Coming out!

Hello I am Nozomi and I am Non-Binary! My pronouns are they/them.

I am still figuring out the finer points of my own gender which is awesome, after realizing that a lifetime of feeling wrong in my own body was not unique. That I wasn’t broken or needing to be fixed, I was just me, and I was different. Learning that this is something that other people had too, but in their own ways was amazing. To learn I wasn’t alone that my feelings and experiences were valid. I just wanted to give a big loves and hugs to my queer community and all the wonderful flavors of peoples I know and love. You all made my own coming out possible.

Growing up there were always these pressures to do one or the other. Either you are a “girly girl” or a “tomboy”. Either you like dolls or legos. Everything was this weird forced binary. I was lucky enough to be able to have some freedoms as a child and growing up. I got to play with barbies and homemade clothes for them, as well as building blocks. I had hotwheel car races and tea parties with stuffed animals. I read books in my treehouse, I climbed trees wearing dresses. I went fishing with my grandparents and could clean and fillet a fish. I could also sew and play the piano. I could read books about dinosaurs as well as ones that taught me how to crochet.

I was lucky enough to be able to do these things as a kid growing up when so many kids are forced into gender roles and all the stuff that comes with that. Like science is for girls, boys can sew, any one can do anything. Needlessly gendering things like toys, books, even clothes and careers, I never understood. There is so much more out there than the binary stuff which also falling into the gender binary is super valid. Also being in between that or completely outside that is super awesome! We are awesome! <3

I am definitely in a wibbly wobbly, and gender bendery areas of time and space. I fucking love it here. It’s even more awesome to be able to have my pronouns recognized. I was playing games with a couple of people a few weeks back and for a few hours I was being mostly gendered correctly constantly. It was so affirming and empowering. It felt amazing, and something I hadn’t really experienced before on that large of a scale. This also helped me in my decision to come out and that it was the right thing for me. Being gendered correctly feels wonderful.

I would to prefer to always go by they/them pronouns. For my more close friends and family. . . I have even been able to play with changing my pronouns on occasion. Depending on how I am feeling I might be honored by she/her,and other traditionally femme coded terms. Some days I like he/him and other traditionally masculine coded words like handsome or Sir.

It’s awesome to be able to have people care and care about me and who I am. This has been super good and wonderful. I only wish that everyone could be safe and able to be themselves while staying safe. If you can’t come out, and things are not safe. Don’t worry you are not alone and even when it sucks, being safe is important.

For the future and for all general references to myself they/them pronouns are always safe and honor me. For even more reasons than just being non-binary. Many times things that are not gender neutral can cause me dysphoria.

As for the rest of my Queer identity. I am SUPER Queer!!! I am all manner of parts of the queer community, I don’t really discuss things that much, but since this is a coming out post I also wanted to say I am Demisexual, I am pansexual/panromantic. I fall in love with people, not genders, bits, presentation or anything else. There are so many amazing and beautiful people in this world and just as many ways to love people as there are people to love.

HAPPY PRIDE!!!!

-Nozomi the Non-Binary (2017)

**A few notes for terms people might not be familiar with.

Non-Binary: Is an umbrella term that includes any gender identities that do not fit within the gender binary of male and female. There is a lot under here like genderfluid, genderqueer, agender, gendervoid.

Gender Dysphoria: Is a discomfort and disconnect with the gender someone was assigned at birth. This can take many forms and is very unique to a lot of people and also a lot of us experience similar things. The opposite of gender euphoria the feeling I talked about above when I was being gendered correctly.

I encourage you to do research and reading on your own and find good resources written by people with these experiences.

Coming out!
{advertisement}

Learning to let others love me.

I am sure you have all heard the idiom in some phrase or way.
“You have to love yourself before you can love others.”
“You have to love yourself before others can love you.”

Whichever way you paint it, its bullshit.

Not all of us are able to love ourselves. I have been working my entire life to achieve this seemingly unattainable goal of “loving myself”. . . because if I don’t who would? This has made life fucking miserable and unnecessarily hard.

I am currently abandoning the idea that I need to love myself. I don’t know if/when loving myself will happen or how it will happen, or if it is even possible. Until then I am learning to let other people love me. Learning to accept love, accept that people love me because of who I am not in despite of who I am. Especially when it comes to things I can’t change about myself like my physical disabilities, my fatness, my queerness, my neurodivergencies. I am allowed to be loved, and be loved as I am and for who I am. I am going to learn how to let other people love me.

