The Doe’s Latest Stories

Vaginismus, Casual Sex and Me

Due to my vaginismus, penetrative sex is not easy. Whenever an external body (call it a penis, call it a tampon) tries to enter my vagina, the walls contract trying to protect the castle. Casual sex usually doesn’t go smoothly. If I want to achieve penetration, I need to be able to relax sufficiently and be comfortable with the guy. And this takes a bit of time (a couple of hours dancing in a club usually won’t do). Only once in my life have I had painless penetrative sex in a one-night stand. I wish I could tell you how I managed that, but I’m not entirely sure.And yet, my experience with “friends with benefits” helped my vaginismus and made me feel liberated as a woman.

My experience with 'friends with benefits' helped my vaginismus and made me feel liberated as a woman.

Online Dating Led to a Sense of Freedom

I met a guy online, several months after a break-up. I wasn’t looking to jump into another relationship. We easily clicked. He also had broken up recently, so we were in the same boat. We kissed but I was hesitant. I knew what I wanted but I was scared.After several dates, he suggested meeting up at this place after work, to watch a movie and just enjoy ourselves. While I was reading that text in the toilet at work, I could feel my pussy burning, begging me to accept the proposition. And I did. We both craved close human contact.It was surprising how easy it was for me to achieve painless penetration. I had tried several times with my previous boyfriend and we never had achieved that. Maybe in this friend-with-benefits relationship, I felt less pressure. We had fewer expectations of each other. We could talk about everything and anything.That stranger became my fuck buddy but also my friend, and he is the guy I have had sex with the most. Thanks to him, I started experimenting with sex toys. Once the proverbial door had been opened, there were infinite possibilities that I was dying to explore. Deep inside, I wished I could be more laid-back, like him. This was the perfect opportunity for stepping out of my comfort zone.He also introduced me to weed. I have never smoked a cigarette in my life so it was a bit nerve-wracking. But I was also really curious. We vaped it. I didn’t feel much, just my thoughts slowing down a bit. What I didn’t expect was the electrifying sex we had afterward. Whereas he was completely stoned, I was just relaxed. But somehow, we were totally in sync, flowing nicely and smoothly. He was on top and every movement brought me closer to ecstasy.

That stranger became my fuck buddy but also my friend.

It, of Course, Got Complicated

Then things got a bit complicated. We didn’t want merely to meet, have sex and slam the door. Two or three times a week was our average hang out frequency. It almost felt like a relationship. A bit more than just a fuck buddy but certainly not a boyfriend. I got attached and hoped he would fall in love with me.I was craving more and more sex. I used sex as a validation. I started initiating morning sex a lot. When he was still half asleep, I would spoon him from behind with my aroused naked body. I would caress his hair, ears and lower abdomen, almost touching his penis but not quite. I was terrified in case he rejected me as if I wasn’t worthy after all. But he rarely rejected.We were never exclusive. On a trip to Prague, he met a girl and wanted to give it a chance. We broke things off. I was sad and jealous. Regardless, I didn’t want to lose him as a friend, so we reconnected and tried to be just that. It didn’t work because the sexual tension was still there. The “other woman” felt like a threat. Every time his phone vibrated made me anxious.Even so, one time we broke into a private garden at night. He had forced open the gate with a card. We fucked in front of a massive waterfall. If that’s not liberation, I don’t know what it is. Eventually, he moved to Prague for work, but we kept in touch.

I was craving more sex.

I've Moved on—Sorta

Several months after that, I was partying in a Latin club. As I stepped onto the dance floor, a massively tall guy grabbed me and started dancing salsa with me. He was really good; hips don’t lie. He pushed his body very close to mine. It felt really nice but also overwhelming. I went back home with my friends. We went on a date a few days later, and after dinner, he asked me about my sexual fantasies and fetishes. He seemed really eager to have sex, but I was unsure.Eventually, he invited me over. We both knew what was going to happen. It was the 15th of August, my name day. That morning I had burnt my thigh with boiling water from my tea and ended up in the emergency room. I had a bandage on and the wound was still fresh, so we had to be extremely careful. He disclosed that he was in an open relationship. I hesitated but my desire was stronger than my doubts. I have never been kissed like that in my life, on my mouth or on my vulva. It was something out of this world, magical, magnetic. So delicate. He knew quite well what he was doing and this aroused me even more. He made me feel like a work of art.However, my doubts kept interfering and he noticed. I struggled to relax. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to risk getting attached (and hurt) as had happened with my previous friend-with-benefits situation. He told me it wasn’t a good idea to be fuck buddies but offered me a deal. “You will come on Saturday and I will fuck the shit out of you. And this will be the last time.” I agreed.I wore lingerie underneath my clothes, feeling sexy as hell. He was so mysterious, smirking subtly as always. I had mentioned to him before that sometimes the bedroom triggered anxiety, so he walked me toward the living room. I told him I felt like dancing. We played “So High” by Mist on repeat. He went down on me. I went down on him. We eventually laid down on his sofa and he penetrated me. No pain whatsoever. I remember that my hands went numb afterward because of the high intensity. I enjoyed myself so much (and I know he did too) so I playfully asked him if he was sure he didn’t want to do that again. He said no. I agreed and eventually went back home.Four months later, I texted him. We were recalling what happened between us. We broke the deal and met again. On my way to his place, I got a text: “When you get on the bus, sit at the back, preferably away from other people. Place your bag on your lap.” Minutes after, I was fingering my soaking wet pussy. Pleasure and adrenaline took over my body. It was so fucking hot but also forbidden. I didn’t come; I was too scared of making a noise. I thanked the driver with a big smile.When we finally met, we had some fun, but something was off. I was missing a bit of intimacy and connection. He was very reserved and never spoke much, and it would have helped me relax more if he had opened up a little. We had short conversations, or actually, one-sided conversations where I was the one doing most of the talking.That was the difference between him and my friend-with-benefits. That lack of bonding made a whole lot of difference for me. That night he went down on me but I didn’t manage to orgasm. Penetration was very painful so we had to stop. It was a bit frustrating, but he said I probably needed a long-term relationship with someone for painless penetration to be possible.I guess he was right.

Ginger

January 6, 2024

Extreme Outdoor Adventures Taught Me More About Femininity Than Being a Debutante Ever Did

Growing up in the suburbs of Denver, my life could have been a fairytale. I certainly grew up like a Disney princess, being sent to cotillion classes to learn upper-class etiquette before being presented to society at a debutante ball. My father was successful in business and a man's man. He told me the secret to life was never to show weakness and never let people see you cry. My mother was the consummate trophy wife, the head cheerleader who married into money.Who knows? Maybe in some alternate universe, I'm living that life, married to a lawyer somewhere, with fake boobs and a cupboard full of red wine.However, my father's suicide brought that world crumbling down around me.In the wake of his death, my mother and brother fled to anonymity in California. I said eff it all and moved to the mountains to be a ski bum.

Maybe in some alternate universe, I'm living that life, married to a lawyer somewhere, with fake boobs and a cupboard full of red wine.

Skiing Showed Me What I Really Cared About

I skied hard and angry that first season, smashing the top of every bump with every turn, assaulting moguls like they were my high school tormentors. More than once I rode the lift with a cute ski boy who would inevitably remark that I skied like a dude. The only way they knew I was a girl was from the braids sticking out from underneath my helmet. That was the sweetest thing anybody could say to me because I thought being a woman made me weak.After the season ended, my mom came for a visit only to find her little princess working on a ropes course. Her first sight of me was suspended 50 feet in the air, covered in sap, with no makeup and six months of leg hair sticking out from under my shorts. She begged for me to return to California with her, to shave those legs, put on some makeup and act like a woman for goodness’ sake. I told her that I was staying to pursue my dream of becoming a heli-ski guide.Even if we still had money, my mom wouldn't support that dream. I had to earn my wilderness first responder and high angle rope rescue certifications the hard way, by becoming a volunteer firefighter. There was no lesson in charm school to prepare you for the live-fire “burn to learn” portion of firefighter certification. I purged the vestigial remnants of my femininity by hauling heavy gear up and down the stairs of the burning tower, breathing compressed air from the SCBA tank on my back.From there, I worked my way onto the ski patrol at Stevens Pass, Washington. I was no longer merely smashing the tops off of bumps. My patrol route had me bringing down entire hillsides by avalauncher and sticks of dynamite that I hucked into the drifts.I felt strong and powerful, but I couldn't pass my level two instructor certification. Bobby, a director at my ski school who was a real-life Ken doll and skied even prettier than he looked, sat me down and said that I would always fail that exam because I didn’t have the finesse it takes to ski at a high level. I was more balls than technique—my only passing grade on that first attempt was for the mogul portion.

My mom came for a visit only to find her little princess working on a ropes course.

And, Then, the Water Whisked Me Away

I wasn't ready to give up on my dream, but the ski season was over. I decided to spend the off-season guiding whitewater, even though I’d never been rafting before I began training. I guided every commercially run river in the State of Washington, but the most notorious was the Skykomish. In typical years, it was fearsome enough. However, that season was a high water year, which released the Sky’s full fury. Her towering waves howled like a woman scorned, especially at the river’s most notorious rapid, Boulder Drop.My first sight of Boulder Drop terrified me. It was early in the season, and the snowmelt had the rapids pumping. We pulled over to the river’s edge to scout the line, where I saw that it wasn’t just one drop, but a series of three—each capable of flipping the raft into powerful currents. I could see the approach and line, but there was little margin for error.We pushed through the first and second pools cleanly until we reached the final drop. We tried to power through and keep our line, but the river had other plans. She pushed us up onto a gigantic boulder at the bottom of the pool. We threw ourselves against the sides of the raft, trying to dislodge it and failed. We ended up swimming through the massive hydraulics, defeated.Rafael, the owner of the rafting company, approached me that night by the campfire. His flowing salt and pepper hair and leathery tanned skin told the story of his life on the water. Rafael believed that rivers were spiritual and water was the most feminine of the essential elements. He suggested that I paddle an inflatable kayak that year instead of a bigger raft, so I could learn to feel the currents. For the first time in years, I was faced with a problem that I couldn't solve with brute force and dynamite. I ended up swimming every rapid on the Sky that year at one time or another, learning to think like water.Trying to paddle a duckie through Boulder Drop during spring melt would have been foolish, so I got to avoid my nemesis for a while. But by midsummer, I knew I’d have to make another run at her. When I finally did, I lined up perfectly for the first and second drop but got spun around heading into the third pool. I knew powering through it wouldn’t work. Instead, I let the water take its course and paddled backward out of Boulder Drop. I was dry and upright, and the other boats were cheering.Before rafting, I believed in the masculine power of anger and fire, muscle and heat. I believed that the sheer force of will could move mountains. Boulder Drop taught me about the energies of depth and focus—energy can carve the Grand Canyon as well as heal sickness and water crops. It's strong, rolling and relentless.That following winter, back at Stevens Pass, Bobby retested me for my instructor level two. After reconnecting and balancing my energies, both masculine and feminine, I flowed through the turns and followed gravity down the mountain. He was forced to pass me with high marks, despite what he’d said the year before.

I've Gotten Older but I'm Still Living the Dream

I never did become a heli-ski guide. My knees had other plans. By the time I was 26, a doctor had recommended that I quit skiing and get a desk job. Instead, I fully embraced the feminine healing arts of massage and yoga.My childhood debutante training served me well working at high-end spas during the summers, which paid better than rafting ever did. When my mom came to visit, she saw her little girl in makeup again and enjoyed mother-daughter spa days considerably more than a tandem trip down the ropes course.I stopped my patrol days and went back to teaching others how to flow down the mountain. In the process, I was able to extend my skiing career for ten years longer than the doctors thought was possible—all by focusing on the feminine energy I once tried to run away from.I’ll always yearn for that feeling of jumping out of a roaring helicopter onto virgin snow. Still, I cherish that decade of powder mornings and smoothly carved turns that will forever live in my memory. Long, flowing curves that, along with my inner self, were made much stronger and sweeter by learning to accept all my parts, both masculine and feminine.

SportySpice

January 6, 2024

I Had Trouble Getting Pregnant, Until the Coronavirus

It was April, and I was tired. In-my-bones tired. Lids drooping, head-nodding-over-my-laptop tired. I would doze off in the middle of mastering spreadsheets. My speech slurred during meetings. This went on for days. Did I have mono again? The virus? Another “episode”? I took my temperature: normal. Was my throat scratchy? I had to be sick. Or was it allergies?I’d already taken the test, but ten days later I figured: Why not rule everything out? My mind was blank as I held the plastic cup between my legs in the toilet. I knew this motion like a dance: tear the foil, collect the specimen, dip the stick, set aside it on a flat dry surface, wait two-to-five minutes for your results. It’s always negative. A few months ago, this had been an almost daily ritual. I’d bought the pack in bulk on Amazon, and this was my second to last one. What a waste.

