“You’ve lost weight!”
“You look good!” “You look skinny!” Stop. I didn’t ask. I know I’ve lost weight. I’m allowed to have my feelings about that, but unless I bring it up in conversation and somehow make it clear that I want your opinion on my body- please, keep it to yourself. This applies to everyone, all of the time. Whether or not someone has lost weight on purpose in a healthy way, their beauty and value have not changed. Acting as if it did is toxic, especially for people already struggling with unhealthy eating habits/anxieties (something you may not be aware of). Skinny does not equal healthy any more than fat equals unhealthy. I lost weight because I went from being in a wheelchair with almost no exercise for six months to suddenly walking and exercising this spring. I also had a life-threatening infection in my leg that had been trying to kill me for a year and a half before anyone realized it was there. I had three surgeries and spent five weeks in the hospital between late October 2019 and early February 2020. I was on intense IV antibiotics for months, medication that made me tired and nauseous constantly. I am still on some antibiotics and it is still messing up my stomach. The reason I am not eating as much isn’t because “I’m trying,” it’s because I was sick and am still getting better. None of the reasons I forget to eat are healthy. Some days, I don’t get hungry, so I have to be reminded to eat. There are days when even the thought of eating makes me feel sick to my stomach. But neither of those compare to the worst reason I wasn’t eating- it only lasted a few days, but it was terrifying and the reason I am writing this post- I didn’t want to. I liked hearing those comments I know are toxic. People had stopped calling me beautiful, had stopped calling my body anything but “strong,” a long time ago. Finally hearing those things- even though I knew they were rooted in harmful expectations of women and misogyny the speakers don’t realize they were brainwashed by- felt good. They made it easy to slip back into a dangerous narrative of “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” NO. NOPE. STOP IT, WHIT. Food is fuel. Wanting to lose weight is fine as long as you do it through healthy lifestyle changes in diet and exercise. Withholding food is a slippery slope. I caught myself and asked for help and worked through it. For that, I feel lucky. I have friends who have not had such ease. I tried to talk to my GP about my concern over my (at times alarming) decreased appetite. Do you know what he, a grown man with a medical degree said to me, an 18-year-old girl? “I wish I had that problem.” Then, he laughed. And that’s the story of how he lost most of the respect I had for him. I am writing this hoping to reach two groups of people (and those who might fit in both categories):
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The first thing she said that really blew my mind was that there are seven things that make up someone’s biological sex. I knew gender was a spectrum, but I have no idea that sex was, too. I was taught that it was the simplest thing out there. Female and male. Boom, end of conversation. Biological Sex (2:23-2:49)
Important: sex ≠ gender
I started writing this blog post a while ago, planning to talk about gender dysphoria, until I realized Emily needed her own spotlight. She is an exceptional speaker doing important work. The myth that sex = gender is extremely harmful, especially to transgender people who know that’s not true. I hope this made you think. Further Research"Sex, Gender, and Why the Differences Matter," Jennifer Tseng (AMA Journal of Ethics) investigates how sex and gender influence doctors and patients on every level.
"Of mice, men and women: Making research more inclusive," Krista Conger (Stanford Medicine) follows a study trying to learn how a person's sex and gender influence their health and reaction to treatment. Fascinating. "Sex and Gender Identity," Planned Parenthood. Quoted above.
Remember the good. It's always there.
I was planning to post about how the Equal Rights Amendment was just ratified by Virginia, the 38th state to do so, only 97 years after the amendment was first introduced. This is massive news from both a historical and a women’s rights movement point of view. But then something happened on Saturday that tore away my focus. So, I’ll get back to that next week. Content warning: homophobia. At my writer’s group this Saturday, I was the target of a 60-year-old woman’s homophobic rant. Apparently, she doesn’t hate gay people, BUT she does feel like gays are always shoving it in her face. She pulled out all the cards: “she doesn’t hate gay people, she has gay friends” and that she knew I was gay (who doesn’t) and was still okay with me (thanks?). It got derailed a few times by how, well, young people are all so sensitive these days and don’t know hardship. To prove how much she liked me, she confessed about wanting to set me up with her son (my age, don’t worry). I felt ten kinds of disgust.
