• Diaries,  essays

    You might be overlooking sources of cope close at hand

    When I was almost 30, I spent a hundred hours in a mental hospital on suicide watch, though I wasn’t suicidal. I had been switched to a new antidepressant by my general practitioner. I had a strongly negative reaction, flooded by serotonin, and could feel myself going crazy every time I took it. One time I took it and had a meltdown. I went to the hospital trying to relay what was wrong with me, but I couldn’t do it effectively, and I ended up on suicide watch with weird markers on my chart that nobody else had.

    I was fine once I came off that antidepressant. Even so, they gave me strong, strong sedatives in the hospital and I remember nodding off sitting up at random times. This hospital has since been condemned; it was sinking while I was there. With nothing else to do, I organized activities for the bored younger people in the ward. The cafeteria served great food so I obsessed about eating as much as possible while there. There was plenty of time to read books. I herded young women around because we were not in a segregated ward and old men sexually harassed them. I only got to see the sunlight when I was walked outside in a group by a student therapist. I think we went outside once while I was there.

    Basically it was miserable, but I made the best of it, and aside from the enormous trauma I did learn things.

    During that one time we sat outside, I think we had the most productive (for me) group therapy session.

    Group therapy is my favorite. Other humans are so compassionate in this setting, when we are vulnerable about the things that hurt us most deeply. I shared some of the thoughts I hadn’t been sharing with anyone, and the kindness of others really helped me see that I was having some basic issues of rationality.

    Primarily: Why hadn’t anyone in my family known something was increasingly wrong with me?

    The medication alone was not the only problem. I was swallowing poison-bombs of stress constantly, to the point where I did pop a massively bleeding ulcer the prior year. I internalized everything in my body. I was hurting myself without ever hurting myself, just by turning myself into this crazy, bolted-down, feverish ball of I CAN’T COPE. When I did cope, it was maladaptive, like controlling my diet so my body shrunk to its smallest size ever, drinking way too much alcohol, and other things you expect an almost-30 femme to do to herself. I never felt good. Ever. I could never relax.

    But I had a genuinely loving family standing around me who really didn’t know the severity of the problem. They saw me hiding myself away to over-work, but I didn’t have any way to explain what was going on. I didn’t know. I was locked up.

    I had to learn radical new ways to cope in order to change into the person I am now.

    These days, I am happy and relaxed and only productive in ways that feel constructive.

    The changes were radical in effect, but they were super duper easy in practice. It turns out that coping well is something that fills up your cup and makes everything better, and you shouldn’t run away from it into the arms of toxicity (or just self-destruct quietly on your own).

    My four radical coping mechanisms:

    1. Talking to loved ones
    2. Conscious time with loved ones
    3. Food (ideally eaten/prepared with loved ones)
    4. Seek perspective on the role of personal responsibility in a hierarchical world

    ~

    Talking to loved ones kind of has to be the first step. It means saying all the messy stuff, even the hurtful things, the stuff that sounds bad no matter how you put it. It means vulnerability.

    This isn’t safe with everyone you know. Your family may not be your loved ones. If you’re already resisting the natural human impulse to talk to your loved ones, you’ve probably been exposed to derision when you were vulnerable at *some* point.

    But the wonderful thing is that *most* people *are* safe to be vulnerable with. Yes, I’m including random strangers here. Most humans are kind in response to vulnerability. It’s a human quality. If you feel like everyone is going to judge you, you’re just wrong! The world is not made up entirely of people who are derisive and cruel. That is an experience you had with some particular folks, and I’m really sorry.

    If “people will usually be nice to you” doesn’t ring true, consider: Humans form social groups (families, cliques, whatever) that have develop personalities unto themselves. A social group in itself may foster toxicity. And it may foster toxicity *selectively*. People perceived as lower in the social hierarchy of this group will be the subject of abuse from people higher in the social hierarchy as a bonding mechanism. If you’ve been picked as a punching bag by a group, they might even be good people to each other, or to others outside the group, but uniformly awful to you. It feels like The Whole World is awful. That’s not the case. You’ve been chosen as a punching bag. Your role will be different in different social units.

