I'm counting down again and this time it's my stomach that's in knots.
I don't want to do this but I know I have to.
I'm like a morphine addict. I know this is the fun phase, the sweet phase, the kind phase. I love kind T. I want to be with kind T. I want to stay with her and hold her and live with her and have babies with her.
But kind T doesn't stay.
I have to remember that.
I need index cards for tonight:
1.This is not my fault.
2. You cannot blame me for your actions.
3. I deserve better than this.
4. I did not look outside of our relationship to make myself feel better. Only you did.
5. How could you spend three nights with your ex-girlfriend and come home expecting to still be in a relationship? How do you justify that for yourself?
6. You will do this to me again.
7. You don't respect me or my feelings. You betrayed me on the ultimate level.
8. You had an emotional, if not physical, affair. You had an affair. You had an affair.
You had a three and a half month long affair.
9. You still think that what you did was acceptable.
10. You expertly planned and executed how to lie to me on multiple occasions to continue your affair.
Put down the morphine needle. This is one drug that is fatal. This is one time you have to walk away. Love doesn't always conquer all. Not when two people don't love the same way, the same amount.
I love you, but you love yourself.
Showing posts with label self love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label self love. Show all posts
Aug 23, 2016
Cycles
Domestic abuse falls into a common pattern, or cycle of violence:
- Abuse – Your abusive partner lashes out with aggressive, belittling, or violent behavior. The abuse is a power play designed to show you "who is boss."
- Guilt – After abusing you, your partner feels guilt, but not over what he's done. He’s more worried about the possibility of being caught and facing consequences for his abusive behavior.
- Excuses – Your abuser rationalizes what he or she has done. The person may come up with a string of excuses or blame you for the abusive behavior—anything to avoid taking responsibility.
- "Normal" behavior – The abuser does everything he can to regain control and keep the victim in the relationship. He may act as if nothing has happened, or he may turn on the charm. This peaceful honeymoon phase may give the victim hope that the abuser has really changed this time.
- Fantasy and planning – Your abuser begins to fantasize about abusing you again. He spends a lot of time thinking about what you’ve done wrong and how he'll make you pay. Then he makes a plan for turning the fantasy of abuse into reality.
- Set-up – Your abuser sets you up and puts his plan in motion, creating a situation where he can justify abusing you.
Your abuser’s apologies and loving gestures in between the episodes of abuse can make it difficult to leave. He may make you believe that you are the only person who can help him, that things will be different this time, and that he truly loves you. However, the dangers of staying are very real.
I may have to read this a few times before tonight. I may have to read and re-read and a third and a fourth time as I wait in the parking lot for the apologies that have already started.
They've happened before too, and just like this cycle. "I'm so sorry, I was such a jerk, I didn't think about you. I won't talk to her anymore...We have so many more problems than her and this is all your fault because you were mean and fighting with me before B and I ever starting talking. But I won't, I won't talk to her."
You'll be so sweet to me, you'll buy me dinner, you'll promise you'll get me to trust you again. Then you'll call me out for something stupid, "you rolled your eyes at me." "I didn't even feel it happen, I don't know what you're talking about." "Oh my god, I can't believe you won't just apologize for rolling your fucking eyes at me. I can't believe we're having a huge fight over this!" two weeks later. And right after that I'll have to sit through 57 minutes of agony as you talk to her in our dark bedroom with the tv on because you don't want me to hear.
It's exactly this cycle. You set me up to justify what you're doing.
I can't believe that I thought I deserved this for so long. I can't believe I let you talk me into thinking that you and B was my fault.
I can't believe I can't believe I can't believe.
I may have to read this a few times before tonight. I may have to read and re-read and a third and a fourth time as I wait in the parking lot for the apologies that have already started.
They've happened before too, and just like this cycle. "I'm so sorry, I was such a jerk, I didn't think about you. I won't talk to her anymore...We have so many more problems than her and this is all your fault because you were mean and fighting with me before B and I ever starting talking. But I won't, I won't talk to her."
You'll be so sweet to me, you'll buy me dinner, you'll promise you'll get me to trust you again. Then you'll call me out for something stupid, "you rolled your eyes at me." "I didn't even feel it happen, I don't know what you're talking about." "Oh my god, I can't believe you won't just apologize for rolling your fucking eyes at me. I can't believe we're having a huge fight over this!" two weeks later. And right after that I'll have to sit through 57 minutes of agony as you talk to her in our dark bedroom with the tv on because you don't want me to hear.
It's exactly this cycle. You set me up to justify what you're doing.
I can't believe that I thought I deserved this for so long. I can't believe I let you talk me into thinking that you and B was my fault.
I can't believe I can't believe I can't believe.
Thank you for finally pushing me so far that I couldn't bend anymore.
Aug 18, 2016
Work, Work, Mom
I've called the hotline a few times now. I know what they're going to say, almost by heart.
We take deep breaths. I apologize for calling. I apologize for crying. Vaguely, somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder what their stories are; I wonder what led them to this point, sitting on the other end of the phone.
This time she has the same name as my sister. I want to tell her, but I can't get the words out. Her voice is calm, quiet, soothing. She feels so reassuring and there is a small part of me that hasn't been able to be comforted in a long time that feels calmed.
"Have you seen a professional?" she asks. "Do you have a safety plan in place?"
We talk about what's going on. She validates me, tells me that my emotions are okay. That I'm really struggling with this and it is so understandable.
It's what I've been wanting a friend to tell me. It's what I've wanted with hugs and kisses and apologies and whispers that it will be alright, but I've promised not to tell our friends.
We make a plan to get through the night. Stop looking at social media. Stop expecting phone calls you're promised but not going to get. Give up control over other people and just focus on yourself.
Self care, she calls it. Take a shower if I can, journal, read a new, intriguing book, watch a movie I know won't trigger me, something I can get engrossed in. Doctor Who sounds great. Keep yourself occupied and maybe take 2 Benadryl so you can get some sleep.
Every moment now is a countdown. How can I get to the next thing? How can I get to work in the morning? Then after that I'm alone for 18 hours, then work again the next morning and then finally relief. Finally, I get to see my Mom and my day will be easier.
I can't think about the three days after that, filled with hours of loneliness and no way right now to make it better. I can't focus on that without crumpling, so right now I just count down. Work, work, Mom. Work, work, Mom. I can do that. I can make it to Mom.
T tries to tell me that I'm overreacting. That this is not catastrophic and I am making a mountain out of a molehill. Maybe I am, I don't know. I just know that I'm not handling this well. I feel so isolated, I feel so uncertain about my future, I feel so hurt, I feel so betrayed. It should be getting better but it's just getting worse. I know T needed space but all that space is doing for me is putting me back in that dark place. I'm right back to the middle of June. I'm right back to not eating, to sleeping all the time - I can hardly breathe, I don't want to be in our house by myself.
It's so hard but I'm trying. I'm making plans. Work, work, Mom. I'm thinking about my cats, but they don't want anything to do with me. I feel like they're mad that T is gone and that I'm such a mess.
Work, work, Mom. I can do this.
We take deep breaths. I apologize for calling. I apologize for crying. Vaguely, somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder what their stories are; I wonder what led them to this point, sitting on the other end of the phone.
This time she has the same name as my sister. I want to tell her, but I can't get the words out. Her voice is calm, quiet, soothing. She feels so reassuring and there is a small part of me that hasn't been able to be comforted in a long time that feels calmed.
"Have you seen a professional?" she asks. "Do you have a safety plan in place?"
We talk about what's going on. She validates me, tells me that my emotions are okay. That I'm really struggling with this and it is so understandable.
