Weighted Long Enough

I see this sign, every time I drive North through Owasso. It’s for a weight loss clinic and it says “Weighted long enough?”. Well yes, I believe I have, but honestly, what am I capable of doing about it? I cannot afford (nor am I sure I want) weight loss surgery (which I believe is all that is ‘sold’ at a clinic). I’m not quite motivated enough to do it all the “safe” and “hard” way. I’m also rather terrified of loose skin, something that affects the majority of people who lose a lot of weight, even if they do so slowly and safely, while exercising to add muscle tone.

One friend of mine, from once upon a time, had weight loss surgery and recommended it to me. The method she recommended is a relatively new one, that involves cutting out part of the stomach to reduce the amount of food that can fit in it. I don’t know why she considered this safer than a lap-band, but it sounds scary as hell. I’ve had abdominal surgery before, to remove my gall bladder, and I wouldn’t choose to do it again unless I absolutely had to. It hurt like hell for a really long time, and I think that surgery is what really sparked my weight gain.

I think about my weight constantly, but it’s not always something I care about enough to want to change. My addiction to carbs is so overpowering most of the time, and the comfort derived from food is, well, comforting.

I realize that society as a whole completely devalues and objectifies overweight women. Both men and women are guilty of this. From a feeling of disgust or discomfort to an outright bad-person move (such as the one made by above friend, who took a photo of a woman walking in front of her and said “titties on her back”, a move I cannot understand given her own battle with weight).

I play World of Warcraft frequently, and in that game there is a social aspect that is often nauseating. The ‘World’ is full of immature males who feel ‘safe’ behind their character names, and who make incredibly frequent remarks about women (probably because they don’t have much exposure to them) and are especially abrasive towards ‘fat’ women, because “beached and bloated whales don’t count as girls”. Is it wrong of me to assume these ‘children’ don’t have very many feminine influences in their lives to feel and act this way towards women? Maybe. Maybe I’m a bit prejudiced, too. But it seems close enough to the truth to make it okay. How else can they think this way, if not by living in a space in which there are no women, or the only women in their lives are ignorant of their abusive beliefs (ahem, coddled-mommy’s-little-boy syndrome).

In my day-to-day life, on the days that I venture out of my home, I feel perpetually ashamed of myself for my appearance. I’m on-edge about so much. I don’t usually wear makeup or ‘do’ my hair. I tell myself I just don’t care, but part of it is a feeling of hiding, anonymity. I’m hiding in this fat suit, and hoping you just won’t notice me at all.

There’s so much more about this I want to write, but I think I need to call it quits. Call it fear, exhaustion, or sheer laziness, but I think I should bid this post adieu.

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Sick Baby Cat

I haven’t been posting at all recently because we were on vacation and came home to my “baby, Isis, being sick. She had lost interest in food and became very lethargic. After a few weeks of care at our regular vet, she took a turn for the worse and we brought her to the veterinary emergency hospital.

Thankfully she was released back to us yesterday, and is slowly recovering.

She was diagnosed with diabetic ketoacidosis and hepatic lipidosis from resultant anorexia.

I don’t know if the stress of us being away for a few days added to this condition, but I feel awful, both mentally and physically. Yesterday we had to wake up twice overnight to administer medications and food and the schedule will continue for awhile.

I’m so overjoyed though that she is more than likely going to get better.

That said, this has cost us more money than we have. Her vet bill is close to $3000 and her medications cost us $350. I tried to use a coupon to purchase her insulin, Lantus, and was blacklisted and banned by Walmart and Lantus for trying to use it on a pet, which has been done before by at least hundreds of other people, on some very supportive feline diabetes websites. They now have a customer for life, so what the fuck does it matter if it’s a human or a cat?

Anyway, all these bills are driving us crazy. We were already maxed out, living paycheck to paycheck, and now we have additional monthly payments we will need to make. We were fortunate enough to get approved for Care Credit, a line of credit for medical or veterinary purchases, but now have 3 additional monthly bills to pay it back, in addition to the cost of her new medications and glucose level monitoring.

