My parents aren’t a part of my life. Not for their lack of trying. I set boundaries again and again and again, but our perceptions of our own realities are not compatible. They are allowed theirs, but they do not allow me mine. They cannot listen with compassionate hearts or accept me as I am nor own responsibility in our downfall yet expect all of this and more from me. I might be a real adult, but I’m still their child.
Life without my family is hard. I won’t lie. But it’s so much easier than giving up who I am to be who they want me to be. Fitting into a too small box and swallowing the truth, I couldn’t do it anymore.
I have chosen the unpopular route: disowning my parents.
For so many reasons. This is not the first time. It may not be the last, but it likely will be.
One of the biggest upsides to continuing my life without them is my ability to write. I am a writer. One who has always found real people’s stories to be far more interesting than fiction. The life I’ve been dealt and the choices I have made or were forced into making sure do make great copy. My life isn’t just interesting, it’s an example of how far we have yet to go as a society. I refuse to stay silent when I have a voice and the ability to use my voice. I know why so many people choose silence when they’re confronted with abuse or the ramifications of what telling their truth means after it’s over. As a survivor, sometimes the event itself isn’t the most traumatic part; it’s the after. Choosing what to say and to whom for fear of not being believed or worse being believed and told to hush hush. I have been towing the line for eight years, trying to be the good daughter, creating fewer waves. But the waves have always been my favorite part of the ocean, and I’d rather be in them than watching them.
For the first time since the last time I cut off my parents, I’m writing again with emotional depth, clarity, and vulnerability. I have spent eight years playing diplomat. Weighing every word I type to avoid hurting them because my story and, in many ways, my existence causes them pain. Though it may not seem like it, I am a people pleaser. In order to write what I do, I have to fight against every instinct in my body to stay silent, to save people’s feelings. The problem is trying to prevent pain. There is a moral component to telling stories and who owns a story. As a victim and survivor, this component becomes even more nuanced with power dynamics and silencing tactics coming into play all but immediately. In a great many of my stories, my parents were not direct players and fall into a category of affected bystanders. Though, I have plenty of stories to tell where they are active players and even abusers, but the majority of the stories I am ready and capable of telling have nothing at all to do with my parents. The only reason they hurt over the stories I tell is because they are adjacent to me and my stories are a reflection upon them as parents, people.
Over the last eight years, I haven’t written these stories because I don’t want to cause pain unnecessarily. Except the pain is not unnecessary. This is necessary pain. I haven’t spoken to my mother or father in over two years, and it’s been within the last six months that words have started pouring from my soul again. I needed time to heal. I am writing my truth, my pain, the life I have lived. It has been a painful life. A beautiful life, but painful. And I’ve finally gotten to the point where I’ve gone beyond ambivalence.
I’m not purposefully inciting pain, but I’m not going to skirt around it anymore either. I’m bringing a lot more fuck you energy to the stories I’m telling because I’m not making this shit up, and if I’m the only one who believes me, then fine. If my stories hurt my parents, then good. I was raped for years in their house. I’m not angry and I don’t hold it against them, but let it hurt. I have hurt for a decade and a half. They parented me for nineteen years and failed to do the one job they should have done above all else: protect me. Maybe I am and was as good at hiding behind a mask as I think I am, but I asked for help and was turned away time and time again. Precedents were set that I would not be believed, my safety was not a priority, my mental health was to stay hush-hush. They chose to not protect me, to not stand by me, to not pay attention to their daughter when I needed them, when I begged for help, when I was assaulted, when I told them I wanted to die.
So what was I to do when a boy held me down and raped me for the first time? Or the second? Or the fiftieth? They had proven they didn’t care and I couldn’t trust them. So I found solace in myself and learned to depend on no one. Now that I no longer need them to parent or protect me, they want to do both and by doing so silence me, whether that is their conscious goal or not.
I love my parents with all my heart. Truly. Though no one will believe me, family is the most important thing to me, which means it is so hard every day not caving in. But it is possible to love someone and not want them in my life. I am happier and healthier without them. I wish them well. I do not wish to cause them pain, but I will not stop writing the stories that matter.
George Peabody Library sits on the Mt. Vernon Campus of Johns Hopkins University. Founded in 1857 with a donation of $300,000 by George Peabody to create an accessible cultural center of learning for all. The original structure was finished in 1866, but the library seen today was finished in 1878 and designed by architect Edmund George Lind. When it opened, it was dedicated to the kindness and hospitality of Baltimore. At its inception, the librarians curated and pursued a list of 50,000 specific books to line the shelves regardless of price or difficulty. Today, the library stacks are home to a collection of more than 300,000 works ranging from rare first editions to 15th century tomes, including first edition Hawthornes, Melvilles, and Darwin’s On the Origin of Species. The rare book rooms’ newest books date from the 1700s. The collection is always growing with a focus on 18th and 19th century works.
Walking into the main atrium, the eye is met with stacks five tiers high, lined by ornamental cast-iron balconies. The library is capped by a stunning skylight soaring 61 feet above quiet readers below, illuminating the entire space with a warm comfort so rarely found in rooms so large. Created to be free and open to the public, despite changing hands multiple times, it is still a free and open library to the public. Though the collection is non-circulating, readers and researchers can explore the works while enjoying its immense beauty.
