Sick day: a body of jumbled thoguhts

I started feeling sick yesterday afternoon and gave myself a nap and a much longer amount of time than usual to put together and post my essay. And it's only gotten worse. It's been a challenge to convince myself to eat a decent amount of calories.

I do not love my body today. I have trouble loving my body when there is wailing ache in my tendons and when the pain between my ears is so loud and makes concentration impossible. I hate the pain but the pain is also part of my body. The messages my brain is reading as pain are parts of me.  And I sure as hell don't love them right now.

As someone who's dealt with chronic illness, who experiences gender dysphoria on the regular, and someone in a community of people who often take steps to change their appearance and bodies to reflect their identities, I take serious issue with some of the simplified and often heavily gendered sentiments of body positivity.

  

Nobody feels beautiful and content with their body all of the time. Life, our own unique brains, and mostly our toxic culture has made "loving yourself" a task that is uniquely difficult for everyone. Meaning yeah, it is harder for some of us.

The oversimplified directive of "love your body" can be excruciating to someone who is dreaming of, intending to, in the process of, or has gone through a physical transition process. As well as for people who are feeling sick or ill.  As with many things, when we attempt to simplify, package, and universalize it, body positivity can get twisted, exclusive, and misleading pretty fast.

This is a very similar process to the cultural awarenesses of LGBTQ experiences. In the sense that many people who aren't LGBTQ think of "coming out" as a simple one time easy task, when it is in fact a very long, involved, and individualized process. "Loving yourself" is absolutely as complex as that. It is a process not a single accomplishment. And not one that everybody has the same resources to endure.

It can be a denial of someone else's pain to demand that they love themselves. If I get hives, or have just been catcalled, or think no one will ever see me as a boy, I am not going to be able to "love the skin I am in."

It's hard and it kinda hurts to do it but I try accept people's feelings about their bodies. Because those feelings are real (even if they conflict with the way I perceive/know reality to be). One of the hardest compassionate things to do it to just be with someone when they are feeling awful and not try to make them feel better or "fix" their way of thinking. Even if what they're thinking about themselves is problematic and even harmful it's not something anyone else but them has the power to change.

Now this is not a wholesale condemnation of body positivity by a very long shot. I love it as a movement and I love that it challenges people to have healthier thoughts about and relationships with their bodies. I love that it's changing and complicating the balance of images and messages we're taught about our bodies.  I just want us to be vigilant, and handle everyone like they are each the unique individuals they are. Which means a simple slogan that works for some ain't gonna cut it for everyone.

I'd written most of this post before realizing someone else made a comic that did all the work already:

Please excuse me from essay duty today,

I woke up this morning with 15 minutes to spare. I stirred to the soft twang of my phone alerting me to the fact "You work in 45 minutes". The first thing I say is "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." I continue this little mantra through the quick brush I swizzle around my mouth. I used t too much toothpaste.

I didn't take any time to listen but I'm pretty sure that my joints and throbbing temples protested to all of this. The mantra of "fucks" get louder as I climb downstairs and realize the worst part:
My bike isn't here.

I facepalm. Harder than I mean to. Check the bus route which will leave me at least 20 minutes late. and chuck that plan. I finally cave and call a car share service.

In the 4 minutes it takes this driver to get to my apartment I scoop some leftover chili and rice into a lunch sized tupperware container and and pat myself on the back for remembering lunch. Breakfast is not happening today.

The other 2 minutes I spend staring with terrific longing at the spot under the stairs where my bike usually sleeps.

You see last night (and truth be told until 8AM this morning) I was totally and absolutely certain I has today off from work. And not just that, a friend and colleague was visiting from out of town and last night was her last night in town. Due to the revelry required by such an instance, I decided to abandon my bike for the night in favor of the kind of reckless drinking. Now this wasn't just drunken neglect it was also kinda strategic. The spot I'd chosen to leave her is also very near one of my favorite brunching spots.

Her name is Queen Bee

I went to bed last night with thoughts of their corned beef hash dancing in my head.
This morning's hitting me like the realization that there is no santa.

The car arrives and I could swear this guy must be the slowest and most insecure driver ever. The entire ride I pined for the controlled speed of my fixed gear beneath me. I used that time to make sure there isn't too much toothpaste caked in the corners of my mouth. When I finally attempt some sort of conversation he asks me about his customer rating.