This is the link to my fundraiser to help cover these costs.  So far the only donation I have received is from an old friend who also loves cats.

https://www.youcaring.com/sick-kitty-Isis

Blind Bashing

On Facebook I am a member of several groups dedicated to making jewelry.  Earlier today, in one such group, one of the members posted this photo:  towie mankini photo

I believe this person was attempting to amuse the group, as we could all ‘make fun of’ the men in this photo.  One woman responded that no “real man” would wear this and called the men in this photo some kind of pussies.

The photo features two stars from The Only Way is Essex.  For my purposes, I don’t really know or care about too much else.  Here are two adults – not hurting anyone – being mocked simply for what they wear and/or look like.

Thankfully a moderator of the group took down the photo, but it  has stuck with me how a group of people who spend their time trying to make the world a ‘prettier’ place can attack other humans so viciously simply for what they look like.  They wouldn’t dare speak that way if a fellow member posted a photo of his/her work, so why would they do it to two people they don’t know?

Why are so many people so damn vicious?  Why are we nothing more than starving dogs waiting for a jugular to rip out?  (My apologies to dogs, but they do some very nasty things when abused, as do all animals and most humans.)

I wish I could find more words to describe how this is wrong and how it makes me feel betrayed, but for now, that’s all I’ve got.

“When I am writing, I am trying to find out who I am.”

I can’t believe she’s gone. For inspiration or if you didn’t know of her, read http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/663997-a
mazing-peace-a-christmas-poem-by-dr-maya
-angelou-thunder

The Daily Post

Maya Angelou by Spanglej, CC BY-SA 2.0.Maya Angelou by Spanglej, CC BY-SA 2.0.

Words mean more than what is set down on paper. It takes the human voice to infuse them with deeper meaning.

Find a beautiful piece of art. If you fall in love with Van Gogh or Matisse or John Oliver Killens, or if you fall love with the music of Coltrane, the music of Aretha Franklin, or the music of Chopin — find some beautiful art and admire it, and realize that it was created by human beings just like you, no more human, no less.

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.

The idea is to write it so that people hear it and it slides through the brain and goes straight to the heart.

When I am writing, I am trying to find out who I am, who we are, what we’re capable of, how…

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Mutants and Hybrids

If you were one part human, two parts something else — another animal, a plant, an inanimate object — what would the other two parts be?

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/mutants-and-hybrids/

I would be part phoenix, part nymph.  [As usual, a conundrum of sorts.]

 

The phoenix to me represents the metaphorical fire I have lived through, the scars I’ve incurred, both mentally and physically, and the ability to be reborn from the ashes of my death.  I’ve always loved Jean Grey.  At one of the glorious heights of my depressed-mania, I went as Phoenix for a Halloween party.  It was a terrible costume, just some things I picked up from a thrift shop and mainly made to look like Jean Grey’s character in the movie between phases -meets- dark phoenix.

Image

ImageImage

 

From Wikipedia:

nymph (Greekνύμφηnymphē) in Greek mythology and in Latin mythology is a minor female nature deity typically associated with a particular location or landform. Different from goddesses, nymphs are generally regarded as divine spirits who animate nature, and are usually depicted as beautiful, young nubile maidens who love to dance and sing; their amorous freedom sets them apart from the restricted and chaste wives and daughters of the Greek polis. They are believed to dwell in mountains and groves, by springs and rivers, and also in trees and in valleys and cool grottoes.

Image

(from    http://ladyluciolalupus.deviantart.com/art/The-Water-Nymph-165115142  )

 

I also love many of the combined ideas of Elven lore.  Maybe my human part is half elf.

 

Earth air fire water…  I tried being Wiccan, once.  I think my Spirit is too bent now.

 

In summation, I’m not very human at all.

Fuzz.  Brain fuzz.