It's what I've been wanting a friend to tell me. It's what I've wanted with hugs and kisses and apologies and whispers that it will be alright, but I've promised not to tell our friends.
We make a plan to get through the night. Stop looking at social media. Stop expecting phone calls you're promised but not going to get. Give up control over other people and just focus on yourself.
Self care, she calls it. Take a shower if I can, journal, read a new, intriguing book, watch a movie I know won't trigger me, something I can get engrossed in. Doctor Who sounds great. Keep yourself occupied and maybe take 2 Benadryl so you can get some sleep.
Every moment now is a countdown. How can I get to the next thing? How can I get to work in the morning? Then after that I'm alone for 18 hours, then work again the next morning and then finally relief. Finally, I get to see my Mom and my day will be easier.
I can't think about the three days after that, filled with hours of loneliness and no way right now to make it better. I can't focus on that without crumpling, so right now I just count down. Work, work, Mom. Work, work, Mom. I can do that. I can make it to Mom.
T tries to tell me that I'm overreacting. That this is not catastrophic and I am making a mountain out of a molehill. Maybe I am, I don't know. I just know that I'm not handling this well. I feel so isolated, I feel so uncertain about my future, I feel so hurt, I feel so betrayed. It should be getting better but it's just getting worse. I know T needed space but all that space is doing for me is putting me back in that dark place. I'm right back to the middle of June. I'm right back to not eating, to sleeping all the time - I can hardly breathe, I don't want to be in our house by myself.
It's so hard but I'm trying. I'm making plans. Work, work, Mom. I'm thinking about my cats, but they don't want anything to do with me. I feel like they're mad that T is gone and that I'm such a mess.
Work, work, Mom. I can do this.
Nov 17, 2013
Thoughts Answered
Often, I have tried to figure out the moment I decided I was gay, or I first knew I had a girl crush, or I knew I was attracted to girls, at least sexually because I fantasized about them while I made out with my boyfriends - going back in time to try to understand why I never knew I was gay.
And then I met someone. I stopped asking. It didn't matter anymore why I hadn't known at 13 or 15 or 17, because I met my love and that was all that mattered. Her friends accepted me in a way that I had never known before, because all they saw was my out and comfortable side. Over the past months I've settled into a beautiful serenity with myself that I've never felt before.
And then last night I had this dream. It came out of nowhere, my last thoughts of the night solely focused on British TV show Doctor Who, and somehow answered all the thoughts I'd left alone all those months ago:
We arrived in New Zealand, my lovely boi and I, and were driving to a little vacation spot, eager to see the exotic animals and the rainforest. The water was pouring down and the road was narrow, slicing a thin path between two vast bodies of water, but we were so happy just to be together.
We arrived at the camp to see a few others, a man and his girlfriend or wife, and another girl with them, mingling in the main kitchen. They greeted us and helped us with our bags. Before I knew it I had been dragged off by the separate girl, who was offering dry clothes and towels. She brought me into a bedroom where I gratefully took a towel from her to help with my hair.
And then she started pushing, asking about having sex with men and why shouldn't I just try it? She kept talking about how much she enjoyed it, how much she enjoyed the taste of men and I couldn't handle it. I wanted to find my boi. I stalked into the kitchen where my boi was wrapped in a towel at the table, and clambered to sit at the tabletop where I felt safe.
"Why are you in a towel?" I asked.
"My bag fell in the river and everything is wet," she responded and I laughed, heart relaxing.
"Sorry. I stole a shirt and underwear to sleep in. I'll get them, they're in my bag," I offered with a smile and a kiss. The lighthearted moment faded as I pulled away because the girl was in the doorway again.
"I don't understand why you won't just try it. You'll like it," she promised. I wanted to rip my hair out, I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell her about the time I was almost raped in high school, or when I was molested in college, but I knew I'd only be proving her point by showing her my bad experiences.
"I have tried it," I insisted. "I have had it sweet and nice, I have had normal relationships with men, but it was never right. It was always wrong, so inherently wrong, and no matter if I gave consent to them I wasn't giving consent to myself because it was never what I wanted. It always felt like being molested, and I can't even blame anyone but myself because it was me who allowed it to happen," by now I was shaking and crying, but I could feel their eyes burning me.
"So can we drop the subject now, please?!" I slammed my fist on the table and turned into my lover's side, not wanting to hear what anyone had to say. What I felt mattered, and I had said my piece.
I was worried about my boi's reaction, but I shouldn't have been, as I felt an arm protectively curl around my back and I cried into her shoulder.
When I woke up, I realized that maybe the moment doesn't matter, maybe I don't need to know exactly when I figured it out, or why I didn't realize it earlier. All those years of discomfort still take a toll on me occasionally, still sneak up on me when I don't expect it.
When I think about girls who are coming out later, I can't help but wonder at the sneers they endure from lesbians, at what other pain they must have to face. Do they also have years of giving consent to others without giving self consent burdening their backs? Though I'm now part of the "always been gay" club when I go out, I have to remember never to pass judgement. It wasn't that long ago that I wouldn't have been accepted.
And then I met someone. I stopped asking. It didn't matter anymore why I hadn't known at 13 or 15 or 17, because I met my love and that was all that mattered. Her friends accepted me in a way that I had never known before, because all they saw was my out and comfortable side. Over the past months I've settled into a beautiful serenity with myself that I've never felt before.
And then last night I had this dream. It came out of nowhere, my last thoughts of the night solely focused on British TV show Doctor Who, and somehow answered all the thoughts I'd left alone all those months ago:
We arrived in New Zealand, my lovely boi and I, and were driving to a little vacation spot, eager to see the exotic animals and the rainforest. The water was pouring down and the road was narrow, slicing a thin path between two vast bodies of water, but we were so happy just to be together.
We arrived at the camp to see a few others, a man and his girlfriend or wife, and another girl with them, mingling in the main kitchen. They greeted us and helped us with our bags. Before I knew it I had been dragged off by the separate girl, who was offering dry clothes and towels. She brought me into a bedroom where I gratefully took a towel from her to help with my hair.
And then she started pushing, asking about having sex with men and why shouldn't I just try it? She kept talking about how much she enjoyed it, how much she enjoyed the taste of men and I couldn't handle it. I wanted to find my boi. I stalked into the kitchen where my boi was wrapped in a towel at the table, and clambered to sit at the tabletop where I felt safe.
"Why are you in a towel?" I asked.
"My bag fell in the river and everything is wet," she responded and I laughed, heart relaxing.
"Sorry. I stole a shirt and underwear to sleep in. I'll get them, they're in my bag," I offered with a smile and a kiss. The lighthearted moment faded as I pulled away because the girl was in the doorway again.
"I don't understand why you won't just try it. You'll like it," she promised. I wanted to rip my hair out, I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell her about the time I was almost raped in high school, or when I was molested in college, but I knew I'd only be proving her point by showing her my bad experiences.
"I have tried it," I insisted. "I have had it sweet and nice, I have had normal relationships with men, but it was never right. It was always wrong, so inherently wrong, and no matter if I gave consent to them I wasn't giving consent to myself because it was never what I wanted. It always felt like being molested, and I can't even blame anyone but myself because it was me who allowed it to happen," by now I was shaking and crying, but I could feel their eyes burning me.
"So can we drop the subject now, please?!" I slammed my fist on the table and turned into my lover's side, not wanting to hear what anyone had to say. What I felt mattered, and I had said my piece.
I was worried about my boi's reaction, but I shouldn't have been, as I felt an arm protectively curl around my back and I cried into her shoulder.
When I woke up, I realized that maybe the moment doesn't matter, maybe I don't need to know exactly when I figured it out, or why I didn't realize it earlier. All those years of discomfort still take a toll on me occasionally, still sneak up on me when I don't expect it.
