#its just perfectly tailored to my- i love shit about fucking with people psychologically and making them feel crazy

[pissfaggit]

Going through it this weekend and something compelled me to watch won't get fooled again 3 times in the last 24 hours; idk that episode is like crack to me fr what's that post about guys having something called the Ultimate Treat- that's what wgfa is for me. I don't even know what to say that could possibly accurately summarize all my feelings about it but yea episode of television that changed my brain chemistry of all time in the tv show that changed my brain chemistry of all time- the best of the best ig idk

[lottes-ocs]

one chapter (first chapter maybe? def towards the beginning though) of my story. i turned it in for a workshop in class (capped at 12 pages double spaced). a note from my workshop document:

“Since this is going to be a longer work, I will likely expand upon Adam’s personal and inner life towards the beginning, so that the breakdown and the subsequent conversation with Ezra don’t feel as sudden. I will definitely add more documents like the emails, maybe therapist’s notes or text messages, and I might play around with POV in some later chapters, however, my plan is for Adam to be the primary narrator throughout.”

also lmk if i get anything egregiously wrong. i do have ptsd myself, but i also consulted 2 of my schizophrenic friends to make sure i didn’t include any details that would conflict with that and also to get details about antipsychotics correct

tw for suicide mentions, mental illness, unreality, some graphic imagery.

[January 21st, 2019 // 9:00 AM] Since I got discharged from the hospital last month, I’ve been grateful to live alone. Granted, it makes the paranoia worse, but I’m the only one who needs to know how often I’ve tried to talk to shadows or woken up yelling at the void. And I’m the only one who needs to know that I, a 30-year-old man, have been sleeping with a nightlight. But look, when my room is completely dark, mirages of my father and Dr. Wronski appear in the corner with their faces peeled off like in an autopsy and they won’t stop apologizing. I tell them I forgive them and they double down, I offer them solace and they weep with guilt, I articulate my own guilt and they articulate what it feels like to die. Only the nightlight makes them go away. Does that all sound stupid? Sure it does, but it feels a lot less stupid when I just need some sleep after another day trying to balance crushing grief with debilitating mental illness with my normal-person job, teaching abnormal psychology. Classes have been back in session since last week, so for a week, I’ve felt like a fish teaching marine biology. Or something out of Mariana’s trench. Ezra walks into my office, looking just a little too put-together for the workday (as usual), perfectly-tailored pants, perfectly ironed shirt, and perfectly styled curls, and snaps me out of my self-pitying daze by setting down a large stack of papers on his desk next to mine. “The anxiety essays,” he says with an imperious sigh. “Was I this dumb in undergrad?” “Probably not,” I say. “You were a little older than them.” “And I actually had anxiety.” He’s made a point of bringing up his own issues since I got back. I think he’s doing it so I don’t feel embarrassed or isolated, but he does love to talk about himself regardless, and besides, the support of one grad student doesn’t outweigh the nastiness of some of the higher-ups. “Do you have any new bits, Ezra?” I try to change the subject to his comedy (he does standup on the side, and I hear he’s not bad). “Eh, nothing good. You look tired.” He brushes me off with forced nonchalance. “I’ve had plenty of work to catch up on.” There’s actually no reason that he should know why I was gone, it’s my business, but he definitely does. Everyone does. I work in the psych department, so the people here know what it means when someone’s witnessed the death of their mentor and is subsequently out for a month with no further explanation than “illness.” “Have you, uh…” he clicks his tongue in thought. “Did you drink coffee this morning?” I nod with an exasperated smile. “Well, y’know, the Keurig’s in the lounge if you need it. And I’m in 522 most of today if you need help. Catching up on work, or whatever.” He drums casually on the doorframe, shoots me finger-guns, and heads down the hall. I like Ezra. He’s my TA now, but we were both in grad school working towards our doctorates together, up until last spring, when I received mine. We’re the same age, and he’s definitely smarter than me (as he is most people), he just started college late. I think it’s very sweet of him not to be a condescending dick to me (I seem to be a popular target for condescending dicks lately) especially because Ezra can muster up a dangerous amount of condescending dickishness when he feels the need. However, I process absolutely none of what he said. I was listening, I was trying to listen anyway, but my head’s not working right, not right now. I really didn’t get enough sleep. It’s a vicious cycle. The hallucinations and intrusive thoughts keep me up, the lack of sleep worsens the severity of the hallucinations and intrusive thoughts. In fact, since I arrived at work forty-five minutes ago, I have kept a mental tally: Sudden and overwhelming urge to stab myself: 3 instances. Sudden and overwhelming urge to stab Dr. Carlisle for looking at me weird: 2 instances (fuck off, it’s not like I’m going to act on it). Sudden and overwhelming urge to break down crying: 45 instances. Rats underneath my desk: Yeah, I don’t know, I called maintenance and they told me they’re fake, so I guess they’re fake, even though I can see them. Hanging woman in the back corner of my office: Don’t mind her, she’ll be gone within the hour. I’ll be sorry to see her go, though. A sense of unreality is creeping in. I try to keep Dr. Beauchamp’s voice in my head, “if there shouldn’t be any real dead people in the room, there are almost definitely no real dead people in the room.” Well, there was that one time, you asshole. No, fuck it, there are almost definitely no real dead people in the room. I reach into my briefcase, desperate for the pill bottle, because I know my thoughts are going to turn into alphabet soup if I don’t do something soon. I split a Clozaril tablet in half and swallow it hastily. I am not supposed to split it in half, and I am not supposed to take more than one dose in a span of 24 hours, and I have a Ph.D. in psychology, obviously I know I’m lowering the efficacy in the long term and increasing my risk of side effects. But at this point, let me die of agranulocytosis if that’s what I’ve got coming. I’ll be out of a job and wasting eleven years of higher education if this shit doesn’t stop. Maybe that isn’t true. It feels true. Maybe it isn’t.

