Mental Health – Page 2 – …on the B.L.

Back in April 2022, I started getting really serious about consistently working out. For the first time ever. Granted there was a very long period of time where I was super active as a dancer up until I was 23. I didn’t have to make a conscientious effort to move my body; I just always was. I’m an active person. I love rock climbing, walking, and playing sports with friends, though I am more than very bad. My vacations trend towards adventure with a lot of hiking or walking. Me out of shape is still very in shape.

A woman in houndstooth pants, a black lace bra, blue blazer, and black booties, holding a disco ball covered in flowers in front of a mural. — Are those abs? What in the world?

Then I got into shape for realsies. Or at least, I was on the path. I was running six days a week and going to yoga at least four. In the span of two months, I lost 20 pounds and was in the lithest shape I’d ever been in in my adult body. I even ran a couple races and finished solidly just above mid-pack. Yay me. I hate running.

My dedication to working out floundered in July when I was constantly traveling. In August, my best friend and co-pawrent had a hip replacement, which took all of my time for four weeks and most of my time for an additional four weeks. A quarter of the way into his recovery, I seriously broke my hand—it’s still healing—and, being the fall risk that I am, exercise was even less possible. So working out became a thing of the past. My body started shifting away from lithe and lean because of course it did.

A woman in black rock climbing. — Rock climbing again and figuring out I can do more even after I broke my hand.

But I’m getting older. It happens. I actually really love it. Our society has such a negative view of aging, and it’s so common to hear people complain about how their bodies turn to shit after 30. I’m not experiencing that. Things are changing, 100%, but I’m choosing to have a positive *insert serious internal gasp here* look at aging. So much of what our body experiences is influenced by how we view something (I have sources on this if you want to call me on it because this is a science based fact), and this is particularly pertinent to aging. So often we blame aging rather than a lack of stretching, not exercising, not stimulating our bodies/brains, poor form, overexertion, so on and so forth. It’s easier to blame age. Thirty is not old. Thirty is still so fucking young. I suffer from a lot of health problems. If I don’t want to die in the near future, it’s extra important I take care of my body in any and all ways.

The physical effects of exercise are not all that appealing to me. I’m naturally thin. It’s just genetics. I can eat like crap, do nothing, and still never go over 150 pounds at 5’10”; believe me, I’ve done my best trying. Going from a ballerina body to that of a woman with hips was an adjustment. I’ve finally made my peace with it. So I don’t exercise to look a certain way. I exercise because it is the very best thing for mental acuity as I age. My biggest fear is losing my cognitive abilities and control. Combatting that starts right now by moving my body. As much as I hate admitting it, the other really important thing for women as we age… weight lifting. I hate it. I’d rather do cardio until I pass out.

In November, I got a bougie ass gym membership. If I don’t spend too many monies on a gym membership, I will not work out regularly. I HATE wasting money more than just about anything. It’s right up there with systemic racism and all that bad shit. Running and yoga are still really hard for me. Running: I have a propensity to stumble and fall; with a hand that is still fragile, I can’t afford to lose my dominant hand again. Yoga: there’s a lot of putting weight on a hand that can’t take it yet. So I started weight lifting, and I think I accidentally became a gym rat. It’s the easiest thing for me to do with my hand. I’ve always had strong legs because… dancer. Upper body strength, what is that? Because… dancer. What I’ve lacked in strength, I’ve made up for in determination. But I hate looking weak. One way to, at least, feeling weak is knowing exactly how much weight I cannot do.

A woman in houndstooth pants, a black lace bra, and black booties, holding a disco ball, flexing her arm muscles and making a goofy face in front of a mural. — When did I get arms? Or shoulders? or abs? I’m also making a dumb ass face because why not?

A woman rock climbing all the way to the top in a sports bra and leggings. — I’m still scared of heights… but I can almost see muscles in this picture.

Holy fuck. There have been some serious changes in the mere two months I’ve been not so consistently weight lifting. And it’s not just limited to doubling then tripling and even quadrupling the weight I was lifting at the beginning of December.

