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Dec. 18th, 2010

serious

Dags att #prataomdet (igen) Del 1

This post will be in swedish. If anyone is interested in the english version, message me and I'll translate it.

För ett par dagar sedan blev jag medveten om #prataomdet på twitter. En fantastisk rörelse som verkar ha startat spontant på den grundval jag försökt leva efter hela mitt vuxna liv - att om någon bara börjar så kommer det att göra att andra också vågar berätta. Någon måste bryta tystnaden.

Det fick mig att inse att jag fortfarande, efter alla ångestfyllda utgjutelser för några år sedan, också måste börja prata igen. Inte bara om vad jag utsatts för, utan också om vad jag i min tur har gjort mot andra. Här i min första post ska jag berätta om en del minnen jag har av att vara den passiva och eftergivande, den utsatta om ni så vill. I nästa post tar jag upp hur jag själv gått över gränser och gjort saker jag i efterhand insett inte är okej. Det senare är mycket svårare att tala om. Jag vill komma med förklaringar, undanflykter och ursäkter, men jag ska försöka låta bli.

Jag har blivit solklart våldtagen tre gånger i mitt liv, och de tillfällena lämnar jag därhän. Vem som helst fattar att det är FEL att med hot, våld och överlägsen fysisk styrka knulla en tolvåring. Det finns väldigt lite utrymme för gråskalor i det. Det jag vill prata om nu är gränslandsfallen, det som kanske inte var straffbart, men helt enkelt bara inte var okej.


Mellanstadiet. Lindeborgsskolan åk 5

Jag fick bröst tidigt, vilket i den svenska skolan var att jämföra med ett brott i sig självt. En dag gick gliringarna och kommentarerna över i våld, och en kille i min klass lade båda händerna på mina bröst, klämde och vred. Jag var så chockad att jag inte hann samla mig för att slå tillbaka, eller ens skrika. Jag gjorde det enda jag kunde komma på att göra - gick till första bästa lärare i korridoren, berättade vad som hänt och drog av mig tröjan för att visa. Även om jag inte fått några blåmärken än (de kom senare på kvällen) så var mina bröst rödfläckiga där hans fingrar borrats in. Kommentaren jag fick speglade samhället ganska väl. "Pojkar är sådana." Den äldre, kvinnliga läraren gav mig till och med en liten knuff med armbågen och tillade: "Vet du, jag tror han tycker om dig!" Jag var helt förtvivlad, visste inte alls vad jag skulle göra eller hur jag skulle reagera. Så jag bet ihop, grät en skvätt på toaletten och var helt oberedd när ilskan hann ifatt mig några veckor senare. Jag hade ett ganska häftigt humör och hamnade ofta i slagsmål. I efterhand är jag tacksam och glad för att jag inte var en flickig flicka, då hade jag nog aldrig börjat slå tillbaka.

Mellan 12 och 17 har jag inte räknat alla gånger jag gick hem med någon eller drag mig undan i ett hörn med en kille och inte sade stopp trots att jag inte ville längre. Att jag inte hade rätt att neka någon rätten till min kropp var så djupt rotad efter de tidiga övergreppen att jag inte ens kom på tanken utan bara blundade och stod ut. Jag vet också att jag sade nej några gånger och försökte be dem att slippa ifrån "plikten" att vara till lags. Men eftersom jag aldrig kände att jag hade rätt att säga nej så räckte det med ett "kom igen, var lite schysst" för att jag skulle tystna och spela med.


Göteborg, vintern jag var 17

Vid sjutton hade jag ett förhållande med en betydligt äldre kille, och mitt självförtroende var på en all-time-low. Jag hade ätstörningar, vilket han visste, och (medvetet eller omedvetet får jag aldrig veta) använde för att forma in mig i den perfekta lilla slitzbrudsroll han ville att hans flickvän skulle ha. I skenet av att jag aldrig var smal nog, snygg nog eller socialt passiv nog så blev det ännu svårare att stå emot när han började tjata om analsex. Han valde att inte tro mig när jag sade att jag testat och verkligen inte tyckte om det, att det gjorde ont och att jag ville kräkas av tanken på att det kanske bli bajskladd på både honom och mig. Istället kallade han det för prydhet och anklagade mig för att inte ens vilja testa "för hans skull". Jag gick med på det, vi testade och när jag inte stod ut längre och kved åt honom att sluta så slutade han faktiskt. Dagen efter däremot körde han utan förvarning upp två fingrar i mig, och när jag sade åt honom att lägga av så drog han ut dem för att sen trycka in sin kuk istället. Jag kände mig för värdelös för att protestera mer än att be honom sluta för att det gjorde ont, och han slutade igen med en air av att han var världens bästa människa som gjorde denna uppoffring för min skull.