I book it through the door and clock in no more than 4 minutes late. Just in time to feel the hangover hit me in full.

....


All this is to say, that I am sorry to not have something more meaty and interesting to read. Seriously though, I was gonna spend some quality time after that brunch nudging my ideas into something yummy. But tonight, after the hangover surprise of an 8 hour shift, the only thing I got left is complaints. That and inflammation.

PS: I drafted this excuse note on the bus home from work:

I've been expertly making up excuses and fooling teachers with them my entire academic career. Don't think Ive never written anything more easily than an excuse.

Gluten Anger and Anxiety: a hissy fit thrown in honor of all those armchair gluten experts

Last night my partner and I went out for dinner. And I ended up eating two slices of very glutinous pizza by accident. We had ordered the gluten free crust (for an additional 4 bucks) but I guess it was too loud or something to hear/remember that.

A few bites into the second slice (I'd wolfed the first down because I was viciously hungry) I noticed that it was very sticky and doughy in my mouth, in a way that most GF stuff never is. My chest was also beginning to feel a bit tight. I'd been struggling with some hunger-related anxiety before we'd ordered food and just assumed I was being paranoid and feeling the tail end of my anxiety in my chest. But when the bill came there was no extra charge for a wheat free crust, and from my side glances at the pizza on other guests' plates I knew that I'd been served the regular crust.

When my partner informed the waitperson of the mistake she said the discomfort I feel after eating wheat must be psychosomatic. She said this instead of apologizing. She recommended herbal tea and a change of perspective.

Now I do have a level of empathy for this waiter. I work a customer service job too. I know it's tough to find the the right thing to say and how easy it is to say something offensive or inappropriate when you're trying express concern or get on a customer's wave length. Mistakes are inevitable. Sometimes customers walk away from my register with weirded out looks on their faces. And most of the time I blame them for their not getting me. So I get it.

But fuck. I am angry at her.

I spent last night feeling like I'd wolfed down a handful of Grow Monsters, my chest tight and joints aching.


I haven't been able to take a shit today. And I only made it through my work day by balancing a cocktail of ibuprofen, imodium, and diet pepsi. I'm thankful I only ate two (small) slices. It could have been worse.

Sure I may be an anecdote in a sea of data that throws question on the whole concept of "gluten sensitivity/intolerance", but it's not like my definition and treatment of what is going on in my own body is the same thing as denying climate change or evolution. 

Gut science is extremely complex. Believe me. I had to dip just a toe in for a while and whoa are those depths ever huge and terrifying! Out of necessity I spent several months studying the digestive tract. I learned a fews things and the least of which was that it would take me years to even scratch the surface.

Some people think they have enough information to dismiss the reality of my health issues and shelve them as beneath their concerns. They do this because reading a pop-sci article on the internet apparently makes them an expert on my body.

And also something being "psychosomatic" or "all in your head" most assuredly doesn't makes the pain and discomfort any less real. When you say "it's just psychosomatic." What I hear is "Well you're not really hurting, so um can yo just get over that already. Stop being an idiot/wuss."

I'm willing to concede that my gluten sensitivity might be caused by something in my head (though why I'd deprive myself of tasty beers I'll never know). But you know what is also in people's heads?Their emotional and mental issues and that stuff is all too fucking real.

Now imagine that wall is on top of your stomach.
(image source)

It affects those afflicted deeply in a very real way.

But let's chuck that (perfectly good) analogy for a second and assume I am lying about how much gluten hurts me and that the sensitivity I feel is psychosomatic.

Doing nothing to soothe/address that "made up" pain and just telling me to "get over it" is as useless as telling yourself not to sweat, get teary, and reach for a glass of water because that pepper you just ate isn't really hurting you, it's just that your brain that thinks it is. (This is actually how capsaicin works people).

If someone ate a habanero pepper and asked you to get them some milk to calm their supposedly blazing palate, you wouldn't lecture them about how there's nothing wrong with their mouth. You wouldn't tell them "it's all in your head." You'd get them a fucking glass of milk.

So pretty please, all you sanctimonious fucks who read about some science on the internet please shut the fuck up, and learn yourself some stuff about FODMAPs. Because avoiding that shit is what I have to deal with every day. WHICH INCLUDES AVOIDING GLUTEN.