There Actually Are Differences Between Pregnancy Tests

Once, last November, I swore I saw a faint line, but that was with the blue ink from a store-brand pregnancy test pack. “Pink dye is the good dye,” my recently pregnant friend (and multiple pregnancy forums online) said. “You can’t trust the blue. It doesn’t measure the right hormones.”Whatever that line had been, for days I felt holy, like a god, a human kiln. Like I had a purpose. That weekend, I walked around our small seaside downtown holding hands with my husband, the warm sun shifting the salt breeze. I closed my eyes and let him guide me, ingesting the light. I declined beer—just in case—and we sat in the backs of bars while I sipped soda and talked about what it would all mean.“I feel like anything is possible and nothing else matters,” I said.His gaze shifted down.I could feel my cheeks flush. I hunted his face for a reaction, connection, but his eyes remained glued to his Red Stripe as he peeled at the label.Even though I kept buying the same pack of tests, the line faded each day until I started to bleed.December. No lines. So many fights. A decade ends and a new one begins.Without a child, my husband and I were falling short of reasons to stay together. It wasn’t that we needed a baby to save us; we needed to prove we could create something beautiful.In January, I went to my doctor to see what was wrong with me. I was late again and was praying—praying—but she had other concerns. She prescribed further tests: bloodwork and an ultrasound. In the large hospital, I discovered ultrasounds aren’t always topical.“I could be pregnant,” I said, my voice shaking as I watched the technician smooth gel along the long plastic wand. “Will that—would that hurt a baby?”“Oh.” She paused. “No. I mean, it’d be too soon to tell. And besides, this is what they’d use to check, anyway.”I started to bleed the next day and got the results the following week: polycystic ovarian syndrome.“Everyone has it,” my friend assured me. But my doctor said I probably wasn’t getting pregnant without help, which I knew anyway. What kind of help, I wasn’t sure.

“It’s called a major depressive episode,”

Coming to Terms With PCOS

It was still January. I’d been slipping. And the disappearance of the line welcomed the arrival of something bigger: a kind of struggle I hadn’t faced since high school. Falling hard and deep, I tripped on something I thought I’d buried. I’d sit in my therapist’s office barely audible, forgetting my sentences before then left my throat.“What is this?” I asked, tears running into my mouth. “Am I having a stroke?”“It’s called a major depressive episode,” she said.I should have seen it coming—I was raised with depression as a first language. Preverbal, I knew how to recognize the forecast: sagging eyes; slurred speech; short tempers.One of my first memories: I’m sitting in my plastic highchair in my parents’ farmhouse kitchen, pushing cooked peas around with soft knuckles, watching my mom as her shoulders shook over the sink, back hunched, silent sobs rolling out of her body. Years later, I’d learned she’d had a miscarriage—an unplanned second child lost. But in my family, there was always an excuse for sadness: My father’s father died. My mother’s father died. My father’s alcoholism. My mother’s powerlessness masked as rage. Sorrow slipped into our home like a fog and never had time to break. I couldn’t see through it. At nine I was cutting myself; at thirteen I stopped eating, hoping I’d disappear. My parents believed these acts were the melancholy of youth—or maybe they never noticed, stuck in clouds of their own. At fourteen, a Zoloft commercial on TV prompted me to talk to my mom about depression. My pediatrician prescribed antidepressants and therapy. I made it to college. I learned how to live. I thought I’d left it behind.It was March. Two increased doses of Lexapro later, I could finally sleep at night. Nothing was the same.“I’m going back to Maine once this is over,” I told him during our first weekend of self-quarantine. “I’m going to stay with my mom for a while.”His eyes fell again. Something about my voice let him know this time it wasn’t a threat.

His eyes fell again. Something about my voice let him know this time it wasn’t a threat.

A Coronavirus Pregnancy Is Not What I Envisioned

March faded into April, but the days were all the same now. I had stopped paying attention to my ovulation tracking app weeks ago, too sad to care when the hearts came and went on specific days that I was supposedly fertile.Our marriage was ending, but love was still there between the agony and the outrage, just as confusing as the idea of dismantling a partnership with no shared property outside of a couple IKEA couches, a nervous terrier and too many memories to count. Maybe because there was nothing official to break apart, we didn’t know how to untangle; we still shared a bed, and on occasion, found each other’s bodies after fights that ended in tears and apologies—or games of cards doubled over in laughter enhanced with bottles of wine. We were stuck inside forever. We only had each other. We were friends. Everything felt surreal and impossible.So then the test.I held the wand in my hands as the results blurred and came into focus. I watched as the second line—a pink one—appeared for the first time in my life.Thirty-two years of successfully preventing pregnancy, nearly a year of unsuccessfully creating it and now here we were.I walked downstairs and into the kitchen, holding the strip with the thick pink lines. I extended it as an offering.His mouth dropped. “I didn’t do it on purpose,” he said.I burst out laughing. I started to cry. I sat down and we both stared in shock at what we’d done.“Do I keep it?” I asked no one. I’m pro-choice. Isn’t that what this choice is for?He cocked his head, mouth moving before words could form. “I…I’ll support you no matter what.”I already knew my answer.

Thirty-two years of successfully preventing pregnancy, nearly a year of unsuccessfully creating it and now here we were.

It Took Trying for a Baby for a Year, but It Was Worth It

My dad has been sober for 19 years. He talks about kicking the “curse” of his bloodline. “I come from a family legacy of alcoholics,” he always says. “I swore to myself, the curse will end with me.”Supposedly it takes two generations for addiction to leave a family. I wonder, then, will my child have a chance? If I kick depression, will they fall prey or have hope?“I think you could do it,” my therapist said when I told her the news. “I think you will make a great mom, even alone.”Yesterday, I rested my phone against my stomach, imagining the soft sound waves of the music vibrating deep into my uterus. A fetus cannot hear until the second trimester at the earliest, but I like to pretend. Mostly I want to apologize. I’m not doing a good job being their mom so far. So far, I’ve broken nearly all the promises I made to them when they were still unformed, just an egg inside my ovary: I’ll be in love. I’ll have support. I’ll be happy. I’ll be happy. I’ll be happy.I pour the song into them as a new promise: I’ll get better. I’ll get better. I’ll get better.

Jones

January 6, 2024

Parenting

Being a Stay-at-Home Mom: Still Not Fair in 2020

For years, I’ve been asking myself two questions: If I matter as much as my husband, do I have the same value that he does if I can’t attach a dollar figure to my time? And: Did signing a marriage license imply that I’m now worth less?My husband’s circumstances are the same now as they were before we got hitched. His life isn’t very different, married or not. With a child, or not, He gets up and goes to work; he works hard and enjoys his job. He gets pats on the back for the effort he gives. And paychecks and praise. And his coworkers listen to him.He doesn’t have to speak more or speak louder to be taken seriously. It has always been this way for him because he’s a man. And my life? It’s completely different post-wedding and post-child. I love my family dearly.But this isn’t fair.

But this isn’t fair.

It's All About Sacrificing

To have a family and a home means a lot of sacrifices. The majority of these sacrifices unconsciously have been made by me, because I’m doing what’s expected of me, because I’m the woman. Because there were so many decisions we made without conversation.I grew up in a traditional Christian home. Both of my parents worked, but my mom also took care of us kids. Sure, dad did stuff with us. But if we needed something, usually we went to my mom.It was a happy home, but not a fair home.I grew up regularly hearing jokes such as, “Why are women’s feet so small?” The answer? “So they can get closer to the stove.” Feminism was equated with ugly, patchouli-scented lesbians with braided armpit hair. For our wedding, as a gift, I received a book called “Created to Be His Help Meet: Discover how God can make your marriage glorious.”My father said things like, “You know, I helped mom out lots with you kids. I changed a lot of the diapers. As a matter of fact, I can hold my breath for a full four minutes!” I laugh at this line because it’s funny. But he was also saying that he helped her with her job of raising their kids.

Marriage Changed Everything

When I got married eight years ago, to a very open-minded man, I didn’t realize our disparity. I was a busy student at this time, slogging through my B.A. degree. One month after we got married, I got pregnant. We found out that I had “cervical incompetency,” that is, my body began getting ready to give birth way too soon. So, I went on bed rest. Both my schooling and my new job at the time stopped. My husband continued working.And this was okay because obviously he couldn’t carry our baby. When our daughter was born, I stayed home with her. Breastfeeding was important to our family, but that also meant finishing school was put on hold. And I was happy to make this decision because I love our girl.When our daughter turned two, I began doing Jillian Michaels’ 30 Day Shred videos during our daughter’s nap times and found out I had a passion for exercise. It helped my stress levels. I decided to become a personal trainer. But because I wasn’t going to make any income during the schooling, I figured it’d be best for me to do the training in the evening, after my daughter was in bed so that my husband’s schedule wasn’t inconvenienced.This was okay because it made the most financial sense for us. But I was tired.After finishing my training, I opened a business. But because I was just starting out and had merely a few clients, I decided I would teach classes during evenings and weekends only so that my husband’s work hours needn’t change to accommodate mine.This was okay because, again, it made the most financial sense.After a few years, and when our daughter was school-aged, I decided to finish up that degree. I got into a great university. However, I could take classes only during our daughter’s school hours, because I needed to be available to pick her up and drop her off. My husband’s work could not be interrupted.But choosing from the available classes that fit between the hours of 9:30 a.m. to 2 p.m. meant I wasn’t able to take all the classes that interested me most or would best benefit my GPA.This was okay because I should be thankful to my husband for supporting us.After getting my B.A., I decided to apply for a master’s degree in my field. I applied to four prestigious schools across the world, and I got into three of them. I even won a $25,000 scholarship and a substantial tuition scholarship at another.

One month after we got married, I got pregnant.

As With Everyone, the COVID-19 Pandemic Hit Hard

And then the pandemic.You’d think this would be the great leveler, because we are all in the same position, everyone unable to work or do life as before. But I don’t think this is the case.Our daughter must do school virtually, and because the district provides 30 minutes a week of actual video-taught education, someone has to make up the teaching time.While my husband is still able to work from home, I’ve become her teacher. My own education is on hold because I cannot both pursue my own degree online and facilitate our daughter’s schooling.While my husband and I could shift around some of his work hours so that he could teach our daughter while I educated myself on my degree, the fact is I’m better with our daughter. There’s less whining and crying when it’s me at the helm, probably because I’ve had more time with her.At all of these junctures where I made a sacrifice, there was no conversation between my husband and me—because I’m the woman, and he’s the man, and I’m better with her, and it’s what’s expected of women, and all the other reasons we tell ourselves.Even though those were opportunities for both of us. So often a mother’s dream realized means a dream deferred.I have a hunch that when the pandemic ends and life resumes, mothers are going to be underrepresented in the workplace and higher education, with fewer career and schooling opportunities than fathers.And this isn’t okay.Families and couples please ask yourselves these questions: Are each of our voices heard equally? Does he or she do as much as I do for what is ours? Are we both okay with the sacrifices that are being made?If either of you is unhappy with the way these questions were answered, then maybe conversations need to be had. With words. Out loud.The other day I watched my daughter shed tears for a squished worm. She has a lot of feelings, most kids do, and this is such a good thing. These little children we sacrifice so much to lovingly raise, they’re watching us. And if we’re careful with our words and have these uncomfortable conversations out loud about gender fairness, maybe things can change.Excessive empathy is what our world needs to create equal access to opportunities for both men and women.Only a child would give a worm a funeral. I think our future is in good hands.

Notsocarolbrady

January 6, 2024

I’m a Mixed-Race Female Who Has Been Hypersexualized Into a Corner

I didn’t know at what point I truly became aware that people saw me differently. For the first part of my childhood, I lived in a world blessed by blissful ignorance. But once I hit 12 years old, things started to change. I felt seen for what my body was becoming. But I didn’t feel seen as a person.My experience is probably stained by how my mum treated me when I was younger. She constantly would comment on how I looked or on what I was wearing. She once even called me a pervert’s dream.

I knew this was because of my skin color, my hair and my features, all of which make me a mixed-race female.

Not Looking Like Other People Left Me Feeling Lonely

At school, boys would stare at me and make sexist remarks. As a mixed-race female surrounded by people who didn’t look like me, I felt isolated. While the boys would interact with my white female peers, I felt treated like somebody with whom they didn’t want to be seen. When they gossiped about me, they used a codename for me (one that I will not repeat here for fear of breaking my anonymity). I would pretend I didn’t hear it.I didn’t know how to confront my feelings. But because I was so used to having my experience denied, in the end, I didn’t bother.So much attention was paid to how I looked, I would feel so anxious to the extent that I even couldn’t move my body as I wanted. I mean this literally, as if a simple stretch would cause people to react. I’ve tried getting help for my anxiety many times when I was younger.But when I would go to the doctor, he would ask for my number in order to text me the counseling service details. But I never received them. I asked another doctor for medication to deal with my anxiety, but he offered me beta blockers only.I knew this was because of my skin color, my hair and my features, all of which make me a mixed-race female.

