As a woman living in a non-traditional family, Detransition, Baby is an important representation for so many people who have been confronted with the cishet-normative and choose to live the life we want or need. As a queer woman, Detransition, Baby is exceptional for so many reasons. Torrey Peters and Detransition, Baby is one of the first novels ever published by an out-trans woman by a big-five publishing company. Congratulations to One World, an imprint of Penguin Random House, for using its considerable power and influence to uplift a voice that needs to be heard.
This picture was taken over a year ago. Finally posting a review. We can say I’m a bit behind and have definitely changed my hair.
The most exceptional part of Detransition, Baby is in its presentation and acceptance of the mundane and quotidian quality of the lives and struggles of queer and trans people because they are. Peters, as a queer trans-woman writes with the authenticity of lived experience and presents it to her readers with a perfunctory yet humorous: this is life. Queer lives and loves hold all the same ups and downs of cishet loves and lives, we just have the added bonus of prejudice, bigotry, systemic laws, outdated beliefs, ignorance, and hatred cishet people don’t have to deal with. For the LGBTQIA+ community, that is just life and it is mundane and quotidian, albeit painful and frustrating, but to be queer is to look the world in the face and keep living and loving authentically. Peters doesn’t make instances of homophobia or transphobia extraordinary or unique because they are not. They are a part of our lives. We do our best to get through them; educate the people we love so they can better protect us; and we continue on because that is all we can do. Queer people are just trying to pay the bills, feed our pets, have some friends, get a healthy amount of sleep, create families, and enjoy life. Detransition, Baby allows readers into the daily struggle of what that looks like for queer and trans women from the very first page.
Reese is a thirty-something, queer, trans woman living in Brooklyn with a penchant for men who do not treat her well and a deep yearning for a child. Ames, formerly known as Amy, was Reese’s partner for years before detransitioning, losing Reese and their life together. Ames’ lover, Katrina, is a half-Chinese, half-Jewish cis woman. These three thirty-something women’s lives collide in Brooklyn when Katrina finds out she’s pregnant, though Ames believed he was sterile from the years of hormone treatments. Ames creates a plan to bring Reese, Katrina, and himself together to bring this baby into the world in an unconventional yet stable and loving manner. The narrative bounces along a timeline spanning years before the baby’s conception when Amy and Reese were together to weeks after conception as Ames, Reese, and Katrina confront their own self-destructive ways, identity, gender, and what a stable life for a child could and should look like.
Detransition, Baby is an amazing book.
Ultimately, Detransition, Baby puts cishet social norms at the forefront of the novel in conjunction with how queer lives, loves, and families are expected to fit within an outdated societal structure, which no longer serves the humans it was built for and around. (Like it ever did…) Yet everyone is impacted by those expectations due to the basic human need to be seen, accepted, and affirmed. Peters, in her debut novel, which garnered her the first nomination ever by a trans woman for the Women’s Prize for Fiction, creates a messy, emotional, and vulnerable deep dive into the meaning of womanhood, queerness, family, relationships, gender, and sex. It speaks so deeply to the queer experience, yet every human who has been met with the opportunity or sought out a new beginning in their thirties, when their lives are expected to be settled. It’s hard. It’s messy. It’s painful. And yet, we come out the otherside more authentically ourselves. It’s no wonder Peters dedicated her novel to “divorced cis women.”
Within Detransition, Baby there is a universal understanding of the human condition told through the lens of a specifically queer story.
Memorable Quotes “Many people think a trans woman’s deepest desire is to live in her true gender, but actually it is to always stand in good lighting.” “She had previously been under the impression that she had failed majorly for most of her life, but in fact, she had simply confused failure with being a transsexual—an outlook in which a state of failure confirmed one’s transsexuality, and one’s transsexuality confirmed a state of failure.” I stopped keeping quotes because there are so many fabulous ones.
bisous un обьятий, RaeAnna
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Title: Detransition, Baby Author: Torrey Peters Publisher: One World Copyright: 2021 ISBN: 9780593133378
Hi, hey, hello! It’s been a minute. Or a whole bunch of minutes, really.
I do not sit and listen to music like this, false advertising, but I do listen to these speakers all the f*$!ing time because they’re amazing and custom made by my father.