I cried. I felt trapped and when she put her hand on my shoulder, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. It sucked at the moment. I mean, it felt like punch after punch in the gut. After having time to step back from it, here's what I want to say: First of all, I don’t care about her. I barely know her and never have to see her again. She has her own stuff to work through or not work through- whatever it is, it isn’t about me. I don’t need an apology nor want a chance to yell back. If I did, if I was snide and rude and gay back, then she would be right. And I would be her new image of (all) gay people. I don’t want to hurt people, especially not just because I can. It can be tempting, but it never helps or heals anyone. In my life, I have been told all sorts of horrible things by children and adults alike for being gay. And female. And having a Latino dad and being proud of it. And for a million other things about me and my life that near-strangers think they get a say in. What made this time different was who else was in the room. The next youngest person was in her 30s-40s (I don’t know, I’m terrible at gauging people’s ages), the other three were 65+. The point is, I was the youngest. I could be their grandchild. To them, I’m a baby. A brilliant writer of a baby, but still a baby. That detail doesn’t really matter, but I think it helps to put the whole ordeal into perspective. What mattered was that while she was yelling at the world, they were worrying about me. One of them confessed that I wasn’t the only person who was uncomfortable by this conversation. She said she was bisexual- I smiled and said, “Yaaas,” on instinct- which she didn’t have to do. It helped me not feel alone. Then, she pulled out a lovely card from her purse with questions for restorative justice from the International Institute for Restorative Practices. One of them stayed quiet. When I checked my email later that evening, I got to read a validating and supportive message from her. It helped me a lot. Everyone has different ways of reaching out. Then there was the woman who’s house we were sitting in. An old German lady who’s life’s story could fill a whole, wonderful library. She always speaks softly, and carefully. Not in a hesitant way, but in a way that tells you that she has thought about what she wants to say. She stayed cool and collected, saying all of the right things. She said that we all make mistakes. She admitted she can say racist things sometimes without realizing it is so. It was the way she was raised. She said that when someone (especially someone of color) calls her out on it, instead of arguing the fact or getting defensive: she takes their word for it. She’s was like, “If they say my words were hurtful, I believe them.” It doesn’t matter that the ranter was hearing none of it. I took every her word and held it close to my heart. She hugged me when I left and it meant so much. The old man in our group held a flashlight over my path to the car. He knew I was thinking of not coming back- obviously- and said he would miss me. He said he loved me. My dear grandfather, Papa John, passed away recently. It’s been hard and I miss him a lot. Today, I called my grandmother. “One of the people who comes is this sweet, old man. He’s quiet and when he talks, it’s always meaningful,” I said, “Just like Papa John. And his laugh? He laughed like Papa John.” The difference between the countless hatred I have tolerated alone in the past and this was who I was surrounded by. I was in a room with one hurtful person and four more people who wanted to protect me and heal my wounds. They made all the difference. Did you know that autistic girls are often misdiagnosed with psychiatric conditions before finding out they are autistic? It turns out that there are many symptoms that overlap between the Autistic Spectrum Disorder (ASD) and Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) Cites
Clarification before going forward:
I promise there is a point to all of this. The other day, my mom showed me a website she ran across (still don’t know how she found it). It was a blog called, “Neurocosmopolitanism” by Dr. Nick Walker, “an autistic genderqueer author, speaker, educator, transdisciplinary scholar, and aikido teacher.” Reading his blog gave me such a feeling of relief that I teared up. He was saying things that I felt but didn’t know anyone else did or even noticed- much less that there were words for it. He put what I didn’t think I was allowed to think into words. I felt validated in ways I didn’t know I was missing. I read the first thing I saw, “Guiding Principles for a Course of Autism.” It’s an explanation written for educators, but I think everyone can learn from it. His last two points of this piece were by far the most powerful for me. He gives examples of how teachers can and must model the “accommodation of neurodivergence” and “invite the embodied expression” of it. He made it sound easy and possible. I was able to imagine a learning environment that felt safe and allowed me to truly reach my fullest potential. (Yes, this is me held back.) I really hope you check out this website. It is about autism and more. He makes you question what paradigms you’ve fallen into. A paradigm is not just an idea or a method. A paradigm is a set of fundamental assumptions or principles, a mindset or frame of reference that shapes how one thinks about and talks about a given subject. A paradigm shapes the ways in which one interprets information, and determines what sort of questions one asks and how one asks them. A paradigm is a lens through which one views reality. That’s big. Dr. Walker says that we can learn our way out of it. Discrimination, hate, and harmful misunderstanding of neurodiversity exists, but it doesn’t have to. Substantial change for the better will only come from abandoning the pathology paradigm and making the shift to the neurodiversity paradigm. I didn't expect to find comfort in this blog. It's about autism. I don't have autism, how could I possible relate? Oh, he agrees that minorities shouldn't have to "balance" or make space for placating their oppressors or validate research just because it's mainstream, it may still be wrong? That's for us to decide? Oh, cool, I guess we aren't so different.
There is so much to say that I can only find one way to start: a list.