[January 21st, 2019 // 1:30 PM] FROM: Dr. Raymond Carlisle TO: Dr. Adam Collins SUBJECT: Checking in.

Dr. Collins, I sincerely hope all is well. I received word that you cancelled a lecture today. I need hardly tell you that you just had a month off for Winter Break, and two weeks before that for the beginning of your hospitalization. I hardly think an even further extended reprieve from your work is fair, and if you genuinely do, that’s a conversation we need to have. To be frank, Dr. Herrmann and I feel it is irresponsible to allow someone in your condition to continue to work, in the field of psychology no less. Though I do not at all doubt the competence of our colleagues at the medical center, nor your mental facilities, I feel compelled to let you know that if your psychological state continues to cause issues with your work the department might require you to take a leave of absence. While I hope your treatment plan begins to work to its full effect soon, your own safety and the integrity of this department are top priority.

Best wishes, truly,

Dr. Raymond Carlisle Head Professor, Psychology (555) 555-5555

My hands tremble with anger (and hopefully not tardive dyskinesia) as I type my reply.

FROM: Dr. Adam Collins TO: Dr. Raymond Carlisle SUBJECT: Re: Checking In

Dr. Carlisle, all is as well as it possibly can be needs to be. I don’t respect you as a colleague and I believe your total comfort in your new position, which I need hardly remind you is Dr. Wronski’s old position, is quite frankly borderline disrespectful.  If it’s irresponsible for someone in “my condition” to continue to work then why do you give a shit if I cancel my lectures? Leave me the fuck alone or I’ll mention you by name in my suicide note.   At the moment, it is difficult for me walk by Dr. Wronski’s old office, which I have to do to get to 525 (where that lecture is held). Could I request a change of   I was having a panic attack you absolute dick how are YOU allowed to continue to work in the field of psychology when you have NO compassion My new medication has occasionally been making me sick. That issue should be resolved either way after I meet with my psychiatrist next week.

