Full disclosure: I started using the good ol’ Mary Joanna to help me sleep at night. Yeah yeah, I know that technically means I’m not sober by the broadest definition of the term, despite being alcohol-free for about a year new (hell yeah). But I use it medicinally to help with my constant waking up in the middle of the night, and honestly, it does help me get a more restful sleep
Sometimes after I smoke, I don’t immediately fall asleep, and when that happens, I either get horny, paranoid, or philosophical. It’s kind of a crapshoot every time which of my high personalities shows up. It’s usually the one I don’t want at the time, which means using it as an aphrodisiac is a gamble.
“Jess, this is not the time to ramble about how we’re living in a simulation.”
Last night, though, I had a strange experience. My wife was giving me a pep talk regarding my mental health, which has been pretty bad as of late. Nothing concerning, just the usual “What if life is meaningless and everything I do will eventually be forgotten?” Which is pretty heavy stuff to think about literally every second of the day, and I’ve been in this mindset for most of my life. Yay, anxiety!
But, in my high, pseudo-intellectual stupor, something my wife said really itched a part of me I didn’t know I needed to reach — the past Jesses (is that the proper plural of Jess?).
I haven’t been nice to past me. Not any of them. I tend to think of my past selves as different people, instead of a cohesive part of who I became. I look at Child Jess through my adult eyes and judge her unfairly for being, well, an outcast. A pariah. The weird autistic little girl who stims by spinning around in the back of the classroom and making bird sounds. I get mad at my younger self for having the nerve to not fit in and be popular. And as my wife said, that little girl is a part of me still, and every time I resent my childhood eccentricities, I bully her the same way I was bullied by other people.
PROTECT THIS CHILD.
Then I think of College Jess. The me who was skinny and outgoing and optimistic and popular and excelled at school despite barely trying. Although she’s a part of me as well, I resent her for being all the things I wish I was now. I’m jealous of a past version of me! It makes no sense when I really think about it — at that time, my mental illnesses were worse than they’d ever been before, and I’d sooner saw off my own pinky toe with a nail file before I’d willingly deal with my OCD at its worst again. But I only see this rose-tinted version of the past, with this girl who is infuriatingly everything I want to be. Everything I was.
Yes, I was that bitch.
The thing is, these aren’t two different people. They’re all me, and they’ve taken me to where I am now. And honestly, where I am now isn’t that bad. I have a wife and a girlfriend I love dearly (that poly life, I’m tellin’ ya). I’m back in school for music therapy, and I’m closer than ever to getting this degree. I even won a scholarship for it! I’m about to be debt-free, and I’m working on getting back in shape. And despite my depression being ever-present, my mental health has never been better. Everything is falling into place for once, and I owe it all to my past selves for bringing me to this place. I started thinking of these past selves as an Inside Out-type of inner council that influences my day to day decisions and emotions.
It’s going to be a process, but I’ve started making peace with my past. I want to continue to honor and integrate these past versions of Jess into myself as a whole. Writing this out was my first step in healing these broken pieces of me. If your brain works at all like mine, I hope this little blog post helps you, too.
This is a bit of a different post from my usual. Typically, I post about things that affected me after overcoming them, as sort of a little inspirational “oh look I overcame this challenge and SO CAN YOU” type of thing. I don’t often report from the trenches, but here we are.
My depression is worsening, and I don’t know what to do.
When I was younger, I felt like all the best things in life were yet to come. There was so much to look forward to, so many things to see and experience. I spent hours daydreaming about the life I wanted to live, and I was convinced if I did everything right, did all my homework and stayed out of trouble and was a generally good person, I’d get everything I wanted.
Now, I see that life doesn’t work out that way. Bad things happen to good people. Life is mostly one storm after another. Something is always in pain, physically or mentally, and you just keep chasing some kind of high to forget about it for a moment. So my band played one of the biggest arts festivals in Michigan. What does it matter if one month later, I’m struggling just to peel myself off the couch and go to work?