This is a fucking game changer for me to be honest. I haven’t even got to the point where I fully believe the people who love me do love me. I still have my times of feeling like this will all be a joke. That I will be a joke. That people have before spent a lot of time and energy on me and I was still a joke, the relationship or whatever it was was a joke. I wasn’t worthy of love and affection. However even just believing them a little bit, believing sometimes that they do love me. Believing that I am loved and cared about even a fraction of the time, has drastically improved many aspects of my life.

That is what I have been told my entire life, that I am unworthy. Not worthy of love, care, attention, affection, accommodation or understanding. I wasn’t worthy of feeling safe, I wasn’t worthy of being loved or understood. I was always something to be fixed, to be made better. I had to change because I wasn’t good enough for the people around me. I have spent my whole life being told in large and small ways, by my “family”, friends, and strangers, that I need to be different. There is always something wrong with me and things that need to be fixed. Things that could be better about me.

I need to be changed and fixed and have extra things that are desirable cause if not then I have nothing. Every abuse, every trauma, every laugh, every hateful word, shaped my entire existence to the point where I have self hatred in spades. I do not have self love. Since I can not love myself, since I can’t walk by a mirror without wanting to break it, since I cry myself to sleep hating every fiber of my being. Since I have been a self-harmer for over half my life, and just now stopped self harming for over 9 months. (Which is probably the longest I have ever gone.) I am going to stop trying to love myself. I probably won’t give up forever . . . although I make no promises, because fuck unrealistic expectations!

For now though, it is a smarter tactic for my continued survival to stop trying to love myself. At this time in my life it is unrealistic and an impossible feat. I need to learn that other people can love me. I need to learn that I can be loved, that I can be cared about. I want to focus my energy on people who tell me they love me and why. I want to focus on their words, their actions which lift me up, which make me feel warm fuzzies. The words and actions that give me space butterflies. The things that make me feel like I could be myself, that I don’t have to hide. The things that feel so indescribably good.

I already listen to other people when it comes to a myriad of other things about me because my troll brain, my anxiety brain, and my self hatred will not let me see a clear image of myself. Everything I see about myself is distorted, and warped, and smudged, and dirty, and cloudy. Every part of me is covered in the hand prints of trauma, the smudges of self hatred and the scars of hash words from others as well as the ones my brain continually throws into my brain and life.

The loudest parts of my head are the self hatred, the parts of me that know that everyone else would just be better off if I wasn’t around. Those parts lie. I know that because I have many people who have told me how I am kind, nice, caring, compassionate. I am sweet, I love fully, I trust maybe too much, I care, I really fucking care about and I really fucking love other people. I try to help, I try to be safe, for other people because they are worth that. Since I can that is what I always try to give to others. Since I can’t give it to myself.

So since I give this to others, that means I think other people are worthy of these things. Being loved, without having to love themselves, heck loving people especially when they don’t love themselves. That is what I am going to let others do for me. I want to in small and big ways learn that others can and do love me. Really truly believe it one day. Instead of doubting everything and “what if”-ing myself into a spiral of sadness and depression so deep that climbing out takes days. Instead I am going to learn to hear these things and believe the people who say them too me.

I am loved I am worthy of love. I am worthy of love and affection, as who I am and not who others want me to be, or who I could become, or who I was. Who I am right now, right here, the me that has been crying all day, be it the self hatred that prompted this post, the breakdown I had this morning, the part of me that happy cried because I was told I was loved, loved for who I am, no in spite of these things that to me make me broken and unlovable. The things that people have told me that make me unlovable. Those things are here, and I am being loved because of them, because they are a part of me. All the parts of me make up the whole of me, and that whole of me. . . every single part; is loved, and can be loved. Not with ulterior motives, not with the intent of fixing me, or to mold me to something that is more suitable for whoever is giving the loving.

I am loved with no expectations, I am just loved, period. I have people in my life who just want me to be happy. Who have seen, and listened to my pain, and just want to give me good days, or a good few hours. I have people who love me so much, and care so much, that they really do just want what is best for me. It’s so fucking confusing and relieving and refreshing and confusing, wait I said that already. Right! It is confusing because I have been told my whole life that I have to love myself in order to love others and to be loved.

