Bodies are so weird. I was literally shivering and then I put some knitted tubes on my arms and now I feel fine and toasty. Thanks, wrist warmers! I don’t know why you worked, but you saved me the effort of putting on an entire jacket. ((she/her. okay to reblog.))
warnings for assault, gender dysphoria, mental illness. title from leslie feinberg’s “stone butch blues”.
You are seven years old and a boy in your class sends you pornography. His email contains a link to what he says is a free games website, so you click it and see flesh. Fluids. Bodies being squashed into one another like PlayDough, bodies opening up like flowers. You didn’t know these parts were a part of you. You’ve never thought of yourself as a body before. A crack begins to open up inside you, somewhere so deep down that it’s almost impossible to see.
You are eight and a half and you are staying with your family at a timeshare. It’s too early to sleep, so you’re playing Truth or Dare with your cousin, who is seven months older than you and the closest thing you have to a brother. “Dare,” you say, when it’s your turn, and your cousin points at the toy rabbit next to you that you’ve taken everywhere since you were a baby and tells you, “Hump the rabbit.” You don’t know what ‘hump’ is, and you say so. It turns out he doesn’t know either. The other members of your family are talking quietly downstairs, occasionally laughing at grown-up jokes that you don’t understand. A crack bisects the ceiling. You shut your eyes and roll over, hoping that nothing will crawl out of it.
You are ten and your teacher pulls up diagrams on the interactive whiteboard and points to them one by one. This, here, is a vulva. These are the labia. This is what we call the vaginal canal. And here are some of the changes you can expect to go through during puberty: hair here and here, breasts here, wider hips, narrower waist, and blood, once a month, which is known as menstruating. The cartoon Adam and Eve on the screen smile placidly out at you, composed despite their nakedness. The teacher’s pen jabs at the screen. Here, she says, is where the blood comes from. Here. And here.
You are twelve and sitting in the Physics classroom, even though it’s not a Physics lesson. Generations of students have scratched things into the desk – quotes, drawings, song lyrics, equations. Plenty of hearts with initials inside. How many of these people are still together? Does E still heart J? The woman at the front hands out bananas, and gives each student a square packet to practise with. Muffled laughter. “I’m expecting you to at least try and be mature about this,” says the woman. The girls on your left are rolling the cool rubber up and over the banana, marvelling at how it stretches and doesn’t tear, and you watch the clock with your nails in your palms and wait for the lunchtime bell to ring.
You are fourteen and two boys in your class have made it their mission to crack you. You like to think of yourself as tough: the girl who’s as good as a boy, sharp-tongued and clever with a temper that goes off like a firecracker when a match is lit too close. In Chemistry one of them knocks your pencil case to the floor, and you have to bend down and crawl under the table to retrieve it. When you re-emerge backwards on hands and knees they’re hastily straightening up again, trading looks of silent glee, laughing into their fingers. “Settle down, you three,” says the teacher. She sounds tired.
You are still fourteen and a boy leans in close to you in English class and whispers, “Want to suck my fat cock?” His breath is hot on your ear. Your surnames are right next to one another in the alphabet and the seating chart always puts you together. His hair is the same dirty blonde as yours. After the lesson you go to the teacher and ask if you can be moved to a different seat. She asks why. You tell her he said something. She asks what. It’s harder to get the words out than it is to hear them, as if having them in your mouth somehow makes you complicit.
You are fifteen and it’s raining outside and the room is cold and a boy is trying to pull your shirt over your head. You’ve discussed this. You’ve talked about it. Why does he always forget? “Cut that out,“ you tell him. He doesn’t. You grab his wrist. “No,” you say, the same way you’d snap at a dog that’s begging at the table. He lets his hands drop and goes, “Okay. Sure. That’s fine,” in a way that sounds like he means exactly the opposite of what he’s saying. He says, “Let’s go downstairs,” so you go downstairs and eat dinner in silence and the cracks start to deepen into fissures.
You are sixteen and your cousin wants to know if you’re dating anyone. “Yeah,” you say. “We’ve been together a couple of months now. She’s pretty great.” He says, Wait, you have a girlfriend? “Yes,” you say, “that was implied by the feminine pronoun.” He says, That’s hot. You don’t know what to say to that. He’s joking, obviously, but it’s clear that “girlfriend” has very different associations for most people than it does for you. Someone says “girlfriend”, and you think of watching old films wrapped in scratchy blankets, or trying to bake together and discovering just how many ways it’s possible for a cake to go wrong. Someone says “girlfriend”, and your cousin thinks of flesh. Most people, you suppose, would think of flesh before they thought of anything else. You turn on him and say, “You don’t have to be an asshole about it,” and he shrugs and says Okay, jeez, calm down. It was only a joke.
You are seventeen and a girl takes you on a date to the local cemetery. You follow the trail of crushed undergrowth down into the copse, where the bracken is thick and the ground is littered with torn-open condom wrappers. “Someone had a good night,” you say, and then a little later you realise why she brought you here, of all places. It wasn’t by chance. You manage to head things off before they go too far: sorry, no, I’m not ready for that, not now, not here. The graves date back to the eighteenth century, and overhead the tree branches creak emptily in the wind like the corsets of old ladies. As you get up off the ground you imagine a group of disapproving Victorian ghosts watching you button up your jacket, as if they’re shocked at the sight of all that pale flesh spilling out. As if they know what you were about to do.
You are seventeen and the crack inside you is wide enough that you can see all the way to the bottom, and you peer in, wanting to see what’s inside. There’s nothing in there. Why did you think there was?