I feel like I don’t have anything to look forward to anymore, like all my best days are behind me. I’m almost 30. I feel like I’ve wasted my youth, and I’m never going to get a chance to do it over again. At this point, I’m just slowly catapulting toward death. And I’m not suicidal, frankly because I’m horribly afraid of death. I don’t know what comes next, and that’s scary as hell.
I guess my depression stems from fear. Im scared of dying. I’m scared for when my parents die. I’m scared I’ll never get my music therapy degree. I’m scared my band won’t make it and no one will ever hear my music. I’m scared I’ll never get to have kids. I’m scared I’ll never get my house on a lake. I’m scared my boss secretly hates me. I’m scared my wife will someday decide she’s sick of my bullshit and leave me.
I guess I’m scared this is all there will ever be for me.
The thing about us ADHD folks is we’re natural daydreamers. It’s in our wiring. Many of us are so lost in our own heads we don’t notice what’s around us (or perhaps that’s a “me” problem, I don’t know).
Me, I’ve always loved to daydream about the future. It’s fun for me to imagine where I’ll be in 5, 10, 15 years or so. Of course, I’m at the age where I’ve done imagined myself now. Like, 13-year-old Jess imagined being 30, and in those daydreams, I was Richie Sambora. I am now closing in on 30, and I am still not Richie Sambora.
What all 13-year-old girls aspire to be, right?
But I still find things to look forward to. Maybe it’s the optimist in me. Sure, shitty things are going to happen, like, ya know, my parents dying, and my older siblings dying, and all my friends dying (unless I die first, which would also be sucky because, well, being dead). But there’s a ton I still have yet to do.
The thing is — going back to the dying thing — I have this nagging fear that I’m going to die before doing all the things I want to do. Not because life is short, but because my attention span is.
I think a lot about the story I’ve been writing since I was in high school, but could never sit down and write because of my ADHD. Or the music therapy degree I’ve been working on since 2011 but put on hold twice because I couldn’t handle the coursework due to my ADHD. Or the multitudinous amounts of things I haven’t been able to do because of being broke, which mostly circles back to me spending my money as soon as I get it because I like instant gratification because— get this — I’m ADHD.
Everything I haven’t done in life is because of my ADHD.
Maybe this is you. Maybe you have a million things you want or want to do before you die, but it all feels so unattainable. This isn’t just an ADHD thing, either. It’s a human thing. So if you’re reading this and are not ADHD, here’s a tip you can use too.
Create a “why” board. Put pictures representing your ideal life into a collage, and put that shit everywhere. As your lock screen, on your fridge, on your bathroom mirror, wherever you’ll see it daily. This collage represents why you’re doing what you do. These are the reasons you go to work, or study for your tests, or save your money.
“But Jess, isn’t that just a vision board?” Well, kind of. But this goes further than just Pinterest-worthy magazine cutouts. This is your plan for your life. Make it personal. Imagine what your dream house would look like and find it on Zillow. Imagine your dream career and Google the uniform or outfit you’d likely wear. If kids are part of your plan, search for pictures of children that look like you and your actual or imagined partner, which is definitely not creepy at all.
For inspiration, here’s mine:
There’s a little set of cards with inspirational quotes and phrases that came with a set of gemstones I bought to decorate the new apartment with. One of them says “Imagine your ideal self — then start showing up as her.” I put that card in my living room where I’ll see it every day, because it’s true.
You are what you do every day. If you keep eating like garbage and laying around playing Sims all day, that’s who you become. That’s what I was turning into, and my dreams of becoming a music therapist and getting back into shape and eventually buying a house and starting a family seemed so out-of-reach. But I had an epiphany. I wasn’t going to magically become The Best Jess if I kept living the way I was living, and honestly, what a wasted life that would have been!