I was in awe.
It is immensely beautiful.
Visit
Visiting George Peabody Library has been really the only thing left on my Bucket List for years. I have actively been making plans and trying to go for many, many years. Those plans fell through every time. In October, I went on a roadtrip to Washington DC. There were lots of plans with lots of activities. When asked what I wanted to see on the trip, the only thing I said, “I’d like to take a trip to Baltimore and see the library.”
Done.
We took a day trip to Baltimore and I fell a little bit in love with the city. I went when I was 18 and adored it. As an adult with an even better grasp and love for history, I was in heaven. Historically, it’s a fascinating city. Architecturally, it’s stunning. Culturally, wow. It sits at an intersection of so many interests of mine as a human, learner, and writer of social justice. I would love to go back and spend more time existing there.
Parking in front of the Mt. Vernon campus, the building is as gorgeous as every other 19th century building in the neighborhood. But there was nothing differentiating it from all the other incredible façades. So much so, I tried going in the side door as it was just as magnificent as the main entrance. Even standing in front of the door, I was vibrating with anticipation. Actually the whole drive there.
Getting to the library, we had to walk through the entryway, take a left, and then walk through a large room of stuff, which was probably a museum of sorts. I should have looked, but I was ready to see what I had come to see and didn’t really pay any attention. Obviously. And also fighting off an anxious pee feeling that was totally unnecessary and over the top. The moment I could see through the doorway, I started crying. I couldn’t help it. It was very embarrassing. A bad case of Stendahls Syndrome. Of course there’s a video because my friend is an asshat and documents everything. I wandered and cried. Thank God, I eventually stopped crying and kept wandering. I tiptoed through card catalogs, read every plaque, sat in awe of the sheer beauty, size, and knowledge this one room held. I took a crap ton of photos. So many pictures. None of which will ever do the room justice, though they’re brilliant. I don’t know what I expected. But I didn’t expect the library to be just a massive room in an even bigger building, yet it is.
I spent two hours soaking in that moment I had waited so long to enjoy.
I will always explore card catalogues.
More Than Stendahls Syndrome
As I walked into George Peabody Library, I was swept with so many complex emotions. I started crying. I tried to play it cool, but I am not a chill person. Part of me did cry because of the immense, architectural beauty. It’s art. Part of me cried because I was with someone who had no idea how much that moment meant to me but made it happen anyways. Sometimes, small things are not small things.
I stood there crying and sniffling for more than just Stendahls Syndrome.
Libraries always have a tendency to bring up the emotional side of me. It does exist, very, very deep down. As a writer, I know how much effort one book requires. As a writer in the time of computers makes it far easier, faster, and less physically taxing to actually write a book. Imagine writing an entire book with a quill… imagine the typos. My hand hurts thinking about that. The amount of knowledge in that one room alone is more than I will ever acquire no matter how dedicated I am to the pursuit. Libraries are a testament to the lives of people who dedicated themselves to gaining and proliferating knowledge. In their own ways, many of which I do not agree with, they were trying to make the world a better place. That is what I also aspire to do. It’s hard not to be a little overcome with emotion when one steps back from themselves to acknowledge the effort put into the existence and purpose of libraries. I do not believe in God. I do not go to church. I do believe in knowledge. Truth is my God. Libraries are my sanctuary.
Standing just inside the door as a gay woman, I was hit with more than awe. This library was not meant for me. As a woman, an out gay woman, had I walked into the library upon its construction, I would have been imprisoned existing the way I do. Hell, there are a great many places today I could still be arrested or even executed for existing as I am. It was built in a time when 20% (optimistic) of the population was illiterate and less than 2% of the population went to college. Fuck women on that statistic, there isn’t a percentage available. Wesleyan, the first women’s college, only opened twenty years prior. George Peabody Library was meant for everyone, but not really. It was created in a time where the “everyone” was implicitly understood as white men, maybe refined, respectable ladies who were educated but not too much. I am not either of those things by today’s standards let alone the standards of 1860s America.
The first Ivy’s—Princeton and Yale—didn’t even start admitting women until 1969. Women have had to fight with everything we have, including our lives, for the privilege, the right to receive an education.
Education. Knowledge. That is the path forward. Ensuring women—49.72% of the population—are educated is how the world turns around. Yet there are so many roadblocks for us. They’ve been lessened in this country and others by the lives and fights of so many women who have gone before us. But there are still so many obstacles. From societal pressures, laws, cost, so on and so forth.
Malala was shot in the head because she advocated for girls’ education in 2012.
I’m angry.
I am angry for all women. But this hits home for me. For over a decade I have, in so many unknowing ways, downplayed my fight for education. I have never been quiet about the fact I was a stripper to pay for college. So often, people hear “stripping” and latch on. They want those stories. It’s unique, and I’m open about it. I’m a novelty. I’m an information resource fountain about a taboo yet extremely intriguing topic from anecdotal and scholarly standpoints. I know my shit, and I lived it. The part about stripping to PAY for college is glanced over. I think, emotionally, I always glanced over it too. Standing in the George Peabody Library, for whatever reason, it hit me. I did all of that to learn.