En av mina pojkvänner stack flera gånger in fingrar i mig medan jag sov. Jag ställde honom inte mot väggen om det då, eftersom han var en så fin kille på alla andra sätt och jag inte ville verka pryd eller jobbig. Det var inte förän i slutet av vårt förhållande när vi krisade ordentligt som jag slutligen tog upp det där och förklarade att det inte var okej, att det gjorde att jag inte kunde känna mig trygg i min egen säng och att en sovande människa inte kan ge något informed consent, en term vi båda var rörande överens skulle gälla i alla sexuella relationer, oavsett om de varade två timmar eller hela livet. Han var förkrossad och bad tusen gånger om förlåtelse. Men det hindrade inte att det hände igen vid ett tillfälle.


Det mest smygande av de där gråskaletillfällena, som jag varit med om i flera situationer är nog förhandlingar. De där situationerna som kan låta något i stil med:
""Gud, jag vill ta dig"
"Nej, jag är för trött, jag måste upp tidigt imorgon."
*accepterande tystnad*
"...men, en avsugning då?"
"Nej, jag känner inte för det, ok?"
*tystnad en stund till*
"Men... en handtralla då? Jag kan avsluta själv."
Jag menar, att hjälpa någon att runka en stund låter ju inte så farligt. Man kan tänka på annat, låtsas att man viskar pannkakssmet eller vafan som helst. Då känns det ännu dummare att säga nej, jag menar partnern ber ju om så lite och man har redan sagt nej till en hel rad andra saker. Jag brukade falla rätt platt i förhandlingssituationer. Jag säger "brukade", inte för att jag blivit så sjukt mycket starkare och mer klarsynt sista åren, utan helt enkelt för att de inte dyker upp i mitt nuvarande förhållande.

Och det är i förhandlingssituationer som jag själv oftast betett mig som en as. Jag fortsätter med det i Del 2 efter en stärkande cigarett.

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Jul. 13th, 2010

serious

Death by heat and hunger

I live in Sweden. That is supposed to mean killer winters and warm (not hot!) summers spent beneath a tree, reading a book or having picnics with gorgeous blond people (I know this, I have seen the commercials). So, why, WHY am I confined inside with nothing but nutro-shakes to eat and no-fucking-place-whatsoever cool enough to actually live in?

Sweden is having it's worst heat-wave since 1994, and in the midst of it I get ordered by my doctor to lose 7 kg (about 15 pounds) or live with a permanently damaged knee. This means nutro-shakes. 5 per day, and nothing else. It's summer, I want barbecues and fizzy winedrinks and home-made potato-salads with chilis and vinegar and strawberries with cream and real tomato soup with fresh herbs in it and the italian chocolate icecream from my local little icecream factory which makes the most kick-ass icecream in the world (B&J has nothing on them)!

I am rolling myself in self-pity, gobbling it down my throat, smearing it all over my body, wallowing in it. Give me shade, give me food! I don't need lots of it, just a simple meal a day to enjoy with my gorgeous boyfriend and my wonderful friends.

When I've finally lost the damn 7 kg, summer will be over. :( 

Oh, except from that, all is well!

Love

Alva

P.s. I will make a crafty update soon, promise! D.s.
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Jul. 10th, 2010

serious

Detour to a place were I belong

"You're fat, but I still want to fuck you" he said.
"That's because you are a 24-year old alcoholic" I replied.
"It's now or never," he said.

We made out.
I went home.

I've never been big on mercy fucks.
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May. 1st, 2010

serious

Temporarily down

I have been quite crafty these past few days, and some day soon, there will be an update about that. But, for the moment, I am just trying to cope with the loneliness.

Apr. 6th, 2010

serious

Dressing up

I have been thinking a bit about clothes and outfits these last few days (there's a surprise, aye?) and came to a few conclusions about so called personal style. Personal style. There is a vague notion if ever I saw one. My own taste in clothes is sprawling like a tree in winter. In my wardrobe you may find anything from a very lacy goth overdress to a flower-patterned summer dress in 60ies style, pen skirts, rock'nroll T-shirts, cargo pants, short cotton skirts with lots of frills, strict white shirts, tunic dresses and so on until the end of days. Is there a "personal style" in there somewhere? Somehow it seems there is, as I quite often get comments about a piece being "so Alva" or that I know how to dress. So, obviously a personal style isn't about  always wearing the same kind of clothes. The term seems a bit loftier than that.