Well fuck all of that. I am going to let people love me, I am going to learn to let people love me better. I am going to learn and teach myself that I can be loved because of myself not despite of myself, or parts of me. I am going to learn and teach myself that I can be loved without loving myself. I don’t have to love me to be loved. I am going to learn and do better, like not arguing with them when they say they care of love me or find me sexy. I am not going to let my troll brain and my own self hatred push those who care about me away. I am going to learn to not add to my own isolation. I am going to keep on loving and being loved and I have high hopes for it being a huge positive direction for my life.

I am going to let this happen and let this be a positive change for me and for my life. I have spent too much of my life not being capable of letting other people love me. . . or at best having a REALLY fucking hard time with it. I want this to be like turning a new page. The chapter is over and we are moving on to the next one. This chapter is promising, and I am going to keep turning those pages and find out what happens next.

This should be a very good thing for me and for all of me. I am wondering what an impact this will have on everything from little to small things. Things like my relationships, things like my depression and various other things that can really get me angry and lash out. Trying to hurt people I care about which I HATE and I never want to do, but sometimes we do stuff even if we don’t want too. I don’t know if its parts of my trauma or maybe its a bipolar bit of me, maybe I just have anger issues even though I hate being angry. Maybe it is something entirely else. I need to be able to be loved without having to love myself. If that was a prerequisite for being loved that means that I have never been loved in my life.

That means that everything so far has not been anyone loving me cause I am incapable of being loved when I can not love myself. This is what we know for true if we are to believe the idioms above. Which we shouldn’t cause they are crap!

Why would I ever want to limit someone else in that capacity. Why would I ever want to tell someone who is hurting that they can not be loved because they don’t love themselves. That sounds like the worst kind of help or advice or solace I could give anyone. It is tragic and terrible to tell people who are hurting that they can not be who they are and be loved. Because sometimes for some of us part of ourselves is the fact that we do not love ourselves. Because that has been made hard if not impossible by the other people and the world around us. Do we never get to be loved because the world gave us a shit hand? I don’t think so. I certainly want that for no one I care about, which means that I too am worthy of love without loving myself.

I am worthy of love, and being loved even when I don’t love myself.
Especially when I don’t love myself.

You reading this, are worthy of love, even if you don’t love yourself.
Especially when you don’t love yourself.

Learning to let others love me.

Secret relationships and overt shaming.

One of my earliest memories before I started living with my grandparents was getting off the bus and walking to the apartment my mum and I were living in at the time. Everything is fine on the bus cause I am the “loser” who sat in the front of the bus. I liked Sitting by the front tire cause there was a bump in the metal underfoot and I could scrunch down and have my feet up on it and my knees resting into the seat in front of me. (Which no one was ever in so I wasn’t being rude). One thing I learned very early was to be quiet and small, so people would hopefully ignore me or not even know I existed.

I get off the bus, other kids do too, I don’t know them or maybe I do, and I have to start running home because they are throwing rocks at me. It was always a game to get home before they could. I sat at the front of the bus to get a head start, regardless I was slow and fat, and was an easy target for these things. Another one from the same time is playing on the playground. The apartment complex had a playground in the middle of the U shaped road that the apartments were on. It was nice, it was even nice if it was just me and one other kid. As soon as there were more tho, they would all turn on me and make fun of me and throw rocks at me. No one even at that young age (Before I was 7-8) could bear to be seen being friends with the fat kid.

Fast forward to early adulthood, I was on a really simple small get to know you date. We met up at Dennys, got coffee, you could still smoke there. We spend at least 2 hours just talking, eventually got food, spent at least another hour talking and then decided to get some deserts cause one can only drink so much coffee without needing some food. We order deserts, we keep talking. I am thinking wow this is awesome someone I can just talk with. My date excused themselves to the restroom, and I poked at my whatever I had ordered drank coffee, had a cig, then I realized it seemed like it had been a while. I finally started keeping track of time on my watch. About 20 minutes later the waitress had come back again to find me fighting back tears. She looked at the place across from me, and looked around scanning the place. I shrugged at her and said something about how I guess that was that. I just sat there finished my desert and smoked more, had another few cups of coffee. It had been well over an hour at this point, this person wasn’t coming back.

The waitress was really nice, maybe because I was a regular and maybe she just felt bad. He never came back, and I never heard from him ever again. The waitress actually paid for our food, because yeah he left and left me to pay for everything including his stuff. So I spent the money I was going to that eve and just tipped her. She even hugged me and said something refreshingly derogatory about men.

There is this constant need for me and my fatness and the fact that anyone could possibly find my company pleasing or even find me attractive to be squashed down, hidden, and made sure that no one ever finds out. Even friendships, just being the “when I have nothing else to do” friend, or the “friend I hangout with but only alone”, no one can see me hanging out with this person.