What Cities Have That My Middle-of-Nowhere “HomeTown” Doesn’t
I’ve started to believe that I could truly be happy again, this year, but Richmond really seals the deal. I’ve noticed that I’m laughing louder. The world seems brighter. I’m so excited for right now and also for my future. These are feelings I didn’t realize I had forgotten. What is your happy place? The place you go in your mind to fight stress; a place you’d never turn down being. Don’t worry, you can have more than one.
I have lots of happy places. The first thing I think of is summer camp. The sun is warm on my face and I’m surrounded by friends and song. There is no specific moment, just general Light. The other day, I was hanging out with my two best friends, and we were all sitting on Iris’ bed. Pillows behind backs, feet on laps, and blankets and conversation on top. That’s a safe spot to be. Summer day. Hammock outside. A good book. Anywhere with a good book. Bookshops. Used book shops with shafts of light that show dust spinning in the air from piles of words. New books with smooth covers, waiting to be read. People in bookstores, hungry caterpillars and shy cats hiding in the books. Oh, they will have the best conversations with you, if you stay. What are your happy places? When do you slip away to them?
I'm just going to leave this here because it helps me sometimes.
When it's been 217 days. When it's been 217 days of being hurt, of being surrounded by pain, of being smacked in the face with health issue after issue... it can be hard to remember your life outside of your sickness or your injury. But, you have to. Because every one of us is surrounded by little kids and fried chicken and music that brings back memories and kind people. People will come up to me. People I know well or people I don't even like, and it can be hard to separate between average politeness and it's-only-because-you-are-in-a-chair-or-hurt. But, sometimes it is easy. An old student of my moms', now going through med school, stopped and said hello. I expected the usual hi and go, but he sat down. He did something that doesn't come around much for me anymore: he talked to me like I'm a normal person. I don't mean in the way kids want to be treated like adults. I mean, my injury came up, but he was thinking about becoming an orthopedic surgeon! There is just no end to the comments there! Except, he asked more about my recovery and other things like my writing. It felt friendly and I'm thankful for that moment in my day. I keep lists of things that I am, every day, grateful for. Little good things. And one thing always on my mind are the acts of kindness from other people. Someone seeing me and saying hello can easily make my day. I have been sitting here, not sure what to write about next. I realized there is no bad time for a reminder of this type. Thank you Bob Marley^^ Take a breath. You are here. Here are on this Earth and for a second forget about all the "buts." And before I tell you to focus on what is good, remember that those can be really small things. I am grateful my dad is such a great cook. I like my pen collection. I got to eat some Lucky Charms this morning! If you need to take a step back, try a grounding excercise that helps me: 5 things you can see 4 things you can touch 3 things you can move (Wiggle your toes!) 2 things you can hear 1 thing you can smell/ taste I am a very visual person, and looking at photos or videos can be good. I listen to a lot of music. Sometimes I need something slow to match what I'm feeling, and sometimes you have to put on whatever is loudest (maybe even better if you hate it). Physically touching things like putty or a smooth rock can also be soothing. Kinetically maybe do some jumping jacks? Below I have to videos: hopeful and calming, I think (left) and I can never not laugh (right).
And cute animals? You don't need a reason to look at those! I hope this helped, if you needed it, or at least gave you some ideas if you may in the future. Whatever your starting state/ mood, I think this was fun.
I passed by a mirror today and my bangs were up a little.
There has been talk about the strength in scars. About finding beauty in your own. I really appreciate, not the romanticization, but the acceptance and reality with self-harm scars. But will you take my ugly ones? The dent in my forehead? The obvious glitch in the ordinary. Or, at the very least, one of the many. Can you look me in the eye with that and still call me beautiful? It wrinkles my skin. It’s still new and it’s pink. Can you handle that? Because that one gives me no strength. Its story holds no glory. That too, is ugly. It doesn’t matter. I need to. Scars show a place of hurt, a place where you only grew back stronger. This one of mine shows an injury where I could have died. And perhaps, should have. Most people don’t need to know that. I don’t need any proof, whether you expect hardship, trauma, or even comedy. I don’t need your judgment. I don’t need you to decide I’m “still” pretty. I’m a goddess, goddammit. I’m smart and I love painting my nails. I have cool hair and I like word games. But… again, I don’t need any proof. Beauty doesn’t define a person. You don’t have to be pretty to deserve respect. And I think not pointing out someone’s scar (especially if they are obviously trying to hide it), make fun of it, or decide on your own assumptions makes that list. |
Who Am I?Hi there! I'm Whit, my pronouns are they/them, and I write a lot.
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Painting by Whit Acrylics on masonite April 20th, 2019 Words are a Quaker saying. George Fox? |