It’s a hard truth, but you have to choose to suck less, and you have to keep choosing to suck less every day. Soon, you’ll wonder why you were ever living like a zombie to begin with. I picked up my computer to play with my virtual dollhouse last night and put it down after five minutes. It just didn’t seem worth it to me. I had so much more I wanted to do!
Get all the support you need. Get your friends and family on board, especially those you live with. Make that “why” board and show them, perhaps. Explain why everything on it is important to you, and come up with a plan to accomplish those things. Maybe you’re like me and just need to study and save money, and while it seems impossible now, with the right supports, you’ll get there. Take your meds. See a therapist if you can. Do whatever it takes to crawl out of the hole. But the best place to start is by determining your “whys” and letting them stare you in the face every single day.
ADHD stands for “attention deficit hyperactivity disorder,” so it goes without saying that lack of attention span and general moving-around-a-lot-ness are the classic symptoms. But there’s a third symptom that doesn’t get a lot of spotlight — impulsivity.
The cause of many a spontaneous midnight Meijer’s excursion.
My impulsivity has probably been the most detrimental part of having ADHD. It’s led to a lot of addictions, like sex and alcohol, which I’ve not been shy about on this blog, especially since I’ve largely overcome these addictions. But one vice continues to plague me. Compared to the others, it seems relatively benign, but that might just be what makes it so insidious.
Yup, I’m a shopaholic. And unlike sex and alcohol, there’s no 12-step program.
Unless those 12 steps are in the direction of a mall.
We recently moved to the opposite end of the Metro Detroit area, a solid 45-minute drive from our old place, and more than an hour if you count the fact that I was driving a moving truck bigger than Arkansas through a thunderstorm to get there. The drive was rough, but the packing was even worse. Despite having the help of several amazing friends, getting all twenty-something bags of clothes into the truck was annoying and draining, and making them fit was another challenge. Even with our huge-ass truck, we had to play Tetris to get everything inside.
I wish I was exaggerating all of this, but my shopping addiction had gotten so out-of-control, it was starting to affect my life. These dresses and sweatshirts and accessories had brought me so much joy when I first held them in my hands, yet now they were little more than a nuisance. I spread them out on the floor of the new bedroom after tearing through the garbage bags they’d travelled in. Did I mention these particular bags were the biggest garbage bags the store had?! Like, designed for yard waste, not clothes hoards.
I started thinking of the financial impact of all these purchases as well. There, lying on the ground, was several thousand dollars worth of terrible life choices, if not significantly more. I’ll get to “dealing with money woes with ADHD” in a future entry in this blog series, but right now, Mt. WhythehelldidIbuythis is occupying half my bedroom and my poor wife is having to take up rock climbing just get to her own side of the bed.
“Damn it, Jess.”
So, let’s start by acquiring some hangers. This step can be as expensive or cheap as you’d like, but considering we’re putting the clothes we truly love and treasure on them, I’d recommend getting some hangers you at least like. Imagine you’re Andy and your favorite clothes are sentient beings. What would you rather rest on — some uncomfy wire hanger or a nice, plush velvet hanger? Just keep in mind however many hangers you get, that’s how many clothing items you get to keep.
You see, my entire perspective changed when I started viewing the apartment as a container for possessions, and by extension, a closet and dresser function as a container for clothes. Whatever doesn’t fit in the container has to go. Think of your closet as Noah’s Ark, and we’re about to flood the bedroom with the wrath of God and/or Marie Kondo.
Thou shalt spark joy (or else).
So begin with the essentials. If you have a uniform, start by putting those aside. I’m a pharmacy technician, so I like to have several pairs of scrubs in various colors so I don’t look like a cartoon person wearing the same thing every day. Then, identify a brand or clothing style you really like and wear a lot of. I have a ton of dresses from the faux-vintage brand Belle Poque that I love, so I’m sparing all of them. They spark joy, and I wear them frequently. They’re safe from the flood.