When I think about girls who are coming out later, I can't help but wonder at the sneers they endure from lesbians, at what other pain they must have to face. Do they also have years of giving consent to others without giving self consent burdening their backs? Though I'm now part of the "always been gay" club when I go out, I have to remember never to pass judgement. It wasn't that long ago that I wouldn't have been accepted.
Jan 28, 2013
Complexes/Femme Invisibility
Last night I had a dream where I was at some sort of summer camp and all the lesbians I've ever known were outside playing/having sex/joking around/whatever in the water trough/pool area outside. I felt hurt, embarrassed, left out. My friend Lauren was with them even though she's always been straight and since we were the closest, I joked with her first, calling across the courtyard.
"Lauren, what the hell?" I tried to laugh. "Did you think I wasn't cool enough to invite or something?"
She looked at the girl next to her and then smiled at me, "We thought you were busy otherwise we totally would have invited you." She swam to the edge of the pool near me and I knelt down in front of her. I could feel them, all of them, staring at us while their hands skimmed along skin under the water.
"I can handle it," I assured Lauren, and then out of desperation and anxiety and fear I grabbed her and kissed her quickly. I felt nauseated. I wasn't attracted to her and everyone knew it. She was my friend, my good friend, and instead of making myself fit in I was just floundering further, drowning in the sea of manipulative games and subcultures and titles. Lauren looked at me - angrily, harshly, and I tried to backtrack. "Look, this doesn't mean you're gay or that I like you, I just-" I tried to explain that I wanted to prove myself but she cut my off.
"I don't know what you take me for," I'd never heard her so cold and harsh, "but I'm not gay. And if I were, I'd definitely go for the pretty femmes." I recoiled. Which you're not was implied in her sentence. I'd never been attached to the title of femme, but the way she tore it from me left me reeling - empty handed and wanting to cry.
I feel this a lot. I feel this all the time. Constantly defending and proving and feeling like my sexuality is not broadcast clearly enough. Constantly feeling as though "lesbian" is an exclusive club to which I am not invited or wanted. Constantly aggravated because I'm subjected to male gaze and overtures while easily passed over by lesbians and dismissed as less than or an outsider.
Maybe I'm not femme, but Femme Invisibilty seems to apply to me so easily.
I understand that it is my own shortcomings and brainwashings and past manipulations that have given me this not enough complex, but just because I know that doesn't make it go away. It's a trend in all my writings - not enough - and I'm trying so hard to tamp that down but then it rears up in dreams like this and I know it's still plaguing me.
"Lauren, what the hell?" I tried to laugh. "Did you think I wasn't cool enough to invite or something?"
She looked at the girl next to her and then smiled at me, "We thought you were busy otherwise we totally would have invited you." She swam to the edge of the pool near me and I knelt down in front of her. I could feel them, all of them, staring at us while their hands skimmed along skin under the water.
"I can handle it," I assured Lauren, and then out of desperation and anxiety and fear I grabbed her and kissed her quickly. I felt nauseated. I wasn't attracted to her and everyone knew it. She was my friend, my good friend, and instead of making myself fit in I was just floundering further, drowning in the sea of manipulative games and subcultures and titles. Lauren looked at me - angrily, harshly, and I tried to backtrack. "Look, this doesn't mean you're gay or that I like you, I just-" I tried to explain that I wanted to prove myself but she cut my off.
"I don't know what you take me for," I'd never heard her so cold and harsh, "but I'm not gay. And if I were, I'd definitely go for the pretty femmes." I recoiled. Which you're not was implied in her sentence. I'd never been attached to the title of femme, but the way she tore it from me left me reeling - empty handed and wanting to cry.
I feel this a lot. I feel this all the time. Constantly defending and proving and feeling like my sexuality is not broadcast clearly enough. Constantly feeling as though "lesbian" is an exclusive club to which I am not invited or wanted. Constantly aggravated because I'm subjected to male gaze and overtures while easily passed over by lesbians and dismissed as less than or an outsider.
Maybe I'm not femme, but Femme Invisibilty seems to apply to me so easily.
I understand that it is my own shortcomings and brainwashings and past manipulations that have given me this not enough complex, but just because I know that doesn't make it go away. It's a trend in all my writings - not enough - and I'm trying so hard to tamp that down but then it rears up in dreams like this and I know it's still plaguing me.
Dec 27, 2012
Orgasms/Twitter
For an account which started out so anonymously, you all know much about me. We've talked about this before, and recently. I spoke how I wanted to take some of that "anonymous" feeling back - feeling more bold, daring, fun.
I must admit, Twitter got the better of me tonight - has gotten the better of me over the last week or so - has had me posting like all those years ago when I was truly anonymous. And here we're going to get back to what I was posting about so long ago: Sex/Orgasms. Since I've come back to this blog, a few months ago, I've avoided the overtly sexual topics which I used to thrive on in the past.
For whatever reason, this week was bad. I mean constantly aching, edge of your seat, hair's breadth away from climaxing, bad. All week. I couldn't make it go away. I'd have an orgasm and the feeling would come back five minutes later. It was heaven the first day, hell the rest. It was distracting, it drove me crazy. My dreams were erotic, my every thought somehow twisted and turned because my body was so close. A hand on my hip could make me whimper, a look could make me tremble.
This week's stories on Rainbow Sprinkles were all driven by this week's dreams -by my constant state of whatever-it-was and you can tell. Well, not with Maroon just yet, but you wait and see ;) Finally, by some Christmas miracle, I was able to have a shaking, wrenching orgasm in the early morning hours and it eased. It was just my normal always-ready-for-sex and not the extremely-sensitive-going-crazy sensations. The peace lasted a few hours, and then I was back to watching porn Christmas afternoon and talking about my bedroom preferences on Twitter.
My sex drive has been higher than normal the past few days and Twitter took full advantage of that tonight. What started off as playful banter eased into sexual banter, actual productive sexual conversation (which I love!), flirting, and outrageous behavior on my part.
Am I embarrassed with my behavior? A little. I have to remind myself that twitter is not private and these people who feel like friends are actually virtual strangers (the term "catfished" comes to mind) but I also enjoy giving people the benefit of the doubt and they all seem very lesbian to me. Am I turned on? Yes. Because, let's be honest, I don't have a girlfriend right now, and talking about sex is beautiful and glorious and something I desperately need.
I'm not ashamed to talk about what I like or what I need. I'm not ashamed to talk about how I like to be touched or what turns me on. And hopefully you can find comfort, confidence, glory enough in your sexual self that you aren't ashamed either.
I must admit, Twitter got the better of me tonight - has gotten the better of me over the last week or so - has had me posting like all those years ago when I was truly anonymous. And here we're going to get back to what I was posting about so long ago: Sex/Orgasms. Since I've come back to this blog, a few months ago, I've avoided the overtly sexual topics which I used to thrive on in the past.
For whatever reason, this week was bad. I mean constantly aching, edge of your seat, hair's breadth away from climaxing, bad. All week. I couldn't make it go away. I'd have an orgasm and the feeling would come back five minutes later. It was heaven the first day, hell the rest. It was distracting, it drove me crazy. My dreams were erotic, my every thought somehow twisted and turned because my body was so close. A hand on my hip could make me whimper, a look could make me tremble.
This week's stories on Rainbow Sprinkles were all driven by this week's dreams -by my constant state of whatever-it-was and you can tell. Well, not with Maroon just yet, but you wait and see ;) Finally, by some Christmas miracle, I was able to have a shaking, wrenching orgasm in the early morning hours and it eased. It was just my normal always-ready-for-sex and not the extremely-sensitive-going-crazy sensations. The peace lasted a few hours, and then I was back to watching porn Christmas afternoon and talking about my bedroom preferences on Twitter.