I didn’t feel equal; I never have felt equal.

People Treat Me Differently Because of How I Look

I would see someone else speak their mind about something that upset them. They would receive a respectful response. Perhaps I would have the same opinion, and so I would say or do the same thing, but I never received the same response. The response always felt as if it reined me in. I didn’t feel equal; I never have felt equal.I initially believed that my feelings and experiences were due to being around mostly white people. But when I moved to an area where there was more ethnic diversity, I was disappointed to see that I was sexualized yet again, though in a different way.This time people would subtly ignore my rights as a person. When I was a young adult and went out clubbing, I often was touched or casually assaulted. When I became upset on a couple of occasions, I gained some insight. One friend asked, “Does it matter if people are touching you while you are drunk?”Who asks that? Does my right to my own space and body stop when I get drunk?Men of color would often direct lewd remarks toward me, about what I was wearing, for example, or how I looked. I’ve had people say that I wore things because I know what I wear will elicit a reaction. In truth, I dress with the exact opposite intention.I had a recent conversation with a male my age. He told me that, when he was younger, he knew a girl at school who posted an article about the negatives of being beautiful. He stopped being friends with her because he thought she was being vain. But when I told him how I tried to hide as much as possible, yet never really could because I was always looked at, he said I changed his mind about how he viewed people he thought were beautiful.He might have been just another person who tried to persuade me that my experiences are unique because I am beautiful. I am so sick of people believing that just because they find someone attractive that they can treat them how they want.A social media post of mine discussed this very subject. On the one hand, someone replied to say that I was clearly looking for an ego boost. But on the other, I was grateful that other people took it more seriously, and I now know for sure that I am not alone.Nonetheless, I always have felt alone. Because of my experiences, I don’t feel safe around men (and frequently women) because I am worried that if anything happens to me, they will see my skin color first and my humanity later.

Does my right to my own space and body stop when I get drunk?

I Know I Deserve to Be Treated Like Others

I have had one relationship only; my first kiss was at 18; I have been terrified to be seen as anything more than friends with a boy.I may come across as conceited because I am so hyper-aware of the way people view me. This is why I don’t talk about it often and I write about it anonymously.Due to my experiences, I’ve always tried to treat people whom I find attractive or different with as much autonomy and respect as possible. I know how isolating it can be when everyone invalidates your experience because they don’t look like you. They don’t experience what you experience, consequently, they can’t empathize with you.While I know that I’m not alone, I do feel alone.While I haven’t been brave enough to speak out about this issue more openly, I’ve made the most important step of being brave enough to speak about it with myself.To me, I am normal, and I believe I have a right to experience being accepted by a group of people who see me for who I am and not what I look like.My therapist once said to me that I could see the attention I get as a good thing. However, if it wasn’t because I’ve struggled through most of my life because of it, maybe I would.Just because someone looks different from you, remember, they can have feelings of anxiety and fear too.None of us is superhuman.

The Unwanted Truth

January 6, 2024

Religion

I Am a Muslim Woman and I Am Victim of Toxic Masculinity

I can still remember the first time I was told I was forbidden fruit. I was around 17 and talking to a school friend at a party. I’m not entirely sure how it came up in our conversation, but he told me this as if I should already be aware. “Oh, didn’t you know? That’s what a bunch of the boys call you at school.” I was stunned and confused. I had not known.I’m a second-generation Muslim Arab woman. I was born in the U.K., but I grew up in effectively two worlds. My parents raised us with a heavy religious and cultural influence, but when we left the house we stepped into Western society. That made a lot of things different for me compared to my friends and classmates. One of them was dating. My parents were very strict and schooled me from as young as I can remember that I wasn’t allowed to date or have a boyfriend at school. My only interactions with boys were to be only friendly—and even then, not too friendly.

It made me think of mystery, secrecy and shame.

Dating as a Muslim Teenager Was Nonexistent

So I never had a high school sweetheart or brought a boy home. And, after the first few years of high school, this was common knowledge amongst my schoolmates. Friends eventually stopped asking me why I didn’t have a boyfriend, and boys stopped asking me out. I didn’t see it as an issue, and definitely didn’t think it was something that people cared or talked about. I went through most of my school years blissfully unaware that it was.That was until my friend told me about the label the boys in my year group had given me. I suppose it’s strange for anyone to find out they’ve got an epithet attached to them that they weren’t aware of, but there was something particularly weird about being called forbidden fruit.It made me think of mystery, secrecy and shame.It also made me feel wanted, a feeling I wasn’t all too familiar with in a romantic or sexual context. It made me feel good about myself and gave me the validation that I’d only ever seen other girls get from boys. Like most young girls, I was always a little self-conscious about how I looked and how boys saw me. Did they fancy me? Did they think I was pretty? The fact that some were talking about me like that must’ve meant that they considered me attractive, I thought, and the only thing keeping them from asking me out must’ve been the fact that I couldn’t date.I thought that way for quite a long time, and only recently have I started to unpack what my former nickname says about me—or the boys who gave me it. I realize now that being called “forbidden fruit” wasn’t a good thing or something that should’ve made me proud. The boys who called me that didn’t do it because of the way I looked or how I behaved.They did simply because they could. And it was patriarchy and toxic masculinity that allowed them.

The term 'forbidden fruit' is all about the perceived attainability of women.

My Nickname Was a Symbol of Patriarchy

The term “forbidden fruit” is all about the perceived attainability of women and how our availability is connected to the way men view us. The default for men seems to be to assume that all women are available to them, unless otherwise stated. I saw it in how men approached me during my time at university, and how some would only back off if they found out I was already taken. To them, women are only unavailable when another man’s involved, not because they simply aren’t interested.A woman who’s been labeled “forbidden fruit” becomes an empty vessel, free from agency or choice. The men who call her that assume that if she wasn’t so untouchable, she might date them—completely ignoring that she has her own thoughts and might not be interested.It’s a term rooted in power and serves to sustain such an imbalance between men and women. Men aren’t called “forbidden fruit” as far as I know. It’s a term that seems to be reserved only for women whom men “just can’t have.” It’s a power move.

This isn’t a unique story.

What My Experience Taught Me About Human Validation

Did the boys who labeled me give any thought to how I would feel when I found out? Or the impact it could have on me as a young girl? Or what kind of long-term effects it might have? My guess is: probably not.And yet it did affect me. More so when I found out, but sometimes even to this day, at age 25. It showed me that I looked for validation about myself solely in men’s eyes. Compliments were only meaningful to me if they came from men. I didn’t trust or believe the ones I got from women. And for a while, I valued my physical appearance over anything else. I wanted to be attractive so boys would notice me. I don’t know if this kind of thinking would have happened anyway, even if I hadn’t found out about my nickname, but it definitely contributed to its acceleration and intensity.It’s taken me a while to unlearn these attitudes and behaviors about myself—and women in general—and to see this label for what it truly is: toxic patriarchy. This isn’t a unique story. So many women have experienced something like this in their lives, and maybe didn’t even think twice about it. That’s how normalized it is.But I’ve noticed a lot more women calling out attitudes like this, even just within my own circle of female friends. These kinds of labels and perceptions of women are deeply problematic. It’s time we put a stop to it, like I wish I had all those years ago.

Sinead Z

January 6, 2024

Money

What It Was Like Being a Stripper

I started at the club as a shot girl.During an interview for a job, I learned I would be working at a gentlemen’s club. I was a bit shocked—as that wasn’t stated in the job listing—but it didn’t deter me. I’m someone who will try anything once, plus the job seemed pretty simple: Sell your shots and give dances for extra cash.I arrived at the agency for my first day of work and met some of the girls.“Hi, I’m Sadie!” I said. The girls looked at each other. “Oh, is that your stage name?” one girl asked.I was confused. “No, that’s my real name. Do I need a stage name?”She explained that every girl gets a stage name for safety reasons, and told me her name was Lizzie. I always liked the name Audrey, and it hadn’t been taken yet. So, Audrey I was.Suddenly, a well-dressed man appeared in front of me. He told me his name was Cory, and he was my boss. Since I didn’t have a car, I rode with the girls in the shuttle the club provided. When I finally got to the club, I filled out paperwork and was shuffled into a room for training with Cory.Once training was finished, I changed into my uniform—a bright pink bra and matching thong, covered by a skin-tight, white, mesh dress with a pink garter—and made my way downstairs where I received my tray of shots.“Well, off you go,” Cory said.

The night was not off to a good start.

Becoming an Exotic Dancer Has Benefits, Mainly Cash

When I got on the floor, I went to the first table of men I saw. I was given a script to use when approaching customers, with room to improvise. So I put on my best smile and walked over. I put the shot between my breasts and looked at my first potential customer. “Can I interest you in a $5 boobie shot?” I asked.“No thanks, I’m having a beer right now,” he said. I frowned and asked if he’d like a $2 regular shot instead. Again, he turned me down. I tried one more time. “Do you want to buy me a shot and give it to me before I go?” He looked at me, clearly annoyed. “No, really, I’m good.” I sighed but kept a smile on my face. “Okay, doll, but if you change your mind, I’ll be around.”The night was not off to a good start.As I scanned the crowd, I saw Lizzie, the girl I met at the agency. She was already down to her last two shots. I ran up to her, desperate for some help. “How did you sell all of those shots already?” I asked. “You just gotta look like you’re having the best time,” she replied. “Guys love girls who are having fun. Here, come with me.”She danced me over to another table of four guys. “Hey boys, this is my friend Audrey. Buy her a shot!” The boys looked at me, doubtfully. “Hi!” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could gather. “Um, okay,” one guy said.“Great!” Lizzie exclaimed. “Bye!” And with a twirl, she was gone. After a long moment of silence, one of the men spoke up. “Do you do dances?” he asked.Finally, something I knew I was good at: “I do!” I said eagerly. I ditched my tray on a nearby shelf and led my first customer upstairs.He was a small man, and very shy. I could tell he was uneasy. He asked if I could talk to him during the dance to make him more comfortable. “Sure! What did you do today?” I said, hoping to make conversation. He shrugged.Great talk.After my first dance, the rest of the night flew by. I gave six more dances and sold all of my shots. At that moment, I understood why women danced. I felt sexy and powerful, like I could get men to do whatever I wanted.Before I knew it, it was 3:30 a.m. Cory came around to all of the new girls to pull us off of the floor so he could show us how to check out.The other rookies looked defeated. I had seen them throughout the night: Most of their shot trays were 80 percent full. They looked at mine, which was completely empty.“How did you sell your whole tray?!” one girl asked. “I don’t know,” I laughed, “I guess they just felt bad for me.”Cory counted our money, and he informed me that I had made the most out of all of the new girls. “That’s how you do it,” he said with a wink.

Could I Be a Good Stripper?

I couldn’t wait until my second shift. I got to the club, changed into my uniform, rang in my shots and got to work. Toward the end of the night, an older man approached me and asked if I did double dances (a lap dance with two girls). I told him I hadn’t yet, but I would be willing to give it a try. He turned around and called to another dancer across the room.I turned around to see this gorgeous, tall blonde walking toward me. She had shoulder-length blonde hair, brown eyes and amazing abs. She wore a metallic-silver bikini and a choker. She introduced herself as Whitney. “Audrey is going to do a double dance with you,” the man explained. “Great!” Whitney said. She grabbed my hand and led us upstairs.As we made our way to our room, Whitney told me that the man’s name was Arthur, a regular at the club. “He’s really sweet and extremely wealthy,” she said. Arthur gave us each $100. We both grabbed a drink at the bar and headed into our room. Whitney turned on some music, then she and I stripped down and started dancing on Arthur. After about 30 seconds, he stopped us. “Okay, let’s change it up,” he demanded. “Audrey, you sit down on the couch, and Whitney, you climb on top of her. I’ll watch.” We did as he said.The dance ended and we got dressed. “This is actually a lot of fun! I think I want to be a dancer,” I whispered to Whitney. “Sometimes it gets kind of weird, which is why I drink to get through it, but Arthur is awesome and always takes care of the girls,” she replied. “You should ask Anne if you can be a dancer instead of a shot girl,” she continued. “The club is always looking for more dancers.”That night, I made $250. I thought about how much more I could make if I didn’t spend time selling shots, so I found Anne, the general manager, to ask if I could make the switch to a dancer instead. “Sure,” she said flatly. “Be here tomorrow at eight for training.”I found Whitney and told her what Anne said, and we squealed with excitement together. I was so eager to come back.

