#therapy homework

[a-j-s-the-only]

you search for chaos because you don’t know how to sit in peace. You’ve never had the opportunity to rest.

-my therapist

[pinehutch]

When I say that I want to be evil

what I mean is I want to be powerful. What I mean is I want to be free.

Some weeks ago I spent more money than I should have on my first ever (ever!) two-piece swimsuit. You have to understand that as a child I was told I was fat, and as a teen I was told I was fat, and as an adult I've always been fat*, and you can't read your way out of the shame caused not strictly by the word but by its connotations.

(I know, because I've tried. I have been trying for almost twenty years. Looking for plus-sized fashion brought me to the digital 'fatosphere.' It made me a better person as I learned about another dimension of intersectionality and about power and oppression. It made me feel like I could wear clothing that I liked. It made me more informed about the diet and wellness industry. It's been over 20 years since I first read a critique of the BMI; it's been almost as long since I started wondering why gros/se in my close-second language didn't have the same (haha) weight to it as fat does, in my first.)

At the tail end of June, days long and scorching, I stepped into a two-piece swimsuit with a deep-v neckline and my whole midsection exposed and I spent the day in full view of dozens (hundreds?) of strangers. Cold, cold water on the joints; warm, soft pools for the evening. My hair got bigger and bigger. My neck and chest sunburned. My midriff stayed comically, blindingly pale, and everything else? It was lovely; it was fine. I rarely thought about my body, unless it was 'this feels nice' or 'my swimsuit is so pretty.' I took a selfie, even, though I deleted it. I was worried that posting it would count as thirst-trapping; shame has cored out and replaced so much of me. It was a good pic, though, and I wish I'd kept it.

What was true of me that day: I was a quite tall, very fat femme person whose feet swell with arthritis and whose hair takes up the entire frame and who's had cellulite since grade eight. What else was true: many people complimented my swimsuit. I looked out across the valleys and the mountains from the top of my almost-six-feet. I let my shoulders roll back and smiled at the sight of my bare skin gone blue-wavering-dappled beneath the surface. I stood tall. I made eye contact. I enjoyed delightful company, and let that enjoyment extend to the simple pleasure of having a body that felt fairly good, in garments I had chosen for the joy of it.

You can't read your way out of shame; it's only part of the equation. I didn't go swimming the next day with my family members, because I didn't want to feel them looking at my body and being disappointed that What A Beautiful Girl turned out like I did (though: if What A Beautiful Girl then why You Need To Watch What You Eat?). But for an entire day I felt like anyone else, gentle enough, good enough, in my skin.

It would have been good for me to swim with my family that weekend, because I'm finding that - as in all things - the practice is important. You can't read your way out of shame, not entirely, but in working with and through it there's maybe a chance to rewrite our stories.

There's a fallacy that I think a lot of us fall into, when we're trying to counter and challenge fatphobia, both culturally and in ourselves. It's the fallacy of the Good Fat. It's why I want to tell you about how two-pieces are maybe a better swimwear choice for me because of the drastic difference between my tits and hips vs my waist. It's why I wanted to post that selfie, so people could shoutycaps and fire emoji me on twitter. It's why I want to craft this post into a narrative where spending a single day mostly-unburdened by body shame has led to a hot girl summer, and I'm walking for miles every day and going to the pool four times a week. (I'm not. I still have a day job, and writing to do, and a physical disability, and the ol' depression. I'm more active than I was three months ago, and working to improve that, but still. It's not a lot.)

It is, simply, the same lie as we tell ourselves along so many different axes of marginalization: that as long as we are exceptional in a way equal and opposite to our marginalization, we'll be fine. It's the model that says you earn the right to exist fat and unashamed by being healthy, by being active, by being hot. Sorry my hip is squished against yours on the airplane; at least I've got a nice face and good hair and am well-dressed, wanna admire my hip-to-waist ratio about it?

There's no such thing as a Good Fat because we live in an inherently fatphobic world. I mean: airplane seats are too small for anyone average sized. I mean: 20 years ago I was a size 16/18 and couldn't fit into the newer lecture hall seats at my university without a lot of stress and embarrassment. I mean: I can't buy a compression sleeve for my arthritic joints at the drug store. If I ever needed to take Plan B, it might not work because I weigh (as do most adults of my acquaintance) more than 165lbs. You cannot be hot enough or active enough or well-dressed enough to escape from this; the only option is to be Not Fat.

But why on earth would we want to accept this? We know the system is fucked up and evil, and so: we want to be evil. Just a little bit, just enough. We want to be hot villains. We want to serve cunt and to be cunts. We want to nailcare emoji, fire emoji, crown emoji, and we want to take no prisoners unless it's between our thick thick thighs. Sit on their face; if they die, they die. It's fun and sexy, in a world where "everything is sex, except sex, which is power" to dig in and grab handfuls of what looks like empowerment, fuck the rest of it, get what makes you feel best.