1. Boobs My boobs are not the same boobs I had two months ago. All the muscles in my chest and abs have changed things. Lifted two things. I’ve never been known for wearing a bra because my boobs have always been right about where they should be aesthetically for today’s societal beauty standards that I hate conforming to yet historically have. My boobs are so fucking perky. It’s weird. Now, I almost never wear a bra because why would I???

2. Sleep I don’t like to sleep. It’s the antithesis of productivity, yet something I very much need for my health and a foundational element in maintaining mental acuity. Damnit. Working out has helped my sleep. It makes me tired at reasonable human times. Like midnight or one in the morning rather than never. Physical exhaustion, enough of it, can actually counteract anxiety. Who knew? It’s also made me more prone to getting up between 7:30 and 8:00 in the morning… weird. I have an almost normal sleep schedule. I wake up, like, ready to go.

3. Protein So people have been telling me for years that protein is important. Ballerina mentality means I can and do push far past what most people find acceptable levels of physicality. Limits? What even are those? Fucking weird. If I take protein before I work out… I can lift a shit ton more with ease. Who knew?? Why didn’t someone tell me that?

4. New Body My boobs aren’t the only thing that’s changing. My entire body is different. I have arm muscles. Back muscles. Abs are actually starting to show and not in the ‘my fluff is aligned in a flatteringly deceptive way’ kind of thing. My shoulders are a bit of a “what the fuck?” every time I look in the mirror. My legs are sleeker. My fluff hasn’t started falling off yet because I’m not really doing cardio. A body I’ve never had before. A body I’ve never wanted. When I bend my elbows, my forearms can feel my biceps. It’s not the ballerina body I’ve always had. It’s a strong body. It’s foreign and alien. I’m trying to get used to it. I’m still shocked as all hell that my body can look like that… this. And, truthfully, I don’t know if I like it. I’ll get there. (Especially as I keep outlifting stronger and stronger men. That helps.)

A topless woman in houndstooth pants and black booties, holding a disco ball in front of her. — Seriously? What the fuck, shoulders?

5. My Body Feels Different Being in this body feels different, for sure. What’s really weird is how it feels when people touch me. This may not make sense. When people touch me, it feels like they’re touching me closer than ever before. Where there used to be skin, fluff, bone, it didn’t feel like there was a lot of me to touch. Now, there’s resistance when people hug or touch me because there’s muscle. It feels like they’re touching me more immediately. I’m autistic as fuck, so my sensory issues are probably in play here. But when there’s pressure on my body, my muscles have more feeling than the fluff and skin. Therefore it feels more intimate than before, like people are actually touching me rather than the buffer. I can feel people’s touch so much more intensely. In a lot of ways, it’s great… if I like the person. It’s also made me a lot, a lot, more sensitive to being touched.

6. Gym I finally realized the gym is just an age appropriate playground for adults. Once I do what I have to do for my workouts… then I can play. I’m very bad at weights and cardio and all that crap. But what I am good at: flexibility and balance. It’s so fun. I get to bounce around doing things I enjoy, and it turns out it makes other people ask if my sanity is intact because it’s so hard. Thanks ballet!

7. Orgasms I’m going to leave it at: Stronger abs, stronger…

8. Things Are Lighter Things are not lighter. I got stronger. That’s fucking weird. At 31, I am in the best, strongest shape of my life. My body also probably looks the healthiest it ever has. Ballerina bodies are beautiful but don’t exude health. I love picking up heavy, also heavy and awkward, things in front of men and them asking if I’m on steroids. They can’t do it with the same ease. And that brings me immense joy. I can also now move two 45 pound bags of dog food easily and at the same time. With six dogs, this is efficient, and I love efficiency.

9. Balance I hate balance because that means I’m human. I have a tendency to go balls to the wall with everything I do. I go hard, I go fast, and I go constantly. Rest is deserved by everyone. Except me. Lifting has taught me that I don’t have to feel like my legs and arms are falling off to get a good workout. I can workout hard and not pass out. I can take a day off or even a minute for a break without being an absolute failure of a person. I hold myself to an inhumanly high standard, partially because I’m only motivated by my own constant failure, partially because of trauma, partially because I’m just starting to realize how ingrained my ballet mentality is, partially because my mother. That standard probably will never change, and I don’t want it to. But lifting has allowed me to be okay with having a modicum of physical limitations.