I chose to take all of January off from this and Instagram. But, if I’m being honest, which I do strive for with varying degrees of success, mostly, because I’m also lying to myself, I’ve been on a hiatus of sorts since March 2020. If it were due to the pandemic, I probably would have been a lot more productive in this venture. Instead, it was the completely unplanned yet concurrent incorporation of a rescue dog and her thirteen puppies into my life three days before lockdown commenced. Keeping Tess and four of her special needs puppers was incredibly draining, especially that first year, so I let the blog and all its bits be ravaged by neglect and the inevitability of time.
Also over the last—almost—three years (Jesus) since my unintentional hiatus, my life has changed drastically while remaining quite similar on the surface. Navigating this new and improved[?] life has been a feat of patience, love, grace, hard work, and a whole lotta just figuring it the fuck out. I made huge life changes. I went from a passing pansexual to a raging lesbian. I’m learning to create boundaries and enforce them. I’ve chosen to be me a lot more fully than ever before. I’m being a lot more honest about my neurodivergence. I’m only allowing awesome people into my life and actively searching out people who help me grow and add to my life. I’m still figuring it the fuck out in the midst of planned disruptions and unexpected tragedies, but I have reached a point where there is a glimmer of peace in the not entirely distant future. This year, shit must change. Or I might be the first documented case of spontaneous human combustion.
Headphones mean music on the go… Or really driving home the point of this post.
Music has always been an integral part of my life, both listening and creating. It’s something I would have a hard time living without. Thank the Goddess below, I was born in a time where I don’t have to live without. In the relativity of humanity, music on demand is incredibly new. The creation of the radio, which was not even for music, was within a century of my birth. And yet, I have the world’s music at my fingertips in technology that can do what would have been unimaginable to the world’s population a mere twenty years ago. I digress into nerdiness.
At my core lies music. As a dancer, a writer, a musician, an activist, a skeptical global inhabitant, music is a way of expressing, feeling, communicating, relaxing, inspiring, and so much more. I have loads of playlists for every occasion, whether they be necessary, hallucinatory, or jocular and all are too long realistically. This year, I chose to make a playlist of songs to keep me in check and also remind me it’s okay to be the bummer that I authentically am. Because, I truly would not have a career or passion or drive without the depression, anxiety, abuse, and neurodivergence that make up the trauma responses I call my personality. So here is my playlist for this year… It is really gay. I will probably add to it on Spotify as the year goes on and I discover new music. So, by 2024, this too will be unrealistically long.
Just vibing here. That is all.
Head Held High Sera
B.O.M.B Emlyn
Fuck Your Labels Carlie Hanson
Stand in the Light Jordan Smith
Lighthouse Collabro
Devil Is A Woman Cloudy Jane
Safe Place Hannah Hall
Pillbx Grace Gaustad
Get Off My Julia Wolf
Carry You Ruelle
Strut Emeline
Realistic Bonus Tracks Because I’m Not Completely Delusional
Stuck in My Head Blü Eyes
Red Flags Mimi Webb
by now Vérité
Lego Blocks NERIAH
Zero Feelings Zoe Clark
Not Used to Normal Jillian Rossi
Bad Timing Rachel Grae
What Doesn’t Kill You Mutates and Tries Again iamnotshane
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.
Stars ⭐⭐⭐ Length 368 Quick Review Honestly, I was hoping Simons Smythe, the main character and Charleston elite’s sweetheart, was gay. Spoiler: She’s not. There were signs; I would know! But alas.
Gervais Hagerty brings the reader into the upper echelons of historic Charleston society through the eyes of a former debutante and daughter of the prominent Smythe family in her debut novel In Polite Company. Simons is a young woman who loves to surf, go crabbing, and knock back drinks at the local bars. She questions her engagement to the golden boy of Charleston’s elite, her stagnating career as a TV producer, and her secretive, Southern grandmother Laudie. In the midst of her younger sister’s debut, her older sister’s second pregnancy, an ailing grandmother, planning a wedding, and society balls, Simons has to figure out what the hell she really wants.
