another_constellation: A white man smiling at a laptop (Default)
"Black and Third World people are expected to educate white people as to our humanity. Women are expected to educate men. Lesbians and gay men are expected to educate the heterosexual world. The oppressors maintain their position and evade their responsibility for their own actions. There is a constant drain of energy which might be better used in redefining ourselves and devising realistic scenarios for altering the present and constructing the future."
--Audre Lorde


That is all. Except:
Oh Audre.
another_constellation: A white man smiling at a laptop (Default)
Matthew asked me my old name. It makes me feel very far away when people do that. That name hurt me a lot. He was very nice about it. He has a friend who just came out as trans and is trying to find a new name. He wanted to know how people get new names. He said "what did your name used to be, if you don't mind me asking?" I shook my head very tightly and he said that he was sorry and it's okay. Another roommate asked me who was the first person to call me Eli or when I started using that and I explained a little*. That is an okay question to me, because it is about me and now and the choices I made.

I don't really understand why I am crying. Something just hurts a lot right now.


*My old name started with an L. When I was trying to figure things out, I used el, because it's the same sound, then e, then eli, then Eli/Elijah.
another_constellation: A white man smiling at a laptop (Default)
Trigger warning: cissexism, violence, rape jokes, bullshit


References to a transwoman in a McDonald's getting the shit kicked out of her so badly she seized while a number of McDonald's workers looked on/filmed it are making the rounds. I posted a link on my Facebook and I wanted to say something like "please, if you are not trans and/or not a violence survivor, please watch this. You owe us being a witness to this." But that seemed pushy, and I don't know what everyone's triggers are, so I didn't say it.

A few minutes later, my sister commented to say "Just reading about the video made me feel sick. I could never watch it , but I like to think I would have stopped it, had I been there." And my first thought was how? how? Please tell me, because I wish I knew. because if I were there, I would have been too scard to stop it. I would run away or shut down, pretend not to see it, maybe scream, maybe call the police, maybe appeal to the people who were watching, but I don't think I would have known how to stop it.

My second thought was "how do I tell my own sister that she owes it to me to watch this? That if this woman could get her head kicked in, the least we can do is be witnesses to that?"

I took a shower and the thought came into my head, the thought around which I think a lot of my reaction to this event was centered:

How can they expect me to leave my house tomorrow?

But then:

I was talking with my roommates today, before I saw the video. I have had a few days off, and I am starting to feel human because I have barely left my house. Andthey were making rape jokes. And I kept thinking, how do I make this stop? What can I say to them that doesn't give them too much of myself? But which is still enough that they won't debate me. I came up with nothing, and so I was silent until explictly asked my opinion about the "cis men can't be raped by cis women" thing, when I pointed out that we are having the Wrong Fucking Discussion

After my shower, I was trying to figure out what to do about my facial hair situation. I keep getting she'd and "person"ed, purposely not gendered. Which doesn't bother me, but bemuses me. Pretty much any gender people give me these days bemuses me. All I can think is "is that what you're getting from me right now?" I like to have some facial hair, because otherwise the "she" is too easy, and I don't want it to be too easy for people right now. I am enjoying my body and enjoying my femininity and I don't want that to be too easy for people, because it's not easy for me.

So I was trimming and shaving and thinking:

There is so much of my life that I cannot explain to [straight people, cis people, non-mentally ill people].

And I understood in a new way the need for woman-only spaces, people of color-only-spaces. But where do I go? Where are my spaces?
another_constellation: A white man smiling at a laptop (Default)
My campus was doing Take Back the Night tonight. I've never been and wanted to go, but I had to go to a lecture that went long and I didn't know where people would be. The lecture put me in a bad head-space. The lecturer was talking about actual, physical blindness, as well as metaphorical blindness, but managed not to talk about impairment or disability, which I found sort of puzzling. She talked about what she called geographic privilege, which she discussed as the privilege not to see something. Her examples were a DC Congressman who claimed to see no evidmence of the slave trade in DC in 1847, when right across the river in Alexandria, VA was the HUB of the coastwise slave trade. She also talked about Bertha in "Jane Eyre" (she didn't make this first point exactly, but in order to make Bertha stop existing, Rochester has to stop seeing her. He deals with the pain of colonial money and white racism by stopping seeing this Creole woman whose money gives him the privilege not to deal with colonialism. He stops seeing her by locking her in the attic.) She was making a lot of interesting points about how blindness creates a rupture in "Jane Eyre" and EDEN Southworth's "Retribution," EDEN Southworth having gone blind (temporarily) as a child, and in that Congressman's life, but she wasn't talking about disability or real bodies. At least I don't think so. But it was sort of hard for me to tell all the time because, ha-ha, I'm losing my hearing, and I'm losing my mind, so tracking a complex aural argument is sort of hard.