10. Velocity of Change Under the fluff, muscle is growing and growing really fucking fast. My body does not change like a woman’s. It changes like a man’s. Maybe even faster. It’s weird. I’m getting an entirely different body really quickly. There is clear definition between my muscles, and that started happening within two weeks. It’s only getting worse, better, I don’t know, it’s continuing.

11. Twerking I used to be able to twerk. I can’t now. My ass has tightened up so much, I cannot twerk. No matter how hard I try. Oh lord, have I tried. Nothing. No twerking for me. I should have twerked for everyone because I’m a white lady in my 30s and no one would believe that shit. I could two months ago. Then my body changed. My butt won’t twerk anymore. I’m sad. (I think that’s the most I’ve ever used the word twerk in a paragraph, day, ever.)

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna

In My Own Words, Lifestyle, So Gay

Gay A Synonym For Happy, So Gay Pride 2022

May 31, 2022May 31, 2022 RaeAnna

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.

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.

Experiences, In My Own Words, Lifestyle, Travel

Abandonment Issues Triggered Over Driving Myself to the Airport

April 30, 2022April 30, 2022 RaeAnna

I drove myself to the airport this morning. It’s not the first time I’ve had to park my car while I jetset. It definitely will not be the last. But I was not supposed to drive myself. I hate spending money I don’t have to, and honestly, there’s something really lovely about having someone care enough to do the airport drop off and pick up dance with.

I masked up. I was just alone and drinking coffee.

I booked this trip two weeks ago, and for me, that’s some pretty good advance warning. I spoke with my platonic life partner and roommate and best friend, all one person, about driving me. I had picked flights that would work with his work/life schedule. He agreed. It went on our household calendar. Last night, he got home from work. I was working at the table. He’d been invited out with friends. Great! Have fun. Remember we need to leave the house by 3:45 am, so just be home by then. He gives me a hug and says he’ll be home by nine so we can watch a show before getting some sleep and heading to the airport. 10:30 hits, and I head to bed.

When I wake up and head downstairs to leave… No truck in the driveway. No ring notification. No man on the couch or in his bed or anywhere in the house at all. It’s 3:30. You know. Still time. Four calls straight to voicemail while I’m brushing my teeth. I eventually leave a voicemail. “I’m not angry. I’m not even disappointed. I’ve just come to expect this.” The petty asshole in me responds to his midnight-thirty “Love you!” text message with “Then maybe you should be home to take me to the airport…..” “But I guess not.” I did not take the high road. Grace was not given. Not my proudest moment. I let all the doggos out and said my goodbyes before hopping in the car and driving my independent lady ass to the airport. I did cry in the car. Not a breakdown cry. The silent stoic tears of a war bride waving goodbye on a train platform in a 1950s black and white movie. Probably not that pretty, but you get the picture. Hurt.

I’m taking this trip because I miss my best friend; I’m going through an intensely tough time and need to get away; the day after I get back my life will revolve around the out-all-nighter because he’s having his hip replaced, and I’ll be taking care of him. This is me being punchy about the fact I’ll be his nurse round-the-clock for six weeks and he couldn’t make it home in time to take me to the airport. Not sorry. I am also not sorry for airing this information. I’m a writer. He knows this. Life is copy.

Two quick things before I get to what I actually want to talk about. 1) This scenario is not actually a huge deal and was easily solved. The emotional aspect… Different story. Had this happened ten years ago, I would be a proper mess, but I’m so much more healed now. So I’m a slight mess instead. 2) If this were an isolated incident, I would be mad or disappointed. The problem, it’s not. So I’m hurt because it never feels lovely to be forgotten, and it’s pretty terrible never being a priority or able to depend on someone.