Giving Dances Was Not as Glamorous as I Imagined

The next day, I made $30.It was a Friday night, and I was put onto the floor at 11:00 p.m. I felt a bit naked without my tray of shots, but I was confident. I approached a man and we started talking. After a few minutes, I asked if he wanted a dance. “No, thanks,” he said. “I just got here, so maybe later.”“Maybe later” is code for “never gonna happen.”I approached nine more customers, with no success. I tried to keep my head high, but the rejection started to get to me.I heard the DJ call my name, so I climbed the stairs to the main stage. I was never a dancer and I’m not flexible, so the most I could do was hold on to the pole and spin around. The guys watching at the foot of the stage looked less than impressed, and I wasn’t thrown a single dollar. When I was finished, I ran to the DJ booth. “Please don’t put me on the main stage anymore,” I begged. The DJ looked at me with pity. “You got it, sweetie.”I found Cory in the office, and he could tell I was upset. “What’s wrong?” he asked. I couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. They fell from my eyes as soon as I opened my mouth. “No one wants a dance from me,” I cried. “And I was so embarrassed on stage. I’m not good and the guys can tell.”“Okay, first of all, it’s only 11:30. People don’t usually buy dances until later in the night. You’re fine, I promise,” he said with a smile. “Secondly, you look amazing. Just act like you’re the shit and you’ll be great.”

I couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. They fell from my eyes as soon as I opened my mouth.

I Hoped a New Table Could Turn the Night Around; It Didn’t

I wiped my eyes and walked back onto the floor. Again, I approached a table. This time, it was three guys in their early 30s. One of them asked if I gave dances. I nodded. “Good, cause Josh here wants a dance,” he said through slurred words. I turned at Josh, who looked like a dance was the last thing he wanted. “Why don’t you get one, dude?” Josh asked his friend.“Be confident,” I reminded myself. “I’m really good at them,” I told the man. “And you’re in luck because I have amazing tits.” He paused, looked me up and down, then said, “Why don’t you go get some other girls and I’ll line them up and pick which one I want?”And then it hit me: I wasn’t a person to this guy. I was an object. I was like a clearance item on a rack of designer goods that he was holding on to until he found something better.“Why don’t you go fuck yourself?” I said and stormed off.I ran back to the office, having a full-blown panic attack. I wanted to leave, but the only way home was an expensive Uber ride, and so far, my night wasn’t going to allow me to pay for one. Cory looked at me and gave me a hug. He looked at Alicia, another manager at the club. “Could you give her some advice?” he asked. “Tell her she’s amazing and that she can do it.”She led me over to the mirror. “Do you see how great you look?” she asked me. I stared at myself, thinking if I looked like the other girls, I would be having a better night. “I thought I was hot until every man I’ve talked to said ‘no.' I saw guys who said they were leaving going upstairs with another girl.” “Just try one more time,” she pleaded. “You can make up your mind at the end of the night.”

I finally got some money, and it was covered in beer.

Being a Stripper for a Day Was Enough for Me

By 2:00 a.m., I had stopped approaching guys. I couldn’t stand another rejection. I had moved on to watching the other dancers and crying in the dressing room.An hour later, it was time to go on stage again, but this time, the DJ put me on a smaller stage. I did my usual routine, and to my surprise, a man approached the stage and threw money at me. I instantly felt better, but I got cocky. I tried a move I saw other girls doing that night, where they put their legs over the guy’s shoulders so that his head is in their crotch. I got one leg up, but I knocked his beer over in the process.I finally got some money, and it was covered in beer.I gathered my cash and headed to the dressing room. I counted it and saw I made $75. Pathetic.The club has a $40 house fee for dancers, so by the time I paid it and tipped out the DJ, I walked away with $30 and no self-esteem. I found Anne and told her that I quit.I felt like such a failure. As I walked through the club, I heard other dancers cheering about how much money they made. I made a dash for the dressing room and changed as quickly as I could, and got a ride home from one of the bouncers. The thought of having to ride back with the other girls was too embarrassing. I wasn’t one of them. I was a joke.At 5:00 a.m., after nine long hours, I finally walked into the safety of my own home, where I wasn’t charged any fees.

Hey Bin

January 6, 2024

Health

Ladies Beware: I Didn’t Have Cancer, It Was Fibroids

I am a woman who had a really bad case of fibroids, non-cancerous tumors that grow within the wall of the uterus. In my case, genetics probably played a part, since my mother had them, too.Known technically as uterine leiomyomata, they can vary in size and number and may cause infertility, miscarriage and early onset of labor. You hear a lot about breast and uterine cancer, but seldom about fibroids.Most American women will develop fibroids at some point in their lives. One study found that, by age 50, 70 percent of whites and 80 percent of African-Americans had fibroids. In many instances, fibroids don’t cause symptoms and, in such cases, women may be unaware that they have them.Various therapies (including drugs or surgical removal of individual fibroids) treat symptoms. However, when the condition is painful or the number of fibroids is great, doctors may advise surgery to remove the uterus—a hysterectomy. More than 200,000 hysterectomies for uterine fibroids are performed each year, at an annual direct health-care cost from $4.1 to $9.4 billion, according to the National Institutes of Health.

Women: Do not let a gynecologist send you away without talking to you about fibroids.

Emerging Awareness

I first became aware that I had a problem with fibroids in the mid-2000s when I went for a Pap smear. A gynecologist I saw thought an ultrasound would get a better look at my ovaries and uterus. Unfortunately, the technicians who performed the ultrasound examined my uterus only.When I went in for my results, I saw a different gynecologist. He told me I would never have kids, and that taking birth control would make the fibroids worse. He could do nothing for me. I didn’t have another Pap smear for several years.This doctor should never have been working as a gynecologist.Women: Do not let a gynecologist send you away without talking to you about fibroids. If this happens, you should immediately get a second opinion from a different doctor.Weight also became a problem. Although I never was a heavy child, after my thirties, my body started to change. I began gaining weight as never before. Diet didn’t make much difference. At the gym, I switched from elliptical machines to the treadmill. This slightly reduced my waistline, but not my weight.Also, I was prone to yeast infections. At one point, my period was just about to begin, and an over-the-counter cream was not going to work. I didn’t want to wait another week, and I needed prescription medication to help clear up yeast infections.I had no health insurance, even with Obamacare. I’m an independent filmmaker with a variable income, and in most months, paradoxically, I make too little money to qualify.At this point, my former clinic was closed. So, I made an appointment in May 2016, at the new local clinic. There, I saw a midwife.

My Diagnosis

I told her, correctly, that I thought I had a yeast infection. During my Pap smear, she became alarmed. She was not able to do a proper test because I was swollen due to the infection. Also, my fibroids had stretched my uterus. She sent me across town to see a gynecologist at another clinic to get both an ultrasound and a Pap smear.Both were done. The ultrasound was a complete study and looked not just at my ovaries and uterus, but also my kidneys, to make sure the fibroids had not spread. I had three fibroids, one very large. When in for the Pap smear a few days later, the gynecologist asked about my period, which seems to be a common question concerning fibroids. Sometimes women bleed outside their regular period. I didn’t have this problem, but I did bleed heavily for a few days during my period. (This would be an issue when I started to look for medical trials to join.)I went back to my local clinic for the results. The Pap smear was clean—no cancer—but I now would require a hospital card to deal with my ever-growing fibroids.

Looking for Solutions

A series of disappointments ensued. Because of my income and insurance issues, I was sent away from my local hospital without a card. I had heard radio ads for a medical trial for a pill for fibroids, but it was a two-year, double-blind study. I could have been given a placebo instead of the medication and I didn’t have two years to wait. I checked with local health food stores about pills that might help, but the pills would cost too much because my fibroids were already too large.Without insurance, walking into a hospital fibroid center would cost too much out-of-pocket. I looked into grants to help pay for the surgery, although none would work for me. I did find a surgical trial, to which I made a few trips, but I did not qualify, in the end, because my fibroids were so large. I even called a local Planned Parenthood office for advice. The people there suggested what I was already doing.

We women need to talk with each other about our medical issues.

Access at Last

By January 2017, my doctors were discussing surgery. Options were to take everything out except my ovaries (a partial hysterectomy) or to try to save my uterus (a myomectomy). I chose the partial hysterectomy. I always wanted to have one child and adopt one, too, and I could still adopt a child later.D-day was Tuesday, May 16, 2017. The surgery itself and its aftermath created some complications. Instead of three fibroids in my uterus, the surgeon found six or seven. After post-op, my right leg was fine, but my left leg did not work at all. Someone from the physical therapy department brought me a walker and brace for my left leg and taught me how use them. The walker was very helpful.While I was convalescing, a friend of my father’s told him about a twice-a-week chair yoga class at Dharma Studio in Miami’s Coconut Grove neighborhood, sponsored by the Woody Foundation. These classes and home physical therapy helped me begin to walk again, first with the walker, and then with a cane. I did all this a lot sooner than my physical therapist thought I would.During this time, I learned that the world is not flat: I gained an appreciation for people who live their lives in a wheelchair or have a walking issue. My left knee might never be 100 percent, but eventually, I was able to get back in the gym to work out and do regular yoga five days a week, and carry equipment around on filming locations.In the months before my surgery, I spoke with a few female friends. Three of them had the same problem. I would never have known if I had not been talking about my own difficulty. We women need to talk with each other about our medical issues—early and more often.

Nefertiti

January 6, 2024

Religion

Why Do I Feel Guilty After Sex? My Christian Upbringing, That’s Why

In the church that I attended every week with my family while growing up, I got the impression that the most significant thing that a woman could do was to get married and start a family. Young couples would get engaged very quickly, and within a year or so they would be bringing a couple of little ones along to the Sunday service with them.These women were praised for their devotion to their husbands, and to God himself, as though by marrying and bearing children they were fulfilling God’s divine plan for their lives. And while there were some single mothers and unmarried couples with kids in our congregation, their status was ignored entirely or discussed with raised eyebrows and a sense of judgment that was clear to an inquisitive seven-year-old.Sex was presented to me as something that was designed to be shared exclusively between husband and wife, and it was inextricably connected to procreation—for women, at least. It is telling that polygamy is permitted for men in the Old Testament but is considered sinful for women. Moses, Joshua, David and Abraham all had more than one wife, and sleeping with an unmarried or unbetrothed woman did not count as adultery.It is noted in the Bible that Solomon, hailed as one of Israel’s most extraordinary kings, enjoyed countless extramarital sexual relationships with his many concubines. In biblical times, men could visit prostitutes without attracting social disapproval. Meanwhile, Israelite women were commanded to go to the marriage bed as virgins and remain faithful to their husbands throughout their lives or risk being stoned to death.

Having Sex as a Christian Is Different

The stories of sexual women that I encountered as a young girl were almost invariably tales featuring the stock character of the deceptive temptress. For example, Delilah is a sexually autonomous woman who works for the Philistines and seduces Sampson in order to ruin him, bringing him to spiritual and physical destruction. Jezebel—her very name now a synonym for “wicked woman”—is often considered one of the most irredeemable of all biblical characters, who leads her devoted husband astray and encourages him to worship false gods. Potiphar's wife lusts after Joseph and accuses him of attempted rape when he rejects her sexual advances, resulting in his imprisonment.These are the wicked women, the “bad girls of the Bible,” cautionary tales of the destructive potential of rampant female sexuality.On the other hand, the biblical women who were offered to me as role models were obedient, devout and chaste. Virtuous women in the Bible improve the lives of their husbands and are patient when it comes to their deviances and desires.Without realizing it, I grew up with the subconscious belief that chastity and purity are synonymous with female virtue. It paved the way for me to feel guilty after sex.

Without realizing it, I grew up with the subconscious belief that chastity and purity are synonymous with female virtue.

I Felt Guilty After Sex for a Long Time

For various reasons, I turned my back on religion at the age of 15. I naively convinced myself that I had become a new woman and that, now that I no longer had a faith, I would leave the more dogmatic and judgmental aspects of the Christian church far behind me. I grew up, actively educated myself about feminism, and gradually became more outspoken about women’s rights to enjoy sexual autonomy.However, dismissing ideas that had been such a formative portion of my growing up was not going to be as simple as I had hoped. I had my first sex with a boyfriend at the age of 18. During what should have been an exciting experience, it came back to me that the idea of sex before marriage is sinful and that a woman should be pure and modest.As soon as my clothes were off, I was filled with a sense of shame, despite my lack of belief in a God looking down on me. I couldn’t believe it. I was, and continue to be, very much in love with my partner, a fairly self-confident person, and a feminist who enjoys her body and firmly advocates women’s sexual freedom. Instead of making the most of being in bed with a wonderful person, I was hit by a toxic mix of leftover guilt from my church-going days, and annoyance at myself for possessing so many inner contradictions.These feelings didn’t disappear after my first time or the time after that. More than a year later, I found myself lying in bed in my partner’s arms, crying onto his chest because of all the mixed-up feelings going on in my head. I wanted to be sexy, to try new things, to be able to voice my wants and needs. I did not want to be merely the submissive woman who lies back, unable to be either open or proactive about her desire.

As soon as my clothes were off, I was filled with a sense of shame.

