized that what I had been bringing to the table was beauty and self-love, genuine love in the world, and I was lost...so lost that I bowed out for a couple months.  I didn't shoot hardly at all from September to January.  

Some artists use heartache to draw from, but trying to spread love in the world when my heart was broken just wasn't in the cards for me.  Slowly I'm getting back into it though.  I've decided I don't want to go without creating any longer, so creating is what I'll do.  Back around the New Year, my sister (lifestyle photographer in Spokane, WA, link here) wanted Auntie-Nephew photos of me and her little one.  That was the first time I was in front of a lens in months.  I got home to LA, and I shot again in the desert with bopo babes just recently.  Now this weekend, I'm shooting again.  

This weekend is about reclaiming.  I plan on crying and laughing and re-centering myself through my art.  I won't give too much away but I'm shooting art nudes with a Facebook friend out of Palm Springs (first shoot together) and there will be a tub and a robe involved.   It will be my first big creative shoot since my heartbreak and I'm ready for it.  

I apologize if you may be used to reading blog posts that have some kind of beginning-middle-end to them, but this is much more like my diary.  So, deal with it.  I want to wrap up today by telling you that I've come to terms with being an emotional person.  Sometimes it can be overwhelming, but then I realize this is just my body and my emotions doing their thing.  Who am I to keep myself from being normal?  Just let yourself be.  I'm always up in my feelings, and that's ok.  

I Got Way Off Topic

I’m fat.  It’s something that you can see when you first meet me.  Most of America is fat; the average female size is 16 now.  Calling me “fat” is not an insult, because I won’t allow it to be an insult.  You might as well replace “fat” with “yellow-haired” or “blue-eyed” or “white” because all are truthful and accurate.  

I am currently in the (very much) infancy stages of a possible new relationship [read “I hope this one lasts longer than a month because he seems mentally and financially stable, and he makes me laugh”] and we had an interesting conversation last night after I called myself “fat.”  He is not a fat person, and it was apparent that he was uncomfortable with the idea of using “fat” as a descriptor for me.  He told me that the plus size women he knows don’t like the word, and he has learned not to call people fat.  Welcome to Society - where “fat” is an insult and ignorant body-shaming Cheetos can be President!  

Listen, you might be one of these plus size women who do not like being called “fat”, and that is ok.  I urge you to discover within yourself why you don’t like the word, and if you are up for changing your mind.  I used to hate being called “fat” but it was because the people around me insisted on this word meaning bad/dumb/stupid/gross.  “Fat” does not mean those things.  

I was going to put in the Merriam-Webster definition of “fat” in this blog post, when I realized that one of the last versions of the definition actually lists “stupid; foolish” as a valid descriptor of the word.  This is the world we live in.  This is why people think “fat” is a bad word.  Guess what, your mental capabilities are not tied to your physical weight.  If this were true, why did I graduate with honors in high school and college, and then again once more in trade school?  All of my peers must have been geniuses - only viable explanation according to Merriam-Webster.      

Going back to using the word “fat” to describe my body.  “Plus size” is fine - though everyone has a different definition of it.  Fashion says anything over a 6 is plus.  Superfats say you have to be 20+ at least to be fat enough for the term “plus.”  Average American women are 16, and now “average” literally correlates to “plus.”  No one is ever the correct size.  So use whatever you feel comfortable with.    

The terms I don't like are as follows: “bbw,” “thick,” “big fine,” “curvy.”  I don’t need a special term to describe what my body looks like.  I also don’t need your terms to describe what my body looks like.  I especially don’t need men’s terms to describe what my body looks like.  At this point, many of you are probably going “she has lost it and I don’t know why she doesn’t like these terms because they seem fine to me,” and that is valid.  “BBW” reminds me of porn, and I am not a porn star.  I am not here for anyone’s sexual needs but my own, and my partner’s.  “Thick,” “big fine,” and “curvy” are all terms that men have come up with to tell women “you can be fat, but you can only be fat in certain areas, otherwise you are gross and no one will love you.”  Bruh, stfu and gtfoh with this bullshit.  Women who are any of those three terms are fat - they have fat, they are fat.  Sorry if that doesn’t fit into your little world.  Degrees of fatness only perpetuate the idea that there is acceptable fatness in society.

Finally, I see a lot of models and influencers who also perpetuate the idea that there are levels to acceptable fatness.  It angers me.  These are women whose jobs are literally to influence other fat women and they are telling women “hi, you can be fat, but only if you're fat looks like this and if you workout, and if you’re healthy, because if that isn’t you then you’re not a good kind of fat.”  What in the actual fuck.  Fat women are telling other fat women that their fatness makes them ugly/unworthy/not good enough.  This is real life, I’m not making this up.  How can we fix this?  I believe these women should be supporting women who don’t look the same way they do.  Can we see Ashley Graham support Gabby Sidibe?  Can we see Iskra Lawrence support Tess Holliday?  We can do better and we need to do better.  

I got way off topic.  