Trauma is a huge part of my story. I have issues. I am excessively familiar with all of my issues and triggers and the coping mechanisms I’ve developed over the course of thirty-one years. I’m quite good at telling my people what I need from them to keep functioning as optimally as I can. These things are quite easy and simple because at the end of the day, they’re my problems and I hate being a burden. I wear my trauma on my sleeve; it just makes life and relationships easier when I’m not hiding things that impact me so deeply. So everyone close to me knew what they were getting into and decided to stay. To the extreme point that if I’m dating someone or getting to know someone as a friend I lay it all out there on the first date/hang out. Truly, all they have to do is Google me and so much is out there for consumption. I am old enough to know I don’t want to waste my fucking time on people who will judge me, not support me, are intimidated by whatever, think what I do is dumb, can’t handle it. Trial by fire. Their reactions say it all.

Sad and hurt for too many reasons but ready for adventure.

When you have a relationship, platonic or romantic, with a person who has survived and lives with trauma, you have to accept that your actions, even the innocuous ones, can have a huge and sweeping impact. I struggle with worth, abandonment issues, being enough, and just feeling like an entirely forgettable human. Among other things. So when I was left to fend for myself this morning, the thought was “Alone. Like always.” Maneuvering the logistics of getting to the airport: so simple. Maneuvering the emotional toll of being forgotten and abandoned: not so simple.

Trusting people is so hard for me. I’ve let people in and been hurt over and over and over again. Trust is built over time and in the little moments. Watching TV on the couch after a rough day. Text messages to check in after falling down the stairs. Sleepovers for funsies. Showing up on time or at all when plans are made. “Safe travel” texts before planes take off. Not canceling. Including people in conversations. Remembering how to pronounce a name. Randomly reaching out for no reason. Sending a postcard. Listening without judgement. All these little things are teeny moments building trust and relationship between people. Trust takes time to build and often so little to corrode or destroy. To protect myself and cope with a life of abuse, I keep people at a distance, don’t give them chances to build trust, and make it incredibly hard to get to know me. How I have any friends is quite the mystery at this point. I’m working on it. As shitty as it is to say, when one person lets me down, it feels like another tick mark against all of humanity. Like, welp, this person can’t be trusted, and they’re human, therefore all humans are ashtrays. Refer to the first sentence of this paragraph… I am aware this is a problem.

I’m not someone who needs, wants, or even craves grand gestures. (Maybe I am, but I’ve never had anyone remotely try, so I wouldn’t actually know. I do love doing them, however.) Little things mean the most. A ride to the airport is not life altering, but it’s a little thing. Love, true love, exists in those little things, the quotidian, the quiet moments, the in betweens. It’s not always explosions or fireworks. It’s life altering in fundamentally consistent, persistent ways of sharing joys and sorrows, every big and little moment. Love is showing up and bearing witness to a lived life. Those tiny moments mean everything. To someone with trauma, it means everything and so much more. I don’t ask for much. I don’t need much. I probably need more than I realize, but I’ve been alone and self-sufficient for so long, I don’t know what it’s like to lean on someone or ask for help. Maybe someone will force my walls down and make me realize it’s okay to need things. To that woman, I say, “Best of luck. I’ll be quite the challenge.” Until then if ever. Fuck that shit; I’m a strong, independent woman. I don’t need anyone. I got myself to the airport like I’ve done numerous times before. And I’ll take myself home.

That doesn’t mean I’m not hurting. I’m not struggling. I’m not wondering if he forgot because I’m forgettable. Or he didn’t come because I wasn’t supportive enough of his night out. Or he didn’t think I was worth taking to the airport. Or that maybe I just don’t deserve someone to care about me. Or he just doesn’t want me in his life anymore. Or he never cared at all. Logically, I know all of this is untrue and it was an accident. But that doesn’t mean I believe it. Feelings and logic rarely coexist peacefully.

When you decide to be in someone’s life who is dealing with trauma, you better be damn sure you know what you’re getting into and that your actions have repurcussions. Your accidents and mistakes carry more weight. Little things mean the most, for the good and the bad. I know what it’s like to be on both sides. Being the traumatized and loving someone with trauma. It’s hard doing the loving, but I also know just how worth it it is. Then again, I also know how to be there for them because I know. And when you love someone, you just show up. Trauma or no trauma. Show up. That’s the bare minimum, and it shouldn’t be a lot to ask for. Then again, my bare minimum was “This one doesn’t rape me!” for the longest time. It’s been upped to, “This one doesn’t make me cry every day!” I’m fucked up. I know.