Now, the fun begins. Start putting everything into piles by type: sweatshirts, t-shirts, jeans, leggings, scarves, etc. Choose a system that makes sense for you. If you’re really into dresses and skirts like me, perhaps sort them into maxi length and shorter length. Then, once everything is in its place, choose a predetermined number of pieces from each pile to save. Noah let two of every kind of animal on the ark, but I like three as a rule of thumb. That allows for a little more variety. If you have more or less closet/dresser space, you can adjust this number accordingly. If your space is very limited, maybe choose one or two articles of clothing, and if you’ve got a lot of space, you can do four or five garments each. But three seems to be the “golden” number. Take your chosen clothing, put them away neatly, and congratulate them for making the cut.
But now, you probably still have a huge pile of crap to get rid of. Here’s a hard truth: you’re not going to take this shit to Goodwill. You have ADHD. All your donation bags will languish in the corner until you have to move again, and the cycle will repeat. Even if you do manage to get to Goodwill, there’s a decent chance they won’t take it. Donation centers are overrun with contributions from people who are also in the process of decluttering their junk. But this doesn’t mean all your leftover clothing is doomed to the dumpster.
The first line of defense against the landfill is your friends. Hit up some folks who have a similar style as you and lure them over with the promise of free stuff and maybe some pizza or something. Then, let them go wild. If you have any trans friends, this is a great opportunity to help them out in particular! Early on in the transition journey, a lot of people are trying to figure out their style and sizing. I managed to offload a lot of cute clothing that no longer served me when my long-distance girlfriend, who is trans, came to visit one weekend. Seeing her face light up as she methodically tried on all my old dresses made my heart happy, and I was glad to give some of the cute pieces that no longer fit me or my lifestyle a second life with someone who would really appreciate them.
Then, see what you can repurpose into something else. If you’re not very crafty, you can skip this step, or perhaps find someone who can repurpose your stuff for art projects and other things. I’m considering saving some of my old band tees to turn into a quilt or tapestry. This is a good way to salvage some of your sentimental pieces.
Now, take what’s left after letting your friends pick through your clothing. Is there a local church or organization looking for donations? Think creatively. Lots of places you wouldn’t even consider may be looking for clothes to help the community. There’s even a kinky art collective in my area that takes donations!
If you’re at a loss, there may be some donation bins in the area. Do a quick Google search to find some places to take your leftover clothing. Some are donation, some are recycling. Take the stuff that’s still usable to a donation box and leave it there, and the more beat-up clothing can go to a recycling box. It’s important to do this step as soon as freaking possible. Do not let your bags of clothing refuse sit in the closet. Put it in the way of your front door so you HAVE to take care of it in order to go anywhere. Unless your house is literally on fire, don’t move the bags unless you’re taking them to the bin.
What happens if you can’t find any place to leave your old clothes? This is the hard part — you might have to throw some stuff away. It feels wasteful, and I’m not going to lie and say it’s great for the environment, but sometimes, sending things to the landfill is the only option you have. In ye olden days, people would bury the things that no longer served them. In fact, in many witchy traditions, old spell ingredients were buried in order to let them return to the Earth from which they came. Make this goodbye a sacred moment. Thank your clothes for coming to you and being in your life, even for a moment, and wish them well on their journey to becoming dust once again.
Once everything is in its proper place, take the time to celebrate. ADHD is hard to manage sometimes and it’s not easy to break the detrimental habits that come with it. I happen to have the triple-whammy of ADHD, autism, and OCD, the last of which being a hallmark sign of hoarding tendencies. But you, dear reader, are stronger than you know, and if my dumb ass can do this, so can you. There’s no feeling like opening the closet to find nothing but things that bring you joy, instead of feeling bogged down by stuff you barely even care about. Once you learn to let go, you’ll discover what it means to truly appreciate what you have.