I am as fat now as I have ever been, and even back then I was still of such little value that I was this secret. The secret friend, the secret flirt, the secret fuck, the secret partner. I have always been a secret because I am not valuable enough to be a celebrated part of anyones life. It has been this way since some of my earliest memories and it’s been this way recently as well.

Even around “family” I was reminded how little worth I had and how overt people can be with that. There was a year where we did our annual Easter egg hunt (I was raised Roman Catholic). There was always snow, but that was half the fun. I followed my clues to find all the eggs, and then yay I found my basket. This one year in particular I remember very vividly. While my cousins were opening their baskets and oohing and awing, I was slowly poking around my basket. Everyone else was laughing and having a good time. I was not. My basket had some fruits and veggies in it, some like grapenut granola shit, there was other things too, but no candy. I couldn’t have candy cause I was fat, as a child they told me this by making my communal “family” time a lesson in humiliation. Also in my basket was some deodorant, and some like face wipes for some “beauty” reason or another.

I left everyone out on the deck, I set my basket inside and I went to my room to cry. Crying myself to sleep because of how much I hate myself, because of how others treat/ed me, because every moment of my life was a reminder that if only I was different and not fat, maybe I too could have got candy that year for easter. I remember my grandpa sneaking me a hot cross bun, which was always my favorite during this fucked up holiday. He understood, he was also policed about what he could and could not eat. The cookie jar was always full of cookies, but me and gramps weren’t supposed to eat them? We both routinely snuck around the house and stole cookies at night, because we weren’t allowed to eat them otherwise.

I used to think and probably still do on many levels that I should be lucky I even get to have any of this. I mean that is what society has told me since my earliest memories. Just be grateful for what you get. Be grateful you got raped, cause no one would fuck you normally. Be grateful people even notice you enough to throw rocks at you. Be grateful anyone would even spend time with you. Be grateful to be that secret 11pm call to hangout and watch a movie. Be grateful you even got anything for a holiday, be grateful you get to eat with the family even if your plate and portions are policed.

When it’s one on one, people are totally different. That has been my experience even through adulthood. So many intimate moments that I would never dare tell anyone because it was made clear no one would believe me anyway. So many quiet confessions of my positive attributes, of my prowess, my talents and skills. So many things that can only be said in the darkness in the quiet times that are just the two of us. No one can know how much that fuck rocked your world. Oh dear fuck, if someone finds out your going to be branded a “fatty fucker”. I mean you can tell them it was a pity fuck, that makes you feel better and makes you look oh so charitable to your mates.

This door does happen to swing both ways. Where I am embarrassed for people I care about. I have such little self worth right now that I feel like I should be the one making efforts and keeping myself a secret. I don’t feel like I am worth enough to be noticed and cared about. People should probably just pretend they don’t even know me because my value is so little; I am a negative, a detriment. If I am a secret, then maybe I don’t exist in this reality where everything hurts. Maybe it’s better to be a secret than to be hurt.

I really don’t know.

Secret relationships and overt shaming.

My future is pain.

What does my future hold?

For many people this is a question of awe and wonder. It’s exciting and even inspiring to think about the future. What could the future hold. What will my mark on the world be. What amazing things can I do with my time. Then there are things like bucket lists, dream vacations, a certain thing someone wants to do before they die, we could go on. I am sure you get the picture.

While I don’t know everything about my future, and it would be disingenuous to say as much, I do know this. I know that my future holds pain. My future will always hold pain and suffering. I get to live the rest of my life (barring any sudden drastic leaps in science, technology, and medicine) in pain. In daily pain. Not only physical but mental and emotional pain.

My future is pain. Of course as I said before I don’t know what the future holds, no one can predict the future or often times even have the faintest idea of what will and will not happen. However I do know that whatever happens to me, wherever life takes me however long that is, and no matter what gets done or doesn’t. My future will have pain in some aspect or another. Daily pain.

I have daily physical pain, from the Fibro/ME catch all diagnosis for you have pain and we don’t know why. To my more specific things like the degeneration in my knees, chondromalacia patella, patella femoral joint degeneration, osteoarthritis. Two knee surgeries later and being told I need new knees, but that I will have to wait until I am older. To the bursitis in my right shoulder from cane use because of my fucked up knees. My carpel tunnel which I have already had one surgery for, making my main hobbies and interests already harder. Using my arms and hands and having to take constant breaks while painting, or doing models, or even gaming. My dowagers hump, which means my spine and neck are just always fucked, no matter how good I slept, if I use my neck pillow. I do daily at home Physical Therapy because that is all I can do to give my neck/shoulders/spine some relief and the change at not getting so tense and bound up that my whole day is rolling with a disadvantage.