My sex drive has been higher than normal the past few days and Twitter took full advantage of that tonight. What started off as playful banter eased into sexual banter, actual productive sexual conversation (which I love!), flirting, and outrageous behavior on my part.
Am I embarrassed with my behavior? A little. I have to remind myself that twitter is not private and these people who feel like friends are actually virtual strangers (the term "catfished" comes to mind) but I also enjoy giving people the benefit of the doubt and they all seem very lesbian to me. Am I turned on? Yes. Because, let's be honest, I don't have a girlfriend right now, and talking about sex is beautiful and glorious and something I desperately need.
I'm not ashamed to talk about what I like or what I need. I'm not ashamed to talk about how I like to be touched or what turns me on. And hopefully you can find comfort, confidence, glory enough in your sexual self that you aren't ashamed either.
Dec 26, 2012
Heavy
When Christmas gets heavy:
I skyped with my brother's kids late Christmas night. They're cute kids, 15 and 8, but they're a little overemotional. My nephew is funny and biting but can be sensitive, and so can his sister. My niece is a junior in high school, after she skipped a grade in middle school, and she's been dealt some heavy cards lately: her best friend died from cancer last year, and her other best friend went to jail for molesting younger boys after he himself was abused. Her life has sucked the past few years.
She wanted to talk to me about it this summer, but couldn't find the words, and being raised in a family where we don't push to communicate, I held her as she cried and told her she could come to me when she was ready. Last night's call was tense, grumpy, and awkward, and finally she kicked her little brother out of the room and broke down.
She's been anorexic for the last year. She has emotions she can't understand - feeling happy and normal one day, grumpy and depressed and introverted for no reason the next. She feels anxious, paranoid, stressed, and she doesn't want to tell her parents because she doesn't want to be a fuck up.
I'm pretty good at being calm and reasonable and compassionate when people come to me, but after the fact, when I'm writing about this, I can't help but start to cry. Should I have told her about my anorexia years ago? My depression as an early teenager? The year when I'd been lost and confused and tricked into thinking I'd fatally hurt one of my best friends? Should I be talking about these things to my other nieces and nephews who might be feeling the same way?
Luckily, her mom, K, is the sibling I talk to most, and she knows, briefly, about my struggles with anorexia. After ascertaining and making sure that my niece is not suicidal, I convinced her to talk to her mom. She's struggling, she's drowning, and she needs help and understanding. Maybe it's a conversation I will be part of, maybe I will end up flying out there to help, or maybe she'll find the courage to say something and then call me later. And I understand her hesitation, because she can be emotional and now her parents tend to brush her emotions off. But now I'm worried about her. Because this is what leads to drugs and sex and suicide.
I know there's a stigma against getting help, especially in our family - I mean, hell, I never got help or talked to my mom about any of my issues for that very reason. But I'd rather get her help than see her all over the papers. I'd rather she learn that help is okay than to lose her forever. She's my baby girl who is sarcastic and funny, who lights up at Disneyland, and wants to be a singer and has so much talent, who plays the guitar with me and can sing Katy Perry better than Katy Perry can. I refuse to see her light go out because she won't tell her parents or a doctor that something is wrong.
I skyped with my brother's kids late Christmas night. They're cute kids, 15 and 8, but they're a little overemotional. My nephew is funny and biting but can be sensitive, and so can his sister. My niece is a junior in high school, after she skipped a grade in middle school, and she's been dealt some heavy cards lately: her best friend died from cancer last year, and her other best friend went to jail for molesting younger boys after he himself was abused. Her life has sucked the past few years.
She wanted to talk to me about it this summer, but couldn't find the words, and being raised in a family where we don't push to communicate, I held her as she cried and told her she could come to me when she was ready. Last night's call was tense, grumpy, and awkward, and finally she kicked her little brother out of the room and broke down.
She's been anorexic for the last year. She has emotions she can't understand - feeling happy and normal one day, grumpy and depressed and introverted for no reason the next. She feels anxious, paranoid, stressed, and she doesn't want to tell her parents because she doesn't want to be a fuck up.
I'm pretty good at being calm and reasonable and compassionate when people come to me, but after the fact, when I'm writing about this, I can't help but start to cry. Should I have told her about my anorexia years ago? My depression as an early teenager? The year when I'd been lost and confused and tricked into thinking I'd fatally hurt one of my best friends? Should I be talking about these things to my other nieces and nephews who might be feeling the same way?
Luckily, her mom, K, is the sibling I talk to most, and she knows, briefly, about my struggles with anorexia. After ascertaining and making sure that my niece is not suicidal, I convinced her to talk to her mom. She's struggling, she's drowning, and she needs help and understanding. Maybe it's a conversation I will be part of, maybe I will end up flying out there to help, or maybe she'll find the courage to say something and then call me later. And I understand her hesitation, because she can be emotional and now her parents tend to brush her emotions off. But now I'm worried about her. Because this is what leads to drugs and sex and suicide.
I know there's a stigma against getting help, especially in our family - I mean, hell, I never got help or talked to my mom about any of my issues for that very reason. But I'd rather get her help than see her all over the papers. I'd rather she learn that help is okay than to lose her forever. She's my baby girl who is sarcastic and funny, who lights up at Disneyland, and wants to be a singer and has so much talent, who plays the guitar with me and can sing Katy Perry better than Katy Perry can. I refuse to see her light go out because she won't tell her parents or a doctor that something is wrong.
Dec 23, 2012
Early Christmas
Not a huge fan of Michael Buble, but I love this cartoon. It's not the full version, but a super cute cutting.
Today feels like Christmas. Maybe it's because it's Sunday and the church bells are ringing, or because it's cold, cloudy, and bleak and that is the closest we get to a white Christmas in California. Maybe it's the lack of work and stress, the ability to stay in my pajamas all day, the lack of television and phone calls and general noise. Maybe it's the hush that seems to have fallen over my neighborhood, a gentle, quiet sort of ease, like everything's been decided and the rush is over.
Whatever it is, I like it. I like the chill nipping at my toes because I refuse to turn the heater up and the misty rain on my window, the silence from the birds - this sleepy-town feeling.
I realize - this is the first day I haven't been woken up by a phone call from work in weeks. Oh my, how nice that feels. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays everyone - I'm sure enjoying mine :)
Nov 27, 2012
Underthings
When I first started this blog, it was a little bit racy, a little bit sexy, a little bit about discovering and being discovered. If you've been with me for a while, you'll remember when I used to give myself "body homework" learning to get comfortable with myself and my body (and trying to get over past insecurities). That was put on pause for a long time as I got comfortable with my mental self, with my identity, my sexuality, my gender, my emotions. Everything stabilized, and I'm very grateful for that.
Today I didn't have any underwear. Literally, none. I practically have no clean clothes left. My laundry pile is three feet high and I have no time to do it. I suppose I did this morning, but I quickly hemmed up a sweater dress instead and then realized later that my undergarment drawer was empty. Oops. So I hopped out of the shower and decided "screw it, who needs panties everyday? People do it all the time!"
Note: I cannot text people when I'm in the bath for fear that they will somehow realize that I'm naked while I'm texting them. Okay? You get this? So I left the house and bumped into my neighbor; super nice, 50s, working class. She starts talking to me about this and that and her daughter and all I can think about is how awkward it is that I'm NOT WEARING UNDERWEAR and SOMEHOW SHE MUST KNOW. Except she couldn't, because normal people don't have x-ray vision, but still. It was so awkward and I couldn't follow the conversation at all.
