Kat Atwell is a freelance writer, blogger & stage presence telling stories that deliver laughs, validation & community.

Mental Health | Wellness & Self Image | Experiential & Reviews

And so it is.

Well, friends, I didn't get the part.

Thanks again for auditioning for the xxxx Host postion. Unfortunately, we've decided to go a different direction. Although there wasn't a spot for you in this round of casting, we will be casting more hosts in the future and we will definitely keep you in mind.  

I'm totally OK with it.

I'm not OK with the fact that I just managed to screw up whatever font I was using. I have no clue what the default font is on here, other than being aware that this isn't it.

Ah, found it. I feel much better now. I spent a lot of today talking about body image. I'm not sure what brought it up, but it got me thinking a lot about how I feel about myself. In particular, How I feel about myself when I'm not wearing clothes. It's a sensitive issue.

There's never been a time when I've looked at myself and claimed I looked ugly. I'm not unattractive (when I'm wearing clothes). I take care of myself, I love my hair, my smile, my hands, and I'm pretty happy with my boobs. Oh, and my butt is pretty decent.

The parts that cause me to judge myself most critically fall between my neck and my hip bones. It's not even that I hate my stomach, or my back, for that matter. They just make me sad. They look like defeated body parts. Balloons two days after a party, when they're somewhat deflated and just kind of remind you of a party that you had attended, and wasn't that fun, but it's long gone. Time to clean up all the dishes that were left with half-eaten cake and dirty napkins and crepe paper left strewn about the floor.

I can't say that I think I look old, because the act of aging has never bothered me. Who gets to determine "old," anyway? I truly believe it's just a number. More wrinkles? Fine. Gray hair? No problem. I don't see age when I look at myself. One of my favorite people in the world told me today that I need to start standing in front of a mirror and just gazing at myself. She said to let the negative thoughts just keep flowing past me and really look at my body.

It's so difficult, though. I have this protruding round piece of skin that once upon a time, actually stretched out enough to build a kid. A great, amazing, "wouldn't trade the saggiest stomach in the world for the kid" kind of kid. I've read about how women refer to their stretch marks as tiger stripes, or marks of a warrior. I just see them as places where I used to be bigger, and where elasticity of skin has failed me. I have a sad walnut shell residing right in the middle of my body, with a cavernous belly button that may just hold the secret to the universe. I'll never know.

So, on track with getting out of my comfort zone and trying new things, I'm going to be modeling for an art class later this month. I know there isn't a soul in the room who is going to look at me as anything other than a body to draw. In fact, there are a few who might admire me for having the guts to do it. I have to do it for me. There's a small voice in my head that even hopes one or two might be able to look at me, not knowing what kind of person lives inside me, who might be able to admire the whole package and find me beautiful. I know I can't gauge my perception of myself on the perception of others - if I did, I'd likely be a lot happier with myself, frankly, but I'll never know.

Being a teenager is tumultuous and exciting and very dramatic. Being a woman in her thirties is similar, but much slower-paced, and that voice in my head has percolated into something much more sinister in the past 20 years. I need my mojo back. 

There's a space in my work cube above my computer that is perfect for a piece of art. I want that art to be of a woman - a confident woman.  I don't know what style of art I want yet, but I know I want the colors to be bold and the attitude of the model to be even bolder. She needs to be my inspiration to hold my head high and carry myself, clothed or unclothed, with confidence and love and acceptance.

I'm down ten pounds, by the way. I'm not following a program, or paying anyone money. I'm eating less and moving more. Those are my only two parameters. So far, it seems to be working for me. We'll see how it goes.

Sex Panther.

Red cheeks.