Thank you for your concern, Dr. Adam Collins Department of Psychology

[January 22nd, 2019 // 10:30 AM] I think back to our last faculty meeting, at least my last faculty meeting, in November. It does feel like a while ago, and it’s hard to fathom that Dr. Wronski was still here then. It gets easier to fathom when Dr. Carlisle comes in and takes his seat at the head of the conference table, simply because of how wrong that is. I picture her there instead, how things are supposed to be, how it should have been. I think about how someone should have helped her when they still could have. I really picture her there instead for a moment, her image replacing Carlisle’s. I blink once and she’s gone, and he’s back. As he starts talking, though, I feel a tap on my shoulder and see her behind me for a split second, ephemeral and transparent like the dots in a grid illusion, then she walks away and disappears. My whole body is left feeling cold, sharp, and jolted, as if I fell on a blade without expecting to. I’m filled with dread as I realize Carlisle’s words are simultaneously turning to nonsense and growing louder in my ears, and a high, harsh noise like microphone feedback intertwines itself with his voice. Dr. Wronski reappears in his place again, but she is lifeless this time, blood pooling from her head like it was when I found her, circling her hair in a grim halo. Her eyes are clouded with even more film, her mouth is agape, and I can feel my breathing grow rapid. I squeeze my eyes shut. I know I am in the middle of a meeting; I will not fall apart like this in the middle of a meeting, not when my “mental facilities” are already being called into question. I pinch myself, internally repeating “there are no real dead people here, there are no real dead people here, there are no real dead people here—” “Dr. Collins, are you with us?” Dr. Hermann’s voice pierces through my mantra, entirely unfriendly, entirely accusatory, despite the faux-sweetness she is trying to summon. “Yes.” My voice sounds thin and weak, and blood rushes to my face. I shut my eyes again, since I feel tears prickling at the corners of them. Not fucking here, Jesus Christ, not fucking here, I think to myself. Then I think again about my last meeting, the old hierarchy, the time when I fell asleep at one of these in October after a particularly long night and Dr. Wronski just pulled me aside afterwards and asked if I was okay, and if there was anything she could do. And now the image of her corpse won’t leave my head. It overwhelms me. I don’t see her in the room anymore, but I might as well be back in her office when I first found her body, the first time in my life I had ever truly hoped that I was only seeing a figment of my imagination. The gun in her hand— I try to think of anything else. Anything to keep it at bay. I click my pen repeatedly (Carlisle asks me to stop), I scratch at my wrists and pull at my skin, anything to shift my focus to anything else. Nothing is working. The lump in my throat grows. My heartbeat gets faster, my chest starts to hurt, and suddenly I can smell the blood and rot that permeated the room that night, and I am helpless to stop it— Someone grabs me. I look up to see every eye in the room on me. I can’t breathe, I can’t speak, and I realize I’m in the middle of this meeting, crying and having a full-on panic attack, surrounded by people who already think I’m a headcase. I am sobbing and shaking and unable to steady my breathing and to them it seems completely unprompted at best, and at worst, it seems like it’s because Hermann and Carlisle snapped at me. And even in the midst of my abject humiliation, the image of Dr. Wronski lying in a pool of her own blood is still in my head, still absolutely fucking killing me, and I couldn’t calm down if I tried. I get up and walk out. That’s what fucking happens when I’m forced to try to power through episodes. I could care less what Carlisle does to me right now, I will not stay in there and continue to look like an emotionally unstable baby in front of my colleagues. I go to