Megan Hindmarsh

A few years ago I went on holiday to Spain with my boyfriend, Steve, and we were looking forward to a lovely relaxing few weeks in the sun.

If I received £1 for every time someone asked me if identifying as a feminist means I hate men, I’d have enough money to be able to create some form of scheme to educate everyone (particularly from older generations) on the vast difference between feminism and misandry. As it is, I do not have that much money and this is the only platform I have (I know my Twitter followers are bored of my feminist rants) and I like to use it for things that are important to me. So let’s get into it, shall we?

If you google the phrase “fat shaming”, the first page of results is full of articles of why it's a bad thing to do (in case you weren’t aware) and ‘celebrities’ (ahem Piers Morgan) who have fat shamed others. But something no one ever talks about is fat shaming yourself. We are told over and over from advertising backlashes to telling elderly relatives it's not okay to treat someone like they are a bad person for being “fat”, (AKA not the usual perception of being a healthy weight) that fat shaming others is wrong - obviously because it is - but why is nothing ever said about fat shaming yourself?

*Disclaimer: this post contains graphic and explicit content that may be unsuitable for some readers. This post contains details of axe murders and some gory descriptions. Please continue at your own discretion*

To the man who tried to assault me, I'm sure you don't remember me. After all, I was just a waitress in a hotel trying to get through the 6th Christmas party she'd served at that week and heading to get more cutlery at 1am while you were stumbling up from the bar. I was just 17 years old when you grabbed me by the waist so hard you left bruises as I tried to walk past you. "Oh baby... baby where are you going?" You slurred into my ear while pressing your erection against my hip. "You don't want to work tonight, come back to my room instead... you'll have much more fun" you smirked as you pushed me through a door and down the corridor. You shushed my protestations and, when I began to cry while saying "please no" over and over again, you grabbed my upper arm and told me to shut up.

Let’s go way back to Strasbourg, Northern France, July 1518. Despite the lack of musical accompaniment, Frau Troffea began to dance on the cobbled street outside of her home. Onlookers apparently enjoyed and clapped for her energy and, despite the pleas from her husband, Frau Troffea continued to dance for hours, until she finally collapsed of exhaustion before awaking the next morning and beginning the bizarre spectacle all over again on her swollen feet, with no food or water. Frau Troffea continued to dance with no rest for the next six days before frightened authorities sent her 30 miles away in a wagon to Saverne to be cured. However, some of those who had witnessed her performance began to mimic her and, within a week, 34 people had joined in the mania, reaching 400 dancers by the end of the month. At the height of the dancing mania, 15 people a day were dying from strokes, heart attacks and sheer exhaustion.