In Polite Companyis good. It’s not great. I read it on a beach vacation, and that’s exactly where it should be read. Falling short of a searing look at the glamor enclosed behind the doors of Charleston high society, it does capture a watered down essence of what it feels like to be trapped in a life that feels less chosen and more predestined. It all starts with a seemingly innocuous idea, “It was on that ride that I first considered our end might come before our hearts stopped.” So often these thoughts start as nothing more than a musing, but the ultimate question Simons, and most everyone facing them, must answer: Do people in happy relationships ever have these thoughts? The ability society, both men and women, has of telling young women what they want is baffling. Hagerty has no problem depicting this clearly throughout, but when Simon’s fiancé says, “Of course I want you to be happy. But you don’t know what happy is, Simons. Happiness comes from stability.” I wanted to pull out my own hair for this fictional character. Because Simons may be fictional, but so many women, including myself, have heard this refrain time and time again. It’s infuriating, and I’m glad Hagerty didn’t shy away from it.
No one will ever accuse me of being appropriate for polite company.
One of the things Hagerty gets right, though minimally because it could be its own novel, is the hypocrisy and ignorance the elite—particularly Southern—has as to how they got where they are. On the backs of slaves. In Battery Hall, a Charleston club for men, the restrooms feature art depicting pre-Civil War plantation life in “seemingly idyllic scenes,” which is “a visual denial that their babies weren’t oftentimes snatched away and sold to other owners, never to see their mothers again.” I would have had a much harder time reading this book if it did not call into question this obvious disparity in the culture as well as the ability of the privileged to whitewash history, forget, rewrite, and ignore the repercussions on today’s society.
For what it is, this is a solid book. I think it could have been longer, giving Hagerty the time to really dive into the hypocrisy, ignorance, and elitism of high society, and the toll it takes on a woman when she chooses to step away. There were a lot of areas in the novel that Hagerty wraps up difficulties with a bow, which really undercuts just how important and interesting this topic is. It resonated with me because I have stepped away from polite company on more than one occasion, and it’s not so clean. It’s not so easy. Hagerty left out the grit.
In her debut novel, Hagerty creates a moving and captivating piece about the limitations placed on women to stay the course and not make waves. In Polite Companyis all the things one could hope for in a book about existing in the claustrophobic and voyeuristic society of the rich and powerful.
Memorable Quotes “It’s what we’ve been bred to do: hide our disagreements beneath the smiles.” “One random person, at some random time, can make the day better.”
Being alone is easier than trying to explain all the things I wish I could say.
Words are my craft. I’m decent with them. They’re familiar. A lifetime has been spent honing this talent.
Feelings are my downfall. I’m terrible with them. They’re consuming and distracting and difficult to categorize. A lifetime has been spent trying to untangle the knot that other people seem to so easily figure out.
One of my greatest fears is being misunderstood, so I trend toward verbosity. Over explaining ideas, feelings, myself in writing because I want people to understand what I’m trying to say. And I prefer it in writing because I’m truly not good at processing feelings or thoughts on the spot, so I like the time I can take with the written word and the kindness it gives me in the form of editing. We can thank a lot of childhood trauma for this, among other things.
I feel like I don’t belong to the same world everyone else does. I don’t understand them, and they don’t understand me. Like there are walls keeping us apart. Except each wall has a one way mirror that I can look through to observe the world and figure out how to exist in it, but no one quite understands the way I work or how to fit into my own. So even though I trend toward verbosity, more often than not, I say nothing at all.
Everytime I start to speak, explain. To let people into my world. To share the emotions I feel so viscerally. It’s too much. Time and time again, I’ve learned it’s easier to just keeping looking through the one way mirror. To exist quietly in the background of the world everyone else enjoys. To make do with the one I have all to myself.
Normally, I contextualize everything. But I don’t feel like doing that because I’ve never liked doing that. I’m blunt, but I’ve softened my edges to make the world more comfortable. So here are eleven things I wish I could say, but I don’t.
Alone in nature and the ocean in particular is always where I feel most myself.
I miss you. Every moment of every day. I never truly knew what it felt to miss someone until I woke up without you and missed you. I wish I didn’t. I wish I wished to forget you; it would make all of this easier. But I know I’ll keep missing you until the day I can no longer miss anything at all. But I’d rather miss you than not know what missing you feels like.
Don’t touch me.
I love you. I will always love you.
I wish I weren’t gay. (I will clarify this only so far as: I LOVE being gay, and truly wouldn’t change it for the world, but it lead to an ending of a story I hoped would have no ending.)
I deserve better.
Help.
I’m meant for more.
Please don’t give up.
See me.
There is only so much I can take without breaking.
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.