It’s been almost two years since my life-changing diagnosis of ADHD. Suddenly, all of the issues that had plagued me my entire life made a whole lot of sense. I wasn’t stupid — I was neurodivergent, and in learning the true nature of my big dumb brain, I learned to embrace the parts of my neurological difference that made me, well, me. As much as I hated how my brain worked at times, I came to see my ADHD as a sort of blessing/curse, the same way Mei from Turning Red learned to love the red panda she turned into whenever she experienced emotions.
ADHD doesn’t come with a fursona, sadly.
Today, I found out one of my favorite professors had been diagnosed with ADHD over the summer, and just like that, my entire perspective of her changed — she was me! And as someone who aspires to be a professor of music therapy someday, seeing someone in that position who has what I have and is successful was really reassuring. It was like someone patted me on the shoulder and said “Hey Jess, this can be you someday.” And it felt really frickin’ cool, yo.
And it hit me — I’m that to someone. Somewhere out there, some aspiring musician or writer or college student is trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with them, why they can’t sit down and practice or write or study or do much of anything without getting sidetracked. Maybe they think they’re just stupid, too. And it’s my turn to show them that they, too, can be successful with ADHD. I believe everything happens for a reason, and perhaps my “curse” is intended to be used as a blessing for others, just like how Mei’s ancestors used the red panda to protect their loved ones.
I won’t lie and pretend I have it all together. I’m still working on getting my shit together. I think most people are, if we’re honest with ourselves. No one has it 100 percent figured out at any given time. All I know is I have nearly three decades of life experience with this brain of mine, so I’ve learned some tricks on how to utilize it. Here is part one of my “owner’s manual” for ADHD.
#1: You have ADHD
Duh.
You have ADHD. You. Have. ADHD. That’s not going to change. Your brain is wired differently from most of the world, and nothing can change the way it works. Barring a lobotomy or something, but that will cause more problems than it solves, ya know? There’s a reason we don’t do those anymore.
They say the first step of recovery is acceptance. The fifth step in grief is also acceptance, so get all your feelies out. Journal about it. Bring it up in therapy. Punch something that can be punched (not a person or other sentient creature, preferably). But as soon as you come to terms with the fact that you have ADHD, you can start working toward really living with it.
There is no cure for ADHD. There are treatments to make it more manageable, sure, but there are no cures. Yoga will not cure ADHD. Walking outside will not cure ADHD. Essential oils will not cure ADHD. Heck, Adderall doesn’t even cure ADHD, and it’s literally an ADHD medication. Full disclosure: I use all of the things I listed to help me concentrate and ground myself, but guess what? I still have ADHD, and everything that comes with it.
That’s not a bad thing though!
You see, in music therapy school, and presumably training for all other types of therapy, there’s a push for “person first language” and saying someone has a condition, rather than is it. It’s a way of separating the person from the condition. But I don’t like that for my ADHD. It’s a disability, sure, but it’s also a huge part of my personality and being. It’s like how the autistic community is reclaiming “autistic,” declaring “I am autistic,” rather than saying “I have autism.” In that same vein, I am ADHD. ADHD is a inseparable from me. For better or worse, it’s a piece of me, and nothing will change that.
You might have noticed the domain name and blog title have changed. Don’t worry, it’s still me! I wanted to rebrand this blog into something that gives hope, something that can serve you — yes, you! — as an anchor in the storm we call life. Here, you’ll find my personal observations on topics like spirituality and mental health, (eventually daily) devotionals, and things that have helped me through my sometimes turbulent journey.
My perspective is a Christian one, albeit a more progressive version than you’re likely used to. If you have an established faith, or don’t really believe in anything, don’t fret! I’m not here to convert anyone. Instead, I want to be a voice for those who may have been burned by the traditional Church, people who are neurodiverse, queer, or who maybe just don’t fit the “churchy” norm. I know what it’s like to feel excluded from my own faith tradition, but God never abandons His kids, and I’m still learning from Him every day. That’s why I want to share what I’ve learned with you all. Because if I can help just one person reading this feel less alone, everything I’ve been through will be worth it.
So here’s to setting sail on this new adventure. And you are absolutely welcome along for the ride.