Then, I was at work with this pretty girl named Cindy; she's around my age, really nice and her fiance is pretty awesome. She leaned in to brush a stray eyelash from under my eye behind my glasses, and she was so slow and gentle. I closed my eyes so she didn't poke me in the eyeball, and there it was, that strange, nagging feeling and an oncoming blush because all I could think about was that I wasn't wearing any underthings.
Maybe I could get used to it, in time. Maybe people do it all the time because they like this constant reminder, this heightened feeling. Maybe they like the idea that people might find out. I don't know. The heightened feeling wasn't all bad. It's just...it was the everyday situations with everyday people that made it so awkward. If I were on a date it might've been different, but I was at work.
If I were to try it again, It probably wouldn't be with a sweater dress, and it definitely won't be tomorrow. Here's to clean laundry!
Note: Still updating the first:girl series over at tabbyqt.wordpress.com Check it out to see how I fell in love for the first time and stumbled out of the closet.
Today I didn't have any underwear. Literally, none. I practically have no clean clothes left. My laundry pile is three feet high and I have no time to do it. I suppose I did this morning, but I quickly hemmed up a sweater dress instead and then realized later that my undergarment drawer was empty. Oops. So I hopped out of the shower and decided "screw it, who needs panties everyday? People do it all the time!"
Note: I cannot text people when I'm in the bath for fear that they will somehow realize that I'm naked while I'm texting them. Okay? You get this? So I left the house and bumped into my neighbor; super nice, 50s, working class. She starts talking to me about this and that and her daughter and all I can think about is how awkward it is that I'm NOT WEARING UNDERWEAR and SOMEHOW SHE MUST KNOW. Except she couldn't, because normal people don't have x-ray vision, but still. It was so awkward and I couldn't follow the conversation at all.
Then, I was at work with this pretty girl named Cindy; she's around my age, really nice and her fiance is pretty awesome. She leaned in to brush a stray eyelash from under my eye behind my glasses, and she was so slow and gentle. I closed my eyes so she didn't poke me in the eyeball, and there it was, that strange, nagging feeling and an oncoming blush because all I could think about was that I wasn't wearing any underthings.
Maybe I could get used to it, in time. Maybe people do it all the time because they like this constant reminder, this heightened feeling. Maybe they like the idea that people might find out. I don't know. The heightened feeling wasn't all bad. It's just...it was the everyday situations with everyday people that made it so awkward. If I were on a date it might've been different, but I was at work.
If I were to try it again, It probably wouldn't be with a sweater dress, and it definitely won't be tomorrow. Here's to clean laundry!
Note: Still updating the first:girl series over at tabbyqt.wordpress.com Check it out to see how I fell in love for the first time and stumbled out of the closet.
Nov 20, 2012
Day 29 Love/Fear
30 Day Letter Challenge
Day 29 — The person that you want tell everything to, but are too afraid to
First post from the new computer! Can I get a cheer?
Love and fear coincide more often than you might think. I'm afraid to disappoint my friends, my colleagues, my boss, my family, my girlfriends. I like when people like me, so much that you might call it a fatal flaw. So, when people set me on a pedestal, I try very hard to stay up there instead of letting myself tumble down.
I have so many sides to my personality, like everyone does, but most only see two or three. I suppose that by reading my blog you see more of me. You see when I get pissed and want to fight, the moments where I break down and want to cry, my huge ego and my complete insecurities, my gangster moments, and my need to fix the world. You see how I want to believe there is good in everyone, how little I guard myself against people, and yet how I constantly guard myself by not letting anyone in.
I suppose I tell everything to you, like I would a diary, considering you're almost as quiet. I don't mind the lurking readers - I know what it's like to read and connect and feel like you're not alone and someone else is going through all this crap. It's why I started a blog in the first place. It's just interesting that you all across the interwebs, who have never met me, probably know me better than my best friends. In a way, that's horribly sad, but in another way, I guess it's to be expected.
Day 29 — The person that you want tell everything to, but are too afraid to
First post from the new computer! Can I get a cheer?
Love and fear coincide more often than you might think. I'm afraid to disappoint my friends, my colleagues, my boss, my family, my girlfriends. I like when people like me, so much that you might call it a fatal flaw. So, when people set me on a pedestal, I try very hard to stay up there instead of letting myself tumble down.
I have so many sides to my personality, like everyone does, but most only see two or three. I suppose that by reading my blog you see more of me. You see when I get pissed and want to fight, the moments where I break down and want to cry, my huge ego and my complete insecurities, my gangster moments, and my need to fix the world. You see how I want to believe there is good in everyone, how little I guard myself against people, and yet how I constantly guard myself by not letting anyone in.
I suppose I tell everything to you, like I would a diary, considering you're almost as quiet. I don't mind the lurking readers - I know what it's like to read and connect and feel like you're not alone and someone else is going through all this crap. It's why I started a blog in the first place. It's just interesting that you all across the interwebs, who have never met me, probably know me better than my best friends. In a way, that's horribly sad, but in another way, I guess it's to be expected.
Oct 18, 2012
Rise of the Redhead
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| Marilyn Monroe courtesy of Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images |
The redhead.
Dyed redheads are super popular too, but the natural redhead remains the most coveted of all. Why the sudden fascination? Why are women scrambling to buy red dye from a box or a salon? Is it a feeling of empowerment and bold sexuality that accompanies the color? Or is it something else?
Few people who are not naturally red or strawberry blonde can pull off the switch to a red color. I dyed my hair a nice, vibrant mahogany-ish color once when I was 12. With my Mediterranean/Native American tanned complexion (though I am not Mediterranean and not very Native American) it looked FABULOUS on me. Just kidding, it looked awful. I won't ever do it again, I promise.
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| Karen Gillan, a stunningly lovely natural ginger |
Both of my grandmothers had red hair and my mother has lovely jade green eyes (but brown hair) and I always feel like I missed out on the DNA lotto. My sisters managed to snag her eyes but my brothers and I were left out. I've cherished her green eyes for years, but no amount of wishing has ever lightened my eyes or made them magically turn green.
I do wonder if our sudden fascination has anything to do with the Harry Potter culture-the red hair and green eyes that were so special and cherished in the storyline that wound its way through a generation of new, young readers. These readers have grown up and started what seems to be an "invasion" of British-isms. These are a generation of people who enjoy British television, books, music, talk radio, colloquialisms, and fashion. If we idolize the minds and words of those across the pond, why not their looks?
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| My ultimate badass crush- Michelle Rodriguez |
In the meantime I'm lucky in that I'm a gay lady and enjoy looking at pretty girls who are special and unique.
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| Aishwarya Rai- one of the most beautiful women in the world, and Jamie Chung- current TV love who is heating it up on ABC's Once Upon A Time |
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| Kerry Washington is lighting up DC with her gorgeous face in Scandal and just try to tell me you're not in love with Grace Park, a smokin' hot lady you might recognize from Hawaii Five-O |
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| ABC's Nashville LadyCrush- Connie Britton Along with my favorite smiling girl TaySwift |
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| I will stand under your Umbrella. |
Sep 29, 2012
Sexual Objectification: Part 1
I like to be sexually objectified. Except that I don't. Not in what that term really means. Have you ever looked it up?