When I choose an outfit it is usually for one of the two following reasons.
1, The garment looks good
2, The garment make _me_ look good.
The perfect piece of clothing fits both descriptions, but most garments belongs to one or none of them. Some garments even look so striking that it's impossible to be seen when you wear them. Full ballgowns often suffer from this, as do heavily embroidered pieces or extreme materials. I choose a striking outfit over looking striking myself every day if I have them at my disposal (except that most of them don't really fit in the workplace). Special and gorgeous clothes are fun, and then it's not really than important is they happen to make me look short or doesn't flatter my bustline.

So, give me more extraordinary, spectacular, fabulous clothes! Fashion will always be more interesting and fun than simply keeping a "style".
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Mar. 29th, 2010

serious

A crafty update

I suck at making updates here, I know, but better late than never. I made an impressive list for new-years day on projects to finish during 2010, and, by god, not one of them has been done, or with one exception even started. But, I have done a few things. It should count for something. ;)

1, I have started on my mother's medieval dress. The chemise hangs as a WIP on my large dressing doll. Unbleached linen, sleeveless and made in the pattern of one of the Moselund tunics, but with alterations for her body. It hangs much better on her than on the dressing doll, since she has a small hunchback and slightly smaller bust than the doll. This far, I am pleased with how it turns out. The chemise will be worn beneath a dress of the most gorgeous blue handwoven linen, decorated with pale golden silk at the neckline and end of sleeves. The pic does not do the linen justice, since I haven't ironed it since pre-wash. (For all you nerds out there... My mother is hyper-allergic to wool, so we decided to make a linen underdress for her to wear in summer without the woolen overdress that would usually accompany the outfit.)

chemise for my motherFabric


2, My black 1890 corset that I made for my kick-off party in October 2009 never fit the way I wanted it to. I have set to work on it again, taking in the waist, adjusting the cups and now all that is left is to re-set the binding on top. The inside isn't pretty, but the outside is, and since it's a garment for myself and not a commission, that will have to do. 


3, I have a commission for a bridal corset for July, and I have made the mock-up for it, and ordered the material needed. It's an underbust corset, and will be made in ivory dupioni silk with a straight busk and a very wasp waist. I will be having fun with this one. :)

frontback


4, My old, brown 1880ies jacket has been taken apart and scrutinized, and I decided that it could be salvaged if I removed the sleeves, adjusted the front and removed the collar. It's pretty amazing how much better I've grown on pattern adjustments since I made it three years ago. Now, it is hanging on my other dressing doll, half taken apart, while I ponder where to make the adjustments needed to make the armskye just right in the back.

5, I've started another corsetry project just for me, a 1869 corset in apricot satin coutil. The colour is hideous, but it has the right period feel to it. When things are historically correct, they don't need to be pretty for me to love them. :P

So, you see that I haven't been entirely lazy. Pics on the corset and jacket-turned-waistcoat will come as soon as they're finished.
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Mar. 28th, 2010

serious

What a corset will and will not do

Whenever someone mentions corsets, be it on a website, on the bus, or on a party, I will listen up and eavesdrop. Ok, most of the time, I engage in enthusiastic conversation, but when it isn't proper, I just listen. Can't really help it. Perhaps it's called an obsession.

Anyway, this has lead me to conclude that people generally needs a corsetry 101 course before opening their mouths. Please, allow me. Even if aforementioned people never reads my LJ, at least I've been allowed to let off some steam.


What a corset will NOT do

Make you thinner. Corsetry is not magic. If what you really want is a liposuction and a new pair of tits, don't bother with a corset. The tissue still has to go somewhere, and even though a corset push up your breasts, it wont make them larger, firmer or rounder. Fat will bulge, and loose tits wrinkle. It's called science. Get with the program.

Make you look more fit. A corset can give you better stature, but if you really want to look like Jane Fonda, you need to ditch the fabric corset in favour for the so-called modern corset of work out and diet.