finish up my breakdown in the privacy of my office, catching a glimpse of myself in a window on the way and hating myself even more at the sight of my own disheveled hair and bright red, tear-streaked face. I sit down and hide underneath my desk, pop another half-a-Clozaril tablet that I try not to choke back up (I’m still hyperventilating so hard I could vomit), and bury my face in my arms. “Adam?” I look up. “Ezra.” I am barely composed, still hyperventilating, swiping at my eyes furiously and futilely. I look away, and I hope maybe he’ll think I’m just sick. I expect him to walk away, pretend that he never saw me like this and just silently let it color his perception of me. But he comes and sits down next to me underneath the desk. I don’t know what to say. “Do you want me to go?” he asks, after a moment. “You don’t have to.” I don’t want to admit it, but I don’t really want him to. Nobody else is this understanding with me anymore. I keep trying to collect myself, barely noticing at first when he puts his hand on my shoulder. “Do you need anything?” I shake my head, still not making eye contact. Theoretically, I’m getting the help I need, and maybe I do need the support of a friend right now too, but I don’t want to trouble him. Besides, I must look pathetic, cowering under a table and weeping, almost comically vulnerable. Hm. “Ezra,” I turn to him, finally, after a few more minutes of whimpering. I know my eyes look crazy, bloodshot to hell. “Can you take me to a mic?” “A mic?” “Yes. A standup mic. I want to see what it’s like.” “Really?” he smirks. “Yes, why not?” I can’t think of the last time I laughed, at least not genuinely. I can’t think of the last time I let myself. My self-loathing has become entirely unfunny, my psyche and my job both absolute nightmares, not to mention the actual nightmares—I need something light. Something just a little bit light. “You would… enjoy that?” “Yeah.” It makes me sad that he seems surprised, though I can’t blame him. I’ve been awfully serious, not even just for the past week or month, but probably since my dad died last spring. He reads my disappointment. “Sorry, Adam, I just… do you like comedy?” “I don’t know. My therapist laughs at my jokes sometimes.” He smiles at that, and I smile too, through dissipating tears. “Well, if you really want to, yeah. The next one is Thursday night.” I nod and take a deep breath. I realize Ezra hasn’t taken his hand off my shoulder, and he is absent-mindedly rubbing circles into my back. Maybe it’s stupid, but I stay as still as I can. I don’t want him to notice that he’s doing it and stop. “Is everyone there funny?” I ask, just to keep his focus. It’s a dumb question. I rephrase myself, “How funny is everyone?” He exhales a chuckle. “Honestly? About thirty people go up every night, sometimes more. They’re mostly shit. Don’t worry, though, there’s plenty to laugh at with the shitty ones.” He proceeds to tell me about the guys who show up high every time and just get up on stage and talk about nonsense (or weed itself) for 5 minutes, the wannabe Dangerfields and Seinfelds and Mulaneys who “never actually managed to glean what joke structure is” (though to be fair, It’s not like I have either), even the bigoted old men still trying with unflinching determination to resurrect “get back in the kitchen” jokes. I am losing myself in his stories, feeling at least marginally more relaxed, when Carlisle appears in my doorway. Ezra takes his hand off my back. Carlisle glances at us with confusion and disgust. “Dr. Collins, if you would please… get up and come see me in my office.” “We’re actually grading papers right now,” Ezra shoots back, in a tone of voice that says “yes, I think you’re stupid.” “Take a break, please,” Carlisle replies, glaring and exiting. I look hesitantly at Ezra, before getting up to follow him. “I do want to come,” I say. “To a mic.” “We’ll talk more later. I should still be here after you’re done facing the wrath of god.” I know I’m about to get chewed out to an extreme degree. Still, I can’t help but grin back at him.