So I’m sitting on this fucking plane, crying my big, gay tears next to a man in a MAGA hat, trying to convince myself that maybe someday I’ll find someone who will ask if I need a ride to the airport and show up. (Shout out to Amanda, who offered, but I “had a ride.”) It should be simple. But it’s not for me. The idea of my having worth enough for anyone to take me to the airport let alone love me does not exist. The accident of falling asleep at a friend’s house after a fun night out is small, but to me, it carries connotations of so much more.

In My Own Words, Lifestyle

The Vice Grip In My Chest

April 14, 2022April 14, 2022 RaeAnna

I don’t exactly know what I’m trying to write, what the point of this is, if there’s a point at all, where this will even start, or end.

I love old and forgotten things. Broken. Worn. I see myself in them.

All I know is that it feels like my lungs and heart are slowly being compressed in a vice grip I can’t shake. I can’t stop crying. But I can’t seem to start breathing. Every time I almost get a breath in my lungs, the vice grip clamps down even harder. My body feels like it’s slowly dying, and I actually know what that feels like. Though, I know this time it’s just emotional pain corporally manifesting rather than internal organ failure. I’ll take one over the other, and it’s not the one I’m struggling with right now.

My pain is so interwoven with one another. Start pulling on one string of pain, and all the rest start to twinge. Trauma. Survivor. PTSD. Love. Anxiety. Failure. Depression. Abandonment. Worth. I can handle them all. I’ve done it over and over and over again for so many reasons. I fight those demons daily, and I’m still here. I’ll be okay, but I’m crumbling right now.

I can’t sleep. And food, just, yeah. I’ve been exercising like my life depends on it. In a way maybe it does. The mind needs sleep more than the body, but both have learned how to survive on all but none. I run and do yoga every day. I never stop moving, trying to find something to take my mind off of this pain. Pushing myself past boundaries I hadn’t known existed so the physical pain can, at least, match the emotional.

I couldn’t sleep last night. So I took to the woods at 3:00 am with my dog to run until my legs couldn’t go on. Truly. I ran until my legs couldn’t, so I sat down and cried. I focused on my heart beat. Feeling my heart condition being pushed to its most extreme limits so my heart would feel like it could explode at any moment because the physical pain made the fact my heart is imploding on itself over and over again a little less poignant. I crawled back in bed and never found sleep. So I laid on the bathroom floor and sobbed until the sun came up.

I left my room and chose to use my rare free time to chase happiness, doing things that bring me joy. REI, the zoo, a carousel ride, walking Hermann Park, a train ride, dinosaurs at the Science Museum, art at the MFA, more walking, writing at one of my favorite coffee shops. I’ve managed to make my feet cover 26 miles in the last sixteen hours. Yet I’m not tired. I’m not happy. Nothing I do allows me to breathe or dry my tears.

I’ve been told my entire life I’m horrible at being vulnerable. Vulnerability has always been dangerous. Surviving doesn’t allow any room for weakness, mistakes, failure. I can. With a chosen few… The few who chose themselves to put in the work, to push. To not take ‘no’ for an answer.

It’s the common complaint from friends and partners. They don’t know me because I don’t show them the parts I’m scared of. I’m scared because I can’t change them. I have no control over them. I’ve been met with callous cruelty far more than loving empathy. I make jokes to distract from the agony of so many things. If I make them laugh, they won’t see the silent desperation in my eyes or the tremble in my voice or the way my body language gives nothing away. I have no problem putting down these feelings here, sharing it with the world. Ask me to crumble in front of my people, I can’t.