I graduated in 2014 from Cornell College with a triple major in Literature, French, and Russian with an emphasis in Literary Translation and Analysis. I did it in four years. I paid for it by working 100+ hours a week (it is possible, hard, yet possible), taking my clothes off for men who didn’t give a fuck if I lived or died, figuring out better ways to withstand the physical and psychological violence. I did all of that so I could have an EDUCATION. I tried so many other ways. But I was shit out of luck. When I went to the financial aid office, I was told to join the military, get married, have a child, or drop out and wait until I turned 26. None of those were options. So I stepped outside of respectable society for knowledge, ultimately, a piece of paper.
And I am so fucking proud of myself for doing that. I fought for my education. I gave up so much. I still live with the repercussions of that decision and I always will. I knew what I was doing and the ripple effects it would have on my life and future, intellectually. I was not stupid. My eyes were wide open. As much as they can be. Reality is always different. I don’t regret it. I never have. I wish I’d had other options, a choice. I wish the country we live in prioritized people rather than money. I wish men knew how to treat women, all women—sex workers included—well. I wish college wasn’t so expensive. I would also do it again. Knowing everything I know now, I made the right choice when I was left with no choices to make. I chose an education above all else.
The fucked up part… I made that choice twelve years ago.
TWELVE.
A year before Malala was shot on the other side of the world in her own fight for women’s education. I was sitting on a strip club counter studying when the notification popped up on my phone. I live in a first-world country, and I was still forced to fight for an education.
In so many ways, it was a different time, but all that’s really changed is college is more expensive and stripping is only infinitesimally less villainized. Even then, as a poor, desperate college student, I knew I was so privileged. I am a white woman. I was “straight” when I started stripping. I had every seeming advantage. I still had to fight to learn. I dodged sexual assault, rape threats, death threats, a shooting, knives, and more over the course of four years so I could graduate, move on, get a good job, build a life.
So often, I come across as straight-laced. I am. I like rules. But I’ve always been a rebel. I have always pushed back. I do not fit in the society that is, but I’m trying to open society so there’s a place for me, women, minorities, the LGBTQIA+ community, and everyone who feels othered.
My fight for education looks different than most women’s. Yet, it’s so similar. I leveraged sex and femininity in the same way women have for all of written history to access information, power, safety, comfort, literally everything. I took the only thing I had—my body and mind—to dare to grasp for more than what was being offered. I succeeded. I didn’t die. I get to move on and rebuild and heal. I get to use the knowledge I worked so hard for to advocate for other women so one day no woman will be turned away from learning.
The last three months have been a special kind of hell. A hell, I hope to never repeat again in the entirety of my life.
This bathroom was a place I could go to break alone a little bit at a time every day.
On August 15, my best friend, roommate, and puppy co-pawrent had a hip replacement because the military was hard on his body. After eight months of working with the VA and repeated fuck ups on their part—I have opinions on how we treat vets—he finally had the surgery. I cleared out two months of my schedule to be there through it all. Fuck were there some bad days and scares, but he is getting back to normal, and I’m finally catching up on all the sleep I lost. Was a hip replacement the reason the last three months have been hard? No. Was it a contributing factor? Yes. I’m going to ignore deaths, family emergencies, near death of a beloved dog, work, wonky relationships, difficult travels, and all those things—which are definite contributors because they made everything harder—but that’s life. I could have dealt with them all much better if I’d had my fucking hand. We’re going to go on a teensy tangent to set the stage, though. So, bear with me. I am a writer. Shocking. I don’t actually enjoy anything about the writing process until it’s done. But akin to breathing, I must write, or I’ll die. I found out I won’t die, but I must write. It’s how I process stress, life, challenges, love, and everything in between. I carry pen and paper with me everywhere in case an idea or feeling needs to be written down. There is something about the act of writing that helps release whatever it is from my body. I prefer handwriting those things. When that’s not feasible, I write emails on my phone or computer. Voice memos are not the same. I need the physical act of writing. I have always been active. Looking back, training to be a professional ballerina and cheerleading got me through growing up. I was extremely active in college and never stopped. In the last year, I have really started being active for old-RaeAnna’s mental acuity and current-RaeAnna’s mental state. But when my stress levels rise, so does the exercise. (Ha that rhymed.) I had a really stressful spring, and I dove into all the exercise I could take. I got happy. I got fit. I started running races during Pride Month. I was finally in a place where I felt happy in my body for the first time since I was at the height of my ballet abilities… only fourteen years ago. It’s fine. Also, I tend to swell a lot when I work out. (This will be important later.) (Done with the 239 word tangent now.) I cope with stress by writing and exercising—or going to my friend’s house to play piano, but that requires more effort and two functional hands. At the end of August, I broke my right hand. Breaking either hand would be unpleasant but breaking my dominant hand… heinous. It was the bone inside my hand of my pointer finger and some fun things with my knuckles. Do you know how much you use your dominant pointer finger? A whole shit ton. Just typing this, I’m using it constantly. Not to mention literally living. It is also the hand I have nerve damage in, so that’s fun. All the fun. Hands are important. Don’t be a dumbass, RaeAnna Not only am I writer, I’m a lesbian. If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you, but oh the jokes. The how isn’t even an interesting story. But I ended up with some deep cuts that had to heal before I could have a cast. I spent three weeks braced, changing