And no I was not born this way. I caught a parasite two years ago and it completely fucked up my ability to deal with most of the things that contain FODMAPS. Last year I went on an intensive four month elimination diet in order to find our what foods agitated my system. It was long and hard. If it's in my head, then my subconscious commitment to this beer-depriving bit is incredibly strong.

And yes. I am an anecdote but that doesn't me my experience isn't true and my pain is not real.


PS: There's some sort of parallel between the anger I have surrounding the doubts people express about my diet and the doubts people express gender. Perhaps I'll get to that on another day.

My Lumpy Bravery: on chest binders and trans superhero narratives

Last week I bought my first chest binder from a reputable online vendor. With vigor, glee, and a hunger for play I clicked the purchase button. It came on a Thursday night. When I had stomach cramps and vicious heartburn that dissuaded me from enacting the fantasy of tearing open the package just when it arrives and trying on its contents that very instant.

The next morning I was alone and had forgotten about the bulging envelope in favor of my morning piss, the laundry & various other mechanics of morning.

I only remembered it while loading up the washer. I realized that all of my sports bras (and by all I mean 3) were starting to exhibit a decent amount of sweat funk. So, with a song in my heart I topped off the washer with my current slightly rank bra before adding soap and letting her rip. Afterwards I thought giddily, 'Oh yeah, I could try it out for a bit'.

I went downstairs and opened the envelope. Immediately I didn't like the synthetic, rough fabric. It reminded me of the surface of a cast. Though less rigid. I slipped it up and over forearms and head, but it got stuck. Awkward on my shoulders. I had to slowly but stiffly tug it down my back bit by bit.

The experience didn't get any better.

I thought I might find a way to press my expectations through the discomfort. But the force of my fantasy didn't push me past the sixty minute mark. Sure I liked the way it made me look in some of my tighter shirts. But the pinch behind my armpits made me wince  and pushed my usually stout shoulders into a slouch. Besides it really didn't do much more than my tightest sports bra already does.

Wearing and taking off the binder just made my breasts feel absolutely massive. Having all of the pressure on my chest, just served to remind me every moment of each inch of flesh the binder touched. I could never not be thinking about my chest and it's size while wearing it. I'm sure I could adjust out of feeling this way but honestly I don't want to. That didn't stop me from wanting to want to and feeling guilty for not wanting to.

The worst part came when I took it off and I was hit in the chest with the realization that the only other garments I'm comfortable (com)pressing my chest were wet and swishingly unavailable. I just sat there with red stress marks in my armpits, my chest achingly huge and aware of itself.

My sports bras do more for me in terms of getting my breasts out of the way when it comes to moving though the world. But more than that, they get my breasts off of my mind, which is great. They enable me to think of my chest as just my chest. This ease and flexibility is an extraordinary tool in navigating my gender.

I mostly ordered a binder out of sartorial naiveté. Because I lust after the clean lines of menswear and want some of my looks to not include a lumpy chest. I have a vague desire for smaller breasts and a more muscular chest but for the most part I love my breasts and have no animosity toward them. (I recognize I am lucky in this regard).

There's a part of me that loves thinking about clothes and presentation as all fun and games, but the truth is, it's only on my best days that I get to feel that way. Many days result is me feeling that my clothes are confining me.

All of the 50 minutes I spent in, putting on, and taking off the binder were painful and unsettling. But I kept it on for that long because I wanted to show myself I was “tough”. Or because some part of my brain shamed me away from comfort by screaming 'Real trans people are willing to suffer to ease their dysphoria (and so you should too).'

The shame and self loathing I felt gave me flashbacks to trying on prom dresses in high school. Except this wasn't about not being thin enough participate in the concept of pretty (which I never got that hung up on anyhow). This time it I felt like I wasn't tough enough to be trans and that because my gender dysphoria isn't actively painful that I am incapable of bravery or sacrifice.



Oftentimes trans* people are laughingly and empoweringly referred to as superheros, badass mutants, or as having extraordinary powers of bravery, endurance, or chutzpah. These are important stories. But they are just that, single stories about individuals. The trans* community is so diverse.

I love the power in these superhero narratives. But the way they glorify, and mythologize trans people's choices oversimplifies the complex and individualized abilities and tactics trans people create to cope with the suffering and discomfort of gender dysphoria. Worst of all it offers very few models and resources for newly out/realized trans folks (like me).