    You can find people to treat you kindly anywhere, as long as you don’t wait around expecting toxic people you know to change.

    Talk with loved ones.

    “I don’t want to be a burden,” sayeth your mind.

    Doesn’t it feel good when you help people work through things? People will feel good helping you too. Give them the opportunity.

    You have to try to say the things that are hardest to say. Whatever is stuck deep in there, get it out. Don’t hold any grudges. You can’t fix what you won’t address. Say things quickly, when they come to mind, so you’re not building up pressure to explode everything out. State your intentions with your loved ones clearly: “I feel really embarrassed talking about this but I need help because I’m too scared to do xyz.”

    Solutions can happen quicker than you think, if you don’t simmer on stuff. And for the things that can’t be solved, or don’t need it, loved ones can then be a big emotional hug of validation.

    For me, my loved ones are my spouse and sibling foremost. But I really don’t stop there with expressing my emotions. I’m a whole fountain of it. The more I talk openly about what I’m dealing with, the more I find other people I’m dealing with, and they become loved ones (at least on this subject).

    If people react negatively to you, they’re not your people. Move on. It doesn’t reflect on you.

    Therapy actually can fill in a lot of this, and some folks do need therapists for specific causes, but you can get a lotta emotional work done just in your community like this because it’s so natural to humans. Before therapists, we had hair dressers, neighbors on an adjoining stoop, the other guy sharpening spear heads beside the fire. Use your community.

    (FWIW, I’m under the care of a psychiatrist and on multiple psychiatric meds. I’m so happy I did many many years of therapy and plan to return. I absolutely believe in handling the medical side of things in a medical way. I just don’t talk about it much here because it’s not always very accessible to folks.)

    ~

    Conscious time with loved ones actually isn’t the same as talking. Think of it this way: We talk shit out the way that we demolish rooms of a house. Then we spend time with people to sweep it all away and clear the space.

    I used my family as a way to get away from life. I gave them my kids and pets and house and said, “Take care of this while I have my bildung,” and then I traveled alone. Does that sound like a healthful use of family? Maybe sometimes, honestly. But not exclusively.

    If you’re with your family and you spend the whole time visiting with internet friends via your phone, are you actually with your family?

    Do stuff with your loved ones. Bonus points if you get casual physical contact. Make stuff, cook things, play games. Engage with them in a way that is just fun and doesn’t involve any kind of emotional burden.

    Having a cleaner mind and a happy heart makes room for so much abundance. It’s just as important to create happiness as it is to process unhappiness.

    Anxiety, grief, stress, et al can also steal us away from perfectly pleasant moments. I have some really nice memories surrounding funerals because we were sad, but it was still nice to just be together. Making someone laugh with a remark can be your cope when the greater context sucks. Be in your nice moment, whatever the context.

    ~

    Having food with loved ones is a really important one that I neglected personally. I had come to see food foremost as a medical thing. I counted my macronutrients to make sure I had the ratio where I wanted, and I ate whatever I was eating — always prepared separately from the family.

    Although my food problems were a thing unto myself, this can also develop over time if food has to be functional for another reason. I think diabetics can really fall into seeing food as medical sometimes. A method of delivering the correct amount of carbohydrates to one’s body. It’s true but not *entirely* so.

    I would have thought of food as a coping method derisively. Maybe you would think of food as a coping method sadly, like, “I can’t eat for fun because xyz food intolerance/concern.”

    But I want to put forth the idea that food should be cope and social bonding *first*. It is so important to us because of its role in fueling our bodies, but humans have always oriented their cultures around eating in a more meaningful way. Whether it’s coming together for feast holidays or regularly doing food preparation in a group, food is really a whole activity that can refill your cup…if you let it.