Of the stories that I remember from my childhood, there are two that relate: my great-uncle on my father’s side had multiple sclerosis, dying from related complications, and my paternal aunt was also diagnosed with MS at some point.

I know things like diet and exercise affect the brain in a very real way, but I can’t help feeling that I’m dated, too.

My aunt seems okay, if my hateful father’s words can be trusted.  He seems to care deeply for his mother, but his female siblings seem to contribute to his misogynistic worldview.  (It’s okay, he’s Catholic – that’s just to be expected, right?)  On Catholicism: I was raised to be Catholic, as well.  I had CCD classes during the week, at which time I asked questions, both aloud and internally, that further alienated me from the ‘good’ children.  I went to church almost every week.  My Catholic church wasn’t like the majority of churches in OK – they were more anti- than social.  My father was always a hateful man, and his family is deeply religious, so those two things must be related, right?

Anyway, I can’t think straight.

Sometimes I wonder why I bother trying to keep track of it all.  Does any of it matter?  Do I even matter?

I always thought I’d be something fantastic.  Apparently, when my mom tried to teach me to cook as a young child I told her I didn’t need to know because I’d have people to do that for me someday.  I thought I’d be rich and famous.  Instead I am, while generally not squeezed so tight as to be completely uncomfortable, living paycheck to paycheck through my loving husband’s generous salary.

Bills.  Medical bills.  The big squeeze.  I have years and years of them which we can’t even touch yet.  I’m still sick, aren’t I?

What the fuck is for-profit healthcare and why does it exist?  Why even have a Hippocratic Oath?

Ramble, mutter, nothing matters.

I miss true mania.  I miss not being afraid of misstepping in every conversation, too many directions.  I’m terrified of what people think of me.  Terrified that they’re right.  “She needs help.”  “What’s wrong with her?”  “Did you see all those pill bottles? She must have a terrible illness.”  And now I cry.  

I want to write – a book, a poem, a love letter to myself.  Instead I type in circles, fighting my way out of this boxed mind.

I wish I had a smoke to smoke, even if it were just vapor.  I want my bad habits to help me out of this funk.  How much sense does that make?  I haven’t had a real cigarette in five years.  I – relatively recently – purchased a rechargeable menthol-ish Swiffer package.  I liked it.  My husband did not.  He worries about my heart, my blood pressure [raise the roof], not to mention the unknown chemicals packed into those mysterious sticks and how they might affect our pets when inhaled secondhand.  A vaping place opened locally.  I want to visit.  Even if it’s nicotine-free, perhaps it will help open my mind, the doors that have been shuttered to me for so long.  They say they are made from food-safe ingredients.  I say “sure”.  I’m skeptical of everything, except for some things.  If I want to believe in something, it becomes true enough.

Today I have work to do, un-fun work.

Do people change?  I did.  Did K?  Does he ever think about me, maliciously or with an open mind?  Does it matter?  

Nope.

I’ll probably be dead in a few years, months, weeks; whatever.  Time is a runny egg.  Gross and just a yolk.  Ha.

I am both empty and full.

Modestly Vain

I’m so fucked up.

If you met me in person you wouldn’t know me.  If you knew me in real life you wouldn’t like me.

Who could?

For some reason he sticks around, but really, why?

Everything is all about me, no matter what.

I’m vain in a “well I used to look like this” sort of way.  I’m continually disheveled yet …

Modesty.  I’m all about modesty now.  I have this fear of being “found out” – ugly, fat, queer, liberal.  So I shift my blouse back on my shoulders, covering up any potential cleavage.  “There, now I’m straight.”  You can’t see my skin and tear it apart.  It’s sensitive, much like the sinew and bloody mess it’s attached to.

I was constantly berated and degraded in school, and now those ghostly demons live on in my mind.
“She’s so…”

Back then I was too skinny.  I had bruises on my back from my spine rubbing against my skin.  I was still healthy, though.  I ate whatever I wanted.  I was able to lose myself in books and nature, in a way that I can’t anymore.  It all changed somewhere around year twelve or thirteen.  That’s when my innocence was lost, and that’s when I was first clinically diagnosed.