To the pain that is my entire body, revolting at the fact we are still existing. Just every single joint in my entire body hurting, pulsing with pain or even just screaming at me while I am doing literally nothing. A bumped arm or toe that can send me into bed for 3 hours in excruciating pain. If not from the pain from the bump/wound, then the crying and bawling that happens because the pain in so intense for however long, then I have to lie down anyway because I have a migraine. The fact that water from a shower head hurts like hundreds of tiny stabs and punches all over me. I also have nerve pain and damage on the right side of my body from having Shingles outbreaks at least 6 or 7 times within a few years, and another more recently. Nerve pain is really fun like electric shocks and a very stingy deep pain that is miserable and doesn’t take well to anything I have tried.

Pain also gives me amazing nausea, so I am either nauseated because of body pains, or maybe because I haven’t eaten in so long because of being nauseated, or maybe I am nauseated because of eating. Then when I do eat I often get more pain because of eating. I have a sliding hiatal hernia, and refractory GERD. I also already have esophageal damage, not only from being a former bulimic but also because it took a full year of tests and procedures to find out what was making me get sick and vomit almost every single day for multiple years. IBS is also super fun and causes me all kinds of pain and discomfort, which also ties into my anxiety, since a LOT of people with anxiety disorders also have IBS.

My own disabilities make me more disabled in so many cases. How hecking effed is that?

I also have daily emotional and mental pain. The anxiety alone, making me tense adding to my physical pain. The anxiety is about anything, and everything. The bouts of agoraphobia that cause me more stress, mental pain and anguish even just thinking about leaving my house. I have nightmares at least half of the days of the week. This adds more stress, anxiety, maybe even triggers my PTSD. All of this adding more to my mental state, emotional pain and then all making my physical pain worse. It’s this constant swirling mass of things that keep feeding each other. Physical pain adding to my depression, the depression making me less likely to do things I enjoy which adds to not only making the depression worse but my pain as well.

PTSD is it’s own beast as well with the fact that flashback can also trigger body memories and pains associated with that. Or even just the stress of the nightmares, flashbacks, the intrusive thoughts which make me tense up. I deal with muscle spasms on the daily as well be it from pain, tension, stress, or just more body weirdness that doesn’t have a name and probably just gets lumped into my Fibro Dx. Which doctors have told me is a catch all for “you have any number of these symptoms and widespread pain and we have no idea why”.

Constant anxiety over how much I am being a burden to everyone I care about. Constant anxiety about the fact I have been told I talk too much about my disabilities. Can’t I just be happy? Can’t I just not talk about things that affect my daily life. The anxiety about finding new doctors and trying to access new pain treatments, or new options in general. Trying to seek out help for my bodily pain which adds to my anxiety more because I have to find new doctors, make appointments, do that first meeting. Bring all my medical history over and hope they even glance at it rather than just at me. Then these things just add to my depression more when appointments with doctors go terribly, either because they can’t help me or because of the more sinister shaming that they love to do so much. Or maybe another test is “normal” and we are back to square one.

Another doctor dismissing me with “go diet and exercise”. Another addition to my daily shame for existing as a disabled person, for existing while fat. Another addition to my emotional pain, the distress, the hopelessness, my depression, which in turn swirls and adds to everything else. Knowing that my future is pain, and will contain pain is hard. It is hard to keep wanting to go when I know this for a fact will a part of my daily life. Sure I don’t know what else my life will hold, but I do know it will be all through this lens of pain. A large spiky bubble that is my constant companion. Ouch, pain here, ouch pangs of sadness here, fuck I just got triggered, ouch more emotional pain, more crying, crap now I have a migraine. A cycle that is not always the same, but is constant none the less.

Every single day of the rest of my life will be in pain, and I don’t know how I feel about that. It makes living hard, it makes gaining inertia hard, makes having fun or even a “not shit day” hard. It makes everything harder and I am tired, and I want a break.

My future is pain.

Preferences and biases.