    The simple act of eating whatever else my family is eating is a bonding thing. We are sharing a culture. It’s healing.

    Let’s say that you can’t eat with loved ones, though. I’m gonna tell you that’s even better. You’ve never met a method of cope like eating distraction-free. Full attention on a balanced meal, tasting every bite, is an amazing cup-refiller. It doesn’t necessarily have to be gourmet food. Consider what you’re eating. What does it remind you of? Can something simple like french fries from the burger place transport you to the nicest memory of your adolescence, every time you eat them?

    The taste can be good, the textures, the memories, the peace and solitude. Try putting everything away and really eating. For reals, it’s awesome.

    ~

    Getting perspective on personal responsibility is such a difficult one, but I really needed it.

    Anxiety can make people feel like they need to control things so that bad outcomes don’t happen. The not-so-secret truth is that we don’t control things. Like, almost nothing.

    I know that’s a horrible thought, but isn’t it a little liberating, too? Stuff happens to us. Shitty stuff happens to us. We often couldn’t have done anything to prevent it.

    Something shitty we’re all living with is a society that isn’t designed for everyone. In fact, it’s intended to enrich an increasingly narrow portion of “everyone.” It’s never been a secret that governments suck. Hippies knew what was going on. You’ve always seen folks going Walden off the grid to try to escape it, it’s so shitty.

    There are better and worse ways to cope with the shitty uncontrollability of reality, but one of the better ways is to simply accept it *is*. So much of what is stressing you out isn’t your fault, at all. Period.

    A lot of things you are holding yourself responsible for are simply not your fault, and a lot of your future’s path isn’t up to you.

    On this thought, some idealogies are better than others for fostering a pro-cope environment. If you find yourself getting caught up in any sort of idealogy that preys on your anxiety and an outsized sense of personal accountability about something systemic, the long-term impact is going to be negative more than positive.

    Capitalism likes you to think that bootstrapping is the moral ideal; fad fitness trends want you to think you can willpower your way through having a human body; radical politics wants you to think the pains of living as the proletariat under the bourgeoisie are your fault. This stuff really doesn’t serve you personally. Even if you are someone benefited by inequity — you are the socially preferred race, gender, religion, whatever — the environment fostered by haves and have-nots can leave you lingering in terror of losing your status and helps you cultivate a personality of superiority over your fellow human.

    Like, it’s just not good for you, my dude. You gotta let go of all that stuff. Take a quick breath in and let it out slow and blow out all your sense of responsibility for the huge systemic games humans think they’re playing. The games are playing the humans. You can’t opt out entirely, but you can remind yourself of your size.

    You’re just a person. One person, like anybody else. Exactly the same. You are not great or terrible. You are a person. Isn’t that kind of a relief? You might be a person having a shit life. It’s not your fault. You might have even done some shitty things. Everyone does shitty things. You’re normal. Let it go. <3

    Sweep away the junk and make room for better things to grow in the future.

    ~

    There are many other ways of coping that I’ve found helpful, and which you’ll hear suggested elsewhere. Letter writing, for instance. Journaling. Gardening. Crochet. Obviously I enjoy all of these things too. But personally, I found I couldn’t make use of those things as coping methods reliably until I took care of the big ones above. I had to reorganize my life into something where I fell into the embrace of my loved ones more easily before anything else really took root.

    Whatever coping methods you use, just make sure they serve *you*. You’ll know it’s healthy when it helps connect you to more humans and doesn’t isolate you. It’s also good when it helps you express yourself and process everything you’re going through.

    Resist the allure of coping methods that “turn off” your feelings regularly, isolate you, or cause any kind of damage to yourself or community. I am a huge fan of destructive coping, so I get the idea might be offensive, but but trust me on this one. You don’t have to feel like this.

