I'm just a fat gal with a blog and an opinion. Well, lots of opinions.

Hi, I’m NotBlueAtAll…


Allow me to introduce myself, I’m NotBlueAtAll. Welcome to my blog. This here blog-a-ma-thing is all about Fat Acceptance! I often post about my own abuse survival, many topics of the TMI variety and sometimes fat fashion, too! I can be pretty random at times, but try to stay on-topic as much as possible. I offer myself as everyone’s  (FA)Auntie Fats and hope that if you’re an abuse survivor or in an abusive situation now that you reach out, and if there is no one else, I’m right here and I will listen!

I’m a 33 year old married lady with a pug and a tabby-cat. I own and run my own business. I’m a death fatty and I don’t even try to hide it! Radical stuff, no? I’ve been actively participating in Fat Acceptance (or FA) since 2006 and lurked for around a year or two prior to that. For me it all started with an article in BUST magazine about the U.K. Chubsters. This lead me to some blogs and eventually the Fatshionista community on This is where it all came together for me. I realized that everything I’d been told simply wasn’t true. I met people online and later in real life (IRL) and they and FA continue to rock my socks on a daily basis. Because of that community I gained confidence and strength and started this blog! While it was at first all about art (or my concept of it) it soon turned into a strictly FA kind of thang! In June of 2010 I was invited to join the Fierce Free Thinking Fatties Feed and later the Notes From The Fat-O-Sphere Feed. Woo! Oh yeah! I also do podcasts with fellow fats and fat bloggers. It’s always a blast!

I have the greatest readers. Not in numbers, but in wit, humor and integrity! We support each other when times get tougher (because they’ve been tough for how long now?) and stand up for ourselves and others! We are strong and we are fattastic!

Of course, I’m on Twitter and Tumblr and you can ask me anything on FormSpring!

Get in touch or just hang out here, all of the action is in comments! I’ll be right here, answering questions and offering advice, building relationships and helping some heal from theirs. I’m like that weird girl in school with the best taste in music and movies and cool posters on her walls. Yeah, that’s me! So, relax and take a look around. I won’t bite ya!


***Currently accepting any/all questions for a weekly “Dear Auntie Fats” post. You can email them here: Ask anything at all: sex, relationships, health, music, movies, you name it! You will remain anonymous.

What You Can’t See (TW)


I recently added some old pictures of myself and friends to my facebook photos. For some reason the picture below got the most attention. And it surprised me to no end. You’ll find the picture and comments from my friends (edited for identity of course) and then I shall explain why this surprised me and my thoughts about the picture and that time itself. I was 15 years old in this pic:

  • Friend love the posters
  • Notblue Atall Ha! Yeah, one wall was all G’N’R, one was all The Doors and one was mostly Nirvana.
  • Friend such a cutie:)
  • Notblue Atall Wish I knew that then…too busy wanting to die back then. Ha!
  • Friend Alternative Goddess.
  • Notblue Atall Oh what the fuck ever, ______! Ha-ha! You kill me! ♥
  • Friend Te he!
  • Friend Wow. I see you in a whole new light. Instead of merely “irrepressibly perky but yet somehow sarcastically cool”… I agree with ______!


    Notblue Atall Omigod!I’m so blogging about this damn picture. Y’allz crazy! Ha! ♥

(Trigger Warning for talk of abuse, rape and suicidal thoughts)

This picture! When I posted it I just thought it was cute and showed a bit of my young self and my old room and whatnot. I was fifteen years old. At this time in my life, well, things could not have been worse. “You could have been homeless!” some might say, but at that time I would have welcomed that. A year prior I was a freshman in high school and hated it! I cut class as much as possible and hung out with the stoners and hippies on “the island” (a large round grassy knoll/median in the middle of a road across from our high school). My best friend at the time was Joyce who always encouraged the lifestyle of sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll. I sometimes worshiped her and sometimes hated her. I was fourteen, this was normal.