Too Many Cold Meds

Y’all.  I’ve been literally down with the sickness since Wednesday.  It is currently Monday.  I am so over it.  The good news is that I am getting better, the bad news is that I couldn’t go into work again today.  Because I have been sick, nothing too exciting has happened in my life - personal or professional.  I booked a shoot for next weekend, and on Saturday, I am having lunch with a straight size model who is launching a size-inclusive swimwear line.  I will talk to you about both next week.  

Usually my rants and raves come from something that I see or hear from social media.  When I am off of social media, I don’t bitch as much.  Ha!  I did see something for a few “models” this week in regards to being incredibly hypocritical when it comes to how they view their bodies.  These models were larger at one point in time - making sure that most of the photos do not exists outside of a “before and after” posting.  In captions, they speak about how they will never go back, or how unhappy they were because of the fat on their bodies.  Let me say that I understand working hard for something and not wanting to give that up.  I get it.  Totally.  What I don’t get is these same models who just hated on their fatter bodies, turn around and tell others to love their own bodies.  Wait.  

You can’t hate your body (any version of it) and then go tell others to love theirs.  Do you see how hypocritical that is?  Explaining the journey of your body is one’s prerogative.  In no way is anyone telling you that you have to be a role model or cheerleader for other people.  If you choose to take on this role, you need to understand that people listen to what you have to say.  If you are putting out into the world that you are still confused, then how are people supposed to follow your lead without being confused themselves?  

I don’t even want to get into the “body positive” argument, because I am on way too much cold meds for that right now.  But, I will say that if you are purposefully setting yourself up as an icon or influencer in the plus industry and you are telling other plus women that their fatter selves are gross and unworthy, then you’re not being very nice.  You’re telling thousands of women (and men) that they are only attractive, and worthy, and smart, and influential in this world if they lose weight and fit into some part of society’s construct of acceptable beauty.  I mean, if that’s your bag, keep at it.  I am going to keep fighting for those who just want to find a place in the world - no changes necessary

Who I Am

This is a new year.  Supposed to be “new me?”  Yeah, screw that.  I hate New Year Resolutions.  “Why,” you ask?  Because I believe that if you’re truly going to change something in your life, you won’t wait for an excuse like a date on a calendar to do it.  With that said, I feel like there are some aspects to my life, to our lives, as American citizens that call for changes.  

I don’t plan on this platform being political, but I can’t promise it won’t get that way on occasion.  I am a strong, proud, nasty, liberal bitch and feminist as fuck until the day I die.  If you have a problem with that, you should stop reading now.  Here.  For real, stop reading because you will get your panties in a twist.  

For those of you who aren’t familiar with me or what I do, I am an art-based model out of Los Angeles, CA.  I am fat; it’s cool to say it because it is what it is.  I am also an “alternative” woman, meaning I have body modifications which include (but are not limited to) tattoos, body piercings, and Rainbow Brite hair.  (This is where labels get to be bullshit.)  I am an alt woman, but I am not an alt model.  Alt models are typically the models seen in tattoo magazines, sometimes they cross over into Fetishland (haha like it's Disneyland but with BDSM, that would be a place!).  Anyway, I don’t do that kind of modeling.  I am an art-based model, specializing in editorial.  Moreover, I am a model who poses to create art, often telling a story of emotion and beauty.  

My work is not about sex, sexualization, sensualism, or objectification of women.  I work incredibly hard to build a niche in this world for fat women to be seen with the true beauty they (we) possess.  I’m tired of scrolling through social media and seeing photos of plus models in sexual and sensual poses, yearning for the acceptance of the male-driven media.  I cannot stand when I see women using “sexy” and “beauty” interchangibaly.  I’m waiting to see these influencers shouting a consistent message to the masses, rather than “be a strong feminist woman” and “here I am looking sexy because that is how you become a confident person.”  C’mon now.  Either these models fall within the stereotype of all beaty and no brains, or they are merely trying to hit all aspects of monetization with no respect to those actually paying attention to what they are putting into the world.  

Man, if you don’t get it by now, I don’t know how else to explain it.  Here, go look at some pictures.  

This diary of mine is going to be telling you all about life as a fat art model.  I’m going to try to keep it to experiences I have within my professional realm, but sometimes personal and professional overlap.  This entry is merely an introduction to who I am and who I want to be for those paying attention to what I have to say.  I realize that photos and words have consequences and reactions.  I realize that there are 20,000+ of you on social media platforms that listen to what I have to say.  That is something I do not plan to take lightly.  Who I am is who I want you to see.  I have specific core values that are more important to me than making money, likes on a photo, or how many followers I have for the day.  I was educated in a place where your creative discipline took precedence over all else.  As a creative, we have to learn, and then practice, and then learn some more.  Sit down with people better than you and listen/watch, then go practice some more.  Put your art out there and let people into your creative realm.  Grow from those experiences.  

Yeah, I’m a model.  But, this isn’t about clothing, or clients, or a huge check in the bank for me.  Please understand that when you look at my work.  I’m expressing part of me through my body as my canvas.  That means something.