I can, but they have to push. They have to demand, leave me with no other option. They have to keep showing up and saying they want the broken parts. They have to see the shine in my eyes and the stoicism take over. An absence of feeling usually means only one thing: They’re on to something. I’m not okay. I’m falling apart. Quickly. I will leave and disintegrate if they don’t just ask the one question: “Why?” Then make me answer it, no matter what. Don’t try to dry my eyes or let me make jokes. Don’t even try to hold me or make it better because they can’t. Not until it’s come out. Then simply exist with me as I lose it.

The moment I know something is off, wrong, different, emotional, I steal myself. Compartmentalizing every single feeling except kindness and empathy far away from the surface so I can be there for them without needing a single thing in return. I’m a great friend, but I’ve had a hard time letting others be friends to me. So they’re left wondering if I ever felt anything at all.

I’ve been told I have no feelings; computer programs have more emotions than I do; psychopathic tendencies; cruelly unfeeling. Surviving meant keeping emotions at bay until there was an appropriately solitary moment to deal with them, the shower, before holding my chin up to keep on keeping on. The truth is, I feel everything. All the time. So deeply. So viscerally. I take everything personally. Over-analyzing every conversation and interaction to find out what I did wrong, what I could have done better, how I could have been better. I just don’t show it.

Someone spent eleven years loving me without knowing I’m sensitive.

I compartmentalize to survive. I hurt people with my compartmentalization, which only makes me hurt more.

The fact is, my inability to be vulnerable means I have so few people in my life. I know this to be true. I’ve known it for a long time. But people keep leaving without ever trying to push past a single boundary I’ve erected purely for self-preservation. I can give help without ever asking for what I need.

So I’m thirty and broken.

I’m going through it.

I know I’ll get used to this new vice grip in my chest, and I’ll breathe again. I don’t know when. I know because I have a few I’m already used to, but this one feels different. Bigger. More real.

In My Own Words, Lifestyle

I Hate My Body, But It’s What I’ve Got

March 23, 2022March 26, 2022 RaeAnna

It’s Women’s History Month, and when I look at my body, I feel as if it’s an amalgam of the horrors women have faced throughout history.

These pictures might seem like they’re attention seeking. These pictures are not taken for you. They’re for me. They’re hard to take. They’re harder to share. These pictures are a rebellion, a reclamation, an acceptance, a step towards peace, a forgiveness.

Trauma lives in the body. What happens when the body is the trauma? I moved away from the city, the area, the state, the region where the violence happened. I cut off the people who didn’t protect me, the people who wouldn’t believe me, the people who defended my rapists. I can’t move away from my body. I can’t cut off the fouled pieces. I’m left with two options. The choice of not living in my body anymore. Or the choice of accepting its defeat and survival. I tried desperately for the first one, but life has decided to hold onto me with a grip a lot stronger than I often would have liked. So I have to make the choice every minute of every day to accept that when I see my body, part of me will always see the body taken away, the reminders of everything it has endured.

Looking at my body, how would you describe it?

We probably don’t see the same thing because all I can see is a body:
Raped
Beaten
Cut
Sold
Ripped
Choked
Threatened
Shared
Torn
Bought
Disposed
Experimented
Filled
Bloodied, so much blood

And that’s just before I turned twenty.

I don’t see anything beautiful. Anything to be desired or worthy. I don’t see strength or resilience. I don’t see anything precious or deserving of protection. I don’t see a body to be loved or worshipped. Though I’m trying very hard to get to a point where I do see those things, maybe just one would be a good start.

I see ears that heard I love you for the first time as I was raped for the first time. I see a mouth that was never taught to say “no,” not that any of these men understood consent. I see a scar from the time a man decided to teach me a lesson for trying to say “no” by taking a knife and carving out a piece of my skin. I see a body shared with friends because it’s “just so fucking tight.” I see a face that seems to just ask to be punched or slapped. I see a scar where a man, who just couldn’t contain his desire, pulled my ass apart so hard it tore me. I see eyes that have cried so many silent tears it’s amazing I haven’t died of dehydration. I see a body called beautiful every. single. time. it was raped. I see a mouth that has learned to smile and say “thank you” after having a dick shoved in it until I threw up. I see a body that never belonged to me. I see a body someone and someone and someone and someone and someone’s friends decided to take and use until they grew bored. I see a body told to cover up and hide because men can’t handle themselves: odd, I was never raped naked at a strip club, but I was raped in jeans and a turtleneck by my high school boyfriend. I see a body that was never enough.