Towards the end of the school year I was barely even showing up to half of my classes. My teachers either gave up on me (as my dad had at this point–I once heard him tell the attendance office, “What am I supposed to do? Hold her hand and walk her to each class?!”) or simply hated my guts like my social studies teacher did (she totally picked on me and I was the only one in the class who she called by last name only). I was boy crazy, for sure and as per usual, had a bunch of friends and rarely was without plans on any given evening. I had lost my virginity (or gave it away, it felt like a burden when everyone thought I was a slut for hanging out with Joyce already) that January and was ready to find something or someone more mature. I was ready to break free and get the heck out of, I dunno, everything?

Little did I know that an old friend and enemy would suddenly pop into my life to set me up with some guy. Ugh! Why did I ever think this was even close to a good idea? Why did I suddenly allow this person to set me up when I hated her to her very core? Oh well, hind sight is 20-20, no? Well she called me to set me up with some guy and my life would never be the same again. This “guy” she set me up with was a 21 year old alcoholic. He courted me proper and called me his “Queen.” *Barfs* So fucking typical/classic/cliche bullshit. Sorry. Anyway, it wasn’t until a few months in and he’d convinced me to drop out of high school (that was actually a lot easier for me than the rest) and threaten my dad with running away if he didn’t let this guy move in with me. In our family home, in my room?!

It was shortly after he moved in that the abuse began. Three months of dating and maybe only a few weeks of him living with me/us and he beat the shit out of me. And he continued to do so on a nearly daily basis for the next five years. Yes, I tried to leave him. Yes, I called the cops (they laughed at me). He once beat me in front of a very good friend whom I had grown up with, she said and did nothing. It changed how I saw her and the outside world, too. I dreamt of a white knight, in the form of an ex-boyfriend, and would make secret plans of escape always.

When I look at this picture I don’t see cute chubby cheeks and innocent eyes. I see someone who would have done anything to escape, even suicide. Suicide and thinking about it was all I had for comfort at times. When he would strangle me to unconsciousness and I would wake up devastated that he hadn’t succeeded this time. When he would rape me and tell me how much I loved it. When he would threaten to kill my family in front of me or while I was at work if I didn’t comply with his every fucking whim. I see in this picture the perfect image of shame, guilt, desperation and sadness. There is no joy in that face. Music was a refuge in a way I had never known. My friends long gone or pushed away (by him or by me due to shame). This girl in this photo hadn’t known the pleasures of true love or even a decent orgasm. She hadn’t known that she was worth anything at all.

When I finally escaped his grips and started my life over again from scratch at age 19 I didn’t know who I was. All I knew was that I survived the unsurvivable. I had been through something so unspeakable I hadn’t told a soul. I wouldn’t even talk about it at all until about two years ago.  Most of my friends, even from back then, still don’t know the true horrors I’ve seen. Some have an idea and some were there to put me back together when I was piecing myself into a whole person again. And when another guy shattered what was left of my far too young heart? There were two gals that never turned their backs on me. They are still my best friends no matter the time or distance between us. That chubby girl in the picture up there? She thought death was too good for her; that she deserved every punishing blow her abuser could deal.

This fat gal typing this blog everyday? She now knows that she is worth her very heavy fucking weight in goddamn platinum and gold! Diamonds and pearls and everything else! I now know that I matter to someone and to many. I now know that I have a voice that is valid and sincere and worth listening to. And I hope, if you’re reading this right now, that you know or come to find that the same is true for you. You are worth every ounce of effort and goodness and any struggles you encounter, there is a better you waiting when you get through it all. And I’m your Big Fat Auntie with arms open waiting to embrace you. And you can be a big fat auntie, too. <3

**Also, “irrepressibly perky but yet somehow sarcastically cool” has to be the best compliment I’ve received!

Ending Your Silence (TW Abuse)


Almost every week day on my commute home I listen to “Hard Knock Radio” on KPFA (94.1 in the bay area) a listener sponsored radio station. The show covers news, views and hip hop culture and music. I love this show for so many reasons, but yesterday I knew I was just lucky to have the opportunity to tune in. Yesterday’s show examined childhood sexual trauma with fimmaker Dedoceo Habi, songstress Yolanda Davis and hip-hop producer/educator Naru Kwina. Together they have produced a song about childhood sexual abuse, “Mystified” here is the video, please watch (no swearing that I heard, no violence depicted, should be safe for work):

*Trigger Warning for description of abuse*

You can listen to the entire show here.