the bandage every couple days. It was awful. I was in shit tons of pain and had nothing to really protect it from… falling, the six dogs, sleeping, existing. I couldn’t even drive because my car’s a goddamn stick shift. Those first three weeks, I was still very much alone in taking care of my six pack [of dogs] and Dylan and the house and everything in between. I ended up not taking on any work at all for a month and a half because I physically couldn’t. Dylan and I were trapped in the house together and pretty much went on a three week long binge of all our favorite shows and hoped we wouldn’t hate each other. Then again, we survived the pandemic, but we were mobile then. As a Type A doer and goer, not being able to do anything really took a fucking toll. The amount of stress I was under to keep the immediate beings in my life together and fed—the bare minimum—with a broken dominant hand was awful. But then there were so many things happening with my friends and family that were stressful in their own right, and I could do nothing. Hell. I was trapped in my own personal hell. I could not do anything to help the people I love. I could hardly do what I needed to get by. Washing my own hair? Really hard. Shaving? Not happening. Cooking? How about DoorDash. Work? I’m out of the office. Could I type? Kinda, very slowly, very painfully. It was easier to all but stop working, which is hard because I love my job. I love working. It’s fun for me and keeps my brain busy. It also helps relieve stress because then I’m doing something! Being in a brace: not great. Being in a cast: much worse. Being in a brace, I could at least go for walks because I could adjust the bandage when I swelled. I’m too much of a fall risk to go running with a broken hand. I don’t know many limits, but I recognize that one. I could take it off to wash my hand. There was more movement, which is exactly the opposite of what I needed. But being able to let my hand out for a couple minutes every day helped with the anxiety and panic of being restricted, confined, limited. Being in a cast, I could not go for walks anymore. First of all, the idea of working out and sweating in the cast I’d be living in for over a month. No thank you. I had a brother who had a habit of breaking bones as a kid, so I knew the funk. Avoided that with everything I had. The bigger issue… I live in Houston. Though your Instagram is full of fall vibes, it’s still in the humid 90s here. Under cool weather circumstances, I swell when exercising. In hot weather, I really swell. Swelling in a cast is really fucking painful.
Showers have always been the space I can cry, but showering with a cast on… don’t do it. Unless you’re having it taken off immediately after a shower photoshoot.
Once the cast went on, I was immediately filled with panic and anxiety. My life has been tough, even during the good parts. Trauma, rape, abuse, neglect, and just about everything in between has been a part of my story at one point in time or another. Even during the good periods, I still get triggered. So I write about it, and I’m okay. I have worked my ass off to heal. I have made a career out of sharing my stories. So when times are tough, I turn to writing and working out more. Because I know what I need, I know how to cope and manage, I know how to be a good human to myself so I can be a good human to everyone. Even when I had no control over my life, I have had control over my body. Outside of lifting really heavy things and extreme sports, there isn’t much I can’t or haven’t been able to do. I’m in my 30s and have never not been able to do the splits. I’ve always been able to count on my body to do what I need it to do without many limitations. (I have torn my ACL, broken toes, pulled/torn muscles and ligaments, popped things in and out of their sockets, but the ballerina in me knows how to push through with that super-duper healthy mentality.) Losing my fucking right hand…. It took away the two things I have always been able to do to cope with stress: move and write. I didn’t lose my hand’s functionality during a good period. I lost my hand and ability to cope with stress during one of the most stressful periods I’ve been dealt in about a decade. I was trapped in my head and in my house, which historically have not been safe places for me to be trapped. The following story should not be replicated, but I’m a grown up and I can make my own bad decisions and then be open about it on the internet where even my closest friends will be finding out about it. Cause you can’t be mad at me now…. Love you, I’m fine, k, thanks, bye. Anyways. The first night I had the cast on, to put it kindly, I lost my shit. It was tight. “That’s normal,” they say. I couldn’t hold a fork. I couldn’t do anything but barely wiggle my fingers. The difference between brace and cast was huge—mentally even bigger. I started having an anxiety attack that evening, which rolled into a panic attack, which rolled into an anxiety attack, and so the cycle went until about seven in the morning. When I grabbed a pair of scissors. Why did I do this? Well, a good portion of this was because I had never felt so limited. I needed my freedom. Immediately. It unlocked a few memories from childhood. And when I say unlocked, I knew they were there and had talked about them with two of my best friends, they know and that’s it. I don’t think I had realized the extent of how fucking abusive those stories were until I was trapped in that cast that night. What happened was not normal parenting. And the fact is, I’m not going to write about a lot of those things publicly until my parents are dead. I will let them live with their dignity. But it made the panic and anxiety attacks worse because PTSD loves to show up to the party at the worst time with a flash mob. The other reason: it wasn’t just in my head. I couldn’t feel my hand; my fingers were turning blue. All rationality had left my brain hours ago. So, I grabbed the scissors. I hacked it off. By the end, my left hand looked like I’d gone up against Muhammad Ali and won (duh). Fiberglass is a bitch, I have lesbian nails, so there was a lot of tearing and hacking and angry crying as I stabbed at this thing that felt like it was taking my life away. It was desperate and not cute and alone on the couch in the living room. Even the dogs were put away. I was raw and breaking. Being around anyone, even the dogs, would have broke me wide open. I knew, from experience, if I caved into that depth of pain, I wasn’t in a place where I would be able to pick myself up again for a good long time. And I didn’t have the luxury to break; everything and everyone was depending on me to keep going. The moment the cast came off, I started regaining feeling in my hand. It was an immediate ‘I’m okay.’ It wasn’t a problem anymore. The anxiety and panic disappeared immediately. Braced my hand. Took a nap. Eventually, I talked myself into allowing another cast because I might not be great at taking care of myself, I do know the importance of saving my hand. It was a looser cast that didn’t go as far up my forearm. It was still really hard, but it was easier to manage. Mentally and physically. When I broke my hand and saw the next two to three months ahead, I thought I knew what it would be like. I was a dancer who’d been through many restrictive and even debilitating injuries to my feet, knees, hips, elbow. So, losing the ability to move, exercise, exist in my body fully wasn’t new. I thought I knew what it was like to have something I loved and need taken away from me. But I’ve always had writing, since I picked up a pen at two years old. I had no idea what it was like to not be able to write. Even this piece, something that once would have taken me an hour or two to write, is taking me three days because my hand gets tired. The only positive the cast gave me that I didn’t have in the brace: driving my car. The cast was sturdy enough I could shift without pain. I could see my friends. Do some things. It didn’t solve my problem, but it did help just enough to keep me sane. My friends showed up. As much as I let them. My best friends, Kelsey and Alex, found out two days later. The rest of my best friends found out a week later. Everyone else was kept in the dark until I posted on social media a month after the cast had been on. In times of crisis, I tend to retreat inward. I’m private and introverted, though social media and my writing tells a different story; you’re only getting what I want you to know. This is open and vulnerable but still curated. Even those closest to me, I struggle with vulnerability. At best, I think I’m forgettable, that my life and problems are a burden or uninteresting, so I tend to under share when there’s a lack of direct questions. Everyone was so gracious and offered to help in any and every way. They gave me understanding and told me they couldn’t even begin to get what I was going through as a writer. Lesbian jokes were made to lighten the mood. Even new friends had an expression of knowing this was hard for me in a way it wouldn’t be for most people since writing is more than just my job. I started having panic attacks every day on my bathroom floor. No one knew. Dylan only found out when he surprised me by climbing the stairs for the first time after surgery and to find me in the bathroom. In that moment, he knew how much I’d been holding it together for him and the dogs, while I was crumbling. He knows what it takes for me to get to that point. I was alone while being surrounded by people who, as much as they could and wanted to help, couldn’t give me what I needed.
I haven’t been so raw and broken in well over a decade. I’ve also learned those periods leave me ready to grow. God I hope I get to grow from this.
My junior year of high school, I started getting a stress rash. It was horrible. Junior year, in a generation and a school dedicated to creating resumes for the Ivy’s, was hard. Overscheduled, overworked, we were a class of high functioning, sleep deprived young adults. Alone, it could have triggered a stress rash, but I had the fun sprinkles and cherry on top of that overwhelming sundae, consisting of getting raped on the daily, a highly abusive mother, a younger brother I tried to protect, and working 20 to 30 hours a week. That stress rash would come and go until I left everyone and everything behind to go to college and start over. It hasn’t had much of a resurgence since then. But oh fuck did it come back a few days after the cast. I was in agony and started doing what I did in high school even though it was in the humid 90s: wearing bulky sweaters and layers to keep me from scratching my fucking skin off. Things I didn’t know in high school that I know now that help get rid of the rash but have also kept it away for well over a decade: 1) Benadryl, if it doesn’t help the itching, it will put me to sleep until the itching goes away. I also had the time to sleep, which I did not in high school. 2) It hasn’t been around much because I can write now. I live in a home where my words are my own until I decide to share them. I was never able to write anything real in high school or before because my mother would find it and make me pay. 3) This pain and restriction, it wasn’t forever. Though it felt like it. I made it a month in the cast. That was long enough. Should it have stayed on longer? Yes. Could I take it any longer? No. It was healed enough the cast could come off. Recovery could begin. Life and work could slowly start to resume. I am usually very realistic to a fault. I was not. I was delusional to a fault. I thought, once the cast came off, everything would be back to normal. Hahaha, wrong. So wrong. I lost so much strength. It’s still incredibly delicate and painful. The skin where the cuts were is still fresh and sensitive. It’s ridiculous, and I hate it. I don’t like feeling weak or incapable. Instead of dwelling on what I can’t do: writing as much as I used to, opening things, yoga, handstands, cracking my knuckles, dexterity, handwriting, etc. I’m concentrating on the fact, I can write and I can move again. I’m doing what I need to be okay mentally while still being kind to my hand as it is. I wear a compression glove a lot to help support it. When I’m not actively using my hand, I wear a stiffer brace to let it relax safely. I’ve started focusing my energy on getting back into working again and moving my body. I can’t yet do the things I really loved doing before, like yoga or trail running (I fall sometimes. I’m clumsy, okay). But I’m trying new things. I’ve taken up racquet sports to build my hand strength. I’ve started lifting because I’ve been meaning to and now it’s one of the things I can mostly do. I’ve gotten into swimming again for the first time in two decades. No playing mermaids here, I’m doing laps. The road to getting my hand back to what it was will take a while. There’s also a chance there will be a new normal. Either way, I’m okay. And looking back over the last three months, it was hell. I was not okay. I’m leaving out so much shit that I went through because it’s none of your business, and I’m also not writing a book here. But it’s also the first time my life has been that horrible and I haven’t woken up in the morning thinking “God-fucking-damnit.” Life was bad, but I didn’t want to die. And for me, the life I’ve lived, that is huge.