Preferences are a vary wide topic, to the most begin of things like what your favorite cereal is, or how you take your coffee, but also spans things like who you hire, choose to be friends with, who you pursue relationships with. There is a point in which “preferences” are not actually preferences and really just deeply ingrained biases. Preferences bloom into bias and prejudices when it starts concerning people.

Your “preference” to date only skinny people, is biased. Your “preferences” for abled people are biased. I am fat and disabled and nothing is going to change that. The society around me, my friends “preferences”, they all show me that I will never be desired or loved. I don’t get to be that person because I am not what is “preferred”. I see you all every time I post big femmes, big bodies, a few likes. Same when other people post about fat bodies, and on top of that there is so much hate, so much vitriol and harm being spewed at people for just existing while fat. The love for them seems so small and few and far between. When I or someone else posts that very skinny traditionally pretty person, everyone screams and squees about how adorable, sexy, hot omg wtf. I see you.

I am just cute. I will never be anything more than “cute” It’s a nice way to tell me I am worthless, to tell me if only I was different then I could be loved more. “You have a cute face” that is something I have heard throughout the entirety of my fat life. My face is all that has worth because the rest of me is so disgusting and repulsive. I don’t get to be sexy to be loved, to even be called gorgeous or sexy or maybe even that I turn someone on, because I don’t.

Being disabled and fat? Kiss whatever sex life you wanted goodbye. I am broken and don’t work right and who wants to make efforts accommodating people just to fuck them, when you can pick up a perfectly abled fuck somewhere else. It’s exhausting. to see your friends, your loved ones, people you crush on just only ever want something you will never be. Maybe someone out there will dig me, I probably will never meet them though. There are of course people who are “into” certain things, but sorry I am not here for your fetish fuck. I deserve real love and real relationships with people who care about me, for who I am, and not in a gross fetishizing me kinda way.

I am tired of hating myself every day only to have it constantly confirmed that I should keep hating myself and that I should keep trying to become something I never can be, or in reality that I should just give up. Giving up is just better, having no hope, no expectations, no wants for anything, it makes it easier to deal with the fact that no one will ever love me and find me attractive. The option to give up and never have wants or needs is also a very real thing thrown at me often.

Even the most socially aware people do this, they can be all about fat positivity, self love, body diversity, they can care about disabled people, they know and parrot things we say. However at the end of the day, they have their “preferences” which are just fucking biases and bullshit.

It’s fine to have preferences, obviously. However maybe think about those “preferences” and do some deep inner sifting. You know you have biases and society pushes those on everyone all the time. Maybe tho you could think about that fact, examine your preferences and find your biases. Ask yourself why you are feeling this way, maybe you could even start to change these things.

I am only speaking from my own experiences but am sure other people have written about theirs as well, whether it’s people being biased against them for being POC, or because of being trans, there are a whole host of “preferences” people hold that are rooted in bias and prejudice and it’s disgusting. Unlearn some shit, examine yourself and your biases and prejudices. Be better, do better, live better, love better.

Preferences and biases.

The Necessity of Happiness.

There are just some things in life, especially in our frail human lives that are just necessary, like air food, water, shelter, clothing. Other things are also very critical to survival, real and perceived safety, relationships with other people, happiness, and human interaction.

Happiness is absolutely a necessity. I know this because as someone who deals with the lows of depression, social anxiety, generalized anxiety, chronic pain, and chronic illness (both mental and physical), I need happiness. I need to feel that spark of light. Sometimes it goes out again, but the warmth stays a while, it lingers. Sometimes that spark of light ignites a fire within you – a nice soft warm fire, or a big hot raging one. No matter which, that warmth and that happiness can pull you out of some dark places. Or at least it has for me.

As someone that struggles with suicidal ideation and urges to self harm, happiness is so important. Feeling cared about and loved even when I can’t love myself, or even bear to be myself, to exist; is necessary to not only my mental health and physical well-being but also to my continued survival. Especially when I can’t love myself, having someone else care is so fucking important.

I am happy. I feel genuinely happy, and it feels great. It feels old but familiar like riding a bike. This is just good. “Dying is easy; Living is harder.” Existing is hard, the bad pain days are hard. The loneliness is hard, the self hatred is hard. I have done a lot of hard work to get to where I am. I have fought every step of my journey. I am proud to be here where I am now – who I am now. Sure I have self hate, societal pressures, unreasonable expectations thrust upon me, but fuck I am happy.