Objectification: depersonalization - representing a human being as a physical thing deprived of personal qualities or individuality;
I even found this from a Stanford article:
Objectification is a notion central to feminist theory. It can be roughly defined as the seeing and/or treating a person, usually a woman, as an object. In this entry, the focus is primarily on sexual objectification, objectification occurring in the sexual realm. Martha Nussbaum (1995, 257) has identified seven features that are involved in the idea of treating a person as an object:
Point being: I don't like the depersonalization aspect of objectification. I love that I am an intelligent, opinionated, respectful, witty woman. I love when people recognize those qualities in me, and I don't want those qualities to be lost or pushed aside so I am viewed purely as an object to be used for sexual gratification. I refuse to be treated "as if I lack the capacity to speak."
But I do want those wonderful qualities of mine to step into the background occasionally. I find it thrilling, arousing, to have all thoughts of how sweet or smart I am fly out the window because of an all consuming sexual desire. Perhaps this is because I have always felt pretty, not sexy. Perhaps it is because I have always felt body conscious. But there is something about when someone turns to me with that heat in the eyes that makes me tingle all over.
Even when I'm not attracted to that person, I'll find myself doing little things to keep up the crush. I'll dress nicer, keep up my makeup, make an effort. My smiles are a little slower, my eyes a little warmer, my blouse a little more low cut.
Is it teasing? Is it wrong? Am I not supposed to do it? I've never really seen the problem in looking my best. As long as I'm not flirting I don't feel like I'm leading anyone on. I'm careful to not give the wrong impression, careful to not say anything that would be interpreted as interested in a date, but I'm a flirtatious person by normally, so I have to cut back and I can't say I've never accidentally slipped. What do you think? Is the body language too much? Am I being unfair to the other person?
Am I, in turn, objectifying/using someone else as he/she/z sexualizes me, in order to boost my own self esteem? Do you think this is a better or worse form of objectification? Do you enjoy when your body is sexualized by strangers, acquaintances, your partner? Or do you prefer that your mental attributes be your sexiest qualities?
Objectification: depersonalization - representing a human being as a physical thing deprived of personal qualities or individuality;
I even found this from a Stanford article:
Objectification is a notion central to feminist theory. It can be roughly defined as the seeing and/or treating a person, usually a woman, as an object. In this entry, the focus is primarily on sexual objectification, objectification occurring in the sexual realm. Martha Nussbaum (1995, 257) has identified seven features that are involved in the idea of treating a person as an object:
- instrumentality: the treatment of a person as a tool for the objectifier's purposes;
- denial of autonomy: the treatment of a person as lacking in autonomy and self-determination;
- inertness: the treatment of a person as lacking in agency, and perhaps also in activity;
- fungibility: the treatment of a person as interchangeable with other objects;
- violability: the treatment of a person as lacking in boundary-integrity;
- ownership: the treatment of a person as something that is owned by another (can be bought or sold);
- denial of subjectivity: the treatment of a person as something whose experiences and feelings (if any) need not be taken into account.
- reduction to body: the treatment of a person as identified with their body, or body parts;
- reduction to appearance: the treatment of a person primarily in terms of how they look, or how they appear to the senses;
- silencing: the treatment of a person as if they are silent, lacking the capacity to speak.
Point being: I don't like the depersonalization aspect of objectification. I love that I am an intelligent, opinionated, respectful, witty woman. I love when people recognize those qualities in me, and I don't want those qualities to be lost or pushed aside so I am viewed purely as an object to be used for sexual gratification. I refuse to be treated "as if I lack the capacity to speak."
But I do want those wonderful qualities of mine to step into the background occasionally. I find it thrilling, arousing, to have all thoughts of how sweet or smart I am fly out the window because of an all consuming sexual desire. Perhaps this is because I have always felt pretty, not sexy. Perhaps it is because I have always felt body conscious. But there is something about when someone turns to me with that heat in the eyes that makes me tingle all over.
Even when I'm not attracted to that person, I'll find myself doing little things to keep up the crush. I'll dress nicer, keep up my makeup, make an effort. My smiles are a little slower, my eyes a little warmer, my blouse a little more low cut.
Is it teasing? Is it wrong? Am I not supposed to do it? I've never really seen the problem in looking my best. As long as I'm not flirting I don't feel like I'm leading anyone on. I'm careful to not give the wrong impression, careful to not say anything that would be interpreted as interested in a date, but I'm a flirtatious person by normally, so I have to cut back and I can't say I've never accidentally slipped. What do you think? Is the body language too much? Am I being unfair to the other person?
Am I, in turn, objectifying/using someone else as he/she/z sexualizes me, in order to boost my own self esteem? Do you think this is a better or worse form of objectification? Do you enjoy when your body is sexualized by strangers, acquaintances, your partner? Or do you prefer that your mental attributes be your sexiest qualities?
Oct 28, 2010
Day 9: Someone I wish I could meet
There are so many people I wish I could meet, like Obama, George W., Angelina Jolie, Nicolas Cage, Tom Hanks, my aunt Kathy, the Queen of England, my old penpal from Egypt, countless scholars and authors whose work I admire and minds I wish to probe. Instead, I want to act like a thirteen year old girl and write to the person who I feel has had most influence over my life in the last two years.
Dear Sara Quin (and, yes, you are sort of included in here as well, Tegan),
There are so many things I want to ask you, tell you. I wouldn't say I am a crazy, I wouldn't say I am obsessed or think we are soul mates, and in full disclosure, despite all of the shows I have gone to, I have never tried to meet you for fear I won't like you and it will screw up my love for your music. Your music is the only thing that got me through my first real heartbreak, through the first stages of exploring my sexuality, through the perilous waters of flirting and first dates. I can't thank you enough for writing from your soul in such a way that it feels as if you were taking words from my own and giving them life.
You never leave anything in the dark. As a fan of yours, I know the basics of who you have dated and who you haven't, how you feel about yourself, your family, being single, being 30. Your self depricating humor is endearing, your accent charming, the way you get pissed off with Tegan onstage is amusing and all too reminiscent of my relationships with my siblings. It feels as if every move you make is real, and for that I admire you much more than all these other fake artists with autotuners and stylists.
You are well educated, always thinking, reading, writing. Your taste in books is incredible, your arguments about political issues well thought out. But most of all, you feel. You feel so deeply, are so sensitive, that a look, a phrase can cut you to the core. I have a thick skin; I have dragon scales protecting my heart, and those scales have numbed me. Listening to your music helps me feel all the things I have blocked out. Maybe it makes happy, sad, sick, heartbroken, or miserable, but I am feeling. For a moment I am no longer numb, but a breathing, feeling human being.
For all the times I can't cry when I am supposed to, I know I can listen to your words, your fingers, and experience what it is like to have life inside of me.
Thanks, Sara,
-Tabby
Dear Sara Quin (and, yes, you are sort of included in here as well, Tegan),
There are so many things I want to ask you, tell you. I wouldn't say I am a crazy, I wouldn't say I am obsessed or think we are soul mates, and in full disclosure, despite all of the shows I have gone to, I have never tried to meet you for fear I won't like you and it will screw up my love for your music. Your music is the only thing that got me through my first real heartbreak, through the first stages of exploring my sexuality, through the perilous waters of flirting and first dates. I can't thank you enough for writing from your soul in such a way that it feels as if you were taking words from my own and giving them life.
You never leave anything in the dark. As a fan of yours, I know the basics of who you have dated and who you haven't, how you feel about yourself, your family, being single, being 30. Your self depricating humor is endearing, your accent charming, the way you get pissed off with Tegan onstage is amusing and all too reminiscent of my relationships with my siblings. It feels as if every move you make is real, and for that I admire you much more than all these other fake artists with autotuners and stylists.