I got my first tattoo when I was twenty-four. I didn’t get my next until last month when I was in Denver visiting my best friend. The last set of tattoos were about embracing and even publicizing my queerness, specifically my lesbian identity. In hindsight, I should’ve gotten them years ago; it’s really cut down on the number of men who approach me out in the world. Also they make me happy.
For my 31st birthday, I doubled my number of tattoos by getting three all at once. They also mean a great deal for very personal reasons. The most personal being the most visible. No one has asked yet, but I know it will be commented on one day. I have no idea how I’ll handle it, hopefully with grace.
After getting my tattoos in Denver, I knew I wanted more. And I knew exactly what I wanted to get. I didn’t have any set plans for when or where I would get them, but I knew it would be sooner rather than later.
I’m going to take this moment to introduce Meghan. A few names pop up in my writing with frequency: Dylan, Alex, Amanda, Kelsey. Meghan has been mentioned multiple times over the last eight months but never by name. I don’t name people often because I really do like to keep my private life private. Also I am guarded, and it takes a long time for me to be convinced someone actually wants to be in my life for the good and the bad. Once they make an appearance in my writing, there’s no undoing that. For whatever reason, people pay attention to me and my writing and ask questions when new people show up or when regulars disappear. Eight months is actually quite fast for me to mention a name, but we bonded fast, and sometimes you just know when a human is for you. I figure she’s probably sticking around at this point; we’ve been through a lot. I might as well let her have her name. Plus, like all my other notable friends, she has an exceptionally generic name, unlike me, so there’s still a modicum of anonymity; except I will tag her on Instagram, so if you really want to know what she looks like: good luck her profile is private. Anyways, Meghan is a fundamental human in my life. Why do I mention her now? Because she’s an important part of this story.
A week before my birthday, Meghan asked what I wanted to do on my birthday. I generally don’t think about it because a) I hate my birthday b) I just let whoever’s in my life plan whatever they want for me c) or I ignore it completely. After giving it some thought, I told her I wanted to have it be very low-key, get tattoos, and have a bonfire. So that’s exactly what we did.
On the day of my birth, we both got tattooed. Her tattoo is her story to tell, but I will tell you about mine. I got an 8 on my left ankle, servive just above my right elbow, and a crocus on my ribs near my heart.
A perfect 8 for a perfect boy.
The 8 was not originally a tattoo I knew I wanted. On May 7, Meghan and I buried her cat Ocho, who died suddenly. My gay concentric circles tattoo (read about that here) is partially in honor of Ocho’s dog brother, Nigel, who also passed far too soon. I spent so much time with both Ocho and Nigel since meeting Meghan. They weren’t my pets, but they absolutely stole my heart in every single way. When they both passed, I was truly devastated. I still miss them. Ocho was all but a kitten. He and I played… hard. When he wanted to play and I didn’t, he would attack my ankles like the apex predator he was. He ruined my ankle modeling career with his murder mittens. I still have scars. He was also the snuggliest, sweetest, goodest, most determined, stubbornest, swiftest boy in the world. So when he died, I knew I wanted to get something to commemorate him like I did his brother. Nothing felt more right than an 8 on the ankle he loved to shred. I miss him every single day, but I carry a sweet little reminder of his ridiculous antics.
I love flowers. My best friend, Amanda, is a floral designer who turned me into a subpar designer when she needs me, so now flowers are more than just something to be admired. I appreciate them. I also know a lot more about them than I did a few years ago. So Amanda helped me figure out which flower best represented what I wanted to communicate to myself because… this tattoo will really only be seen when I want to show someone. It’s more of a show and tell kind of thing.
22 year old me would be extraordinarily surprised by all of these tattoos but especially this one.
The tattoo placement and color is an interesting choice for a couple reasons. I always said I would never get color tattoos… Woops. I have a very colorful arm tattoo and a very colorful crocus tattoo. I also said I would never get a tattoo on my torso until after I had child[ren] because I don’t want stretch marks to ruin them. The older I get, the less and less likely it is I have a kid, so fuck it.
Crocuses thrive in adverse conditions. They actually can’t bloom without four months of below freezing temperatures. They bloom even when there’s snow on the ground. Year after year, crocuses come back with more and more blooms. Small and delicate flowers with a huge impact and an ability to thrive because of the chilling period. I feel like a crocus that hasn’t bloomed yet. I feel like someday I will thrive because of the chilling period. That I will bloom because of the harsh conditions I have servived. I wanted it near my heart because sometimes I think my heart needs the reminder that all the pain it has endured will lead to something beautiful. I just don’t know what the fuck that beauty looks like yet. Hopefully, I servive long enough to find out. I chose the color purple because it’s my alma mater’s color; the place I met two loves of my life, Alex and Kelsey. I would not be here covering myself with tattoos if they had not chosen to love me all those years ago.
servive was the hardest. It took me two weeks to be emotionally stable after inking myself. I was truly a wreck the day after my birthday. I didn’t get off the couch.