  • Diaries,  writing

    Progressing on Dwarrow stuff for ATTBTM

    I spent a while yesterday working on nachīga, the language the Dwarrow use in my gothic fantasy novel. *Most* the work this new draft of the novel requires is actually on the Dwarrow, not the Àlvare, who are actually quite well developed.

    (I call dwarves Dwarrow for two reasons: Tolkien liked calling them Dwarrow, and also because “dwarf” means a lot of different things in English, including certain species of animals and a human skeletal disorder. Differentiating concepts linguistically should be done thoughtfully in fantasy, imo.)

    There’s so much work done on my Dwarrow that it’s easy for me to forget I’m missing some significant pieces. The Dwarrow were the first part of worldbuilding I did on this book, in fact. I wrote out this manifesto for the idea of how a society consciously aware of corruption and hierarchy might structure itself to prevent these things from growing.

    And that came about from thinking about Dwarf Fortress honestly – because in worldbuilding games, we take it for granted that we (the player/king/god) must provide every life form in our societies with food, housing, and medicine. But this is not the case in America and we find the idea revolting. We tell cultural stories about how unhoused people or those who are visibly ill are at fault for these qualities, villainizing the disfigured rather than the beautiful housed rulers who decided it’s okay some humans live this way.

    So I’ve got this weird manifesto about the society, I have maps, I have a lot of functional questions answered (levels of technology? applications of it? sanitation? fantasy mass transit?). But I actually didn’t do one of the most important parts of worldbuilding, which is the language itself for nachÄ«ga!

    It wasn’t essential to understand nachÄ«ga in the first draft. I wanted time spent with the elves to feel alienating, hostile, and foreign, so I integrated a lot of conlang words initially in order to distance readers from these hoity-toity fair folk. Meanwhile, Dwarrow were supposed to feel like a homecoming: wrapped in a big blanket of warm acceptance. I used common names for things to make it easier to follow and feel more familiar.

    A long time ago, years now, I created the Àlvare language-first. Every value I wanted for my elves, I put into the language. Being excessively elaborate. Deliberately obscure. Musical. Information-dense. Curated. So you can see why it would then feel weird coming “backwards” for my Dwarrow to finally arrive at the point where I need to design a language reflecting values/etc that have been elaborated on elsewhere. It’s a distillation rather than a foundation.

    Lots of fun getting into nachÄ«ga, though. Once I’ve determined rules for phonology and grammar and stuff, I use a software called Vulgarlang to produce my vocabulary. I go from “scratching my head over rules and IPA symbols” to “1500 vocabulary words in the dictionary” in a few minutes. It’s *really* satisfying.

    Since I spent so much time doing thoughtful worldbuilding stuff yesterday, I think today I should write cartoon dragon p0rn.

  • Diaries,  facebook,  social media crossposts

    sara is a [redacted] woman

    You know, I always had a really weird relationship with gender. I am assigned female at birth; this matches my self-image (mostly) and how I present to the world (nowadays), but the lattermost thing was…not always the case.

    My mom is a progressive hippie who likes repairing things and grew up adjacent to ranching, so even though she was like, Princess Diana-beautiful in the 80s/early 90s, and *hella* fashionable, she did not enforce any gender roles on her kids. She let us do whatever. We got Barbies and Hot Wheels in equal measure. In a family without social life, I was basically raised agender. (I consider this to be a gift.)

    Self-awareness did not spontaneously develop. For a couple years as a teenager, I was persistently identified as a boy by others because I cut my hair short and wore t-shirts/jeans. Everyone actually thought I looked like Harry Potter. I vividly recall one old man stopping me in a supermarket to call me Harry Potter. I “felt” I was a girl, more like Kaylee on Firefly, and I HATED THIS PERCEPTION.

    But then I also spent a long time wondering like, could I be a guy? There are people like me who are guys. Everyone keeps telling me I’m a guy. (I was not sporty enough to ever be called a tomboy.) It would also explain why all these straight boys at school did *not* want anything to do with me. Maybe I was a gay guy barking up the wrong trees? I sat with this idea for a long long time but it just didn’t fit.