Right now in this moment, I am happy and it feels awesome. When I have been stewing in darkness and pain for so long, this feels like surfacing for air, after swimming for so long to reach the top. You are tired, exhausted, wanting to give up, and you take that gasp of air and then fall back down. You push back up, again and again, trying to gain what strength you can from resurfacing. Then a hand, and a person, and a face, appear and help you up. You can rest a while. Fuck, I am tired.

So tired of fighting to exist every day. So tired of hating myself, of wishing I weren’t alive. Sometimes I am in so much physical pain that I rather wished I was dead. Death can’t hurt ‘cause you’re gone. Like to be in that dark of a place, even for a short while. Is very fucking hard, physically, emotionally, and mentally. I feel pretty fucked up afterwards. I am tired and I feel heavy, the thoughts of before of wishing I was dead than be in pain any longer, they are heavy. They linger and twist what is going on around me.

In this moment though. I am happy. Even when the darkness comes, as it will again, as it always does, I know that these moments happen. That there is happiness, there is love, there are reasons to keep going. That spark of light is one of those reasons. That touch of something better keeps me going. Keeps me fighting as it has for so long. As it hopefully will until I am taken by Death, whom I am really hoping is the Neil Gaiman ‘Sandman’ Version. They would be rad to chill with.

Thank you for these moments, thank you for caring. Thank you for being consistent, for being here, on the good days and the bad. Thank you for putting up with me, on my bad days and the good. Thank you for telling me you won’t give up on me or leave. More importantly thank you for showing that, you are still here. I am still here. Thank you for being yourself, every day and in every way.

I am happy. In this moment there is light. I am eternally grateful for these moments. I don’t think I will ever get to repay you or anyone for them, but I will sure try to pay it forward, even if not to them to someone. To as many people as possible. No one deserves to feel alone, unwanted, unloved. Humans need happiness, we need that light, otherwise things like depression and loneliness rob us of our lives. Quite literally as well as figuratively.

I have had so many days that were not a life worth living. Having to struggle to have meaning my life, having to acknowledge the parts of life that make things this hard, so I can work on them, so I can get past them. So I can heal. So I can live, and love and be me. The real me all the time. Not the persons broken and hurt, robbed of so much. I can give us all what we need. We just have to keep fighting. I know the bad days seem to always outnumber the good ones or even mediocre days. However they are still there and they are so perfect, powerful, and wonderful.

So fucking powerful. You give me power, power that has been taken from me so many times. I am allowed to be myself and be cared about and maybe even loved. Not in spite of myself, but because of myself. Who I am matters, who we are matters. I matter. As hard as it is for me to believe, I would never call you a liar, which means I matter. I have worth, I am cared about. This gift, this happiness is so powerful and wonderful and was so needed and I didn’t even know.

I didn’t realize until 2017 at 28 years old that happiness is kind of a fucking integral part of life and something that everyone needs. Talk about a revelation, I hope this very huge thing makes a difference and makes the fighting easier. I will keep fighting to live, to exist, to care – enthusiastically, loudly, and unashamed.

I only hope I can give you a sliver of what you have given me, I feel like the luckiest person on the earth. To go from feeling so small that you rather wished you would disappear, to feeling this overwhelming warmth and happiness that I just want to share with everyone. People don’t just deserve happiness, we need it to live, to thrive, and to make it. Some of us more than others.

Thank you. My life and who I am will be forever changed by what an amazing person you are.

The Necessity of Happiness.

An open letter to a doctor.

TW: fatshaming, eating disorders, talk of suicidal ideation, self harm,

This is really a specific letter to a specific doctor but can apply to any doctor out there.

Hello “Dr.”
(I put that in quotes because the validity of you being able to practice medicine is under question.)

You probably don’t remember me, but I remember you. I remember every single word of that visit. Every unwanted touch as well. I was just another fat person coming in with stomach issues. My painfully filled out history forms meant nothing to you. Even though every single check box and line of writing physically hurt me to do. I did it anyway. I like to be thorough. I have a complicated medical history and a lot of issues. I was doing my job.

You however didn’t do yours. Your nurse just looked at me a fat person with a cane, hobbling slowly back to the room. Such a pity being so fat. Oh your blood pressure is high the nurse said. Yes I have anxiety and I am here alone, of course it’s going to be high. They just look at me and know already my blood pressure is high because I am fat and eat badly. Obviously.

Then you walked in after sitting for another 10-15 minutes. After all the previous waiting for my 3:00 appointment and it’s now 3:30 and you waltz in. You the doctor tell me that the test I just had done, an esophagram showed nothing and I certainly don’t have a hiatial hernia. You asked about my cane and I saw you flip through my history sheets, you asked about my knee surgery of which I had to repeat I have had two already.