So I had a lot of things I wanted to talk about in the little reception afterwards, but I couldn't think how to say them other than "how can you give a lecture about blindness and colonialism and gender without it being about bodies?" Which seemed pretty rude, so I didn't. And anyway, it's the same question I have wanted to ask after every lecture for the past two years.

I started walking to the bus stop and half a block off, I heard screaming and chanting. It was Take Back the Night. And it scared the shit out of me, like tears-instantly-in-my-eyes, how-do-I-get-away-from-this, trapped-rabbit scared. Because I couldn't understand anything they were saying, and it was fucking loud and that is not a safe combo in my head.

And that felt really lonely to me. A couple nights ago, I was waiting for the bus at about a quarter of midnight when a guy came up to me where I was sitting. He gestured to my legs, which were tucked under me and said that he thought I was "an invalid." I didn't like that, but I didn't know what to do, so I just said no and went back to reading. He asked me a question I couldn't hear, so I made a "no" sound. Then he said that he was gay, and I figured he was trying to cruise me so again I sort of made a discouraging sound. And he said "so you must be a lesbian, right?" And I was surprised because I hadn't shaved for a couple days, but also not surprised, and didn't like any of the options this dude had given me in the conversation, and didn't want to have a discussion, and also figured that, yeah, as far as he was concerned, I'm a lesbian. I said something like "uhhh. Who can really say?" He said "I can. I'm gay. You can tell from a mile away." And I sort of just sat there, too bothered to even understand.

I haven't done testosterone since September and my face is definitely feminizing, and my chest is getting more solid and more difficult to bind and I also don't really give a shit about binding too much right now. And as a result, I'm starting to get nervous again when I am walking home late at night (I work until midnight and take two buses home around 12:30/1am four days a week). A few weeks ago, it was dusk and i was walking to a bus stop past a guy who was leaning against a building and thought "oh shit. he's going to say something about my body now."

All of this to say that it felt so lonely not to feel safe with Take Back the Night-- but I didn't.

At the bus stop the night the guy was talking to me, a woman had also been trying to chat with me. I just was not in the mood, though she seemed friendly enough. After the guy walked away, she said "people always ask me questions about my accent, but I can't imagine the kinds of questions you get." I just wanted no one to speak to me (because why to people always need to speak to me when I almost always just want for them to be quiet?) and I wanted a minute to think about how I felt about what he was asking, and why I disliked it so much, so I didn't really respond to her (I said it was "mostly confusing") but in retrospect (how  form 90% of my emotions), I really appreciated her saying SOMETHING to acknowledge that his questions were invasive and not okay.

There's the word! Invasive! I felt his words on my body, and I did not like any of them. I did not like the options he was giving me for talking about my body and my experiences. He asked questions like he knew the answer, and the way he asked them made my participation unnecessary. I did not like their shouts being in my head without me being able to understand them, I did not like the lecturer talking about people's bodies without talking about people.

All of this is so clearly what I need to be writing my thesis on, but where to even begin. Here's my intro:

I have some thoughts about bodies, and silence, and legibility, (and MY body and MY silence and MY legibility) and I need you to sit there and listen with an open heart while I try to untangle them for you.
another_constellation: A white man smiling at a laptop (Default)
Perhaps the hardest lesson of my adulthood has been that you cannot protect people from themselves. You cannot make safe choices for other people, you can only make them for yourself.
another_constellation: A white man smiling at a laptop (Default)
Oh my G-d, I am so sick of my body hurting. Contemplating crying, not sure I have the energy. Too much pain to sleep. Finally managed to heat up my heat pack and add a couple sweatshirts. Time for the doctor?
another_constellation: A white man smiling at a laptop (Default)
I tried to write to Congressman Pence, but I didn't get much further than
Congressman Pence, I know there is nothing I can say to you about the amendment that bears your name. I know that there is no way that I can change your mind or make you see that it is a death knell, expressing disdain for women-- especially poor women and those of color, and their babies.
So I just want you to know that you're a sack of shit.
Sincerely,
Elijah ---------
another_constellation: A white man smiling at a laptop (Default)
This is a copy-and-paste from a comment to VP, which was useful for me in articulating a type of panic I get.