    My interests are/were more masculine, too. I was consistently the only girl in classes about computers and construction technology and GIS when GIS was new. Boys were *never* attracted to me, even though I was *desperately* attracted to boys (lol). (Funnily, my most serious relationship at the time was with a girl, so…) My longest real job was working in a data center, partially in a facilities capacity.

    When I became old enough to buy clothes, I didn’t really know how girls dressed, so I still didn’t know how to gender myself the way I wanted. I had no idea how to make people receive me as a woman. I pieced together an idea of what women are supposed to be like from 00s media and that went as well as you’d expect.

    Oh, and somehow I didn’t catch on from this that I was autistic until (checks watch) like last year, at 30-something years old. You’d think that someone who has no ability to form a self-image, no capacity for regulating one’s looks in regards to the social interface of gender, and a strong preference for extremely specific technical classes might realize what’s actually going on here.

    Anyway, I had to learn to become a woman, even though I’m afab and indeed (mostly) female. Nowadays I have absorbed transient beauty standards, trained myself in a lot of feminine affectations, and perform femininity regularly enough that I haven’t been identified as male in ages. (Getting GIANT BOOBS from 7 consecutive years of pregnancy/breastfeeding is surely a factor.) I have enjoyed being uniformly subjected to misogyny for a while and that’s uh…validating?

    But I actually *do* have a lot of traits that are very masculine, and I still refer to myself as a guy/man/king/etc probably more often than I refer to myself in the feminine. Even I don’t really know where the boundaries are on that. Just, in some contexts, I am a guy. I don’t know! Is it because I grew up with super agender socialization? Or I spent enough time being socially received and regarded as a boy that I just adopted some boy programming, since gender’s a social construct?

    Can you even keep up with this? I can’t. lol

    What I’m circling toward is that I think the nonbinary identity that mostly Gen Z uses is actually a relief.

    It’s a relief because my eldest is nonbinary, pretty much agender, and I truly did not internalize what that meant until my fetus externalized it. And it’s so natural to my child that I can simply relax and exist as myself around them. If I call myself a guy, a king, they don’t even bat an eye. I am Mommy, King of the Family, Just Some Guy, who birthed whole humans out her womb. I don’t have to perform any gender around my family. Turns out I am a very nurturing sweet husband who loves cute things. I want the public to receive me as a woman. It’s okay that all the pieces don’t make sense.

    Man/woman as a binary just doesn’t have to be a THING, if you don’t let it. fwiw, if you marry someone who’s bisexual, you can have any gender presentation and he’ll think you’re hot. that’s cool.

    (in case anyone is wondering – Please continue calling me she/her, but I also accept they/them or any neopronouns you like. No he/him unless we’re doing something sexy. As far as most anyone is concerned, I am fine being grouped broadly with women, but like…Stevia-sweetened woman. Diet Girl, with some artificial boy flavors.)
    (this isn’t news, i’m not coming out, i’m just musing because it’s related to something else I’m writing)

    ~

    The post above is cross-posted from Facebook. One remark I have to add, now having watched Barbie. I always think I’m a woman until I see what society thinks a woman is. Just like, whatever gender Margot Robbie and Scarlett Johansson and Julia Roberts are, I’m not that. I thought I was a woman. Society has consistently begged to differ.

  • Diaries

    A retrospective on Sara’s 2023 artwork

    We approach the end of the calendar year, which gets me feeling reflective. It’s been a weird couple of years here, otherwise unrepresentative of how I’ve spent my adulthood, but I think I’ve been consistently the happiest-ever. I’ve always been stressed out as hell and just didn’t know how to…stop stressing.

    It’s not that I’m worry-free. I’m just not dogged by the persistent dread I recall from pretty much always.