I used to wonder why somebody would consent to something as barbaric as a lobotomy. The older I get, though, the more I understand why someone would want to stab an ice pick through their brain.
There are days I wish I could do it to myself, perhaps with the nearest writing implement. Anything to numb my brain for just a moment. As you’ve seen in my previous posts, I can’t do much weed without literally going crazy, and alcohol tends to become a problem if I use it too often. And what would numbing myself to my own thoughts do? You can only get so high before the inevitable fall. And even if I lived an entirely straight-edge lifestyle from here on out, which is a real possibility considering every legal substance short of caffeine has been problematic for me, and had all my symptoms under control via my psych meds, there’s always that worry that the intrusive thoughts and anxieties are going to come back, probably worse than ever. That’s how it’s always been. Out of one storm, directly into another.
I’ve been getting back in touch with my faith, though several roadblocks have tried to stop me. One of the biggest has been my mental health. It’s hard to imagine a loving Father letting his child go through this when He has the power to stop it. I’d readily stab myself in the brain with a pencil if it meant my future children didn’t have to grow up with depression and OCD like I did. Maybe life is like a game of the Sims, and just like I give my Sims unfavorable traits to spice things up sometimes, God’s like, “hmm, let me sprinkle a little bit of mental illness into this one and see what happens.”
(And then I get paranoid that all of existence is a simulation and then it’s back to being hella frustrated I can’t have a freaking brain that doesn’t suck.)
But a part of me is convinced that my mental illnesses aren’t just a design flaw or an accident of evolution or even the work of a capricious deity. Perhaps there is a deeper purpose behind it all. When I was younger, I had no frame of reference for what OCD or depression even was, aside from the cartoonish portrayals in the media. I knew something was wrong with me, but no one talked about mental health. It was this taboo subject. Maybe, just maybe, I was given my particular brain, as well as the capability to write, because the world needs more voices from mentally ill folks. Thankfully, mental health is well on its way to becoming a normal and acceptable topic, but it’s still hard to be young (or even older) and feel like you’re alone in this fight.
I love the New Living Translation of Psalm 139:14 — “Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex! Your workmanship is marvelous—how well I know it.” We are complex, and no place is that more evident than in our brains. We’re human and flawed, so like the rest of our bodies, it’ll malfunction from time to time, but that doesn’t stop it from being beautiful. Like the rest of God’s creation, we need to care for that brain and our bodies. You have only one — treat it like the treasure it is. And if you’re struggling with mental health, rest easy knowing you’re in good company.
I guess when you have a mental illness, you need to stay on your toes.
I have OCD, which I assure you is not cute or quirky. There have been times it nearly drove me to suicide. Not exactly something you’d see on Monk or in one of those “These pictures of disorganized garbage will drive you insane” posts your grandma sends you on Facebook. I have a particularly hellish but not uncommon form of OCD where you hyperfocus on the fact that you can, in fact, hurt someone else and/or yourself at any time. You know in your heart you never would, that you’d sooner yeet yourself into a meat grinder before actually harming anyone, but the fact that you have the power to or that it even crossed your mind in the first place makes you feel like absolute shit.
I had it under control for almost a year, no panic episodes or anything. HAD.
Ah yes, the theme song of this blog post.
It was probably triggered by the weed, to be honest. I decided to unwind with a little, not thinking it would have any significant impact on me. If it’s legal now, it should be fine, right? I’m in a safe place, my OCD and other mental health issues have been tamed, and overdosing isn’t really a problem with weed. I thought for sure I’d be okay.
Wrong. Absolutely wrong. It started when I had a thought pop into my head, as thoughts tend to do, but this one was about a story I’d read in my psychology textbook years ago. This ordinary, straight-laced guy had a brain tumor that essentially turned him into a pedophile. What if that happened to me? Or what if I got some kind of brain injury that made me a murderer? What if I killed someone? What if the weed damages my brain to the point where that actually happens? What if I’m killing my fiancée right now? What if my fiancée was killing me instead? Why is my throat so tight? Am I being choked? Was my throat slit? If I fall asleep, will I die? Am I already dead? Did I die in another continuity?