We see these “strong trans characters” and assume that transition and trans lives must include certain activities and compromises to be considered socially acceptable or brave. In Sophia McDougall's piece I hate Strong Female Characters she states that “The Strong Female Character has something to prove. She’s on the defensive before she even starts.” I would a argue that superhero trans narratives have done the same. And while the thing we're on what defensive about is very real and very dangerous we are more than just our fights against our own dysphoria.

I have a trans friend who will brush off or object whenever someone calls her “brave” for expressing who she is. Part of what I read into that refusal is her acknowledgement that being willing to suffer or to choose different forms of suffering is not bravery. She defines her dysphoria as suffering; a constant ache which can spike randomly or in reaction to certain experiences. Whereas I identify my dysphoria as a discomfort I regularly find myself bumping up against. The conditions of our lives and dysphoria differ. So too must our metrics for bravery.

As someone who has to balance the discomfort of my dysphoria with the discomfort of chronic pain and social anxiety, I don't always have the willingness or resources to suffer in order to ease my gender dysphoria. Sometimes I have to choose to ease my dyspepsia or my social anxiety first.

But too often that choice leaves me wondering, am I a coward? Am I  a disgrace to trans superhero narratives every where because I chose not to suffer the discomfort of a chest binder?

Of course not. (says my logical brain)

My body is a multi-purpose space for working on feeling okay. My unique gender and gender dysphoria are only some parts of this work and are not confined just to my physical body.

Because I've got many long term bodily concerns not related directly to my gender, I often prioritize my short term physical discomfort. This runs counter to the superhero narratives of trans folks that I love and clung to in the past and that have become a beacon for young trans people today.

For me complication of this narrative means choosing (for now) to forgo the discomfort of a chest binder. And to continue building myself and my expressions sans a traditional trans narrative.

I've decided that bravery, like dysphoria, has many forms. My bravery is apparently lumpy and unbound.

I should climb more trees

This morning started out with very little promise. The ache I'd hoped to sleep off last night still clung to my ankles and seemed to have doubled in the crook of my hip sockets. I lazed about for most of the morning, made a huge bowl of oatmeal, and only ate half of it.

Seeking a change in scenery I took a shower and decided to make my way to the library.
On the walk there I dreamt up a list of topics I'm looking forward to dipping my pen into:

• The negative affects that being sick (consistent intestinal distress) has had on my sex life.
• What it's like to feel my capacity drain and become too weak to run errands.
• How the last thing we should ever need is forgiveness.

BUT the library was closed today (on account of it being a holiday). So I proceeded on to Lake Merritt  to write the old fashioned way, still fully intending to write about heavy depressing topics. Not two full blocks away from the library's closed doors I came upon a situation in need of adventuring.

Last weekend, a windstorm tore through our Oakland neighborhood and felled Lake Merritt's 150 year old eucalyptus tree. Despite the caution signs it became a community playground. The ache in my joints and abdomen gave me a moment's mouth-twisting hesitation and then I jumped in.

I tightened my pack, slipped my boots off for optimal traction, and then I started to climb.

          

There was something magic in it; the danger of falling somehow very charming. In some ways nature has always been my favorite "bad boy". The air smelled of happy sweat, vinegar, and a surprisingly small twinge of eucalyptus.

***


I've climbed to a welcoming perch and am watching the children and a few adults crawl over its downed pale appendages. Although wood is not the most accommodating of seats and my body demands to be re-arranged avery 5 minutes, at this wise intersection of branches, I feel more comfortable than I did in bed or even with the shower's warmth pouring over me.

This tree is very strong medicine for my body. Cradled eight feet up by the tilted blond branches, I am a child. All my frustration drains.

My concerns dwarfed by the smell of open soil and the confusion of newly horizontal ants. The gift of last week's violent winds is deeply healing. Its gravity a tilted reminder of just how decadent the weather is today. Low 70's and kind sunshine smiling on my stockinged feet. Ducks and cormorants dive and bob for their lunches. This is my paradise. Finally, I'm truly excited to be in the Bay Area.



***

I stayed in that tree for two hours. Several families came, climbed, and left while I was there. I climbed around on unstable branches fell a few times, dirtied my clothes with sweat and tree-skin, and got some well-earned scratches on my arms. I considered staying longer. But the groceries I came out for were still at the supermarket waiting to come home with me.

