Oh, bustier…  

How scared can a girl be of a bustier? A bustier I will soon have to work as a bartender in 4, 5, 6 times a week…

Definition of bustier:

a woman’s close-fitting, sleeveless, strapless top, often elasticized, usually havingboning or facing to give it shape, and worn as a blouse.

My definition:
a terrifying piece of tiny, shiny, revealing and snug material that I am dreadfully having to commit myself to wearing/working in.

Her most consuming thought:
Gosh, I really hope I don’t have a “bad day…or 2…”.
Because then, for her, wearing a bustier in front of people, at work, when she is supposed to look amazing and beautiful and hot…ugh, torturous.

She is really scared of this black bustier…

Body-n-Soul by: Asha Bandele

I was introduced to this writer by someone special to me. I will refer to him as Peter Towers throughout this blog. When I read this piece of poetry by Asha Bandele, it hit me, smack dab on the face. It hits home to her, completely.

This is taken from
Absence in the palms of my hands
by: Asha Bandele


i didn’t mean for my towel to drop or to be standing nude in front of the
full length mirror the other morning…but there we were, trapped,
the three of us: me, the mirror and my naked body.

i’ve avoided being nude in front of myself for years…i have hated my
body for nearly as long as i’ve had one
i’ve been a million different sizes in my life, but never quite the right size…
my skin was never quite the right shade…
always too light or too dark depending upon
who i was with.

it’s not as though i don’t know better…
i’m embarrassed to know as many theories as i do
and still be in struggle.

i know that the american aesthetic is perverse, anti-woman
and bounded by a solely western sense of beauty…i know
that even americans did not demand this image of prepubescent fragility
in women until well into this century… i know the
wideness of my hips makes biological sense…
and i know a million other feminist theories and truths…
i have books filled with highlighted paragraphs to prove that i have studied
understand these self-affirming things…but that knowing doesn’t change
the way i’ve felt for at least the last 15 years.

i am ashamed to say that i hate my body
but it has been my enemy for so long now
& i know somewhere that the real enemy has been the various reactions
that my body has created in other people who have their own
issues biases agendas & afflictions
but it’s easier to attack my 5’6″, lightskinned, 142 pound frame…
i have no power over the men who pay me/my body attention
i never wanted
or dispelled affections i desperately needed…
depending upon my state of fatness or thinness…
but this body which is mine, i can
diet, jog, powerwalk and starve into submission.

i don’t want to live this way.

i want to see the value of my body in the creative framework of what it
does despite its conformity or non-conformity to the western tradition
i want to value the body i have which has always been able to hold and
to love
to dance, walk, write poems, clean houses, massage my sister, rise every
morning and
try try try
to contribute to another life,
which like mine,
is struggling for something we hesitantly call

1, 2, 3, Blog…

Not sure where to start this journey. I have a history, as we all do. Mine is not covered in black soot or in bright flowers. It is mixed. I’d describe it more like a gothically colored butterfly whose left wing, only sometimes, doesn’t allow her to fly as high as she desires.

Maybe you already noticed, but I usually refer to myself in the 3rd person. Rather than declaring yourself as a lost, passionate soul, it is easier to lighten the weight by describing a her or a she. It seems to be what works for me, so, here she goes…

What this Blog is all about…

Well, I guess this is my cue (or I mean, her cue..) to admit it. I am in recovery, a constant state of recovery. I am recovering from something that many suffer from; from something that no one would ever actually know about another person unless the one suffering tells their secret. The secret, my secret, hersecret…I am recovering from an eating disorder, or should she say, from eating disorders; every one of them.

I have nearly starved myself. I have binged and then self-tormentingly purged (and, repeat). I have just plain binged (and, repeat). I have gone so long without eating that I felt like I could faint. I have eaten so much that I felt like I could literally explode. I have made myself believe I was “allergic” to foods so I wouldn’t eat them, to make it sound okay to those who realized I never, ever touched those foods.

I, for the most part, do not eat because I am hungry or because my stomach is growling. Usually, I eat because I feel empty. Because, basically, I crave to eat as a means to fill myself. Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, I crave to fill myself with the flavor and comfort of all kinds of food. Like an endless emotional desire, I eat. The title ‘I am an emotional eater’, ewww, I really don’t like it. Simply because, dammit, it is what I am. Am I alone? Nah, I know I’m not… I am not the only one who ‘lives to eat’, so to speak.

When you say it all ‘outloud’, it doesn’t make sense; none of this eating disorder stuff make sense. I am the first to admit that. But, it is what it is… and it is, it really is.

Poetry about a disordered eater

I wrote this a couple years back…this is describing my secret. My eating disordered secret… a secret no longer.

Suffering in Silence

Apathetic toward her request
An addict abnormal in notion
Her mind has got a mind of its own

In a whirlwind of sorrow and war
Reality’s blurred by her façade
Secrets, silence, truth; all these remain

A sea of abyss is her conscious
Her bordering walls are dense, upright
Irrevocably so, she’s buried

Her secrets are safe, yet destructive
Only if exposed will you know her
So a jovial faux she’ll live on

A route she must map first for escape
Until then she stays hidden in shame
She’s suffering in her own silence