You are well educated, always thinking, reading, writing. Your taste in books is incredible, your arguments about political issues well thought out. But most of all, you feel. You feel so deeply, are so sensitive, that a look, a phrase can cut you to the core. I have a thick skin; I have dragon scales protecting my heart, and those scales have numbed me. Listening to your music helps me feel all the things I have blocked out. Maybe it makes happy, sad, sick, heartbroken, or miserable, but I am feeling. For a moment I am no longer numb, but a breathing, feeling human being.
For all the times I can't cry when I am supposed to, I know I can listen to your words, your fingers, and experience what it is like to have life inside of me.
Thanks, Sara,
-Tabby
Oct 25, 2010
Day 6: Stranger
This 30 day letter challenge is getting harder and harder every entry. Today's challenge is to write a letter to a stranger.
Dear Stranger,
Young or old, gay or straight, hermit or social butterfly, there are a few things that I would like to tell you.
You are loved by someone. Maybe it is your neighbor, your child, your mother, your pet, or the person who smiles as they pour your coffee every morning, but someone does love you.
You were the catalyst for a major change in someone's life. Some little action, that you never thought would have consequences, has completely changed at least one person in the world.
The planet is full of Oxygen. Use it. Take deep breaths, smell the fresh air, take a walk and stop to smell the ozone after the rain, or the flowers basking in the warmth of the sun. Never forget where we live, because it is all so beautiful, and it all sprouted from one tiny little organism.
Love with all your heart; believe in love at first sight. What would life be without the ecstasy of infatuation, and the misery of heartbreak? Without one we would never have the other, and they are both the most you will ever feel in your whole life.
Try to accept and love others, even when they do not accept you. As those who have been hurt in the past, we must work toward preventing others from being hurt the way we were.
Love yourself. If you can't look yourself in the eye, you will never look anyone else in the eye either. And trust me, there are some gorgeous eyes out there in the world.
Love,
-Tabby
Dear Stranger,
Young or old, gay or straight, hermit or social butterfly, there are a few things that I would like to tell you.
You are loved by someone. Maybe it is your neighbor, your child, your mother, your pet, or the person who smiles as they pour your coffee every morning, but someone does love you.
You were the catalyst for a major change in someone's life. Some little action, that you never thought would have consequences, has completely changed at least one person in the world.
The planet is full of Oxygen. Use it. Take deep breaths, smell the fresh air, take a walk and stop to smell the ozone after the rain, or the flowers basking in the warmth of the sun. Never forget where we live, because it is all so beautiful, and it all sprouted from one tiny little organism.
Love with all your heart; believe in love at first sight. What would life be without the ecstasy of infatuation, and the misery of heartbreak? Without one we would never have the other, and they are both the most you will ever feel in your whole life.
Try to accept and love others, even when they do not accept you. As those who have been hurt in the past, we must work toward preventing others from being hurt the way we were.
Love yourself. If you can't look yourself in the eye, you will never look anyone else in the eye either. And trust me, there are some gorgeous eyes out there in the world.
Love,
-Tabby
Oct 4, 2010
More Ugly/ Truth
I have a confession. I may have mentioned it before, or maybe I left it in a dark corner of my mind to deal with at some other point in time. I have dealt with an eating disorder for the last seven years of my life. For the first three years I was in denial. I was still eating, so obviously I didn't have anorexia.
I never got down to 80 pounds, I never looked like a skeleton, but I was depriving my body of the nutrition it deserved. After I dropped to a size one, and mind you, I'm built like a Viking, so a size one was pretty spectacular, I realized something was wrong. I wasn't eating the foods I liked, wasn't eating hardly anything at all. I forced myself to eat, slowly, gradually, stretching my stomach so I wouldn't throw up if I ate normal sized portions.
After three and half years of depriving myself, everything tasted so good. I went on a two year binge. I gained weight without realizing. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a size one girl when I clearly wasn't. I still see that girl in the mirror, and don't understand why I can't see what I look like now.
Last year was a turning point. I ran out of money, and eating out less often helped me drop a few pounds, temporarily. I came home to take care of my family, and could afford to eat like I had been. I gained back the fifteen-twenty pounds I had lost.
Last week was another turning point. I had to have a minor surgery, and it effected my ability to eat. I've been eating next to nothing for a little over a week and already lost five pounds. I feel better than I have in a long time. I feel more energetic, feel the urge to exercise and take care of myself. The way I felt when I was anorexic.
I can feel where this road is headed. I look ahead and see where I will be walking in a few weeks, a few months. I understand, intellectually, why anorexia is wrong and unhealthy, but it always feels so right, so comfortable. I feel happier when I choose not to eat.
I see where this is going and will do nothing to stop myself. Anorexia has best my best friend for so long, been my coping mechanism, been the only rock I have to lean upon, and even though it is unhealthy, it makes me feel good. Right now, after so much rejection, so much pain and stress, I need to feel good. I need to feel this. I wish I could be stronger, but the reality is, I am not.
I never got down to 80 pounds, I never looked like a skeleton, but I was depriving my body of the nutrition it deserved. After I dropped to a size one, and mind you, I'm built like a Viking, so a size one was pretty spectacular, I realized something was wrong. I wasn't eating the foods I liked, wasn't eating hardly anything at all. I forced myself to eat, slowly, gradually, stretching my stomach so I wouldn't throw up if I ate normal sized portions.
After three and half years of depriving myself, everything tasted so good. I went on a two year binge. I gained weight without realizing. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a size one girl when I clearly wasn't. I still see that girl in the mirror, and don't understand why I can't see what I look like now.
Last year was a turning point. I ran out of money, and eating out less often helped me drop a few pounds, temporarily. I came home to take care of my family, and could afford to eat like I had been. I gained back the fifteen-twenty pounds I had lost.
Last week was another turning point. I had to have a minor surgery, and it effected my ability to eat. I've been eating next to nothing for a little over a week and already lost five pounds. I feel better than I have in a long time. I feel more energetic, feel the urge to exercise and take care of myself. The way I felt when I was anorexic.
I can feel where this road is headed. I look ahead and see where I will be walking in a few weeks, a few months. I understand, intellectually, why anorexia is wrong and unhealthy, but it always feels so right, so comfortable. I feel happier when I choose not to eat.
I see where this is going and will do nothing to stop myself. Anorexia has best my best friend for so long, been my coping mechanism, been the only rock I have to lean upon, and even though it is unhealthy, it makes me feel good. Right now, after so much rejection, so much pain and stress, I need to feel good. I need to feel this. I wish I could be stronger, but the reality is, I am not.
Dec 29, 2009
Houses/Unpacking
When I went off to college, I didn't go through the normal routine. I went to a conservatory, where one is expected to put in 16 hour days (sometimes more), six days a week. I was one of the youngest in the class, with most ranging between 25 and 30. I lived in a house with roommates instead of a dorm, was required to cook and clean and split bills. It was all very...adult (or as close to being an adult as I have ever experienced). Whereas I tend to think of university as an extension of high school with dorms, cliques, and not a whole lot of responsibility.
So, after living more or less as an adult for three years, I had to return home. My father has a fatal disease, and my mother is not coping well. We weren't doing well financially. So, after three years, here I am, in my old bedroom of my childhood home. I moved back home in June of 2009.
I started unpacking today.
I never unpacked because I thought maybe there was a way to leave quickly. I worked long hours for three months, so long that I was never home, and then left on a road trip for another two. Five months of trying not to live here.
Today I threw out three bags of stuff that had been lying around. Things from when I was a kid, things from the road trip, just things in general. I started with one section. One section that, after today, feels a little more like myself. Feels a little more like if I were to bring a girlfriend home to see it, she would get a glimpse of me- of what is important to me. I finished my bookshelf today, and that is a huge start.