[momo-de-avis]

Hi! So, this may be a bit of a weird question and seem a bit childish but wth why not. So, i'm 22 and i've never had sex. I've had girlfriends and we've done stuff, but for one reason or another it just never got to that. I know that age and sex shouldn't be related things in this prespective but (1/2)

when your friends are all in long-term relationships, when our society revolves so much around sex, it's hard not to feel shitty when thinking about the subject, to not feel like there's something wrong with you and that nobody will ever want you like that, that somehow you're being left behind. Any advice? I hope this doesn't make me seem like a terrible person lol (2/2)

It doesn’t make you seem like a terrible person at all. Its perfectly normal to have those doubts and insecurities, MORE SO in our society that pressures you to have, like, experience in sex, whatever the hell that means.

I don’t know what I can say that will feel like ‘this will work’ but I’ll try my best. One thing that I remember happening a lot was, for example, in nights out when people started playing games of like Never Have I Ever which inevitably end with sex questions. Me? I was the dumb fuck who went ‘NEVER HAVE I EVER BRUSHED MY TEETH’, ‘NEVER HAVE I EVER TOUCHED A HORSE’ and people were like ‘what the fuck ana what’s the point’ and I would just ‘drink up, I just wanna see you plastered’. Instead of being the person that kind of tried to remind people that I never had sex contrary to them, I was going sort of the other way around. Reminding them that maybe everyone around them wasn’t solely focused on sex as a priority, nor did their personalities or identities relied on it, so like, maybe ease a little on the games.

Also, if you can, surround yourself with more positive people. That is, IF you feel the people around you might be reinforcing these negative thoughts, maybe because they say stupid shit like ‘you’re a prude’ (something people love saying for no reason). I remember at one point the ‘games that are played solely for people to spit out their sexual experiences’ suddenly transformed into ‘people sharing their experiences in a constructive way’ to a point where we’d be having conversations about sex with gay men, lesbians, women who had sex with like 3 different guys a week, people who were virgins, people who were in a relationship for very long, etc. And it was very constructive and there was never any judgement. Surrounding yourself with caring people who are open minded and enjoy listening as much as they enjoy speaking is a very positive experience, and I assure you it will make you feel included. And I think, in my case, at a certain point it also taught me to stand up further down the road whenever some douchebag tried to play smart.

Society is a dick in this respect. I genuinely don’t know where this idea that it’s not normal for people to be a virgin in their mid 20s came from because from my experience it’s so, so normal. But there is a pressure, yeah. In some respects, I think it’s even bigger on men than on women, but for entirely different reasons and I suppose it depends on the environment. College I believe can be very toxic on this mindset, because it can be an absolute sausage fest and sometimes it needs a lot of boundaries to like, chill a little.

And I know comparing ourselves to others is very difficult NOT to do. It’s honestly something that takes time and we have to find ways of overcoming and learn new tools to stop ourselves from doing it. You have to shift the focus to yourself. There is NOTHING wrong with you. No matter what you think the issue is. ‘Oh you’re picky’ someone might say---that’s not... bad. That’s another way of saying ‘you have very well established goals and a very secure sense of basically what you want in a partner and that partner hasn’t showed up yet’. I hate using the word picky because of that. You’re not behind anything, I promise you. People take their time for everything, but it’s a complicated process to accept that when society puts a damn time table on nearly everything. But you’re not behind, you’re living your life and you’re doing it at your own rhythm.

Also, when people are in long term relationships while our last up to a year, we have to acknowledge those are two very different cases to compare. I say this as a person who made that mistake. I remember once playing never have i ever and everyone was like ‘i had sex in a public bathroom!!!’ and shit like that and I was the only one who hadn’t done any of those things. I kept joking saying ‘exCUSe me if I enjoy the comfort of a bed!!!!’ then one of the guys turned to me and said ‘but all these weird experiences I’m sharing, they were the result of a 5 year long relationship, it’s not something you just... do, most of the times. I did because at that point, we had enough trust to try it out’. At that point, my longest relationship was 6 months and it really, really put me in perspective. Now that I’ve been in a 3 year long relationship, I finally understand what he meant. It’s not even a matter of time takes you there, it’s a matter of having enough trust with the person, and when that person is around, it might take 3 months, 1 month, 1 day, 1 year to go right to the fucking!!!! Doesn’t matter at all. People are different and communication is key. it’s interesting because one thing that happened to me in my current relationship as well as my last was that we were both on different rhythms. And there was a time when we though, yeah babey get nakey, but then nothing happened not because we were rushing, but because we weren’t synchronized. And it turned out, a few more weeks were needed. And because these were both guys, they were feeling that pressure of ‘I’m a man, this should be easy for me’ but sometimes it isn’t. You have to let your mind settle, and your partner’s duty is to support you and say ‘it’s alright, I’m here when you’re ready, let’s chug down some pudding in the meantime’ or something...