    I became an adult just in time for the recession of ’09; my first and only real job spent several years declining in pay as I watched my hours chopped and the sword of Damocles getting wobblier. By the time I left real employment, I had a year-old baby, and I tumbled screaming into parenthood while supporting the family off artistic self-employment, which made me a *total* mess. Successive near-death medical incidents just totally screwed me up seventeen ways to Saturday. Having never paused to grow up, I struggled real hard.

    The last few years leading up to the 2020 pandemic were stuffed with therapy and other psychiatric care, which is good, because that was when I finally, truly, fully burned out and couldn’t do anything.

    2020 was rock-bottom misery, loss of identity, pitch black.

    In 2021, I was uncertain but waking up and growing up.

    In 2022, I was looking around to figure out where I landed.

    In 2023, I’ve just been making art, basically. All art, all the time, constructing something expressive out of everything else.

    I’m not sure where I’ll be in 2024, but I’ll be lucky if next year looks anything like this one. I feel like I’m building momentum toward something. I just don’t know what.

    ~

    Captain Pegi comics marked my months-long reinvigorated obsession with Star Trek. I binged the 90s shows in 2020, and then again in 2023, and for a while my identity was just kinda Starfleet.

     

    The story here is that Pegi is actually a half-Tellarite exomalacologist, which means she studies space slugs. She’s very good at what she does but absolutely not cut out for command. But the captain on her ship dies in an accident, the high-ranked officers are in a spat, and Starfleet permits Pegi to take charge. All of the Captain Pegi comics to date are on Wholesome Morbid, my webcomic page.

    ~

    It’s such a behemoth in my life that I can’t neglect to mention it, even though I chose to do zero (0) work on the project in the back half of 2023.

    Atop the Trees, Beneath the Mountains did continue to occupy my time on the front end of the year. You can see a bit about it on Tumblr, but it’s no longer accurately representative of where the project stands, since dramatic edits have happened.

    Last I checked, the previous draft was around 280,000 words, the rough draft was about 320,000 words, and there are well over half a million words of drafted material available to me.

    I worked on that puppy *hard* for three and a half years straight, including producing a Quite Large appendix that is *mostly* complete. If I took out the chapters I didn’t finish and published it as-is, I wouldn’t be embarrassed. It’s meaty. I left it off at 150 pages.

    The future of this book isn’t certain, but I plan to return to working on it once I finish Fated for Firelizards.~

    Speaking of Fated for Firelizards.

    Another thing I toyed with in 2020 was RenPy and TyrannoBuilder and the whole idea of a romance game. I decided to play with Twine this year, which draws on some of the principles I learned there, without as much an emphasis on art…or so I thought.

     

    Foolish me! At this point, I’m over thirty images for this “mostly just text” game and absolutely going to cross fifty illustrations before I’m done. The actual book won’t be that long if you take a single path–a normal shortish novel. I thought I was keeping the scope small. I am a FOOL. Hahaha.

    Anyway, it’s up to Chapter 11 and totally free and you should read it if you’re an adult who likes playful smutty stuff.

    ~

    One of the things I wrote this year is my favorite-ever pieces of fiction, called The Wolf Made Differently. It’s historical fiction about Vikings. The story used research I’ve been doing kinda casually for years, ever since I visited a Viking museum in Denmark. Apparently this is a historical period people like to see in fantasy, but not so much in normal historical fiction. Oh well! I enjoyed writing it.

    ~

    The above represents the bulk of my public work for the year, but I’ve had other stuff going on too. I’d like to photograph it all properly so that I can share these collections on my website nicely. Not just with random blurry phone snaps.

    But even if all that ^^^ was all I did this year (in addition to loving myself better), I’d say it’s been a pretty fab year!

  • Diaries

    My love, the moving pictures

    I loved movies I watched as a kid way more than I’ll ever love a movie now, as an adult. But I love TV shows now way more as an adult.