Sexual Christian Guilt Only Perpetuates Inequality

The damaging and archaic ideas about sex that had become ingrained during my childhood and early adolescence made me feel like a total fraud. When I talked with friends about feminism and the importance of women feeling empowered to openly discuss what they want from sex, I couldn’t help but think back to all of the times that I had been prevented from trying something in bed because of self-doubt and (I admit) a sense of disgust and shame.It is only now, in my adult life, that I am beginning to be able to process and dismiss these feelings in a healthy way. I am working through the warped ideas of female purity that have always been present at the back of my mind and am enjoying a fulfilling sex life not marred by notions of “chastity” and “sin.”A woman’s worth has nothing to do with her sexual history or having sex as a Christian. To be a “good woman” does not mean to be a virgin until marriage, or to solely embody purity and obedience. Outdated as they seem, I learned the hard way that many patriarchal ideas about female sexual desire have terrifying sticking power. The sooner that we free ourselves from these archaic models of judging both ourselves and others, the sooner we will be one step closer to achieving real equality in body and mind.

Cary Donen

January 6, 2024

Money

I Left My Cushy Corporate Gig to Become a Stand-Up Comedian

“Why am I trying to become what I don’t want to be…when all I want is out there, waiting for me the minute I say I know who I am.” – Arthur Miller, Death of a SalesmanFor 12 years I sucked on the corporate nipple: I bent over and compromised my integrity in the pursuit of money as a salesman. I flew around the world selling services—services that didn’t always work—to foreign governments, private institutional investment companies and large, publicly-traded companies. The only goal I set for myself in that time of my life was to make $100,000 a year by my 30th birthday and then increase my salary by $100,000 every five years after that.I hit those goals and the only thing that changed in my life was that I spent more—mainly on booze and food. As I spent more, I wanted to earn more. As I earned more, I got fatter, cockier and overwhelmingly unfulfilled. At age 34, I was going to leave it all to pursue my dream of being a stand-up comedian, but received an offer I thought was too good to pass up.I could move to Chicago, work remotely, travel when I needed to, maintain my big boy salary and pursue comedy. The problem was I did everything but pursue comedy. I grew a pair of boobs (I am a man), two chins and would spend an average of $500 a weekend on drinking—mostly buying strangers drinks with the hope that they would like me.

Extreme depression set in.

The "Perfect" Corporate Life Took a Turn

The night before New Year’s Eve, I went out on a date with a girl I met on an app. We drank two bottles of wine at dinner, got after-dinner drinks and then she went home without me. I struggle with an all-or-nothing mentality in life so, instead of going home myself, I decided I would go out and find love the old-fashioned way: by myself, late at night in the bars of Chicago while borderline blacked out.I woke up at 2 p.m. the next day naked in my bed with my bicycle helmet on and a whip in my hand. (I am into the kink.) I couldn’t find my cell phone or my grandfather’s Rolex which had been passed along to me. My wallet was on the counter and my credit cards were gone, but my ID was still there. That struck me as strange because normally a blackout entails the ID being gone with the credit cards—because you left both at the bar with your tab open. I was supposed to have lunch at noon with a friend that day and upon realizing I had missed it I loudly screamed, “Oh fuck!”I found my iPad, which had 20 messages from my friend wondering where I was, as well as a few emails. I FaceTimed him and said, “Sorry man, I have no clue what happened and I can’t find my watch or phone.” “Did you have anyone over last night?” he asked me. Immediately I remembered I brought two women home with me thinking we were going to have a threesome, and then the pieces came together that they robbed me.The following week I got very ill; extreme depression set in. I was so embarrassed by what I allowed to happen by getting so recklessly wasted. I didn’t leave my home for five days. I would take nighttime cold medicine to sleep and would lay in bed or on the couch for hours staring at the ceiling and not wanting to face the world. One evening I couldn’t sleep, so I opened a box of sleeping pills and as I was taking two of them, I thought, “I could just take this whole box and this will all be over.”I stared at the box for I don’t know how long and, thankfully, something inside of me told me not to do it.Two days later I was supposed to perform at the iO Theater as a part of the improv class I had been taking. I didn’t want to do it. A few hours before the show, my friend sent me a text telling me that he and several other friends were going to come watch the show. Now I had to perform.

Being a comedian is hard.

Becoming a Comedian Saved My Life

I got on stage and something funny happened.I had one of the best performances of my life. The laughter of the audience energized me and gave me purpose. After the show, several strangers approached me to tell me how funny they thought I was. It was one of the greatest feelings I have ever felt. The laughter saved me. I was reminded of why I moved to Chicago and what I was meant to do: make people laugh.After that evening I began to plan how I would leave the corporate job and go all-in on the dream of making people laugh as a stand-up comedian. Eight months later I was a free man.Being a comedian is hard. As it turns out, just being funny isn’t enough. I didn’t know how much work and mental strength is required to make the dream of being a comedian a reality.Being a comedian costs me money and requires more work than I have ever done. When I told people in the corporate world that I was going to leave my job to pursue my dream, almost everyone said, “Yes! You have to go for your dreams!” When I told veteran comedians I left a successful career to pursue my dream of comedy, they all said, “You should not have done that, man.”

The money will run out.

Comedy Isn't Exactly Lucrative

I hit my one-year mark of being a “full-time” comedian a few months back. My first year’s salary was $206. I worked out the math of all the time spent writing, waiting to perform, transportation to open mics and venues: my hourly pay is 59 cents. And, yet, I have been happier than I have ever been.I used to fly business class around the world and schmooze with strangers over steak dinners with Scotch and wine; now I spend most of my time at open mics. An open mic is usually at a crap bar, in a back room and out of sight of the few patrons there. Most open mics are allowed to exist because it is the slowest night of the week and the bar might make a few extra bucks having a few comedians buy some PBRs. They are where dreams of comedy are waterboarded, where you can watch someone tailspin into depression or fits of anger—or both—in less than 120 seconds.Stand-up comedy doesn’t exist without open mics. They are where you start to practice your material. If you want to be one of the first people to perform, you need to show up an hour before it starts. Shortly before the start, the host—a comic responsible for running the night by introducing people and keeping things in order—will put out a piece of paper and yell, “List is out. Sign up in the order you came!” If someone tries to jump the order in which they came, comics will angrily mutter about it until one has the courage to say something—which sometimes doesn’t happen.The list will always have spots reserved for other hosts around the city because favored spots are currency. There are a few spots reserved for friends of the host or “established” comics who have asked for a favor to practice. If you are late to the sign-up, you will have to have to wait a long time for your turn and listen to a lot of garbage you have already heard five times in the previous two weeks because most comics repeat their material at every open mic to engrave it into the muscle they like to call a brain.When your name is called, you get three to five minutes on the microphone to say what you came to say. Some people use this opportunity to practice their material, some use it for therapeutic venting and others use it to blab. The host will flash their cell phone light at you when you have one minute left. Sometimes a performance will be so bad, comics will say, “Oh thank Christ: the light.” Have you ever loved doing something so much you are grateful for it to be over after three minutes when it doesn’t go how you want it to?Focusing on myself and developing my own skills as a comedian and establishing a good name in the scene are priorities. As with anything, the work is paying off in the form of progress, self-development and being asked to be on shows in front of live audiences. The more work I put into doing what I love, the more I am asked to do it.I am fortunate in that I didn’t blow all my money on booze and strangers: I did save and invest along the way, which has now allowed me to do what I love. The money will run out but I’m not worried about it. I know what I was able to achieve doing something I didn’t want to do, and now I am doing something I love. I was able to give up the belief that I have to have everything that goes along with the American Dream. I’ve replaced it with the belief that if I do what I love, the money will follow. Being a comedian is hard work that pays me in happiness, which is worth more than any amount of money.

Richard Murphy

January 6, 2024

Woman Living with Bipolar

Finding My Sanity Through the Mist: A Zen Koan

I saw in the mist formedAround meThe fatal chrysanthemum, myself.Rose, squaringMy shoulders, the earth collapsed.– Shinkichi Takahashi

The Mist Formed Around Me

In October of my 22nd year, I woke up in a mental hospital. I had been in McLean Hospital for two days and two nights. But it was on the third morning that I opened my eyes and had the full realization: I am in a mental hospital. I was gazing out of a barred window in my tiny bedroom that I shared with a stranger whose face I hadn’t yet clocked, so wrapped in my own mist was I. In the 72 hours preceding that moment I’d held tight to two theories:To understand clarity, you have to understand the mist. But the mist is not a straight line: It’s a spiderweb of fog—intricate, dense, its voice an inarticulate knot of radio static. My mist began that past January, clotted in May, thickened to cotton in August, and covered my mind completely by October. What started with an anxiety-ridden return trip to my country of birth—and with it, to memories of a war-seared childhood—was followed by a major and difficult break-up. Its swallowed grief festered, followed by a rejection from a friend I’d fallen deeply in love with, then escalated into rapid weight loss, isolation, strange delusions, and hallucinations—blossoming finally into pronounced psychosis. Who can say which thread in the web was madness’ starting point? A mist doesn’t work that way. It’s a million droplets suspended in the air, clouding the landscape. To the mad, the mist is not a mist. It is vision itself. To understand clarity, you have to understand the mist.

I’m not insane. I can’t be insane.

The Fatal Chrysanthemum, Myself

These are both attempts to bargain with a disappearing brain. The mist had so fully drenched the landscape, I couldn’t see another option. Certainly, not the fact that I was rightfully in a mental hospital. That would mean I was insane. And yet, I was stripped down to a hospital gown, standing behind a hospital window. Just like that, I experienced the cutting clarity of cracking a koan’s code. Here it was: the truth. Stark and unadorned. Not a rationalization, just the facts: I am in a mental hospital. I could see the lawn, out there, outside the mental hospital, which I was in. There were birds floating on the air, out there. I was, certainly, in here. Perhaps we have one, maybe two moments like this in our lives—where a beam of light splits the vapor. My mind was open, just enough, like a pistachio; so sanity could jut its nail in and do the rest. In that gap, new questions entered: How did I get here? What were these last two, three, four months of sleepness and terror and God? Yes, a Godfullness that filled my bones to recall. A Godfullness I’d seen in everything: faces, apples, laundromats, shits, the sky. That feeling couldn’t be fake. Like a gauntlet, the mist fell full throttle, covering the clarity with definitives, rationalizations, chatter: I’m not insane. I can’t be insane. I can figure out what happened. I’ll figure it out. I’m not insane. I’m not insane.The fatal chrysanthemum, myself.

I would be dead—and soon.

As I Rose, Squaring My Shoulders, The Earth Collapsed

I wish I could tell you a single beam of light, an unadorned and knifing truth, rearranged me toward sanity. It doesn’t work that way. The mist falls again, cloaks the trees, makes you believe the hills are wearing diamonds. It would take a decade, four more bipolar emergencies of searing psychosis, hallucinations, depressions and delusions that would nearly wipe me off the face of the map, before a beam cut through definitively. After that fourth emergency in 2015, a rock bottom, I knew that if I didn’t evaluate my choices to not take medicine and forgo psychiatric help, I would be dead—and soon. A vow coalesced inside me. Of course, these are just two interpretations. The truth is the only real option.

January 6, 2024

The Irrationality of Alcoholics Anonymous: Get Rid of God

She’s short, I’m tall, and, as some short people do when they talk to tall people, she got toe-to-toe when she shouted at me: “Do you have a Higher Power? You need a Higher Power. Who’s your Higher Power?”“Well,” I said, “Looks like she’s talking to me right now.”From the hundreds of meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous that I have attended during the past ten years, I get much: support, mostly—for which I am deeply grateful—a few scares, hidden wells of insight.But also, I get religion. A lot of religion.I get religion there that I ought not be presented with, according to the organization’s own lights. And I get religion that’s smuggled in despite claims otherwise. AA asserts, over and again, that it “is not a religious society.” But over and again, I’ve also encountered the religion that is AA.

I get religion. A lot of religion.

Is AA Religious?