You are eighteen and a girl walks you back to your room after a night out. You unlock your door, meaning to just kiss her goodnight and go inside, but then somehow you’re against the wall and her teeth are at your shoulder and her hand is under your shirt. “Wait,” you say. “Stop.” She lifts her head up again, blonde hair sticking to her face in damp strands. “I think you might have got the wrong idea,” you say. “I think you need to go.” What the fuck, she says (too loudly). “I’m sorry,” you say. “This isn’t – I don’t do this.” You are unbelievable, she says. “Can you please talk more quietly? I don’t want anyone to wake up.” No, she says, I’m not going to be quiet, are you fucking serious? And then she slaps you. It doesn’t really hurt, is more of a surprise than anything else. She stumbles out, and you think she’s too drunk, someone ought to walk her home, but it’s certainly not going to be you, and so instead you shut the door and look at the purple ring she left behind in your shoulder, still dark and wet with spit.
You are nineteen and you are sick of hearing the word frigid. (There are other words you’re sick of hearing too, but if you were going to list those you’d be here for hours. Easier to just develop a thick skin, a chitinous carapace that grows up and over you. If anybody wants to get inside they’ll have to take a mallet to it and pry off the pieces with a silver spoon.)
You are twenty and most of the time it doesn’t feel like you have a body at all, which is exactly how you like it. You’re a half-completed jigsaw puzzle, a collection of disaggregated parts – the keloid scar on your ear, the hangnails on your fingers, the wisps of baby hair at the nape of your neck, your chipped front tooth and scabby elbows; the list goes on. Anything between collarbones and knees, however, is strictly off-limits. If you could drape crime-scene tape across it you would. Button-ups, worn over a binder, do the job well enough. You shave half of your head. Then the other half. Your friend tells you you’re not butch enough to pull it off. You stop wearing earrings and give half your jewellery away. You still drink too much and talk too much, but it doesn’t feel as good it used to, and one night you notice that there’s a crack on the ceiling of your bedroom, narrow as a thread. If you were small enough, you could slip right through it and disappear.
You are twenty and you haven’t dated anyone in almost four years.
You are twenty and if your uncle asks when you’re going to get a boyfriend one more time you might just grab the tablecloth with both hands and tug it towards you, sending the entire dinner set crashing to the ground. You tell him you don’t have the time for dating. Most people make time, he says. Shows how much he knows. Your cousin is going out with two girls at once; he thinks they won’t find out, your uncle says, but of course they will. Girls always do.
You are twelve and there’s a crack inside you that you try not to look at too closely, and you hope that one day you might be good enough for somebody to want to keep you.
You are twenty and you decide it doesn’t matter if you aren’t.
You are twenty and you are hard at work building a space that you can finally be yourself in. The space isn’t finished yet, but then neither are you. You have every tool in the world at your disposal. You can make it into whatever shape you want: a house or a person or a dog or a group of people who love you, who swear that they’ll stick by you and hold your heart like it’s their own. It will take a while. Rome wasn’t built in a day. You take up a hammer in one hand and a knife in the other, working on the crack, widening it, building building building.
A rather self-centered, diva-ish compulsive liar and gossiper, Rainbow Sherbet enjoys playing around through living more than anything.
This isn’t out of malicious intent, only because he finds more worth in interacting if it’s like that. He has a habit of dropping anything if it doesn’t provide quick satisfaction or entertainment. But he finds the most satisfaction from others. He enjoys finding out secrets and keeping them to himself, though will confide in strangers about anything except usually himself.
Even if he looks young, Rainbow Sherbet is actually in his later teens to young adulthood, only having lacked the height. His voice shows his age. Regardless, he can and will try to charm any crushes he gets, which are quickly gotten.
Yesterday I went to an amazing concert with a Tumblr friend, and it was the most wonderful time.
Today I napped. And napped more. Caught up on all the good sleep the nightmares haven’t been letting me have. Took my meds. Relaxed. Listened to music. Right now I’m laying in the hammock out back enjoying the cool air and having a cup of tea. Tonight I’m going to work on fanfiction.
Tomorrow I do phone banking for a political campaign, and you wouldn’t think that’d sound like a good time because I hate talking on the phone to most people, but it makes me feel like I’m taking control, and that’s also good.
Not all my days are going to be this good. I will stumble and as we head into winter I may even relapse.
But today is a good day, and it’s a victory.
Recovery is what you make of it. When you have your good days, don’t waste them in fear of tomorrow; just enjoy having a good day.
somtimes loving someone is a choice and you just have to think about whether she’s your dream girl or not and she is! she is your dream girl! past you would be so grateful to be in the position you are currently in! and you have to remember that! and she’ll continue to be your dream girl as long as you overcome your fear of being a burden and tell her when your worries aren’t really serious vs when they are important and she needs to work her calming dream girl magic on them instead of getting upset when she doesnt read your mind
hey uuuuuuuhhh. @strawberry-milktea is a fairly popular blogger on here and they have a fair amount of food posts/gifs so i just wanted to let yall know to avoid reblogging her bc shes a HUGE homophobe
i thought of a good analogy to explain to non-autistics / people without sensory issues why light touches are so uncomfortable to me
you know when you walk into a few strands of spider’s web? and you immediately panic and rub at your whole body because all your skin – not just the skin that you know for sure got web on it – feels suddenly vulnerable, and even after you think you’ve gotten all the web off the feeling lingers and it makes you on edge and anxious and like your skin isn’t safe anymore?
that’s what light touches, those too-loose hugs and quick brushes of fingers or fabric, feel like to me: they make my whole body feel like it’s not safe, like i need to scrub it all off and press deep into the bones to be okay again
Just a list of some blogs that bring positivity and happiness to this site! I could’ve listed so many more, but tumblr capped me… Feel free to add your own favs or new categories! Also thanks so much to everyone who helped me find these blogs <3