    This is just a function of changing circumstances. When I was a kid, we had the movies we liked on VHS and DVD, and we could only afford some, so it wasn’t a huge library. Especially when we switched to DVD. Those first few years we had DVDs, I think we mostly watched the same five or six movies on endless repeat.

    I absorbed movies because they were always playing in the living room while I hung out, doing other things. Or because I was lying on the carpet in front of the TV, actively watching a box that could have killed me if the Hand of God managed to shove it off the plywood tv stand.

    Also, going to the theater was a major family ritual. It wasn’t (and still isn’t now) weird for us to watch movies we loved repeatedly in the theater.

    I just don’t do that anymore. The pandemic put me off theaters. I only watch a movie with my full attention if it manages to earn it while I’m crocheting and drawing. At least, that’s how it’s going right now. You can get a *lot* of movie by primarily listening to it. I’m always most interested in writing and structure, and you hear a lot of that.

    So I don’t love movies the way I used to, but it’s way easier to love TV now because it’s more accessible. The main TV show that was “My Show” was Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I managed to watch every single episode once, except the one with Cordelia and football Frankenstein, which I know existed because I also read books about the production of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Being able to see a TV show in its entirety was a feat back then. We absolutely did not own all the early seasons on DVD, so I had to catch up on reruns while watching every new episode as it aired.

    I recently went back to watch Buffy. I didn’t get into it at all, and I didn’t remember much of anything after the first couple seasons. This was My Show, something I put *so* much effort into watching, and I didn’t click at all.

    On the other hand, the streaming era means I’ve watched the TV show Community seven times in its entirety, Elementary four times, Voyager and DS9 twice apiece…

    It probably seems insane to watch that much TV in such a volume (it is), but it means getting a years-long overview of a television show, which is absolutely fascinating, and often the things that shape it *aren’t* in the writing. You can google to learn all about the horrible, toxic work environment that Community came out of, including details unlikely to be in a book about it, and you can grasp the whole thing (story and production) in a way that I never could have dreamed as a kid.

    I wonder how my relationship with visual media is going to change as I grow. There are whole formats I still don’t even touch, which means that the world is accruing more classics for me–somewhere in an entirely new realm, like soap operas, or YouTube, or *something*–and my life is going to change in some way that might bump me against them. I get excited thinking about what I don’t predict. Even if I’m completely over Buffy the Vampire Slayer now.

  • a photo of a Cynopterus brachyotis specimen
    Diaries,  facebook

    I am in shape. Potato-on-stilts is a shape.

    I gained a lot of weight in the last 3.5 years, went from US size 4 to a size 16, and it’s funny how my internet now advertise ~plus size clothes~ to me aggressively. i feel incredibly normal sized at size 16 but the ads are like “Hey fatty! Want clothes for your FATNESS? You can still look hot EVEN IF YOU ARE A FAT FATTY” Also, diet products. SO MANY DIET PRODUCTS.

    It’s wild because at size 16, I feel incredibly normal and I’m within the average spectrum of sizes in my community. I am a 35 year old woman, mother of two, who does not leave her house right now; my body is very suitable for my circumstances. I am five foot ten and around two hundred pounds. Most men would not consider themselves overweight at these proportions, particularly when they do as much house work as I do. It is only women who must feel insufficient because we dared to stop counting calories.

    Capitalism hopes that changing in this way has completely flipped my identity around. I now need to identify as a PLUS SIZE GIRRRRL who wants to DRESS FOR MY CURRRVES (I support women who do this, you’re all really hot, marry me). Personally I dress so that I look like an eldritch witch-elf lurking in my house, like a trap spider, hoping to eat anyone who passes nearby. I do this at all dress sizes.

    And oh my god, the absurd diet/exercise products. I know more about diet & exercise than folks at my eating disorder hospitalization program did (you know how intense I am about crochet now? I was that intense about diet/fitness for 10 years) and I know exactly how ridiculous, injurious, and foolish these ads are. They seem so predatory, too. They are trying to bite at one of the most vulnerable places on my hide.