For “a program based on honesty,” so the AA saying goes, Alcoholics Anonymous—especially United States AA—is profoundly dishonest (the word would be “hypocritical”) about religion.It purports to be “not allied with any sect [or] denomination” (from the Preamble, read before most AA meetings), except that by my reckoning, of those hundreds of meetings that I’ve gone to, at least 60 percent send their participants off with a Christian prayer.“Who keeps us sober?” asks the person closing out the meeting, while we all stand and hold hands in a wide circle. “Our Father…”That is bald.Nonetheless, when people speak, at meetings, about how, say, “Jesus saved” them, not only in their souls, but also from their addiction, or when people interpret something good that happens in their life or work as clearly “God’s doing,” that’s okay by me, an atheist.That the AA Big Book (“Alcoholics Anonymous,” the program’s seminal text) is suffused with the idea and name of “God” is tolerable, to me and many other non-believers, if we are generous, both as historians and as readers or listeners.Wisdom and strength long have arrived via strange but unravelable words, should one cock an ear and be open and willing. That is a human commonplace.And so what?—others believe how and what they believe about life and living. That that is not, by and large, how or what I believe is not the point.However, when I am told how and what to believe—“or else”—the short person gets into trouble with the tall person.And I am told, unremittingly, by many in AA—and, more important, by the very structure of AA, unreflectively proffered—that I must believe not only in God but in a certain sort of God: positioned (“higher”); singular and my sole aid (I am powerless; God is not); and existent (despite my own credence to the contrary).Sure, AA long has pointed out that, even at the beginning of its service some 80 years ago, the phrase “as we understand Him” was added, with alacrity, to the Third of its 12 Steps (“Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God”).Sure, one of the AA founders, Bill Wilson, welcomed with open arms “atheists and agnostics” among the membership, admonishing, “Let us not, therefore, pressure anyone with our individual or even our collective views.”But know, too, that even a cursory examination of the amendment “as we understand Him” sees the front-loading of religion (and else) in each of its four words.And know, too, that many in AA, individually and collectively, not only pressure, but maneuver to exclude, others in AA who do not toe the same line of religious belief.Once, after a meeting, a man tapped forcibly on my sternum and told me: “If you don’t get God, you won’t get sober.” At least he wasn’t short (of stature).

Modern AA has made itself into a religion, but a fake religion.

The History of Alcoholics Anonymous and God

In truth, modern AA, especially modern American AA, has made itself into a religion, but a fake religion, of the same ilk that lopsided adherence to the Second Amendment of the U.S. Constitution has become a religion, or, facilely put, the way that NFL football is an American religion.Some people (amen, South Park) dismiss AA a “cult,” or say it is “quasi-religious.” It’s difficult to parse away those tags when, indeed, AA texts are treated as sacred and immutable (above all The Big Book, especially pages 1-164, a canon of sorts); saints have been beatified (the way some revere Bill Wilson); and rituals abound (meetings themselves, not to say recurrent, even required, praying such as The Third Step Prayer, The Serenity Prayer, or, um, The Lord’s Prayer).Moreover, skepticism—agnosticism, certainly atheism—is disallowed. A fundamentalist “the Word is all” takes hold and is literalist, from which true believers cannot, must not, waver.Or else.Our world is suffused with another sort of fake religion, by which people contend that their (traditional, Diety-centric) religion instructs them in what to do, when what’s really going on is something completely non-religious, even irreligious.For example, passages in the books holy to Jews, Muslims, and Christians commonly are marshaled to bolster arguments by the same peoples, on what they claim are religious grounds but on what are actually forejudged civil, political, social, even economic grounds that already (conveniently, prejudicially) support those arguments.Too many “religious” reasons are pulled-off masks about real estate, or power, or subjugation, or cash and prizes, or political maneuvering, or control—or a host of other clearly secular reasons—than reflections of anything remotely resembling or referencing the spiritual. Or, God forbid, God.For so long, we’ve been told that something is religious—when it just isn’t—that we miss what then occurs: that the secular manufactures or co-opts religion (or a religion) to its benefit.And in a manner, that’s what I believe AA has done. It purports to be not-a-religion but in fact has become one. It even craftily uses the trappings of religion to support the masquerade.

Cool it on the religion.

A Higher Power Can Be More Than a Deity

Listen up: None of that is necessary, none of it. What’s real in AA (and even in its Big Book) is behind the God talk, even despite it.The “God word” may be splashed all over the pages of The Big Book, but you don’t really need God in order to recover. Really.For instance, you don’t need, as a well-worn mantra in AA has it, to “Let go and let God.”You just need to let go.I’ve always found it curious that The Big Book itself uses the term “Higher Power” much less frequently (as I count it, only twice in the canonical 164 pages) than the way AAers commonly do. The Big Book mostly writes “power greater than” you, or us, or anyone.Why the historical move to choose to use “Higher” over “greater than”?Thinking persons can see that the entirety of everything outside of themselves is truly a “power greater than” themselves. Why not use some of it when you need it (that is, when you recognize, as the early of the 12 Steps have it, that, yes, you are powerless indeed to manage your life, or your drinking, solely by yourself)?More power to you, one might say; it’s out there, accept it, take it for what it’s worth, and run with it. (For my part, I find succor in the idea of “Other Power”; I’m not hung up on using any Geography of Power in pursuit of fake religion. I just use what helps that I find outside of me. Some days, it’s Leonard Cohen.)It might be a good idea, if AA in the U.S.A. is interested in honestly attracting membership to its meetings that it heeds what the Pew Research Center calls “the religious landscape” of this country.Its most current findings, of October 2019, show that not only are mainline Protestantism and Roman Catholicism experiencing significant losses (since 2009) in their respective populations, but also atheists and agnostics are up in numbers as well.More significantly, the religiously unaffiliated population, what Pew calls religious “nones”—who describe their religion as “nothing in particular”—have swollen in number, from 12 percent of the U.S. population in 2009 to 17 percent in 2019.If you want to beckon in the faithful, AA, cool it on the religion.

Lupton

January 6, 2024

Life After Liver Transplant Surgery and the Great Unknown

Like most people, I suspect, when I see an unknown phone number pop up on my phone, I ignore it and carry on with my day. For the last two years, those unknown phone numbers were a source of extreme and instantaneous anxiety and, in some cases, dread. I remember vividly the markings on the asphalt that I was looking at (right down the street) when I had to call my parents and a couple of my close friends and tell them that I just got a call from one of those “unknown numbers.” It was my doctor, informing me that I needed to be admitted immediately and begin an aggressive treatment plan for a cirrhotic liver.At the time, after a battery of tests, the medical team finally realized the extent to which my liver was failing and with brute, mathematical honesty they told me that I had six to 12 months to live if I did not receive a transplant. They would put me on an aggressive program of medications, but there were no guarantees. It was pretty numbing, really: I was immediately a little terrified, definitely very depressed, but mostly in a state of shock. Honestly, I didn’t want to die, and I wept.

I didn’t want to die, and I wept.

Accepting That I Needed Cirrhosis Liver Transplant Surgery

It took me a couple of days to drag myself out of a desensitized state whereupon I decided that I was going to do everything in my capacity to try to beat the odds. The initial drastic changes—no more alcohol, strict reduction of fluid intake, over ten different daily medications three times a day, and so on—seemed manageable to me, if not a little confusing. One the one hand, I suspected it would be easy to stop drinking because I knew that those six to eight drinks a night were taking me down a very unhealthy road.But I also was terrified to admit to loved ones that this was the probable cause of my accelerating liver failure. (I learned later from the doctors that, most likely, my liver was damaged from the start, but the alcohol consumption didn’t help.) Nonetheless, I knew I still had nicotine as a crutch, if necessary, and the thoughts of possibly surviving—despite the doctor’s life expectancy projections—were enough for me to be open to the possibility that things could, one day, go back to the way they used to be.I’ll save the dramatic ending: They didn’t and, my guess is, they won’t ever.

The initial phases of the whole treatment process involved a lot of uncomfortable, humbling, embarrassing and lonely moments.

The First Step Toward Recovery: Get on the Waiting List

The initial phases of the whole treatment process involved a lot of uncomfortable, humbling, embarrassing and lonely moments. The most pressing goal was to get onto the donor list. I was very naive and thought that people would just be automatically placed on this list once the doctors determined a transplant was the best option. Not the case. First, I had to, you know, remain alive. Assuming I achieved that, I had to demonstrate some sort of progress in order to get onto the list in the first place. By progress I mean, I had to physically pass benchmarks that my body was healthy enough to endure a major surgery—e.g., manageable stress levels, good cholesterol, blood pressure and so forth.I also had to demonstrate that I had the potential to live a healthy life after transplant (read: you’re not going to go mess it up by drinking, doing drugs, etcetera). After a series of interviews, appointments, tests, sessions and the lot, my doctors thought that my odds were good enough that I should be provisionally considered for the national donor list. In other words, I graduated to the “might not mess it up” group.However, to prove that I could accomplish this, I had to go to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings consistently for a year. This was probably the most humbling, but also eye-opening, experience in the whole ordeal. The people I met in these meetings were good, caring, loyal people, if not occasionally haunted by demons. Some went to meetings, like me, once a week, and some went two to three times a day—the meetings were a sort of lifeline.I don’t go to those meetings anymore, but I learned a few things from them. I gained a deeper understanding of the struggles people go through. In people’s weekly remarks, I became acutely aware that, in many cases, these people were “thrown” into their life circumstances. My initial thoughts were that I was literally meeting with the type of people existentialist philosophers speak about when they talk about the absurdity of life and of the anxieties and insecurities inherent to our existence. Of course, many of the people I befriended made some stupid decisions, but, from my experience, they were really trying to move forward. As I am writing this, I cannot begin to imagine the difficulty these “friends” are having while dealing with the COVID-19 shelter-in-place edicts.

I think the first words were, “Hi, Mr. Doe, congratulations, you have a new liver.”

Getting an Organ Is Plagued With Unexpected Problems

After a time, I was eventually placed on the national registry. Now, somewhat ironically, those unidentified phone calls started appearing again. Yet, this time, one of those calls might’ve indicated that I had a chance to live. The anxieties returned, but this time for a slightly different reason. I would now officially be in a situation where I may have to make a split-second final decision to have the operation. Despite my fortunate circumstances, this is still a procedure that carries risks that aren’t ideal: It’s why patients have up until the last second to decline the procedure.Nonetheless, in the months following my notification that I was on the national donor list, I received three opportunities to receive a transplant. From my understanding, this was rare in the relatively short ten-month period I had been on the list—some people are on it for years. The first call came at about 5 p.m. one night. I rushed to the hospital to learn that the organ was being transferred and that the operation would occur at 11:50 p.m. Those were some long hours. Everything was in place, but I had to dwell on the possibility of never waking up again. At around 11:55 p.m., the nurse came in and simply said, “I’m sorry. The surgeon just didn’t like the final looks of things and doesn’t want to transplant.” I had heard that this was a possibility.The second opportunity came months later. It was around 3:30 a.m. This time, I didn’t receive the call because I didn’t hear the phone ring. It was the one night in my months of waiting that I had forgotten to take it off vibrate mode before going to sleep. I woke up to about ten missed calls. In those messages, I was informed that I was the first alternative for a transplant, but if I didn’t return the call very soon, I would be bumped off the list. I don’t have the words to describe what that felt like: “Stupid” and “careless” don’t begin to encapsulate the experience. “I just missed my one chance at living a full life,” I kept thinking to myself. When I got through I found out that my window had passed.

Not All Liver Transplant Recovery Stories Have a Happy Ending: Mine Does

The last call I received was five months ago. Despite having a good idea of what to expect, it was still surreal. There is not much to the story really: I received a call and was told that they had a liver. I immediately felt a rush of emotions, but somewhat calmly told the nurse that I would quickly pack a bag and drive to the hospital. She promptly, steadily told me to stop everything I was doing, not pack a bag and immediately walk out of the house with my keys, wallet and phone and come directly to the emergency room. I would be met in the lobby by one of the doctors who would, in turn, take me directly to pre-operations.So, I drove to the hospital, met a nurse who escorted me directly to a hospital bed and, as a team of other nurses took blood and put me in a gown, I signed the release form that relinquished the hospital of any responsibility should I not survive the surgery. A doctor had the anesthesia mask above my head to put me under. That was that, and the next thing, I vaguely remember a strange feeling like the in-between state of trying to wake from an uncomfortable dream. I think the first words were, “Hi, Mr. Doe, congratulations, you have a new liver.”The story sort of ends here for now. Recovery has been difficult and was quite painful at first. I’ve tried to learn the virtues of patience and endurance. Most importantly, I still think about the unknowns: Now they don’t come in the form of an unknown phone number, news about irregular blood tests or the fact that I might have to rush to the hospital. Now, it’s a strange, inexplicable feeling of the unknown person who died and gave me a second chance at life.

Campo

January 6, 2024

Do Psychedelic Drugs, Free Your Mind

Mental health can be hard to describe, but I find a metaphor for drinking alcohol to be at least digestible. Most adults have a base scale for being drunk and sober. It’s harder to describe love, anger, health, anxiety and coitus. But there are times I have had all those feelings (and experiences) drunken or sober, at high or low points, vigorously or weakly. The truth is the mind is something we all share in common but can’t share with each other. Moods and ideas and even health are felt but not articulated. They consume the human experience at any given time and, sometimes, we can feel shame and guilt for sharing it with others.I believe that everyone should do drugs, but most people either do too many drugs or not enough.Some fiend whippets and others Candy Crush. Our brains are wired to be wired. They feverishly want to pulse synapses to the farthest reaches. They are really, really good at making neuro pathways. So when we are depressed, our brain tries it’s hardest to be depressed. It will strengthen those pathways again and again till we are actually addicted to being depressed. The same can be said for love, hate, anxiety, joy and even stillness (props to all my monks out there).