Earth-616 Jess is dead. RIP.
Of course none of this actually happened, but the delusions felt so real to me. It’s a wonder I didn’t end up in the psych ward.
I finally came to, with a new realization that my OCD wasn’t tamed but simply dormant, and the thought that a substance, even one as innocuous as weed, can reignite the flames of mental illness is horrifying. This isn’t a ‘90s DARE “drugs are bad, mmmkay?” type thing — I know it legitimately does help some people, and that’s rad. But if you’re living with a mental health issue or take any kind of psychiatric medication, you have to be incredibly careful and accept the fact that weed (or alcohol or anything) might not be for you. You’re not missing out by living sober when your own sanity is at stake. As for me, I no longer wish to indulge in anything that can fuck with my brain. I refuse to let anything have that much power over me again.
I remember the first time I searched for a music video on YouTube, I was in my early teens. I wanted to find my favorite band at the time (and still one of my all-time favorites), Heart.
You don’t look at the comments section of YouTube. You never look at the comments section of YouTube.
It was the first time I was made painfully aware of how important looks — specifically weight — was for a woman. I couldn’t scroll past three comments without seeing someone mention lead vocalist Ann Wilson’s weight, usually in a rather snarky manner. Quite a few comments of the “man, she really let herself go” variety, though not typically that kindly worded.
OH GOD, WHAT A SHE-BEAST!
I didn’t understand it. How on earth was one of the greatest female rock vocalists — no, one of the greatest vocalists — of all time reduced to something as shallow as how she looked? Oh, was I a sweet summer child.
For the majority of my life, weight wasn’t something I struggled with. I was quite the sickly kid, so I was actually dangerously underweight for most of my childhood. Puberty led to hormones and its associated cravings, so I gradually got a tiny bit pudgy as a preteen, but nothing alarming. As a teen and young adult, though, I had the body most women only dream of. The slim waist, the sizable bust — there was a reason I was called the “Barbie doll” of the school.
That was then.
After getting my hormonal IUD placed, I somehow ballooned almost 70 pounds. Now, I try to put on clothes I wore not too long ago and struggle to comprehend why I can’t even pull them over my hips. I have the strangest kind of body dysmorphia, where I see myself as smaller than I am, just because I’m so used to my body occupying less space. Then, I grab a dress I haven’t worn in a while. Oh wait, you’re fat now. That happened.
I started getting desperate to get rid of it, to the point where I began forcing myself to throw up after eating quite a bit. This is obviously very, very bad.
I don’t like having an eating disorder, but the first step to getting better is admitting it’s a problem in the first place. I want to be happy and healthy again. I want to feel pretty again. I got my IUD out last week (my birth control nowadays is having a female partner, which is pretty effective) and managed to drop almost ten pounds in one week from that alone, but I feel like the damage is done. Some women love to brag about their stretch marks. Your body birthed life into the world! I have nothing to show for mine. I don’t feel like a badass tigress. I’m a freaking housecat.
Actual photo of me at the doctor’s office.
I wish I had a happy ending for this, but I don’t think I will until I’m at a weight I’m finally happy at. Even then, I think this is something I’ll always deal with in some form or another. I think it’s something most women have to deal with in some form or another, whether it’s weight or wrinkles or zits or skin tone or boob size or any variety of things we’re conditioned to fixate on. Not that this is a uniquely female phenomenon, but men tend to be judged by what they do first, and then by what they look like. Women tend to be judged by attractiveness first, then by their talents, especially in the entertainment industry. Men act, women are. And unfortunately, not even the greatest rock vocalist of all time was immune.
HOW DO I GEEEEET YOU to dismantle toxic ideas about women’s appearances?
JESSA JOYCE 