    Whether it’s “buy your way to pseudo-empowerment” or “fix yourself” nonsense, all I get out of this is that I might have grown in my relationship with body image, but society is still *really really* sick.

    Also I’m not always happy with my body’s aesthetics, but I’ve become a big fan of Body Neutrality. This is just me. I’m not going to hurt myself to change it. Ads aren’t going to talk me into hurting myself to change it. I’m fine.

    I kinda hate curvy fashion because none of it fits me. I’m an apple body type. If I didn’t mostly gain weight in my waist, I’d be two dress sizes smaller. They always think women will have big butts, big hips, big boobs, and then…any waist, whatsoever. I don’t have a waist! I’m not made that way! So I buy this stuff, and it cinches around my waist then looks like saggy diaper butt. Capitalism, if you want me to spend money on this stuff, you will have to make things that actually fit me. I’m going to keep wearing witchy muumuus.

  • Diaries,  facebook,  slice of life

    Annie’s Retirement Years

    I am now nursing a fourth pet through her end of life…the first three in 2019, 2020, and 2021, all in a row. I guess the thing that strikes me about the death process is how it *is* a process. For two of my animals who took longer to fade (the others were very ill and went quickly in the end), it’s a lot of slow up and down. Good pain days, bad pain days. Sometimes foggier than others.

    It was really hard going through this with my dog Ichabod because he had dementia, too. He mentally slipped away from us quite a while before he actually died. I kept nursing him as long as he was enjoying food, but even petting became uncomfortable for him, and he started having seizures.

    His death was my last relapse on alcohol. It was soooo bad. I abruptly quit nicotine and the mix of grief/withdrawal just sent me straight into clear liquor, and I got my own seizure when I realized that was stupid and stopped abruptly. (Don’t do that.) God, I was an absolute mess that winter. (Don’t feel too bad for me; I am okay, I immediately picked myself up and went to college for a couple semesters. Like I’m super rugged and committed to being gentler with myself.)

    I’ve had two years to chew on the enormity of my feelings about Ichabod’s death, and everything I learned/felt taking care of a canine dementia patient. It was truly just a time of such utter love and grief. Intimacy. Raw loss.

    Little sweet old Annie is taking me back, though. She’s been my obnoxious drooly best friend for sixteen years. This cat, she has never known the word “no” to mean anything. And everything she wants is affection. Human affection, to be clear. When she had more energy, she would not stay out of my face/hands for HOURS, no matter how many times I set her aside, and she has this dreadful drooling thing so it was MESSY.

    Annie’s also a big poo-starter with other cats. I don’t know why, since we watch all our cats closely, we’re literate in body language, we seldom saw actual conflicts between them. But something about Annie was so loathsome to the other cats when she was younger. She was the outsider of the household colony, firmly glued to humans. The sassiest little tortoiseshell with a crispy dragon-baby meow.

    Nowadays she has a Retirement Room. The spare bedroom has everything she needs, and she doesn’t have to compete for resources anymore. Her unpopularity paired with her growing weakness means she gets whatever she wants in a hundred square feet of cat luxury.

    Her body aches so she can’t clean herself well, but I brush her gently with a boar’s hair brush and wipe her greasy face. She has a gigantic tumor on her shoulder we decided not to remove because she’s been fading a while anyway (although I have doubts about this a lot), so I try to wash that and keep it clean too. She gets daily visits from the family. It’s a pretty nice retirement.

    This is one of her low weeks, though. I can see she is more uncomfortable. She loves cuddling, but her mood isn’t as…warm? I can just see the edge to it, and cats don’t really show pain, so she must be feeling it. All the heating pads and cbd in the cat food can only do so much. It is getting cold. I will keep brushing her for now.

    I don’t think I want her to have to stick it out as long as Ichabod did, but it’s a hard choice when she’s still very much mentally Annie.