LSD: Now that is a drug I can get behind!

Why Hallucinogenic Drugs Are Different

The brain is the most mighty of all human muscles and should be respected like one. And I believe drugs should be a part of that homage. People have been ingesting plants for spiritual pursuits from the dawn of man. And our curiosity was met with wonder beyond our wildest dreams: true wonder that is scary and mean and closer to the veil that sits between us and everything.Hallucinogenics are the mind's tools to stretch the higher conscience. But it flies like Icarus. Those ideas and dreams that seemed so vivid at the time turn to faint memories quickly when you come back down. I smoke cigarettes and chew on gumballs every time I trip mushrooms, but don’t enjoy them the same way the next day. It always has an Odysessian experience to it. As for alcohol, I wait each day for it to hit my lips and to lift the monkey off my back long enough to wake up again the next day. That’s just addiction.LSD: Now that is a drug I can get behind! It’s easier to dose out and gives a user a chance to transport out of this reality, to see new colors, to feel new sensations, to enter the realm of the ancestors. It hurts most people to see the truth behind the cosmos. Most people drink alcohol just to deal with the part of the conscience they can perceive.

I believe that everyone should do drugs, but most people either do too many drugs or not enough.

Natural Psychedelics Are Part of Our Global Culture

In my travels, I have taken lots of drugs. Ayahuasca in the Amazon, khat in the Maasai Mara, opium in the lost mountains of Laos. I believe travel is a chance to see the world through the eyes of the native people. And that includes dipping into the local stash. But through all these travels, I find myself thinking about others: about what they feel and think. A bad trip could be a necessary experience: Every time drugs scare me, it’s really me scaring me. I am allowing my mind to travel to the deepest of caverns and holiest of mountain tops, and sometimes I am not ready for the exposure that comes with the ride.Prozac, OxyContin and lithium don’t send you to those places: They keep you numbed from the brain’s potential. I have a dear friend who is bipolar. He doesn’t take drugs to get high, and I know he loves the journey his own brain conjures up for him. Three days barefoot on the streets of L.A. feels like walking through the Garden of Eden—but when the paramedics have to restrain him as they deal with swollen toes and bloody lips, they have a deep desire to send him crashing back down into the world in which we all supposedly live. I take psychedelics to reach a sliver of that experience, and hope I won’t need medical attention along the way too.I also have a friend who has taken Zoloft for over a decade, and when he is swimming under his anxiety, the spark he normally shares with everyone is drowned. That numbness comes at a cost. But I can tell you one thing: It’s not their fault that they are pushed into these realms without a proper guide. Ancient cultures around the world used shamans to heal mental health among the community. A person who has spent a lifetime feeling all the feels, and taking all the drugs, to know who needs what. To bring the low, high, the lost to be found, the forsaken, to be blessed. But all of our villages are burned down in the modern world. We no longer hear the stories from the elders telling us which plants to imbibe, stay away from the brown acid, or how to control the desire to start drinking before breakfast.For example, I went to Peru for my uncle’s wedding. Before the nuptials, my brother and I asked around for how we might go about doing some ayahuasca. Eventually, at this super heady store, we got the nod. The shaman picked us up in his car and drove us into the mountains to his round hut. We drank the tea, I puked and the shaman gave us toilet paper, telling us, “You might shit yourself.” He played the drums for a while and then I entered the stratosphere. It was a crazy trip, a white-coated doctor laboratory thing. It lasted four hours and when I snapped out of it, the shaman was there. He had been there the whole time.Instead, here in the States, we fixate on the lives of the others—others who live thousands of miles away—all being curated by capitalistic appetites. We believe Cristal champagne is the poshest drunk, fentanyl with Sprite makes us more like Justin Beiber, and drugs are just a commodity to be sold, abused and rapped about on Spotify.

In my travels, I have taken lots of drugs.

Tripping Is an Experience with More Pros Than Cons

There are several types of peyote native to my home state of Colorado, but I have never tried any of them once. Instead, I fly to faraway places to experience a culture that is preserved—yet it can be pushed on tourists with the same gusto of influencers on Instagram.We have an obligation to the human experience to alter our state of mind.It can be long runs, isolation chambers or a good, old fashioned drunk with friends; I don’t search for what is comfortable or easy to repeat. I believe we need disruptive experiences to help us control our minds. After a good concert on molly, I always tend to sit in bed depressed, thinking about my life. It is truly cathartic for me. I need to travel to the top and bottom before I can see the horizon. And I need to remember that all humans are on a similar but authentically different journey.Take time to remember bad thoughts, the depressed feelings, the grief of our ancestors: We need to harness the feelings of power, ego and delight to bind our souls back to the body. Next time you take a drug, think about your mental health before and after. If it is leaving you in the same place afterward, you are doing it wrong.

ConcreteBushDoc

January 6, 2024

When My Father Died, I Turned to YouTube for Online Grief Support

I always held the notion that grief contained five distinct stages: Emotions of denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance every human inevitably faces in their lifetime. Admittedly, I often thought of the five stages of grief more as a psychological platitude introduced to college freshmen during the first weeks of Psych 101 than a tried-and-true human experience. But three years ago, I encountered the realities of the alleged Kubler-Ross model of grief after the sudden, unexpected death of my dad. And while the stages didn’t occur in a linear sequence by any means, I experienced varying shades of each emotion, all at intermittent times, and each in different, but very real ways.The flashes of shock and denial about losing my dad at an age when he wasn’t supposed to die. The brief, but potent anger and frustration of not being able to say goodbye, telling him everything he meant to me like I always imagined I would when that day came. The depression and detachment that washed over me for weeks, and sometimes months on end—which would inevitably fade away only to reemerge when I least expected it. The constant emotional and philosophical search to find meaning in it all. And, of course, the acceptance that eventually resolved everything, even leading to a feeling of gratitude. Not surprisingly, it was the so-called bargaining stage—the period when we reach out for some kind of emotional support—where I did the most healing.

But the place I discovered it most was somewhere I never expected it: the comments section of YouTube.

Coping With the Death of a Father Is Never Easy

I found the comfort of bargaining in a lot of places: A cozy attic office with a compassionate therapist in an old Victorian house-turned-office on the west side of town. Through conversations with my wife, my family, my friends and acquaintances who reached out.But the place I discovered it most was somewhere I never expected it: the comments section of YouTube.It was the soft spot of the internet that supplied me with the venue I needed to help heal my grieving mind. I discovered this tender underbelly in the comments section of YouTube’s seemingly endless supply of on-demand music—the fastest way to track down a particular song for those of us without premium streaming subscriptions. Specifically, I found it in songs that reminded me most of my dad.I think I can trace this music-to-memory phenomenon back to a couple of my most notable and unexpected moments of grief. The first happened late one night in a grocery store when a relatively obscure ‘90s one-hit-wonder quietly emitted from the store’s PA system. That song flooded my mind with a memory of my father that forced me to confront his death in such an honest, visceral way. I felt panicked and paralyzed at that moment, overcome with a sadness that’s impossible to describe, but easily recognizable for anyone who has lost someone close.Then, it happened again. A few months later I was driving and my AI-generated Spotify playlist threw out a song that shot me like an arrow through the heart. That song instantly made a decade’s old memory of a moment between me and dad feel new and fresh and just formed. I pulled over to let that song swallow me whole that afternoon, reliving a memory and getting lost in emotion throughout the six minutes that remained. It’s also the first time I truly cried since the day he died. Looking back, I can say that I needed those tears. I needed that grocery store breakdown. I needed to revisit those memories with my dad to push me out of my depressive rut. I needed those songs to show me a better way to grieve him.

I needed those songs to show me a better way to grieve him.

Music Provided an Outlet for Reflecting on My Bereavement

It’s no surprise that music was the thread that tied together these moments of grief for me. Ever since I was a kid, my dad and I bonded over music more than anything else in the world. I think he’s the only person who could connect with music the way I could. But it wasn’t until I discovered the YouTube comments when I realized I could translate those connections into moments of healing. And late one sleepless night, I decided to revisit one of those songs in a place where I could tell my story and do my bargaining. I typed the name of the band whose short-lived radio hit floored me in a grocery store some six months earlier. I let the song play and wrote from my heart about what it meant to me. I tried to capture all the memories and all the feelings it reawakened in my mind.It was like standing up in a group therapy session after months of saying silent and finally letting my story spill out of me. It felt cathartic and cleansing, letting me be in totality with my most honest emotions: To relive a memory, but also to share what that memory means with anyone who might listen and understand. To be vulnerable and brave all at once. To try to make sense of it all, even just a little, even for just a moment. In a lot of ways, it felt like a drug. I craved something intoxicating I couldn’t drink or inhale. Those never helped me heal. I found that drug when I wrote those words that night and hit send.

There’s No Right or Wrong When It Comes to How to Deal With Grief

Over the course of the next couple of months, I wrote several more of these comments. Some with my real name, others behind an alias of a forgotten Google account whose password I was somehow able to recall. I wrote about more memories with him. I wrote about the things he taught me about music and about life. I wrote about the things I wish I could have told him before he passed. I wrote to keep him alive in my mind for what felt like one final visit, giving me an outlet for the frustration I felt about not being able to say goodbye. The more I wrote, the more I realized I was not alone in using this side of the internet to bargain and find some kind of meaning in pain and loss. I was joining a chorus of anonymous grievers sharing their stories and memories of what a song means to them.How the one-hit-wonder—that brings back fond memories of a summer vacation for me—reminds a father of saying goodbye to his son before he was deployed to Iraq and killed in action a year later. How a Pearl Jam song I introduced to my dad, on a night where we both couldn’t sleep, stirs up emotions for a daughter navigating the throes of her mother’s dementia. How an indie rock album that let me revive the memory of an evening I spoke with my dad for hours on end reminds someone of their struggles with depression. All of these people taking an opportunity to stand up, share and find some kind of relief in their pain, to uncover meaning in their memory.A lot of the comments I wrote are gone forever, lost due to copyright infringements of unauthorized uploads. But there are a few that still remain. While I was writing this article, I checked back in to read a couple of them and they had resonated with many people—a big surprise. One person, in particular, had a profound observation about one of my comments:Thank you for sharing. If art is how space is decorated, then music is how we decorate time. Each song is a time machine that takes us back to moments in our pasts.

All of these people taking an opportunity to stand up, share and find some kind of relief in their pain, to uncover meaning in their memory.

Music Helps Me Celebrate My Father’s Memory

It’s no secret that music has a powerful connection to personal memories. Study after study has confirmed that our brains are hardwired to link certain songs with certain long-term memories. It was taking that next step and writing about what those memories meant for me that made that connection something tangible and therapeutic for me. Something recorded and captured, like a photograph on a wall decorating a space. Words stitching together the past and the present, helping a wound heal while leaving the scar of a story behind.In a lot of ways, these comments are my means of memorializing my dad. Eulogies etched in the record of the time capsule that is the internet. Perhaps a lozenge of support to someone who stumbles upon it, but mostly as a keepsake for myself: a complement to the photos of my dad that rest on the shelves and walls in my home. My way of decorating time with memories of him. Looking back, I realize I needed those songs and memories to fully grieve him, to let him, and the depression go. Now when I listen to those songs again or read the comments I wrote, I feel gratitude. I’m grateful I had those songs in various stages of my life, from youth to adulthood, capturing a timeline of meaningful flashbacks with my dad. I’m grateful I had someone to share that music with and a place to share my stories. I’m grateful I’m at peace now and I feel fortunate to have a soundtrack—with a couple of liner notes—for my memories of him.

Kid A

January 6, 2024

I Smoke Weed Every Day for Pain Relief and I’ve Never Been More Productive

Here’s the thing I should feel bad about but I don’t: I smoke weed all day for pain management. And it works. I am the counter-example to the stereotype of the stoner who wakes and bakes and spends the rest of the day either in a near-catatonic state, watching TV or picking leaves off a plant; or pleasantly buzzed and listening to jam bands and playing video games; or eating Doritos and giggling maniacally at nothing. None of these lifestyles describe me at all. On the contrary, since I started smoking (I use that to stand in for all using, as sometimes I take THC oil or capsules) I’ve been tremendously productive: probably the most productive I’ve been in my life. This revelation follows four years of one acute, treatment-resistant migraine after another—headaches that made me sob and gave me panic attacks. The pain drove me into the arms of an excellent psychopharmacologist and a CBT therapist to try to quell my anxiety and depression and give me tools to work through the pain. This is a good time to mention that working through the pain is bullshit.You work despite of the pain, or you work alongside the pain, or you work just so the pain isn’t winning all of the time. You work to try and assert yourself over the pain’s monstrous appetites, to prove that you are better than the pain. But then days pass when the idea of work is as impossible as a unicorn parade, and if enough of those days come in a row, you stop thinking about how you can vanquish the pain. You just wonder if you will live through it.As Joan Didion wrote in her classic essay on migraines, “In Bed,” “That no one dies of migraine seems, to someone deep into an attack, an ambiguous blessing.”