The distinction you make between having violent thoughts and being afraid you would hurt someone (accidentally) is something I experience fairly often when I am panicking. I fixate on a few phrases that aren't actually scary themselves, but the fact that they are repeating and not what I actually feel is very upsetting to me. There are a variety of "what if" phrases that recur that I find particularly upsetting-- among them is "what if I kill everyone in the world?" For me, that question and the fear I feel in response to it is not a fear that I'm actually going to hurt someone, it's a fear that I'm having a thought that I'm not supposed to have, one that deals with big questions, questions bigger than my own mind, and that feels like a question that I, when i am well, would never (need to) ask.

It sounds like what you were afraid of is that you might get the urge to hurt someone, and that you wouldn't be able to stop that. Most people without panic disorders or mental illnesses feel this. When they are driving, they worry that they will miss a light and hit a car. When they hold a new baby, they are scared they will drop hir. In other words, they feel scared that they are going to accidentally (not maliciously) harm someone else.

For me, because my question "what if I kill everyone" comes in the absence of actual homicidal thoughts ("I hate this person and they should die," "that person doesn't deserve to live," "I want to kill that person in X way") I believe that what I am actually experiencing is panic, pure and simple. I'm feeling the worry of a new driver in the wrong context because I have a problem with panicking and worrying that I am a bad person and unusually prone to bad things.

"What if" questions like mine, or ultimatum-style statements like "if I don't do Y thing, Z will happen" are characteristics of panic disorders or obsessive-compulsive thinking. For me, I believe it's a mix of panic disorder and "purely obsessional" OCD (I have the thoughts, which I can't stop, and typical compulsions like hand-washing won't prevent or stop them. Having the thoughts is both the obsession and the compulsion. I have to keep having the thought until the panic stops or I can work out a way to explain that I'm not "really" having the thought).

I explain all of this because I know that panic feeds panic. You have the bad thoughts and then you worry if that is how you really feel, and then you worry that whether or not you "really" feel that way, having it alone makes you a bad, dangerous person. I've definitely been there. The way it manifested for you on that particular day sounds very scary, but also not something you necessarily need to be scared of (if you see the difference).
another_constellation: A white man smiling at a laptop (Default)
Okay, I'm doing a bit better today. I went to CVS last night and just stared at the wall of menstrual supplies for like ten minutes. I felt simultaneously like every single dad in a sitcom and a twelve-year-old girl. I had a Diva, but sold it a few years ago and Insteads make me natious when they press on my cervix. So tampons it was. I just kept muttering things like "but how many hours is regular?" All this sort of basic stuff that a twenty-three-year-old should know.I was literally muttering "but how heavy is my flow?" Because, of course, I had no way of knowing. Until I started leaking. Four years of missing data.