My favorite but the absolute hardest.
“Servive” is a word I came up with because I hate being called a survivor. I am. I was cyclically raped for years. I’m a domestic violence, sexual assault, rape, psychological abuse survivor. It’s an integral part of who I am. It’s not something I have ever hidden from. But I hate the term survivor. I didn’t survive. The girl I was before is dead. Everything I went through killed that person. Who I am now is not who I was. I will never be her again, and I would give anything to be the person I was before. I am not stronger, I did not survive, but those are conversations for another post another time. So, I coined the term servivor or servive because I use my experiences, my story to serve others, to make change, to bring awareness. There has to be good that comes out of the hell I call my life.
I watched the ink needled into my skin as each letter of servive started to appear. I cried the whole time. It was hard and overwhelming and emotional. I knew it would be hard, but I had no idea how awful it would be. I’m glad Meghan was there because I needed someone who loved me to be by my side. The men who hurt me left their mark on my heart and soul and memory. It’s indelible. I will never forget. But they’re invisible. I only had invisible reminders of the men who killed the person I was before. Now I have a physical reminder. It’s not for everyone. For me, I needed it. I need that pain to be visible, even if I’m the only one who understands.
The process of having servive tattooed on my body felt like I was branding myself with every wrong and violence those men put my body and mind through. It was awful. It was horrifically painful emotionally. I was not okay in any way. Choosing to put it in a visible place was a choice I made for myself. A very hard choice that opens me up to questions because it’s misspelled, but it also opens me up to vulnerability just as much as animosity. I made that choice knowing it would be hard. It’s one of the few times I’ve underestimated how difficult something would be. I do not regret it. I love this tattoo more than the others because it’s hard. Because I earned it. It is a reminder of where I’ve been, so many obstacles I’ve overcome, an allowance to give myself grace, and a message to not give up.
While I was getting the first of the three tattoos, Meghan had just finished getting hers. She sat down to watch me get mine, as much for her own amusement as in support. She asked a question that I will never forget, which she does frequently without meaning to, it’s irritating how accidentally insightful she can be, “After you get a tattoo, do you feel like it was always supposed to be there?” I had never thought of it in that way, but the only tattoo I had up until six weeks ago is not extraordinarily visible. Having it felt right. But it had also been there for seven years, and I go long periods of time without seeing it. With my most recent tattoos, I see them constantly. I can’t agree with her more.
Looking at these tattoos on my body, they feel like they were always supposed to be there. I feel more myself than I’ve ever felt before. I wasn’t the kid who looked at tattoos and thought I would have them. It wasn’t until I was in my early twenties that I even considered getting one. I’m a cautious person by nature, and tattoos are permanent. These tattoos, that mean a great deal, feel like I’m finally reclaiming my body—something I constantly struggle with. These tattoos make my body feel like my home. Like I’m taking ownership of something that has always belonged to me but was never accessible. Marking it. Making it my own. Decorating it with things that make me happy, turning it into a representation of my truest self.
For my 31st birthday, I got tattooed. I’m slowly giving my body back to myself.
The very first Pride I ever went to was ten years ago in London, albeit accidentally. I haven’t been to one since. I have celebrated every single Pride month in some way for twelve years—a year before I came out as pansexual.
“Can’t Even Think Straight” True Facts
I’ve never really been to Pride. As an extreme introvert with zero gay friends in Houston, I haven’t had anyone make me go or go with me. As soon as my life included people, straight but supportive people, who would happily accompany me to Pride, the pandemic hit, and Pride was canceled for two years; though, I put on my own Pride Parade, dressing up my six dogs in 2020.
The pandemic put stress on the seams of my life that I had been so desperately mending as they tore until I couldn’t do it anymore. I let every seam pop, and my life is just a jumble of fabric and thread at this point. Eventually, I’ll figure out how to sew it all back together, but I’m in the process of figuring out how I want the pieces to fit together because what was didn’t work.
Over the last two years, I have become more and more outspoken about being gay. I’ve never hidden this part of myself since coming out eleven years ago, but being in straight passing relationships made it a bit more complicated. And it is exhausting arguing with people over my own identity. Two years ago, I decided to stop letting exhaustion deter me from calling people on their heteronormativity. A conversation worth having for myself but also for every other queer person so maybe one day it no longer needs to be had. Six months ago, I came out as lesbian.
Gay, queer, lesbian. They’re all identities I happily wear.
Living my best gay life surrounded by a bunch of circles.
Sometimes I feel like my life has been nothing but doing hard things. Thirty-one years of just getting by, biding my time until the next tragedy creeps in. In my early twenties, I chose to walk away from a cushy corporate life to pursue a career in doing the hard things. I spend my time learning and writing about this life and this world of inequity, violence, and struggle. As someone who has chosen to always have the hard conversations, to stand up for what I believe is right, to never stay quiet, to not accept what is as what can be, my career and beliefs, though rooted in kindness, has alienated everyone in my life who do not believe in working to create a better world. We do not have to hold the same opinions or beliefs, but my people cannot actively cultivate ignorance, hate, violence, or worse ambivalence. So, I am well acquainted with watching people walk away.
My life has been a series of doing hard things, but coming out was the easiest thing I’ve ever done.