I smoke weed all day for pain management. And it works.

My Family Moved So I Have Access to Cannabis for Chronic Pain

This essay is a dual confession, or an explanation followed by a confession. It’s not the way it’s usually done, I know: Most people would rather confess and then explain. But my confession is not because I feel guilty, even though I have habitually broken the law. I found a solution to a problem that had taken over and nearly ruined by life, and that solution happened to be illegal where I lived. So we—me, my husband and our dog—picked up stakes and left a city we’d lived in (apart and together) for over 20 years to live in a place where I could have my solution and no fear of legal repercussions.So much for the confession. Now the explanation: I was in chronic pain for years. That succinct, matter-of-fact sentence is woefully out of proportion with the experience of being in chronic pain, which makes life like an incomprehensible run-on sentence with a million dependent clauses and lists divided by semicolons and other syntactical junk that drives a writer like me insane. But that mimics what chronic pain does: It makes you feel like you are going insane. You can’t really focus on anything but the pain, so your conversation quickly becomes pain-centric. Pain patients generally do not like to talk about their conditions with normals but when we assemble, we can barely talk about anything else. This lust for community, and for description, carries over for me into reading everything I can about my particular affliction, even though the reading sometimes triggers or worsens the pain. I know this, and yet I still seek out the literature of suffering. I have a Talmudic approach to my torment: I want to know what all of the rabbis of old have written, how they have described pain, whether they have found a mind-blowing metaphor or an incantation that makes it less excruciating. But even generations of rabbis couldn’t stop my pain, and they certainly won’t stop me from using cannabis to quash it.

This is a good time to mention that working through the pain is bullshit.

I Could Use Marijuana for Pain Relief, but Would It Affect My Focus?

I haven’t done chronic pain justice yet, haven’t been able to communicate to you on a visceral level what it is like to always have cobwebs in your brain—that’s too genteel a metaphor. It’s more like having heavyweight boxers trying to punch their way out of your head, or sometimes it’s as if your skull is getting smaller and smaller while your brain just sits there helplessly getting squeezed like a tube of toothpaste. These headaches are exploding and imploding, respectively, and as with so much of migraine, the language is new. People like me who make a living with words know that pain is one of the most impoverished areas of vocabulary in the English language. It’s all metaphor. I am trying to tell you about what it’s like to have a headache for weeks, then months, and then over a year, and I have to resort to boxers and toothpaste.I had been using cannabis to try and control the pain in our previous city, but since it was illegal and I didn’t qualify for medical pot it would often be feast or famine, depending on the whims of my delivery service (yes, just like High Maintenance). Then we went to a place where it was legal for a weekend, and I bought some edibles and capsules. I had my first four-day stretch without pain in four years. But that was a vacation. The big question was: Could I keep a steady flow of THC to soothe my brain and also get my work done?That question was semi-answered on a trip a couple of months later to a city my husband wanted us to live in—also a place where cannabis was legal. On this trip, I popped some capsules—now nicknamed “magic pills”—and did some reading and writing. I took enough so my pain was dulled but not so much that I was sleepy, or goofy, or hungry. I was miraculously normal. Before that trip was over, we were talking about moving—well, my husband was convincing me to move, and I was taking it very seriously. That was in May. We moved in July.

I have kept a steady stream of cannabis in my system all day, and it’s been miraculous.

Whoever Says Being a Productive Stoner Isn’t Possible Is Wrong

Since then, I have kept a steady stream of cannabis in my system all day, and it’s been miraculous. I still get chronic migraines, but the duration and intensity are both much improved. I still have lost days, but much fewer of them. I am working more than I have in the past ten years—when the migraines started—and going to school as well. I don’t micro-dose or anything fussy like that. I buy strong, THC-laden products and use them every few hours throughout the day. Some days—especially if there’s rain, as I am very sensitive to pressure changes—I still have to bombard my system with pharmaceutical cocktails. But I have a lot more days where I’m productive for a solid four or five hours, which would have been impossible in the dark time B.C. (before cannabis).Was it worth upending our lives to move to a place where cannabis is legal? Yes, it was. There are other factors which made the move a good idea, but cannabis is number one. It’s changed my life. In a stroke of irony, I qualify for medical cannabis here, so not only can I get excellent products—which makes it easier to control the dosage—I get them cheap and delivered by the postal service.It’s a difficult thing to change your life at midstream. Most people would not up and move for the sake of decent edibles and a variety of pre-rolls. But most people have not woken up crying from pain; or suddenly started seeing giant circles that shrink to tiny pointillist dots (my aura); or want to vomit just from the smell of toast. I’ve gladly traded that migraine-induced sensory overload for what I have now: a shelf in the kitchen with a pipe and a jar overflowing with pharmaceutical-grade weed.

Big Blonde

January 6, 2024

Mental Health Struggles as a Muslim: Bipolar in Indonesia

I still remember an eight-year-old me longing for a different life than my peers. They wanted to buy new toys or go to the theme park. Even though my dad cheated and was abusive, I wanted my parents to halt their divorce proceedings and get back together. I wished our family could live in the same house again. I lived with my mom in Jakarta—the capital city of Indonesia—200 kilometers from my dad and my sisters. If today I was shown a clip of my journey growing up, I would definitely be proud of myself for what I endured. I’ve had difficulties making friends: My mom is my best friend. She’s a brave single parent who raised me well, despite not having a permanent job for almost a decade. We have difficult financial circumstances: We don’t own our house and have lived here and there, including hitching stays at various relatives’ homes. Not so long after my high school graduation, hope for a new chapter emerged. I was accepted to a public university (at an affordable cost) and my mom had a permanent job that made our living standard improve. However, it didn’t last long.

I’ve had difficulties making friends.

Many Believe Islam and Bipolar Disorder Cannot Coexist

My complicated personality, along with troubles with personal relationships made never-ending college tasks a tall order. It’s difficult for most people to deal with someone recovering from a terrible childhood. No wonder I passed out in a lecture session—I hadn’t slept for seven days in a row.I was later hospitalized, side-by-side with oxygen tanks to help me breathe, and underwent a deep series of observations for more than three weeks. The results of my electrocardiogram and electroencephalography stated that I have mitral valve prolapse. My cardiologist told me that surgery would not help my heart’s left valve operate properly again. What affects my heart rate the most is my mental health. If my mental health doesn’t get any better, at some point, I'll relapse. So he gave me a referral to a psychiatrist who later diagnosed me with bipolar affective disorder. And I am grateful to have reached a point that made me aware of how important my mental health is. Why? An estimated 135 people are affected by just one suicide. Research conducted by the Indonesian Ministry of Health stated that 6.1 percent of the population aged 15 to 19 suffered from depression, but only nine percent of them go through a period of clinical treatment. A disquieted state of mental health is as dangerous as other more tangible health issues. So if we ignore a person’s mental health because we don’t know how to deal with depression and anxiety in Islam, negative impacts will follow. Being bipolar doesn’t kill. But, the stigma does. Those surrounding me told me to stop seeing a psychiatrist and taking medications. Even my mom, the love of my life, try to convince me that taking pills is not a solution for someone who comes from a religious background like us. I want nothing more than to have mental and physical wellness, so as a Muslim, I pray to God to get better. But, hasn’t Islam taught us to create a balance of prayer and effort, so our wishes can come true? Taking the right medications is my kind of effort. Also, hasn’t Islam taught us to treat each other well? Why, then, do my Muslim peers—who found out that I was seeing a psychiatrist and taking pills—call me crazy?

Being bipolar doesn’t kill. But, the stigma does.

Islam and Mental Health Have a Complicated Relationship

This country and its citizens—the largest Muslim population in the world—have made things worse. The importance of mental health is still a taboo subject in Indonesia.This negative outlook has been perpetuated in our society, even in support groups for mental health survivors. I seek help and, instead of having my back, I receive responses like: “Your problem is not as big as what you’ve made it out to be.” Indonesia’s lack of mental health awareness was on full display when a famous comedian, Nunung, had to face a recent drug abuse trial. Judge Djoko Indiarto questioned the psychiatrist’s testimony with sensational accusations that trended on social media. "Almost every day [Nunung] grinned on television, how can she be depressed?" asked Djoko. It’s all pretty tough for a young guy who still in a process of growing up. At least, it’s made me realize that I can’t control what other people do or say. But I can control myself. I’ve always needed the acceptance and affection of family, friends and lovers. But I never started to accept and love myself just the way I am. So, I’ve begun to try. I’ve been working through trying to stop blaming my dad as a cause of the state of my mental health and accept it as it is.This intense reckoning has resulted in some positive outcomes. I’m having open conversations disclosing my mental health issues with work colleagues. They’ve accepted me just the way I am, as long as I stay professional. (I have been told to hide any emotional breakdowns.) I won’t lie: I’m still facing anxiety even though I love and accept myself. I will always look inside for a healthier future of mine, both physically and mentally.

Yonarizal Hervan

January 6, 2024

What It’s Like to Navigate the World With Borderline Personality Disorder

It’s normal to feel like your world is crashing when someone unexpectedly breaks up with you. So when my ex-boyfriend broke up with me over the phone while I was abroad, I went loopy. I sobbed in the bathroom and nearly messaged his mum to ask him to reconsider. Whenever something sends me spinning, I envision moving countries, growing a new identity, and becoming a whole other person who then can’t be bothered by something as futile as a shitty ex, so I started planning an escape to Singapore, and began looking for jobs there. I was, at turns, suicidal.All of this over a relationship of just five months—which, in BPD time, might as well have been years.I am a 24-year-old woman who suffers from Borderline Personality Disorder, also known as EUPD: Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder. Having a personality disorder does not, as you might assume, make me violent or manipulative or too crazy to function. But it does mean I experience life in more dramatic ways than most people.The “borderline” there in the name makes it sound like I teeter on the edge, and to explain it, that might be a useful image for you. BPD is usually caused by childhood trauma involving emotional, physical or sexual abuse. Its symptoms can include a fear of abandonment, unstable relationships, unstable self-image or mood swings. Sufferers usually experience heightened emotions or a lack of emotion.Me, I’m like two bottles of wine, an energy drink and a hug from a puppy wrapped into one.People with BPD might tell you “I’m so unstable” and yes, they might be. Don’t mistake that instability for a short-term, quirky personality trait that they trot out for parties or road trips. My friends know me as a fun-loving, hyper person who feels affection for everyone I’ve met. They also know that the smallest trigger can turn me into a sobbing, unstable mess. Fun, right?

Me, I’m like two bottles of wine, an energy drink and a hug from a puppy wrapped into one.

BPD Lets the Smallest Inputs Send Me Reeling Through a Range of Emotions

Outside of the debilitating anxiety and depression I experience as part of my BPD, you would think I’m a fairly normal person. I loathe mornings, like checking out new bars in London, love traveling abroad. I get up and I go to work, and later hang out with my friends and family. The big difference is that I don’t have thick skin. Every emotion I encounter feels like a third-degree burn. An inner voice constantly tells me that no one loves me and I’ll always be alone.Sometimes the overthinking is right: People do leave. When a friend’s messages start to dry up—when they leave one-word replies and I start to feel like an afterthought—the alarm bells begin to ring. Are they ditching me? What did I do? Am I annoying? Should I change my personality? I have never had any thoughts of hurting them, but I use self-harm as a way of turning my emotional pain into physical pain.BPD often spills into physical symptoms, such as panic attacks and crying. I cancel plans, burrow underneath my duvet, weep at the smallest thing and constantly check messages. But in the morning I get up and go about daily life, apparently functional as my mind yo-yos from one emotional depth to another. The depression in particular is frightening. It’s like being trapped in a black hole, unable to see or do anything about it. Add BPD to the mix and it’s a black hole constantly swirling and dipping.

It means that when I love, I love hard.

Fear of Abandonment Makes Me Aware of Others’ Emotions, in Some Good Ways

When your self-image and personality shift constantly you never quite know which one is “real.” I’m constantly weighing my dialogue, interpersonal skills, my reactions—even my interests and hobbies. The constant check-ins with myself mean I can blend in, chameleon-like, with almost any group of people. I listen to a variety of music so that’s always a way to find common interests. I’m high-spirited when I need to be, quick to laugh, always painted as the happy one. At the same time, I am shy, quiet for long periods, and feel an anxious mess around people.It gets lonely when people only know a certain part of you and you’re left wondering what part people will like best.I feel a persistent sense of abandonment and need constant reassurance that people want me in their life. It’s hard not to be clingy. I try to come across cool and aloof, but warm and loving. It’s difficult to keep up appearances when you feel like you’re on fire half the time. Get to know the real me, though, and I’m an amazing friend. My personality disorder is traumatic. But it means that when I love, I love hard.

SassQueen96

January 6, 2024