THe suicidal impulse is gone, and urge to cry is mostly intermittant. It was my gram's birthday party today, which was nice, and awkward. Lots of family and people who haven't seen me since I was a kid, let alone since I transitioned. One of my great aunts called me Levi. I didn't correct her. I always wonder what they have been told. If thye think I am just another nephew (it's a big family), if they know how I fit in, if they wonder where the old me went, if they think I still am that person.
another_constellation: A white man smiling at a laptop (Default)
I don't have a tone of language right now, but there;s some stuff I need to try to articulate
Okay, so I got my period today, for the first ime in four years, and i feel like dying.
The two are, I think connected, but in hard to figure out ways. I wanted to kill myself today before I discovered I was menstruating, so discovering that helped to contextualize how terrible I felt, and also that the only things on my "things that do not make me want to kill myself" list were foods. That's a joke, but also true.
I thought yesterday, sort of dimly that I should put an Instead in my bag for today, but didn't. I don't remember what made me think I should do that. I had slight cramps today, but nothing like what I remembered. When it came, I knew it was happening. But there have been many times in the past few years when I was sure I was menstruating, but was not. There was someone in the men's room for at least a half an hour, so I had ot use the woman's room to check. Which was weird, and made me have to fight back tears and an implacable panic, but good in that at least there was a ton of free tampons in there, one disaster adverted. Also, I was running the store today.
I had such a bad day. It started with my clothes refusing to iron, getting over-dressed for the weather, barel missing my bus and waiting ten minutes for the next one, only to discover I didn't have my bus pass. I paid with cash and it spit out a paper card for fifty cents. I had to run to catch my transfer. The train ate the paper card but didn't credit me for it, but I wouldn't have had enough cash anyway. I was on the verge of tears and the driver let me on. I was late and hot and kept dropping things and mostly just feeling dizzy and migrane-y and like I wanted to die. Kept tearing up at odd moments. I don't remember periods feeling like this, hormonally, but my hormones are so different from the last time I got my period and the problem with a mental illness is that it's also hard to figure out where feeling are coming from: if it is something external, internal, or just the madness.
At verious times overthe past few years, especially the past year or so, when I got really lax about my testosterone (I havent taken it for about five months), I have wanted my period to come. Mostly, I think, because I wanted to know that it was something I could live though. At some moments, I imagined that it might make me feel powerful, that I could do this and not die. That i was in touch with my body. That I was having a particularly female experience. That I wouldn't have to keep waiting to see if it would happen and what  I would do when it came
So I am still alive, but sad and heart broken and crying occationally. It this momen, i don't feel closer to my body, but I also don't feel like I need to destroy it, the urge to destroy my body being different than the urge to kill myself. Both are disconcerting to me, but the former more so. I have lived many times through the urge to kill myself. I have failed many times to protect myself from myself when the urge for destruction comes on.
So /I will probably hurt myself in a fairly mundanre way as compromise, and to try to stop these feelings, which I feel that I have still not fully articulated. I jsut don't know how to explain how terribly, terribly alone and vulnerable and stupid and wrong this makes me feel.
another_constellation: A white man smiling at a laptop (Default)
So there was a few minutes where I tried to find the number for Congressman Boehner's office so that I could leave a drunken scream of protest on his machine, but apparently the term "forcible" has been withdrawn (http://www.csmonitor.com/USA/Politics/2011/0203/Did-bill-try-to-redefine-rape-GOP-backs-down-after-public-outcry). But is that what they were hoping for? That we would see the succession of :foracble: as a win and forget that the rest of the bill is bullshit? In conclusion, I;m drunk, cissexual men should probably find their way out the abortion discussion, and if you don't want an abortion, you shouldn't have one. And now that I've solved the great moral quandary of our time, you're welcome and I'm going ot bed.
another_constellation: A white man smiling at a laptop (Default)
Another day, another VP post that boils down to my own reminisces about my body and sexuality. But I hardly ever feel like there is a real place built for experiences like mine, which are so tied into so many big categories. Sex, gender, body, upbringing, abuse, depression, mutilation, dissociation... these moments all bubble up for me in ways that are really impossible to lay out neatly and clearly but some times I just want to hug everyone in the world and tell them "you're normal: you're not!" Not even white men are The Man, there is no spoon.

I think that what I was trying to say in my previous post is that the more we all recognize the shifting sites of oppression and privilege in our day-to-day lives, the closer we get to an answer. I roll, you roll.

Life makes more sense in retrospect.
another_constellation: A white man smiling at a laptop (Default)
This post at ADeeperCountry has me thinking a lot right now. I already wrote a comment here, but it is starting to gel for me a little what those sites are in my life.

Namely, I don't know what my place in activist spaces (which for me are usually shaped by women, feminist in background, and often feminist-/queer-/disability-/race- focused is as a person who is white, who presents as masculine and doesn't call himself a woman but feels very closely linked to all things woman, is trans, is queer, is mentally ill, believes himself to be non-neurotypical, but NOS, able-bodied but whose body acts up a lot). The contridictions are all up in there, but one I have been thinking about a lot lately is the gender stuff. I haven't taken testosterone since September, which a) probably has a lot to do with why I've been so depressed, b) has feminized my face a lot and firmed-up my chest, c) has made me spot once, possibly twice, d) made me feel very confused about a lot of things (for example, how can I not know if I am spotting? The injustice and pain of this is so incredible I don't know what to do or where to go with it How can I know all these things about other people's bodies and not my own? Is it because it never feels like my own?).

I guess b is the easiest to talk about, because in a way, it has the least to do with me. My voice has cracked several times. I've gotten she'd many times, and purposely not-gendered many more. Part of me feels like I need to stick out in order to have any credience in queer and trans places. Part of me feels like I want people to see mememe and that means knowing how I was raised. A lot of me feels like I want people to stop acting so smug when the clock me. Because they aren't clocking me, they are picking up the signals I am sending out, and also, stop being a dick. I sort of don't give a shit right now about how people are gendering me. "He" is easiest because it's most consistent, but also a sort of amusing surprise some times.

These thoughts all seem barely connected, but I promise, they all are so intertwined.

I think what I really want to express is my desire for new words, new vocabularies, new categories that speak to MY experiences.