My mind knows that this body has persevered through everything so that I could be thirty years old and say I have: climbed mountains; broken men’s noses and ribs and dislocated knees when they pushed too far; fallen in love; held people as they cried through their own trauma; survived broken hearts; written piece after piece like this; spoken in front of thousands about my trauma and sex work; attempted suicide and survived; rescued dogs; rescued people; traveled the world; learned languages and skills and information; given kindness with everything I am because I don’t know what pain other people are going through; listened to stories that make me grateful my life hasn’t been worse. I know in my brain that I never deserved anything that happened to me, but my body feels like it tells a different story. I know in my heart that this body has more to offer the world than to be a punching bag, but it will take time to believe that.

I have always worn clothes, makeup, and confidence like armor. A way to distract everyone who looks from the deep discomfort I feel in my soul in perpetuity at the sheer audacity my body has to continue existing in the face of everything. The act of being naked in the shower is sometimes so much that I’ll go days without one. Leave me unattended too long surrounded by water in my own undress, I will break down. Wearing a bikini was traumatic for years and is still daunting. What if someone sees a scar and asks. Then I have to explain that men are violence, and it’s a real downer for any pool party. I have finally gotten to the point where I can practice hot yoga in a sports bra and leggings. Sex is just another story completely. I’ve reverted back to wearing grandma underwear from thongs because they just feel so exposing right now. I started sleeping naked and walking around the house in pants and a sports bra to get acquainted with my own body in a small yet safe way. I’m wearing crop tops because they terrify me, and I refuse to let fear hold me back from celebrating the fact I’m 30 and I can wear whatever the fuck I want. As a stripper, I learned to harness the confidence I gained from clothes and makeup to stand in nothing but heels in front of hundreds, demanding their eyes and forbidding their touch. I’m trying desperately hard to find some comfort in my body. I mask it so well, but the truth looks back at me in the mirror. And the truth is, I kind of hate that I have to live in this body knowing everything that it’s been through. But I can’t exactly change it. And I don’t want to.

Along with the memories of suffering this body holds the knowledge it survived. It’s learning what the after looks like. Pain but also hope. Sadness but also joy. Struggle but also resilience. Remembrance but also inspiration.

The history of women, my history is fraught with violence, subjugation, pain. It lives in my… our bones, our story, our existence. I and every other woman has continued on. Remembering those who did not survive. Resisting the sacrifice of our identities along with our bodies. Persisting when hope seems non-existent. Living to be that hope to another. Fighting for a better tomorrow for our daughters. Creating spaces of healing and joy. Whether in silence, through words, with actions, in art, women have not disappeared. We are still here. We are strong and beautiful. Our stories and souls are as varied and stunning as our bodies. And our bodies tell the story of life.

At thirty, I am filling a void created by the actions of men with art. These words, these images, my existence. It is all art for my own sake and for those who have never been able to tell their stories. The fact my art creates empathy and anger gives my body and its pain the worth I have never been able to afford it.

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna

11..., Lifestyle

11… Ways I’m Combatting My Executive Dysfunction Problem

February 7, 2022February 7, 2022 RaeAnna

Historically, I have not struggled with executive dysfunction. Actually, I have always been incredibly good at all of those things. Which is the only reason I have managed to override the PTSD, anxiety, and depression that try very hard to keep me… doing absolutely nothing and being, arguably, on the verge of successful human. The last two years, though. Dude. Fucked up all my shit. I’m in a super not great place. And nowhere near where I want to be. In a lot of ways, I feel like I’m drowning under the pressures of trying to be the successful human I think I could potentially be someday. Also under the pressures of trying to live my life. I’ve never really had the luxury of saying: “This is what I want. This is who I am. I’m going for it.” I’m not going to bend to other people.