Help you lose weight. Ok, it actually can, but the idea is so immensely stupid that even I, a woman who had her last spell of anorexia just a few weeks back, shudder at the thought. First of all, it will make it harder for you to eat a lot at any given time. The constriction might even lower your physical feelings of hunger. It does not, however, stop you from eating constantly instead of lots at a time, and if you avoid that trap, constriction+malnourishment equals dizziness and nausea. Not to mention that you won't be able to exercise, and probably will move a bit less in your everyday life. Lacing in to lose weight is, when push comes to shove, a way to (perhaps) lose a few pounds, feeling like crap doing it, and then gain ever so much more afterward because you've lost muscle instead of fat.

Kill you. Yes, I've heard this one. You won't die from lacing in, no more than you will die from tight jeans or wearing high heels. Most of the 19th century tales about women dying from tight-lacing was propaganda to make women stop the really tight tight-lacing to better accommodate the middle class ideal of the woman as wife and mother. Very few of these doctors even wanted women to stop wearing corsets, only to lace a wee bit less excessive. Though daily tight-lacing might lead to a whole list of physical problems, it won't kill you, and lacing up once a week or less is neither good or bad for your health. The sloppy way most modern women wear a corset, it's not even on the map.


What a corset WILL do

Give you curves. A well-made corset constricts the waist and/or the hips and bust area and put the surplus of fat, skin and muscle where you want it to go. You're not losing weight or getting thinner, you're just adjusting where it is placed.

Relax your back. Since the corset is helping the body to remain straight, your back will be getting a vacation from keeping you upright. If the corset is well-made, that is. If it forces the back into an uncomfortable position, you will just get a thrilling new back-ache. A word of warning, though. People who lace in on a daily basis usually has a work-out routine to avoid loosing muscle when the body is supported by steel most of the day.

Smoothen your body. The utmost difference between a corseted body and a body that just happens to be curvaceous by nature is the smoothness and evenness of the corseted figure. No bulges, no wrinkles in the tissue when you sit down or move about. The corset makes the body rigid, and thus non-elastic outfits can be made more close-fitting. This is the "secret" behind the very tight little jackets of the late 19th century. If you wear them without a corset, it will just look like a really cheap masquerade costume.

Decrease your physical capacity. When you are laced in, you are weaker and tire more easily. You will find that you loose breath faster, and perhaps get dizzy when you stand up to quickly or are physically active. This is quite natural since you are constricting your chest and midriff area, including the lungs and the diaphragm. The moment you unlace and take a few deep breath, you will be back to normal again.


Ah, I love killing off myths.

Mar. 3rd, 2010

serious

Whiskey and poetry

Tonight it's all Boye and Södergran, a single malt whiskey and candlelight. The Swedish melancholy struck me in the face, so here I sit, cozed down somewhere between sadness and emotional intensity, riding high upon sentimentality-induced depression (or was it the other way around?)

But roomie is questing for pizza. All will be well.
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Feb. 13th, 2010

serious

Re-reading some Victorian porn

( You are about to view content that may only be appropriate for adults. )
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Feb. 6th, 2010

serious

And I'm down below 90...

...which is a good step in general. I mean, even though I am a pretty stout girl in build, 90 kg (about 200lbs) is more woman than anyone could bargain for. I know since earlier encounters in the realm of weightloss and -gain that I look my best, feel my best and move my best at about 70kg (about 155lbs). Any more and I'm overweight, any less and my ribs starts to show and my face turns bony. When I called myself stout in build, I didn't mean it as a euphemism for fat. I'm the first one in line to confess that I am a stout girl with fat as icing on the cake.

Anyway... Dropping below 90 is not without the standard cocktail of mixed emotions. Losing weight is good. Getting such an obvious reward for not eating is bad. Ms Nervosa is spinning up like an old cd-rom drive, feeding me every little bit of information burned into her shiny surface. My common sense is erratic, at best. I found out last night that eating alone is terribly, horribly impossible, but eating with Eleas work better. To meet his gaze and not see the same disgust there that I feel for myself seems like a miracle. Yesterday I even crunched down on 1 dl rice and 1,5 dl cashew chicken thaifood. I paid the price for it in a slight of self loathing later that night, but I got it down. Yay me!

Now, back to my morning nutro-shake and contemplating why I sound so much like a 17-year old pro-ana-chick. Possibly because I'm in the roller coaster ride of having my long lost mistress Nervosa back.

But, today's promise to myself, the world and Eleas is that I'll never go under 70. In the choice between Kate Moss and Kate Winslet, I'll always go with the latter.

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