I think part of the reason that I haven't felt like an adult, haven't felt capable of dating, is that being in this room again makes me feel like a child. The angel figurines, the stuffed animals, the collector barbies-they all shrink me down until I'm no more than a small girl.
It's time to give those away, to pass them on. Not to get rid of them, but to take back this space as my own; to make this room grow up with me, so that I no longer shrink under its gaze. A place to play guitar, read a novel, finish my psychology homework, a place where I can lock the door and feel sexy (because I'll be damned if a woman doesn't need to feel sexy in her own bed once in a while).
Today I took a step toward that, and feel a little more comfortable inside my own house.
So, after living more or less as an adult for three years, I had to return home. My father has a fatal disease, and my mother is not coping well. We weren't doing well financially. So, after three years, here I am, in my old bedroom of my childhood home. I moved back home in June of 2009.
I started unpacking today.
I never unpacked because I thought maybe there was a way to leave quickly. I worked long hours for three months, so long that I was never home, and then left on a road trip for another two. Five months of trying not to live here.
Today I threw out three bags of stuff that had been lying around. Things from when I was a kid, things from the road trip, just things in general. I started with one section. One section that, after today, feels a little more like myself. Feels a little more like if I were to bring a girlfriend home to see it, she would get a glimpse of me- of what is important to me. I finished my bookshelf today, and that is a huge start.
I think part of the reason that I haven't felt like an adult, haven't felt capable of dating, is that being in this room again makes me feel like a child. The angel figurines, the stuffed animals, the collector barbies-they all shrink me down until I'm no more than a small girl.
It's time to give those away, to pass them on. Not to get rid of them, but to take back this space as my own; to make this room grow up with me, so that I no longer shrink under its gaze. A place to play guitar, read a novel, finish my psychology homework, a place where I can lock the door and feel sexy (because I'll be damned if a woman doesn't need to feel sexy in her own bed once in a while).
Today I took a step toward that, and feel a little more comfortable inside my own house.
Dec 22, 2009
Homework/Discovery
I decided to write a separate post for this, because whilst the other one is somewhat whiny, this is about discovery, and the need to separate those two topics is bred deep within me.
Sinclair posted about the homework which she gives to Kristen, which in turn sparked Alphafemme's different kind of homework (which I think is truly brilliant).
I decided to jump on the bandwagon and discover what I feel most comfortable with about my sexuality. I feel like the only way I will ever grow and discover what I like is to push myself. This week's topics were femininity and self appreciation. I was walking around my room undressing to put on pajamas, when I caught a glimpse of myself in my full length mirror. The light on my nightstand was on, and it cast shadows across my body that hypnotized me and stopped me where I stood.
I've never been very proud of my body, never loved it for what it is, but just then I was enamored. I was caught up in the curve of my hips, the slope of my breasts, the shape of my tummy, the length of my legs, the strength of my calves. For the first time I felt how soft my skin was, felt the thickness of my hair, the silkiness of my neck, the satin feel of my shoulder blades.
I realized how perfectly my ass is shaped, how my ankles invite the brush of a finger, how the dimples in the small of my back invoke happiness and sweet memories, how the curve of my back begs to be cupped, how my spine is slightly crooked and juts out from my skin like a message in braille, showing the reader a map of my body. I noticed my jawline, the softness of my figure, the way my nipples respond to touch and how hard my stomach muscles are underneath all the cushion.
For the first time, I drank myself in in the half light, excited by what I saw, delighted in who I was and what I looked like.
This sparked in me the need to take care of myself. The need to pamper myself and rejoice in the beauty of my own body. It was enough to bring out the coconut butter that I used to adore, enough to make sure I used lotion under my makeup and put on an extra coat of mascara. From this spark and the aforementioned posts about homework, I decided to assign some for myself.
I wanted to be high femme for a week. I spent half an hour curling my hair every day. I bought new lipstick, eyeliner, mascara, and used them religiously. I wore earrings again, and a necklace that spoke to me with simple elegance and quiet beauty. I wore high heels and dresses, and everything matched. I brought coats out of hiding and coordinated them with my outfits. I wore underwear that made me feel sexy, and I didn't wear bras, which also made me feel sexy.
While it did take up more time in my morning routine, I rather enjoy the feeling of primping for myself. Of feeling sexy for myself.
While I won't go into detail for fear of revealing way more that you wanted to know, I finally had an orgasm. Talk about being excited about the prospect of sex all over again. Now that I know that I can at least give myself one, the possibilities of sex are now even more appealing than they used to be. It may not become a common occurrence, but to know that at least I can, at least I won't go my whole life without one, it's kind of a relief. I don't expect it to happen again anytime soon but...here's to hoping, yeah?
I feel like maybe I need to push myself to the butch extreme to figure out what I like about each and find a happy balance, but I'm enjoying the femme side so much that I don't want to let it go yet, even though I know I don't want to keep it up forever.
What are other ways I can push myself in this area? What do you consider as feminine qualities that I should experience?
Sinclair posted about the homework which she gives to Kristen, which in turn sparked Alphafemme's different kind of homework (which I think is truly brilliant).
I decided to jump on the bandwagon and discover what I feel most comfortable with about my sexuality. I feel like the only way I will ever grow and discover what I like is to push myself. This week's topics were femininity and self appreciation. I was walking around my room undressing to put on pajamas, when I caught a glimpse of myself in my full length mirror. The light on my nightstand was on, and it cast shadows across my body that hypnotized me and stopped me where I stood.
I've never been very proud of my body, never loved it for what it is, but just then I was enamored. I was caught up in the curve of my hips, the slope of my breasts, the shape of my tummy, the length of my legs, the strength of my calves. For the first time I felt how soft my skin was, felt the thickness of my hair, the silkiness of my neck, the satin feel of my shoulder blades.
I realized how perfectly my ass is shaped, how my ankles invite the brush of a finger, how the dimples in the small of my back invoke happiness and sweet memories, how the curve of my back begs to be cupped, how my spine is slightly crooked and juts out from my skin like a message in braille, showing the reader a map of my body. I noticed my jawline, the softness of my figure, the way my nipples respond to touch and how hard my stomach muscles are underneath all the cushion.
For the first time, I drank myself in in the half light, excited by what I saw, delighted in who I was and what I looked like.
This sparked in me the need to take care of myself. The need to pamper myself and rejoice in the beauty of my own body. It was enough to bring out the coconut butter that I used to adore, enough to make sure I used lotion under my makeup and put on an extra coat of mascara. From this spark and the aforementioned posts about homework, I decided to assign some for myself.
I wanted to be high femme for a week. I spent half an hour curling my hair every day. I bought new lipstick, eyeliner, mascara, and used them religiously. I wore earrings again, and a necklace that spoke to me with simple elegance and quiet beauty. I wore high heels and dresses, and everything matched. I brought coats out of hiding and coordinated them with my outfits. I wore underwear that made me feel sexy, and I didn't wear bras, which also made me feel sexy.
While it did take up more time in my morning routine, I rather enjoy the feeling of primping for myself. Of feeling sexy for myself.
While I won't go into detail for fear of revealing way more that you wanted to know, I finally had an orgasm. Talk about being excited about the prospect of sex all over again. Now that I know that I can at least give myself one, the possibilities of sex are now even more appealing than they used to be. It may not become a common occurrence, but to know that at least I can, at least I won't go my whole life without one, it's kind of a relief. I don't expect it to happen again anytime soon but...here's to hoping, yeah?
I feel like maybe I need to push myself to the butch extreme to figure out what I like about each and find a happy balance, but I'm enjoying the femme side so much that I don't want to let it go yet, even though I know I don't want to keep it up forever.
What are other ways I can push myself in this area? What do you consider as feminine qualities that I should experience?
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