You then had the gall to ask me “Have you thought about diet and exercise?”. Excuse-what-me? “Are you fucking kidding me?” is what I am screaming in my head. I also mention my medications (weight gain side effects), How I hadn’t been cleared for anything but my at home PT isometrics and stuff. I told you about having PCOS (Poly-Cystic Ovarian Syndrome). None of this matters. You give me a pamphlet about healthy eating and exercise.

You tell me you couldn’t even do a surgery on me cause it’s very invasive and “people with your such high BMI have high morbidity rates.” You literally told me a surgery would probably kill me cause I am fat. Oh BTW, I now know that most of those surgeries are done laparoscopically.

Then you ask me to lie down so you can look at my stomach. Why? I am not sure why. Actually but I am already on the verge of crying, (I have PTSD as well) so someone just said do something you do it or bad things happen. That is the mode I was in. I learned to never go to an appointment alone again that day. I can NEVER GO ALONE. I lied down on the fucking table thing.You don’t tell me anything about what you are going to do you just do it. You have fucking terrible bedside manner I note later after I am done screaming inside my head. My history says I have mental health issues, if you had cared to read it.

Lifting up my shirt, pulling down my skirt poking at me in places I didn’t even fucking agree to in the first place. I am frozen. That is what happens. Freeze mode with PTSD flashbacks. You comment more about my weight, pull my skirt back up and my shirt down. Which I could have fucking done myself thank you very much. You just send me on my way. I practically run out the door as fast as a person can with a cane and tears in their eyes. I slam all the doors on the way out both opening and closing them. I don’t check out with your receptionist.

I am done. I get to my car in the handicapped parking spot. I am bawling so hard I can’t even speak as I am trying to call my therapist. She talks to me for over half an hour while I am still in my car in the parking lot. Crying, hiccuping, gasping for air, wanting nothing more than to just be dead. But no she calms me down enough that I am able to drive. She gives me a mission to go to Barnes & Noble so I can “do something nice for myself”. Tells me it’s not my fault, that I am right to be angry and sad.

I go to B&N I assumedly buy a book because that always makes me feel better. I can’t even remember the drive home other than pulling over at least once to clean my glasses because crying that hard and much is a messy business.

I find out the next day getting a call from my GP’s (General Practitioner) office. They are letting me know the results for my esophagram have come in and it’s very important I see “Dr.” Fuckface who I was talking about above. I try to as calmly as possible tell him I am not mad at him but that I already saw that “Dr.” and then went on to explain the fat shaming and awful, horrendous time I just had with him yesterday. To the guys credit he was furiously typing the entire time I was speaking. He also said he was sorry and that it was uncalled for and he would get a note back to my GP asap.

I did get to talk to a triage nurse who works with my GP and she spent over 30 minutes on the phone with me outlining a bunch of stuff to do and try. It turns out I do have a fairly large sliding hiatial hernia, and I also have a large amount of esophageal damage. I am being treated well with my GP and tips from one of the best nurses ever. I haven’t been sick in almost two months. Which is actually a record for me going back years. That is how long I had been dealing with almost daily vomiting. I even went off all my psych meds for a year because I thought “too many meds” were making me get sick all the time.

I actually felt really great that year off those psych meds. My GP even noted how well I was doing that year, while we were trying to deal with all this other stuff. However I am back on an anti-depressant, something for anxiety and my Prazosin. Thank you “Dr.” FF. I am now so depressed because of your fat shaming bullshit, that I not only am struggling back with my ED being active (very active), but also dealing with suicidal ideation. My depression is one of the lowest it has been in years. I have been wanting to as well as actually self harming.

If you are a doctor know that the fat person you think is so lazy and awful also has feelings. We might have so much going on that every day is a struggle to survive. You do not get to kill me. As hard as it is I have to keep living and exist just to piss you fuckers off. You don’t know my story and maybe you should. Maybe you should have done your job “Dr.” maybe you could have actually read my history or even talked to my GP after the assessment. You flat out lied about my test results, you did things without my express permission, you shamed me into near oblivion.

This letter is me crawling out and trying to feel the sun once more. It’s so bright and painful but I am tired of darkness. For now I need to scream if be for someone to hear me. This is my screaming.

I have feelings and they do matter.
I matter.

An open letter to a doctor.