I am a writer. It’s who I am, and who I’ve always been. It is an integral part of my identity. I’ve lost sight of that. Around six years ago, I stopped writing about the things that matter to me. And two years ago, I pretty much stopped writing entirely. Outside of the things I had to write to pay the bills… I wasn’t writing anything of note at all.

These things make me happy and help keep me on task.

My life is completely different than it was two years ago. In so many ways, it looks the same from the outside. But I’m more me than I have been in probably ever. The first thing I have to get back is my ability to be productive. And not in the “The dogs aren’t dead, so it’s been a good day” way. I mean in the “I’m getting shit done, clean house, exercising, working thirteen hour days because I want to, going to sleep happy (that’s not been a consistent thing in my life ever)” way. The only way I can get to being that person again is by figuring out how to re-engage my executive functioning. So I’m trying, key word there, to do little things every day to get to where I need to be. Because I need to not be here anymore.

Journaling I’m really bad at this. I have never kept a journal regularly. I’m not good at this. I’m not good at writing my inner dialogues down in fear that they will be read and used against me. This has happened the few times I did journal. I also think it’s important as a writer and memoirist to keep track of where I am and the journey I’m on. If I have kids one day, maybe they’ll get a kick out of how much of a mess their mom is/was, but I’m sure they’ll already be aware.
Eating Breakfast I’ve never been a breakfast eater. Actually, I have a hard time remembering to eat when I’m not feeding other people. Food is important to survival and brain function, apparently.
Lighting A Candle I grew up visiting St. Louis Cathedral in NOLA. I’m not Catholic, never have been, but we would always light a candle and say a prayer. I’ve continued that tradition every time I visit a cathedral. I am not religious in any way, but there’s something calming about lighting a candle and thinking on a thing before thinking on lots of things for work.
Letting the Christmas Tree Be This is kind of a funny one. I’m KNOWN for letting my Christmas tree stay up far too long. Like. It’s become an Easter tree too long. This year, my big tree was out the door by January 15. The fake one in my office is still up. Partially because executive dysfunction. Partially because I really like it. So it’s staying until it bothers me. This also goes for the stacks of books I have around my office. They make me happy. A little nuts but happy.
Flowers I love flowers and always have. I’ve always been the person that will happily buy myself flowers just because. I don’t have people who buy me flowers, so a woman’s gotta do it herself. I managed to snag myself a florist for a best friend who has convinced me to help her in her shop sometimes, so I keep myself well supplied in flowers.
Keeping A Book Close That Makes Me Smile Obviously I love being surrounded by books. An entire wall of my office is bookshelves. I’m a book critic. But some books just make me happy when they’re around. So I’ve started keeping a book on my desk that makes me smile every time I look at it.
Tea I call it inspiration water. I only drink tea in my office. Caffeine only affects my anxiety, but the way caffeine works in coffee is different from tea, so my anxiety lives a better life when I drink a gallon of tea at my desk instead.
Pride Things I’m really super gay. It’s something I haven’t talked about a whole lot over the course of my being out. It would pop up every pride as a reminder that straight passing relationships can still be queer, but the fact is… I’m just a lesbian. For as much as it is a part of my identity, it’s not a big part of my storytelling, so I’m popping the pride things around my office to remind myself I need to tell those stories too. Problem being: I write about my trauma, and I don’t have gay trauma.
Music I’ve always shied away from music outside of classical and instrumental jams while I work because I have a tendency to get distracted and want to dance and sing along. Not usually great for productivity… Except it might be. I’ve slowly started incorporating music I want to dance to as a way to give my brain a break and my body a chance to move. It’s way too soon to tell if this is helpful or counter productive.
Exercising I hate exercise. I don’t. But I do. It’s my least favorite activity I do willingly and regularly. It’s good for my brain. The more I move, the better my brain works. I’m still working on getting into that rhythm.
Spending Time With People and Not Working Workaholic has very much been my operating status for ever. Twelve hour days are a regular occurrence. Eighteen hour days aren’t unheard of. I have not been doing any of that since the pandemic began. I miss it, but I also know how wildly unhealthy that is. I’m trying to be more engaged with friends and surround myself with people who inspire me rather than need me to take care of them.