And if people try to find reasons for virginity in this day and age just.. Bruh, it just didn’t happen. Like, I feel like now I’m saying something not to you but a wider audience lmao but: sometimes it just doesn’t happen. It just doesn’t. There’s no mysterious reason, no psychological explanation, no astrological projection like, no Jupiter was not on the right house or whatever, it just didn’t happen. It just didn’t get there. 

It’s a process. I mean, me saying over and over ‘there’s nothing wrong with you!!!!!’ might come out as shallow, or just not mean anything to you. Because it comes from within. It’s how you feel. So I insist on this: it’s a process, no matter how many times I say it. Shift the focus to yourself. Take the chance to look at what you haven’t experienced yet to understand what you would like to experience. Try to absorb the positive side of this sex-driven society. Listen to others and learn the lesson from that. To quote a very good friend of mine, ‘I learned with other people’s mistakes’ lmao but what I mean is a mantra I have in my life that’s helped me a lot in certain identity crisis: eliminate what I don’t want. And hey, I’m saying this and maybe you’re over there reading and thinking ‘done that already’, and if that’s the case, good!!!!! But be kind to yourself as well! Radiate the energy you want to feel around you! Tell yourself every day: there is nothing wrong with me. There are so, so many people out there like me, and none of us are weird or out of the norm, we’re just who we are.

If you want it to hapen, it will happen. Be kind to yourself, treat yourself the way you deserve and demand that from others. Sharpen your senses when you’re out there looking for the one, the ones or maybe even nobody in particular. Be safe and nurture what little confidence you find inside yourself. Transform your insecurity. If you want to get your mind off the subject, find activities you enjoy, like a hobby or whatever pleases you, or learn something new--just something that can keep you busy in the long term (again, I say this as someone with a tendency to like.. obsess over minor stuff)

So like this is very vague, I know. And I hope it does help in one way or another. You’re a wonderful person anon, this society is tailored to shitty ideals and a lot of people fall prey to it. We really, REALLY need to normalize the idea of not being in a relationship in your twenties, not having had sex, not being engaging in sex... We really need to normalize all of that because it is normal, it’s so normal that I kind of felt at one point that I was being lied to, you know. Because I’ve met way more people that don’t fit the standards than the opposite. So like, whatever this society is dictating, that’s what’s not normal. 

I think you’re already halfway there anyway, because it seems to me you acknowledge these issues with a clear conscience. It’s only a matter of acceptance, and that’s the hard work. that’s why I insist: be kind to yourself!! And remember I am rooting for your success and for you to get what you want, anon. Live your life the way you want to, practice good and tell yourself.I’m a cool ass human being. And oh god I hope this helped in some way!! ❤❤

[nacsygen]

speaking of fashion, i feel like rambling about my boobs, and this is my tumblr, so i will.  also bc this is tumblr, i will frame my rambling about my boobs in the context of my mental health journey.

