#as a fat butch i approve this message

[honeyandbloodpoetry]

Abuse and Gender Expression - Gender Thoughts Part Three

Huuuuuge trigger warnings for peer abuse, emotional abuse, physical abuse, sexual abuse, religious abuse, a murder attempt and mentions of self harm, suicidal ideation and an eating disorder. 18+ talk of sexual activity also included. Discretion advised!

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I feel like the first time I realized I needed to perform high femininity to be accepted was in sixth grade. I was slotted into a rotating elective class, and the first one was a careers class. That careers class was utter hell for me. Every single day, I was tormented by an entire classroom of about twenty of my peers. I was bullied, no, abused for being fat and ugly and weird. I was called a whore, and told the only way I could ever be loved was someone raping me. Things were thrown at me, I was shoved down and tripped. I was bullied for my special interest in Transformers. I was told I was so fat and ugly I should be killed and be made into meat and cheese and fed to starving people because that was my only worth. Every single day I was told I should kill myself in varying ways. And all of that is just a quick summary. It was intense and brutal abuse for an entire semester, and I distinctly remember a day where there was a literal pool of tears on my desk. I couldn’t understand. I reached out to the teacher for help, and genuinely can’t remember exactly what he said. All I know is that he simply watched, and sometimes even joined in with “jokes” of his own. This was also the year abuse from my mother amped up, and home was a warzone--we were constantly arguing, and she became a professional at gaslighting and poking and prodding me until I exploded so I could be blamed for fighting back. My father would vacantly stand by and remind me not to fight back. This was also the year I began to self harm as a way of release. 

I remember thinking that if I looked more like the girls in my class, I wouldn’t be bullied so much. I was told I was ugly and unlovable, so I thought that if I performed more femininely, maybe I could be like those who tormented me and therefore not be a target. I thought there was something inherently wrong with the way I presented myself. I convinced my mother to take me to the store, and I bought wedge heels and gaudy jewelry I did not like to wear with my uniform--replacing my autobot necklace and sweatband. In another class I was teased for not shaving and for having ugly feet, so I learned to paint my nails, file my heels, and shave every bit of hair on my body--the echo of my father saying that since I grew pubic hair, I was now a woman and held accountable for all of my sins an echo on the cusp of my mind. I did everything in my power to be more pretty and girly. I used to be loud and rambunctious, and began to go silent and demure.

I remember walking up to the class in the new get-up that was certainly not me. I felt that I would be accepted but as I walked up...I fell flat on my ass. I couldn’t walk in the heels. They all pointed and laughed at me, and the abuse continued in even higher intensity. It was until the next semester that I fought back by throwing a desk at two of my abusers who followed me to the next rotating elective, screaming and snarling at them to leave me alone. Those two in particular stopped, but abuse from others continued for many years in many instances. I developed an eating disorder, continued self harming, and began to try and form femininity and “attractiveness” to the best of my ability. I added things like bows and kitty ears and flower crowns to my wardrobe--sure they were cute, and I did like them in a way, but it felt like putting on a costume or some sort of womanly obligation. It didn’t feel like me. Years later, I was told by someone I trusted that I was “too fat to wear pants”, which I internalized and began to only wear dresses--same thing with feeling like I was wearing a costume. I tried to be beautiful. I wanted to be butch, be myself, but I felt that if I was a cute and girly girl, demure and sweet, I wouldn’t be a target. I would be loved. 

And so I locked myself away. 

My relationship with my mother was a rocky one. She is definitely a sick and broken person, but I doubt she will ever get help. She swings between extremes, and I was always her doll and punching bag. She had a habit of pushing and pushing, finding all the littles holes in me that triggered autistic meltdowns and despair. She criticized everything about me, from my weight and height to my blaming me for how tangled my hair was. She entered me in sports and spelling bees with gentle but insisting prodding about how good I would be when I would rather be reading or playing, and when I got frustrated she would say it was my choice...when in reality I just wanted her approval. When I got older, and especially after my father killed himself, I began to fight back and question her authority though--sometimes violently. She didn’t like that, and was violent right back, and oftentimes first. I struggled my whole life with blaming myself for my outbursts and reactions, but through therapy I have learned I was a child being gaslit and abused, shown that violence was the only answer… And through therapy, I have learned to do better and grow. The worst instance of abuse was me having an autistic meltdown where I said that we should both just die and her response was to pull out a gun and point it at me--I collapsed down into our trash covered room (I was forced to share a bed with her) and pleaded with her to stop. She threatened to kill me and help me out since I was so suicidal, then turned the gun on herself and threatened to kill herself, in which I had to talk her down. When the gun was down, I fled in a flurry of tears and barely contained screams. It was truly the most horrible moment of my life, and I still struggle with the ptsd of that moment to this day. I was only fourteen.