I was so impressed with how this sensitive topic was discussed. Host Anita Johnson shared her personal childhood abuse story and really asked the important questions. While they were mainly discussing abuse and how it is handled/addressed in African American communities and what could be done within the community to help end the shame/guilt/silence and denial, I felt that this coudl easily be applied to many if not all communities.

The truth is 1 in 3 women were sexually abused as a child. That is huge! Look around, how many women do you know? Think about those numbers again. One in Three! (Sorry, I do not have the statistic for men at this time, if you do please let me know.) And the only way to stop the abuse and to do something about it at all is to end the silence and tell someone! It may feel like the most terrifying thing to consider right now, even if it happened a very long time ago, but telling someone helps. It has helped me.

I have often talked about my own abuse and survival here. What I have not mentioned previously (or described to anyone else) is that I was also molested as a little girl, too. I think I was 6 or 7. He was a friend of my best friend’s family. He had been around for awhile, but we had never gone anywhere in his car with him until that day. I forget what excuse he made for stopping at his apartment, I think we were getting lunch and he wanted to stop and pick up a gift for us…at least that is what I think it was. So it was me and my best friend in his car. This man had to be in his fifties if not older. When we got there he showed us a scrapbook of the kids he sponsored in Africa and other far off lands. Like the ones on TV.

Then he said he had a gift for us. Being poor I always questioned gifts unless they were from my grandmas. But my best friend said it was okay and that her mom knew and said it was okay and that he gave great gifts. I remember a bunch of plastic beads that he gave us. I recall hexagonal shaped aqua beads that had a crystal-like look, though they were plastic (I kept those beads for a few years, but never worse them.) Then he instructed us to go into the bathroom together and change into these two nightgowns. I threw mine on quickly and was waiting for my best friend to follow suit. She insisted, quite anxious and nervously, that I remove my underwear before going out to our “fashion show” for him. I argued with her, but in the end relented.

When we were ready, I walked out first and twirled, just like a model. He praised us and scooped me into his lap on his old couch. He bounced me on his knee a few times and then started to straighten the nightgown. Then he began to touch my thighs and finally my vagina. He whispered in my ear, “See, doesn’t that feel so good?” Not understanding really what he was doing, why or what I should say, I simply closed my eyes and said, “Yeah.” I do not know how long this went on, only that it wasn’t very long and I asked almost the moment he put me down onto my feet again, “Can I change now?” and he said that I could. I ran into the bathroom and put my clothes back on. Remembering my best friend I quickly ran back into the living room to get her. It was at this point I felt something was terribly wrong. I started to say that I was hungry and we needed to go. He offered us cookies, I think, but I refused.

We finally went back to my best friend’s house and I don’t think I saw him again until he was in the courtroom. Yes, he was convicted of molesting us and others. I didn’t tell. I carry that with me to this very day. I even denied it to the police when they questioned me. They showed me pictures he had taken of us (I don’t remember a camera, but I do remember the pictures) and I insisted I was wearing underwear and that he had not touched me. I am guessing that it was an obvious lie and the adults discussed this, though I am not sure. My friend and I never talked about it. I remember being called to the principal’s office one day many months or even a year after it happened. My parents picked me up and took me to court. I think they asked if I knew a man named “BJ” and I said that I did and how I knew him. They asked if he “touched” me and I said no. I think he got 7 years in prison. My best friend and I remained so for many years after. But we never mentioned it to each other.We haven’t been in touch since 6th grade or so. I will always wonder if she held this against me. Today I wish that I had said something, to someone, anyone!

I have never received any type of therapy. I have never shared the above with anyone. Usually I just say, “Oh, yes, I was molested as a kid.” and leave it at that. I now realize how important it is to share my story with others. So many of you reached out to me when I shared my own abuse survival story a few months back. Thank you! I am certainly not qualified to help in any sort of medical way, but I am an open ear, a free shoulder and I firmly believe in venting and a good rant. I offer myself to anyone who needs an unbiased and non-judgmental sounding board:

I would also like to provide a link to the Rape Abuse & Incest National Network or RAINN they offer free, live help and a ton of resources. And a commenter in another post gave me this link for Violence UnSilenced which is a blog for people to share their abuse and survival stories. I urge you to tell someone, anyone! Let us all heal from what has been done to us. It was never our fault and we should be free of the weight of that burden.