As someone whose life revolves around gender and racial equity and human sexuality, as a gay someone, I am well acquainted with the fears my community has when they come out, when we live our lives in the open. I know the privilege I have as a straight passing woman. A 5’10” woman who can hold her own in a fight against a man. A white woman. An American woman. A cis woman. A woman with an education and the words to tell my story and defend my actions and understand the consequences of my choices. I choose to come out at every opportunity. I chose to get very gay tattoos in very visible places. I choose to put rainbows on everything. I choose to call myself gay and lesbian and queer. I choose to be loud and proud because so many people never had the chance. So many live in fear because they are who they are.
My community has fought for the rights we have. We have died to be where we are today. Yet three days ago, I listened to a fifteen year old girl talk about her parents refusing to acknowledge her sexuality because she’s not straight, maybe bi, maybe lesbian. The fact a fifteen year old feels comfortable enough to call herself gay is such an amazing win, but the fight is not over. Especially if we look at what is playing out in the highest court of this nation and the repercussions of the decision and overturning of Roe v. Wade will have for women and my community.
Blue and yellow are my favorite colors, so yes for this wall.
Pride is a celebration. It’s a celebration of who we are. It’s a celebration I hold in my heart and life every fucking day because Pride isn’t a month, it is my life. It is the lives lost to violence and ignorance; the lives lost to hopelessness; the lives lost to a lack of health care; the lives lost fighting for equity. Pride is a remembrance of every person who has come before so that we can wear rainbows and dance in the street. Pride is honoring the pain that has led to joy and love and laughter. Pride is hope that the struggles and fights we continue to face will be alleviated for the queer people of tomorrow.
So yeah, I’ve made gay a huge part of my personality in the last two years. Because I’m fucking proud. I’m proud of my community. I’m proud of myself. I’m proud of who I am, and it has taken me thirty-one years of doing the hard things so that I could have this one easy thing.
I am gay. I am lesbian. I am here. I am loud. I am proud. I will be at Pride in Houston whether that is with my people or by myself. If you need people, I’ll be your people. Because I’m proud of you too. We’re not perfect, but gay is a synonym for happy, so here’s to a Gay Fucking Pride and celebrating exactly who we are because we are exceptional.
Alex is the person I have written about most. In a way, he’s at the heart of every word I write, and my heart will always write about him. He turned 33 two days ago, and for the first time in a few years, I wasn’t able to celebrate with him. I didn’t post anything the day of because I couldn’t come up with words to say, and, if I’m being honest, I will never be good enough with words to properly convey what he means to me.
This is and always has been who we are together.
I have spent twelve birthdays loving Alex. My entire adult life. I used to believe all love was conditional, but over the last twelve years, he has proven time and time again that some love comes without strings, rare though it may be. Through college, break ups, an enlistment, deployments, vacations, cross-country moves, deaths, coming outs, falling in love, buying cars, growing up, fights, and so much more, we have persevered.
At 31, I’m not old, but I’m no longer young. I can look back on the stunningly complicated life that I have led because Alex came into my life. Thank you choir. Every person we encounter shapes us in some small way, but there are people who are fundamentally impactful. Looking at my life, Alex is the fundamental human for me. I am who I am because of him. I am because of him. Every story I tell, I get to tell because he showed me I was worth loving, that life isn’t just pain. Life can also be joy. He saved my life in the abstract but also held my head above water many years ago.
Falling in love isn’t a choice, but the act of loving someone is a choice. To stay, to work, to be present, to ask the hard questions, to show up, to admit fault, to forgive, to see someone at their worst and at their best, to communicate, to be compassionate, to challenge, to support, and all the in betweens, that is a choice. An active choice made every moment of every day in big and little ways. Alex has made the choice to love me even when he has had every reason to walk away. From the very beginning, if he were any less of the man he is, he would have and should have walked away. When we broke each other’s hearts, he could have walked away. When I came out, he could have walked away. He never has. I hope he never will. At this point, there’s only so many life altering things I can drop in his lap.
Our love started in college. A grand, sweeping love. The kind I dove into with body and soul. The kind that is devastatingly beautiful. A once in a lifetime kind of love. I knew the moment we kissed I would die loving him, and I will. Though, I’ll never wear white or have children with him, I will grow old by his side—good lord, I hope his future wife likes me. We have never been a perfect couple; there is no such thing. To me, he will always be perfect. The pain. The love. The tears. The laughter. The life we built and lost. The love we found and have worked to maintain. It is all perfect. We are my favorite love story. Love cannot conquer all (it’s the gay bit), but it has conquered so very much.
One of my favorite pictures of us.
Life didn’t play out the way I saw it at 19. Although, looking back, I’m not exactly sure what I saw for us. I saw him. He saw me. There have been so many twists and turns to get lost in the way I used to get lost in his eyes in our bed ten years ago. I’m not going to go down the what if road because I am who I am and he deserves to find someone who is not gay. I don’t think I would change a single thing about our story. It’s beautiful and sad. If I could go back, I would tell myself to give more grace, be angry less, communicate more, be vulnerable, tell the hard truths, stop being strong all the time, lean into him because he loved me as I was, as I am, and there’s nothing I could have done that would change that.
I will never love anyone the way I have and do love Alex. A love I could spend forever writing about, and I might. A love that I can’t explain but I feel so deeply. It’s transcendent.