over the past coming up on four years, my mental health has had a drastic (thought not constantly) upwards trajectory, from ‘’trembling waif unable to hold a conversation without wanting to literally run and hide and/or cry’’ to ‘’wow, i just realized it’s been like two years since i felt like absolute shit for no real reason for more than, like, a day at a time. is this like...is this what being happy is like? wow!*” *”oh shit, now i have to actually live past 25...” part of it was maturing yes, bc no matter what bullshit they tell you, you’re still growing and maturing in your 20s too - and after that, too, for your whole life, really.  the idea that you should have all your shit figured out by the time you’re 22 is some kind of implied propaganda we all internalized around when they were showing us the charts in middle school that showed the average incomes of people with different levels of degrees.  and if you’re not the kind of person to have your shit together by 22 - say, you’re not neurotypical, or you’ve got un-dealt-with-traumas, or you’re just not the kind of person or at the stage in your life where post-secondary is the right fit for you, or any combination of the above, or anything else - when you DON’T have your shit together by the time you’re “supposed” to, it just feels like salt in the wound, when you’re different.  it feels - no, it IS damaging, especially if you’ve never been able to really internalize the idea that it’s O K to be on a different life path than what you’re “supposed” to be.  that is, in fact, the very thing that culminated in the worst and last (and i sincerely hope it’s the LAST) depressive episode of my life, around my 25th birthday. i feel sorry for the girl who was me from 20 to 25.  poor thing hurt a lot, and too often. but the main part of my getting better was just getting help.  or rather, my mom reaching out to do the research for me, finally recognizing that i wasn’t going to magically get better on my own and that guilt tripping and anger were not helping my crippling depressive withdrawal (and while i know that the physically disabled tend to not care for the psychologically disabled using the term “crippling”, in my case it definitely extended to the physically disabling in several very literal ways that i won’t get into here).  my mom did the research and made me make the calls.  i was very lucky that there was a low-income mental health center 15 minutes down the road.  i was exceedingly lucky in that i got an incredible counselor who’d been through it herself, herself now (then) in her late 20s, early 30s, maybe one or two levels up from where i am now. my sessions with her literally changed and quite probably saved my life.  i went from crying in every session and her gently and considerately seeing me out the back door of the office to minimize the strangers who’d see my raw vulnerability, to the sessions being the highlights of my week, with me eager to share with her my progress - to delight in finally becoming my true self again, to be vibrant, to find joy in things, to have things i could be happy to share with a professional friend. because of her guidance i learned how to change the way my mind had wired itself in a negative way, and to love myself again.  because of her i was able to move on, move out, become self-sufficient - eventuallym because of how she taught me, to take care of myself and to keep growing, to love myself the way i love the world. to be happy, most of the time, when at the time we first met, i wasn’t sure i ever would be again. to take care of myself again but i was talking about boobs and fashion, right? the thing is, i’ve had essentially the same body type, my “adult” body, since i was 13.  this body has, no matter its weight fluctuations, had proportionately significant breasts.  (a blog post about afab body image and mental health would not be complete without at least one teenaged semi-traumatic anecdote - i once when i was in eighth grade got accosted by a group of older girls in the courtyard at school before class, demanding to know what i stuffed my bra with, and getting increasingly hostile and physically investigating said bra with harsh gropes when i said i didn’t stuff it at all. this was, needless to say, humiliating and traumatic, and i didn’t wear that tight turtleneck again for years.)   the thing is this body that contains me is also exceedingly small in all other directions (except my head, i’ve got an adult human-sized head) compared to normal humanity.  very short in height, narrow ribcage, ectothermic body structure, narrow limbs, narrow hips, child-sized hands and feet, etc.  even when i was at my lowest weights, which i will always associate more with my worst depressive episodes than any kind of diet-culture positive, even when they were to my eye as flattened pancakes, i still had pretty alright boobs that i liked. but then, once i got healthy again, i naturally gained healthy weight.  