All that background to say, my mother was extremely possessive of my body. She seemed to love to touch my breasts and butt, jerk me around, slap my butt, watch me get dressed. When I begged her to stop, she would tell me that she made that body and could do whatever she wanted to it. I found messages on her phone of her talking to guys about having sex with me and stealing my panties. She wouldn’t let me do my own hair because I couldn’t do it right. She wouldn’t let me bathe alone until I was over ten years old. I didn’t ever have my own room until I was 18 and shared it with my partner. She never let me play with my hair and kept a close eye on what I wore. This combined with my very religious Christian father, who said things like “if you know more song lyrics than bible verses when you die, you’ll go to hell” and the aforementioned accountability, along with things like letting me know he loved God more than me and always seeming to walk in while I was changing… I always felt owned by something. I never felt like my body or my identity belonged to me alone. And so it was extremely difficult to explore myself.

Sexual exploration became an outlet. I was asexual and didn’t possess sexual attraction or a desire for coital sex (still don’t), but I enjoyed kink play with my partner and playing with myself. I enjoyed porn, mostly stories. I always felt drawn to mlm porn, but never understood why. I saw myself in the big, fat men of the stories. I wished it could be me, wished I was a big hairy man like that. Wished I could be loved like that. Reading those types of erotica always got me off and made me feel relaxed and fulfilled, no matter what kink it regarded. Of course my mom would slutshame me without even knowing what I got up to, but sexual activity and pornography helped me find solace and ownership of my body. When I was aroused and taking care of myself, being taken care of, or taking care of someone else, I felt like I was finally in control of my body and my happiness. I had been sexually abused in different ways by different people throughout my life, and finding a certain safety and security in the kind of sexual activity I explored made me feel like...me. I found myself in those big men, but still didn’t make the connection that I was not cis. 

It wasn’t until many years that I began to question my gender. First nonbinary, then agender, then genderfluid, then bigender, then nonbinary again, now finally transmasc. I am autistic and struggle with a resistance to change. I have struggled with shifting my name because it feels like a betrayal to become something new. So I have become Charis instead of Charissa...but I think I may be Myles instead. Since I have struggled with abuse and feeling owned my whole life, it is scary to take my self creation into my own hands. People I am close to have expressed concern and dislike for my transition--especially my mother. I came out to her two days ago over the phone when she guessed I was transgender--or “wanted a sex change” as she put it. She outed me to her anti-lgbt boyfriend without my consent, and now they want to have a discussion. She cried and told me it was too much and she couldn’t talk yet. I am still unsure of what to do about it. I know my mother is broken, and has come far from the cruelty she was once capable of--but she still swings. I see those shattered pieces and their sharp edges and know they have the ability to cut. It is terrifying. 

Coming out, especially after so many years of abuse, has been absolutely terrifying and difficult. I am still navigating how to do it, especially with a name change. The clinic I am going to for hrt screwed up with their scheduling and had to reschedule me for later this month, a frustrating thing. I am looking forward to starting hrt, but also scared how people will treat me once those changes begin happening. Even with these fears and struggling with my interpersonal relationships...this is the greatest choice I have ever made. It is my truth and my freedom, and I will fight against that fear to become my most authentic self. I have an incredible partner by my side, and with their support and my own self love, I can do anything. 

[silence-ion-om]

Weight Just a Minute: Thoughts on Family, Food and Addiction

After a whirlwind weekend visiting with family, I send a quick email to my grandfather, thanking him for the visit & Christmas gift he sent. He responded today with a general statement to “keep my chin up as better days are coming,” followed by (yet another) comment about my aunt’s recent weight loss and how I need to start exercising more and lose weight.  