Thank you,


Precious & My Thoughts (TW)


I waited a long time to see the film “Precious.” Not because I didn’t think it’d be good, but because I had just opened the cafe and was frankly too broke and tired to manage a trip to the theater. So yesterday, after seeing it in my Netflix que for far too long, I finally watched it. Wow! I was blown away and so many emotions washed over me (good and bad). I already loved Gabourey “Gabby” Sidibe from watching her various interviews and guest appearances on many TV shows (she is the greatest, y’all!). Her performance? Incredible and flawless. What truly did me in though was Mo’nique‘s performance. She earned that Oscar win, for real! I didn’t see Mo’nique on the screen at all. I saw a monster. I saw an abuser. I saw more than what was actually on-screen, too. (Trigger warning for abusive relationships and living through that and descriptions of it, too)

What I took away from the film was that no matter the year, the age, the gender of the abuser, they somehow all manage to use the same damned tactics. Could this be instinctual? A common mental disorder (as in common in abusers)? I don’t know the answer (if you do, please comment). I do know that watching Mo’nique play the role of the mother of “Precious Jones” was very difficult. I was angry, bitter but in the end mostly just sick. It reminded me so much of what I went through with an ex-boyfriend/abuser. Those mind games and violence. The feeling before unconsciousness when you wish you wouldn’t wake up at all because damn that would be so much better than waking up only to have to clean up after the mess the abuser made trying to hurt/kill you.

It brought me right back to the point where I began to fight back, I had no other option, I was trapped! That look of fear in his eyes when he realized I was far stronger than he ever gave me credit for. I saw that in Precious’ mom’s eyes, that fear. Then the realization that I could just as easily become an abuser through using the same bullshit tactics. Scary stuff. It just came flooding back to me and I had to breathe through it a lot. The burden of guilt and shame abuse survivors carry with them for many years if not forever. I recall a very long period of time where I didn’t talk about what I went through and pretty much refused to acknowledge it at all. When I did finally half-mention it no one (my friends anyway) was surprised and appeared to want to change the subject. I took this as a cue that I shouldn’t talk about it.

Then more recently (in the past year or so) I started to tell people. New friends mostly, but I blogged about it, too. Then one night while having dinner with my husband at Carrow’s (sorta like a Denny’s but with more variety) and he just asked flat-out what I went through. I described to him things I had forgotten. I explained for the first time what things felt like, but he had to ask what I felt emotionally because until then I had only described the physical pain. He asked more questions and when I was done I looked up at him and it felt like I’d come out of a trance. It was as though time had stopped while sitting there describing these terrible things. He just hugged me and thanked me for sharing it with him and asked if I needed anything. I didn’t. The weight of it had been lifted. I remembered more than I had wanted to or had ever before, but I felt better having done so, too.

Watching “Precious” and seeing someone reach out to her in a way that made her feel that there would be life outside of her horrifically abusive home…well, I was just floored! No one ever reached out to me. I don’t know how I would have reacted if they had. I can’t possibly know. Even when a friend saw me get beat up right in front of her (we had practically grown up together) she said nothing, even in private. Everyone who knew simply distanced themselves from the situation or disappeared all together. I can’t know for sure, but I often believe that things happen for a reason. I’m not at a point in my life yet that I can point to that reason, but it will come.

My point in writing this is that I simply want to offer myself up as the person who is reaching out to any and all abuse victims/survivors. I have zero degrees and have never had therapy myself, but I am a willing ear and shoulder and whatever else you need. You are not alone in the world or in your situation. Reach out and I will listen and help in any way I possibly can. Please do email me: You can remain anonymous if you wish, I would never betray that and you can tell me anything. I won’t judge. Let me know how I can help! Please!

Thank you for reading.


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