The sassier side arises later, around sixteen, when I am hospitalized for being a rebellious youth.

I envy myself.  That girl.  She was perfect.  [“Look what you’ve done, you fucking bitch.”]  I ‘could have had it all’…  ::song plays briefly in head::

I’ve had so many opportunities to reach my own personal nirvana.  Perhaps that’s why I’ve tried to kill myself so many times, an attempt to end it at the highest points.  I wonder now if I’ll ever become famous, ever be able to write again, to be myself again, or even, just to laugh again.

There’s so much in here, if I could just string it out, lace it into letters, felt it into words.

I make stuff, ya know.  No lace, or felt, not yet anyway, but I’m not far away from learning how to tat.  Macrame is both soothing and frustrating.  I even sell stuff sometimes.  It makes me feel a little bit better about myself.

I guess that’s it for now.  Cats happened.

 

Thicker than Blood

I’ve been playing around on Ancestry.com.  I’ve never really been close to any of my family, and I like to think it’s because almost everyone was a bigoted asshole, but sometimes I wonder what I’ve missed out on.  I traced parts of my family to Germany, Lithuania/Russia, Ireland, Barbados, and through the Civil War.  I found out I’m related to a man who owned slaves, somehow simultaneously thumping bibles and engaging in acts of war.  His name was Reverend Henry Barrington Pratt D.D.  There is a marble tablet in Roswell, Georgia inscribed with his name, stating that he was a missionary to Colombia and a writer whose works include the accepted Spanish translation of the bible.  Beneath this is written “Charles Pratt and John Hall, negro slaves, members of this church, educated and freed, to go to Africa as missionaries.”  Why was Charles’ last name also Pratt?  Did the Reverend adopt him and give him his name, or was he his father or related in some other way?  Is that too romanticized an expectation for me to have of someone in that time period?

I’ve been watching a lot of True Blood lately.  It was hard to begin the series because the characters’ accents are so atrocious.  I’ve always patted myself on the head for being from the North rather than the South, so it’s quite a mindfuck to think that I hold that in my core.  Just within my maternal grandfather’s family there seems to have been family members on both side of the divide during the Civil War.  I like to think that contributed to his cranky, bigoted exterior.  I never really knew him, but then, I don’t really know any of my family.

My paternal grandmother has virtually disowned me for being different.  I’m not sure if it’s because I’m queer, liberal, or an antitheist, or simply because I inherited the crazy from her side of the family.  Regardless the reason, she never even bothered to tell me she stopped caring about me.  She had won the lottery during the 80s, and promised a college education for each of her grandchildren.  I saw money at Christmas during my formative years, but after I turned eighteen she seemed to conveniently forget all about me.  While on Ancestry.com, I found contributions made by my paternal aunt – the one who doesn’t have MS or some other relatively mysterious health problem.  She wrote (poorly) a tale told to her by her mother about my great grandfather; that he rode away from Hitler’s madness on horseback, escaping Germany to come to America, and that, a great man, he died from a stroke in his forties.  The historical documents age him 20 years older than that story does, but he did live during the correct time frame.  

There was such poor record-keeping during those times, it’s extraordinary to find pictures of relatives, but I did see some from my maternal side.  It’s been very difficult to keep track of names, because many of my family members wanted to hide their ethnicities, and melt into our great ‘pot’.  I’ve found many name discrepancies just within one generation, particularly on my paternal side.  Some of them were from Lithuania, which is also listed as Russia in some documents.  Being Russian seems to have always had poor reception here in the States, so I don’t know where the lines cross and where they blur.

I feel blurred and blurry-eyed.  I’ve been cleaning this weekend.  The dust of the past is too real.

Have Mercy

The actress who plays Mercy Lewis on the TV show Salem looks an awful lot like my former pre-T lover.