So that brings me back to the post that started this train of thought. I wish it were more normal to tell people exactly where you are. I wish it were okay to talk about the places where you had to cover, the times you could not, where you are right now, what it feels like to be there, and what it feels like to be where you are from. I carry around so much trauma simply from all the depression and all the harm I have done to myself, from living such a complicated life in such silence. I think it is that way for most people. It starts to feel like the only way to live honestly is to live with painful visibility (see: this journal) but we cannot be the only ones. The system hurts us all. The colonized cannot undo the work of the colonizer while so many of us continue to replicate these systems not even knowing.

I wish it were okay to tell people what you need. Because maybe then some day you might get to stop looking for it alone.
another_constellation: A white man smiling at a laptop (Default)
Having a lot of what I call "lightning storms" right now. Sudden storms of panic, usually fram sadness and despiration. Lots of head-pushing in an attempt not to head-bang. I was having a very hard time with words earilier, but forced myself to get the laundry that has been sitting in the basement for a few days, and to take a shower. That's where the lightening storms started, though I could feel them creeping on earlier. Writing this has quieted them, but I'm exhausted.
another_constellation: A white man smiling at a laptop (Default)
I just finished "Flight" by Sherman Alexie. It's about an angry half-white half Native kid in the foster system. He decides to shoot up a a bank and is shot in in head himself. He then skips through the minds of several men, white and Indian, throughout time.

The story that I found most pointant was one where he is an Indian man in his fifties. He wakes up in an alley drunk and throwing up blood. He antagonizes a guy into punching him in the face and weaves up and down the streets looking for a new start. He tells a white man who didn't see him-- didn't avoid him or ignore him like everyone else, but didn't see him-- that he wants some respect. He repeats it over and over. The guy makes some derisive comments and turns away and he grabs the man by the shoulder. He pins him to the wall and asks what he wants.
"I want some respect." "All right, all right," the guy says, "how do I show you some respect?"

What a magnificent question.

The narrator's response is for the man to tell him a secret. I think mine would be to listen to a secret. Or just listen, period. I've been thinking lately, in the radio silence here, how hard it often is for me to pull words out of me, especially verbally. But that doesn't mean I'm not speaking.

What about you? How can people show you respect?
another_constellation: A white man smiling at a laptop (Default)
I feel like I should say a few words about the new journal, even if it is less new now. First I want to just quote Audre Lorde because "The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action" is a completely life-changing piece for me every time I read it and is intimately connected with what I'm working on here. It would help me if you would read it in its entirety.
      In becoming forcibly and essentially aware of my own mortality, and of what I wished and wanted for in my life, however short it might be, priorities and omissions became strongly etched in a merciless light and what I most regretted were my silences. Of what had ever been afraid? To question or to speak as I believed I would have meant pain, or death. But we all hurt in so many different ways, all the time, and pain will either change or end. Death, on the other hand, is the final silence. And that might be coming quickly, now, without regard for whether I had ever spoken what needed to be said, or only betrayed myself into small silences, while I planned someday to speak, or waited for someone else’s words. And I began to recognize a source of power within myself that comes from the knowledge that while it is most desirable not to be afraid, learning to put fear into a perspective gave me great strength. I was going to die, if not sooner then later, whether or not I had ever spoken myself. My silences had not protected me. Your silence will not protect you.
      But for every real word spoken, for every attempt I had ever made to speak those truths for which I am still seeking, I had made contact with other women while we examined the words to fit a world in which we all believed, bridging our differences. [...]

[W]ithin the war we are all waging with the forces of death, subtle, and otherwise, conscious or not– I am not only a casualty, I am also a warrior.
What I am trying to do, as of right now, in this journal is to speak publicly those "small silences." I recognize that I have a problem with language and speech. I lose words often, I forget things, and my brain is often completely, disconcertingly blank. I suspect, though, that in those times my brain is in fact not blank, but utterly full of the need for emptiness. Is this the "fear [of] the visibility without which we also cannot truly live" that Audre describes as the "cause of silence"? I'm sure I should be citing theorists here but the lack of the thing marks the presence of the thing.

Part of what I am trying to do here is to practice verbalizing things, which means practicing feeling, noticing, decoding, and sharing them. Each of those steps is difficult for me in their own way. For this reason, I am trying to treat each entry almost as stand-alone. It's very hard for me to remember things, any things, so my feelings change often even about a single event because I don't have that stored up emotional response to that event. So I'm trying to make that okay, whilst creating a record of what I do think and feel. Already it is becoming clear to me that I think, feel, recognize, and remember a lot more than I tend to realize I do. But my attempts to take down the bricks of the wall to pave the road means also that the terrain may be some what rocky and repetitive for the reader. It is important that people hear the things I say, but it is more important that I say them.