it came with eating more healthily, and eating with purpose, and not just because i would die if i didn’t, and even for a depressive starvation’s not a good way to go.  it came from caring for the human animal, from realizing that i could never live with myself if i neglected a pet the way i was treating my human animal, because if i didn’t care for it, who would? eating with structure, at set times every day, and maintaining at least a mininum amount of calories needed, necessarily entailed that i would gain weight. and i welcomed that! most of my body issues when i was younger stemmed from my skinniness - i hated my fragility. i longed for and desired (in the gay way too, and probably though i didn’t realize it yet the non-cis way) and wished to be like girls with weight and heft to them, girls with thick thighs and arms, girls with muscle, girls with softness and roundness, girls with strength and solidity of frame. in comparison i felt like a ghost close to being torn to pieces in the wind, a collection of fragile bone in the shape of a person.  but that’s not who i am anymore, and that’s no longer what i fear. but at least i always had my boobs, and with them, with being healthier mentally and physically going hand in hand, i was and have been able to measure my own healthiness by their size. by cupping them in my hands and counting how many fingers it takes to go from ribcage to the edge of areola, i can measure my own growth and well-being.  they’re most of where i gain weight, and i’ve gone from two fingers and change at the worst to all four fingers plus a spare inch, besides, now, at what is currently the best. despite my current stressful situation, i am ultimately at my healthiest physically and mentally i’ve been since i was like 11.  more, even, because i’m no longer anemic.  and accordingly, my breasts are the largest they’ve ever been (not counting that time i was on birth control for a couple months, and my least tactful roommate asked if i was pregnant, and i stopped taking it because i decided crying myself to sleep every night for no reason probably wasn’t worth it).   which brings me to fashion. and boobs. i’ve alluded to here and outright stated before that i identify as somewhere between nonbinary and bigender.  all i know, really, in our limited current vocabulary, is i’m not cis female. but you know? i like my boobs. i’m pan, i reserve the right to like boobs, even love them, even if they’re on my body, even if i’m not “female”.  i live in and love and feel at home in a climate, and otherwise a culture, where female-coded dress (tank tops and short-shorts, sundresses) are far, far more comfortable than male-coded dress (heavy thick shorts or jeans, a t-shirt with an undershirt for god knows what reason - they can’t know we have nipples!!).   i reserve the right as a non-binary/bigender person (yes i’m aware that’s a contradiction in terms, so am i) to reject the idea that my physical interpretation of my presentation as leaning femme means i’m female. fuck you. you ever wore a sundress in the florida summer? you ever wore heavy khaki knee-length cargo shorts paired with sneakers and socks and an undershirt and a t-shirt in the florida summer? which would you guess is more comfortable? i rest my case. oh, i almost forgot to get to the point, which is that as my breasts have gotten more prominent, some of my favorite comfy dresses have somehow become Problematic in Public.  they are now Too Booby.  larger breasts in and of themselves, even in the same dresses but instead of with smaller breasts (that’s Fashion tm), carry with them Implications of Sexiness. Luridness.  Provocativeness.  as someone who’s had both small boob privilege and big boob sexy, this is completely obnoxious and at the same time culturally unavoidable. in my current favorite dress, which fits me like it was tailored to me despite got from goodwill, it cups and supports my breasts lovingly in its bodice and flows beautifully asymetrically down from the high waist line that is also flattering to my body type.  i love it, i absolutely adore it, i love the way it makes me look, i love the way it fits me perfectly, i love the way it makes me feel.  but it is definitely a Boobs On Display dress.  it’s so low cut in the front of the neckline, and boosts my already large breasts enough, that you can see a significant curve of underboob. and they are objectively gorgeous breasts! but this dress, having them On Display, apparently, instead of my love of its supportive and flowing embrace of my body, indicates i’m On Display when i wear it.  that’s...a little dysphobic and dysmorphic. it means i can’t wear it in any situation where i want to appear Professional, bc boobs Aren’t Professional.  it means i have to think about what situations i can wear it in and how people will judge me for it, this my new favorite dress. it means people will think i’m Lurid and Sexual by virtue of having and showing so much cleavage, while in my mind i’m just delighting in how comfortable it is and how good i feel in it.. yeah, i’m not cis, yeah, i love looking pretty, fuck me, i guess.  my last girl told me once “holy shit, you’re like jessica rabbit” after i sent her some of my favorite chest-centric selfies. i’m not bad, i’m just drawn that way. i’m not a comic book heroine, i was just born that way. except also with a gut and no ass. life is full of compromise.