Mercy Lewis:

salem-mercy-lewis-elise-eberle-wgn-america

K now:

kalib new crop

This makes me hunger and thirst at the same time.

I don’t miss him, except for the times that I do.

He was abusive, sometimes downright horrid, but he was also so amazing.

I’ve described my love for him before as such:

“You see a beautiful, exotic creature and yearn to get close to it.  Every moment spent with it, that it does not bite you, is precious and amazing in itself.  The pain becomes worth it.”

Those eyes, I say, those eyes.  He was so gorgeous (and I mean that in the most non-gender-specific way possible).

Listening to The Glitch Mob and feeling strangely nostalgic.  I was so beautiful and I didn’t even know it.  So strong, yet so weak.

Garbage

Why am I only happy when it rains?

A chill wind caresses my cheek as the first few droplets of rain fall.  I breathe deeply, cleansing my lungs of the everyday sun-fried stinks.  

So, why?

Most of the time the sun bothers me tremendously.  I wear glasses and I currently cannot afford prescription sunglasses, so I have to wear these giant over-glass things that make me look like a freak (and not in the good way).  I’m extremely sensitive to sunlight, unless it’s cloudy.  White and gray skies = a smile.  I’m also not a fan of heat.  I’ve had heat-induced seizures before and even though I’ve been seizure-free for almost seven years, I still get an aura when I just can’t take it.  My husband lovingly tells me to “toughen up” when I just wasn’t made for this shit.  I’m Nordic/Germanic/Celtic.  I belong in a climate where the foliage is green (until autumn) and the skies tumultuous.  I even feel like I’m going to ‘faint’ when I take a hot shower, even if it’s not even that hot to other people.  

Living in Oklahoma is pretty hard for a girl like me.

But I know it’s harder still for many.

I had a conversation yesterday with someone who is now my friend.  She and I discussed gender issues, something that doesn’t come up often in day-to-day conversations, especially not with my husband.  Like many Oklahomans, he was convinced sexuality and gender orientation were both one-and-the-same and personal choices, until I came around.  I have since instilled in him a surety that this is not the case, based on my own experiences, along with several easy-to-grasp concepts, such as the question, “when did you choose to be straight”?  We don’t choose who we love or what we look like on the inside or out.  We can improve on things, like our social skills and heighten our compassion for others, but we can’t gut the system without leaving most of ourselves behind.  I dated a pre-transition FTM for about three years.  For many reasons it was the most difficult relationship of my life.  Due to his previous experiences and his underlying issues, he was very difficult to get along with.  He pushed, I pulled.  I was his prey.  I loved him.  He was a mess, but then, so was I.  I wouldn’t be where I am now if not for him, and while I might complain an awful lot about my life, it’s really not so bad.  He was abused verbally, physically, and sexually, from toddler-hood to adulthood, by everyone from his family to his friends.  He’s not alone.  Transgendered persons are even more frequently bullied than the other members of the LGBT community.  They are beaten, raped, and killed, simply because some dumbass intolerant fuck can’t seem to grasp the concept of ‘live and let live’.  They are misunderstood and mistreated, by almost the entire world.  So when I meet someone who knows someone in the LGBT community, especially someone who is trans, I jump with joy at the thought of having common ground.  I understand!  I may not be trans myself, but I went through a lot with him, and witnessed everything he had to go through, too.  I consider myself pansexual, because bi just doesn’t cut it.  I’m not gender-blind, but I am attracted to people who may not fit into a binary system, and who may not look a certain way.  This doesn’t negate my love for my hetero cis male husband, it just means I am more than the box in which I choose to be confined.  It’s nice in here.  It’s safe.  It makes me feel guilty for “passing” so well.  I get off easy, being able to play the part of a femme, while watching and empathizing hardcore with those who don’t.  I’m not so femme-y, but I’m not butch, either.  I’m just me.  I can’t give up this part of who I am, my past, without giving up a part of my self that I can’t bear to lose.