I have no idea how to respond to his message. I have always been in awe and honestly, a little afraid of my grandfather. He is a learned man, an engineer who has traveled the world and experienced many losses. I do not think he knows quite what to do with his firstborn, right brain dominant, bleeding heart liberal, queer, therapist granddaughter, but I have no doubt that he loves me. And I am really proud of my aunt and I support the steps she is taking to better her health. But I wish my grandfather could understand that her journey is not mine.

My journey starts like this: Growing up, my father owned a vending machine business and I was named his “official product testor.” (I had an airbrushed uniform shirt with my name and incorrectly spelled title and everything). I had unfettered access to all the Twinkies, Snickers and Cheetos a kid could ask for. I was an academic, not an athletic kid, which meant a lot of indoor, sedentary activities. I fell easily into the habit of mindless eating when I was bored or tired or lonely or upset. To their credit, my parents did an excellent job of instilling body positivity and a strong sense of self-esteem. The world is harsh to a chunky nine year old girl with short butch hair, but I grew resilient-- in large part because of the efforts my beautiful, imperfect parents.

My father was an artist who romanticized the Rubenesque female form; full-figured naked ladies adorned almost every corner of our home in various mediums of oil pastel, charcoal, mosaic tile, wood, and clay. (This was only slightly embarrassing  when friends were over, since I didn’t really know any better.) My mother was often the subjects of these works of art, much to her chagrin. I now realize she was constantly managing her own insecurities about her weight in order to avoid projecting them onto me. We had plenty of tense and tearful dressing room moments, but she did her best to model confidence.  She also raised me to be a foodie and taught me love of good cooking, traits I continue to appreciate to this day.

Because weight is something my mother struggled with most of her life, I can’t help but see parallels in how my grandfather discussed both her weight and mine. The thing is, I know his comments are ultimately well-meaning. I also know that I could spend the rest of my life seeking his approval, just like my mother did. Yet this is the most elusive goal because it is ultimately unattainable. No amount of external validation can fill a void created from lack of self-acceptance.

This is not to say that I don’t want to improve or be healthier, because I do. But being an alcoholic, I have difficulty with doing anything in moderation, including healthy things. I was probably in the best shape of my life in 2013, which coincides with my last attempt at sobriety. I was finishing grad school and quit my job in order to complete the hours for my graduate internship from hell. I was either interning and at the gym as much as possible to avoid my mother’s erratic behaviors while drunk. I was drinking a lot of smoothies and not eating solid meals consistently. In between workouts, interning and studying, I started sleeping with my personal trainer--and the rest is blurry history.

Sure, I was skinnier but I also felt small and uncomfortable in my body and out of control. I was checking every other -ism off the list without even realizing it. And that, friends, was cross-addiction at its finest. I must remember that I have a strong propensity for this. A part of me avoids serious contemplation of an exercise routine because I worry it will snowball into another manic mess like last time. And I’ve worked too hard to get to where I am now mentally, emotionally and spiritually that I don’t want to mess with the physical and potentially fuck everything up again. Even writing that statement feels contradictory and yet still partially, distortedly true. But I am writing about this now precisely because I am tired of maintaining the shame spiral that has hijacked my life by remaining silent.

The past three years have probably been the most difficult I have ever experienced. They have also been tremendous catalysts for growth and change, twin aspects in the process of living. When my mom died, I was miserable and shell-shocked and I wanted to put as many layers between myself and my emotions as physically possible. My fat functioned as insulation and armour. Then my father’s slowly developing dementia worsened, and driven by the intense fear of losing my last remaining parent, I took over caring for him. I felt a new kind of vulnerability, a self-imposed isolation that grew in direct proportion to the weight I was gaining. I took care of myself half-heartedly, often relying on my then-fiance to take care of the rest of me that was left. I have learned that this, combined with other factors, puts irrevocable stress on a relationship.  So naturally, the typical post breakup binge montage behavior ensued. And that brings us to today.

If there is anything I have learned from all of this, it is that true and lasting change comes from within. I am still recovering  from so many things, being patient and compassionate with myself is a necessary part of the maintenance. Understanding and humor go a long way too. So with that, I will keep my (double) chin up, continue telling my stories and writing my way towards meaning.