I slipped down gratefully and smiled as wide as the sky until the sun went down.

This Body is a Metaphor: thoughts on weight loss and gender

I lost 15 pounds since I started a restrictive diet experiment six weeks ago. 20 pounds total since this spring. Even though I've been tweeting and speaking publicly about the effects this diet has had on my health overall I haven't talked about my change in weight. Partly because I don't want to be buried under a barrage of accolades.

I don't want to be congratulated on decreasing a number society has so inexplicably tied to my worth as a woman. Even when I tell people about the weight loss in private I make certain to include that the reason I've dropped weight is that the diet I've started for health reasons has me eating less.

I've been consuming an average of 1,500 calories per day. For my size and level of activity this is probably too little. I've also been spending more time alone which for me means a decrease in appetite.

But the thing I'm especially unlikely to talk about is the satisfaction I feel about losing weight, I can't deny that some part of me still buys into the less is better mentality. But the rise warm feeling I have about the small changes in my body is more than just a reflex of learned attractiveness.

I'm pleased because the only parts of me that I've noticed as discernibly smaller are my breasts and my thighs. I'm delighted that my belly has stayed decidedly paunchy. I enjoy having breasts but lately I've been fantasizing about having smaller breasts tighter to my chest. Breast that I could have at least some success at pressing into a straight line.

I've considered buying a binder for this purpose, but the tightest sports bra I own does a pretty good job already. And I worry that a binder wouldn't do any better and that bra. More importantly I worry a binder would kick up my acid reflux even worse than my sports bra does. The heartburn makes me sweat nervously. This makes the sports bra itch. I want to wear button-down and tie without having to disguise awkward lumps with patterns and loose fits.

I like my clothes to touch my body and show off the stability of my barrel chested square torso. I'm scared that if I keep losing weight my belly and waist are going to become more concave.

It's been a year or more since I stopped trying to define my waist. I still have a few fabulous belts for showing off my high waist. Which is sometimes want to put on but mostly not. But the desire exists.

I'm both afraid of and desiring the loss of my belly fat. If the fat stays I know I will enjoy its benefits of balancing out my torso. I will more easily look masculine. But I also know I will miss wearing pretty belts and lose out when the urge to do so strikes and they don't fit anymore.

It hurts me that perceptions of gender aren't flexible enough for my expressions to seem genuine. I didn't mean to write about my gender but writing about my weigh makes me worry that I am not trans or genderqueer enough and that I should just commit to expressing my masculinity exclusively.

But I still like being feminine and I'm angry to tears that the vast majority of people I meet & even know and love won't be able to see me as truth of the delicious fluctuating mix I am.

Changing my diet has changed the way I relate to my body. It's seemingly impossible to think about such changes without triggering thoughts about body gender, perception, and presentation.

The categories of recognition and representation society offers me is an array of compromises, each limiting and inaccurate. My body's given me one such compromise in the form of my digestive health. Finding ways to be both satisfied and nourished on this restrictive diet sometimes serves as a painful reminder of how my identity is impossible to balance and communicate is a way that nourishes me.

I know I can't ever fully know my body with all this stuff in it: food, fluids, the bacteria that is more numerous than even my own collection of cells.

I'm comprised of many things. I often wish I had more body more bodies than I just this one.
The experiences of trans people are often laughed off and oversimplified with a joking or oversimplistic reference to being “trapped in the wrong body”. It's not funny to me. It's actually peculiar to me that so many people are so settled with just the collection of cells that they've got. Have these people never been sick or felt the pressure of an insurmountable ache?

It's not urgent or acutely painful but I feel nostalgic for a body this is as changeable as my mind both consciousness and subconscious. Dysphoria isn't a joke. It only is peculiar, but I'd be willing to bet it's more common than I think humans allow ourselves to realize. It happens to children whose parents call them inside and tell them to stop being to be dinosaurs.

Writing about all this stuff makes me think about the literally transformative power of metaphors. The audacity of assigning identity or meaning to anything is just an illusion. One we can take back at any time we choose.

The task of communicating our being is an impossible and obsessive dive through language, projection, and prediction. Anything shared between humans is a metaphor and it's metaphors all the way down.

This body, these words, they're just a metaphor. I am who I am independent of the meanings I or anyone else decides to make up about them.