In other words: I don't take it personally if you find yourself scrolling past me, but I am trying not to use cuts, even when the entry is long or angsty. I will make an effort to use one when triggery. Feel free to ask for one on that front. I should also note that I am trying to post most things publicly, but you may find that entries appear and disappear depending how I am feeling in relation to them. I'm not deleting, just making decisions about what words are for whom when.

I'm finding often in these entries that my words go in directions I did not plan to go. I am trying to follow them. They know best what most needs to be said.

There are very, very few pictures of me. I know of only about a dozen from my teenage years. Camera shyness and photo-destroying rampages are only part of the story. As I once explained to a friend, I had for so long the intention of not "sticking around," so I didn't see any need to document. I now see the need. This journal is apart of that reclamation of my right to exist.

"And there are so many silences to be broken"...
another_constellation: A white man smiling at a laptop (Default)
So T has asked a couple times about my transition, which feels nice right now. I know that at a time, I would have really been defensive and felt that my shit was private and not open to discussion or generally been closed off, but it feels nice ot have someone asking questions about this stuff. I'm at the point now that when someone finds out I was raised as a girl, it's clear enough that I am a guy that that information doesn't change a lot. But as a result of this, I never get to talk about what that experience felt like and feels like. It's so weird to me, especially at school (where I'm getting a Master's degree in Gender and Cultural Studies, hich I mention because, it makes t suck more) that people never ask me questions about it.

I don't remember if I talked about this before, but last semester I took a class on white anti-racist activism and justice work or, as one Kenyan woman in my program described it, "how to be a good White person." The class kicked my ass every single week in more ways than I would ever have thought imaginable. I cut again, a few seperate times, after probably four years without it, but I can't say much about that. I never realized how much all of this stuff (race, gender, sexuality, sex, BODIES, disability, language) was bound up together for me (and most people). It was a really, really painful class, but also very valuable. Anyway, the professor, B , was really great, and I went to see her in office hours a few times, which is something I never do. I was , talking about my depression because I really need to be in thrapy right now, but I can't bring myself to go because I'm depressed and my life is totally off the tracks, and that brought up my transition, which she actually asked a couple questions about, as well as made a couple statements that didn't jive well for me. But at one point she was referencing all these people and I thought maybe they were theorists and she asked if I knew them and I said no. She aked about a couple others, then said they were all really active in the Boston trans community. I said I don't really like being in trans spaces, because people look at me like they know something about my life in a way that makes me feel incredibly invisible, and di don't lik that, feeling invisble while people look at me and think thyeknow me. She looked at me for a very long time.

more when I'm not crying so much
another_constellation: A white man smiling at a laptop (thinking)
So I'm thinking that the weird, persistant, burning mostly-joint pain I've been having for the past few months is likely linked to cold/damp weather. My knee was pretty stiff yesterday and today it was pouring and the usual joints hurt (knee, ankles, wrist, elbows, fingers). On the one hand, it's a comfort that it's most likely just normal joint pain, the likes of which many older people experience. But I'm not "older," I'm twenty-three and it's time like these that I am reminded of with how little care I have treated my body. It is a cold comfort to know that many others treat their bodies with similar disregard, and some even with more open animosity than I. I basically need a shit load of therapy regarding the great psychic divide I have between my mind and body and the tenuousnesss with with I mediate their interactions.
another_constellation: A white man smiling at a laptop (Default)
Vaguely heart-broken, which is sort of my default.

Saw my ex today. It was awkward, but I didn't feel the love or anger rushing back at me, like I imagined I would. I buried those parts of myself. For now, at least.

In class, we were talking about "Thirteen Reasons Why," which is narrated (in part) by a girl who has decided to kill herself. Really shitty comments about whiny, depressed suicidal people and how part of us cheers when they finally do it. There's a woman in the class whom I really like because she always manages to bring us back to the humanizing place. She looked like she was having a hard time with it. Also, I'm prjecting, because I was totally having a hard time with it. My litmus test for whether a book is Problematic or not is whether I will be embarrassed describing it to someone who the book is about.

And so I disclosed that the reason I reacted strongly to Hannah was that she reminded me so much of myself when I was suicidal, and that what we are seeing is the moments of clarity and power before she kills herself, moments she has been greatly deprived of.

The discussion changed after that.

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July 2011

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