It's a mirage; freedom doesn't live there.

Because of course fat people are hot. Fat bodies are desirable. Fat bodies are strong, sometimes, and athletic, sometimes, and powerful in whatever way you'd like to read that. That's true no matter what.

And yet (this will hurt) fat bodies are still (I'm sorry, I'm so sorry) not good enough. If the system is the problem, your individual empowerment is not the (whole) solution.

When I say that I want to be evil, what I mean is I want to be free. I want the strange rare days I've known I was desirable because I was desired, specifically and individually. I want the days where I grant myself dignity. I want the day where I lived peacefully in my mostly-naked body around hundreds of strangers, and went to bed happy.

Reading is input, it's taking in. I can't read my way all the way out of fatphobia, out of body shame because that's like trying to put out a forest fire 2000km away by throwing baking soda on your stove element. (Not harmful, but insufficient and misdirected.) It has been so helpful to know that other people wrestle with all of this, in ways that are more intelligent and expert than mine; it doesn't change material reality, though.

It's not the shame that's the problem, but where it comes from. It's not my internalized fatphobia or low self-worth or lack of body confidence that keeps people from life-saving medical care because their doctors were obsessed with their weight instead of their symptoms. My soft abdomen has never shamed a stranger on the internet, my calves (never in tall boots) haven't forced someone to buy a second seat.

Maybe it's time that I redefine what I mean when I say I want to be evil. I want to be a hot villain that was justified in their takedown of the status quo. I want to put a crown on every head. I want these thick thighs under me as I pull you into my lap and love you, and to use those fire emojis to make room for new growth.

I want us all at the pool together, celebrating as the sun sets.

*I'm using "fat" to here mean something like "size 16 US women's or larger," but there's no good definition

[johnfair]

Dear Christopher,

This is homework. For therapy. It sucks.

Sometimes I think it's a mistake letting you go.

You're the best parts of me and your mom and your Buck. But I don't think I like that you got running away from your problems from us

Shit examples

Fucking terrible role model

I failed you more times than I can count. Maybe it's better that you're far away from me. I drag down everyone with me But I try, and I won't stop trying. I just wish I wasn't so broken you deserve better than

I hope you're settling in okay with you abuelos. I missed you the second you left

It's

I miss you, kid.

I know you don't want to talk to me. And that's fine. You can be mad, and feel hurt, and you can hate my guts. You can hate me. I deserve it

More than anything else, kid, I love you. And nothing can change that.

Dad

[euthanarexia]

therapy homework done. these are called coping cards apparently and they're meant to be read when you're in distress to bring yourself back to a more positive or at least neutral state of mind. all backgrounds are from unsplash and the words are from @cryptonature's books, all of which i own and make me feel better (can't wait for "something in the woods loves you"). feel free to use them if they can help. and also make sure to check more of jared's work.

[toalloftheboysivelovedbefore]

My J.D.B.,

I love you.

It was the start and the end of everything, so it only feels right to start her by reminding you of that fact, in case you ever foolishly forget. I miss you. With as much of my heart that a human is capable of missing another human. I miss you. I carry you with me, everywhere, with all that I am.

To live this life without you is to have a little less color in it. You always loved color, so I suppose it is only fitting that you took some with you. You always laughed at my love of neutral earth tones, but that was why our pieces fit together. You brought color into my life and I grounded you in yours. There are remnants of the colors you took, like watercolors bled onto the edges of a page. Not there purposefully, but spilling over from a work of art.

I know that you didn't want to leave. I didn't want you to. I wanted time with you -- so much more time. The weight of unlived plans is a heavy burden to shoulder. We only got two years together in this life. I hope that we find each other earlier in our lives next time. I hope we spend every minute of it together, and that we never take the time for granted. I hope we spend our days reading together, spending time in nature, and going on adventures. I hope that I can draw you because you sit before me and not from memory or a photograph. I hope we spend our nights with soft kissing, you wrapped around me, my octopus; me wrapped around you, your pretzel.

The last night that I had with you was beautiful and we did just that. You peppered me with soft kisses and I did the same. You held me closer than I think you ever had. When I woke up, you were gone, and my life has been irrevocably changed in so many ways.

To love you was to find a piece of myself I didn't know that I was missing. "Ah. There you are. I've been looking for you." You returned that piece to me when we met and took it again when you left. I wish on every 11:11 that we had a different ending. You always promised me that I could die first. I wanted to hold you to that promise.

The boys miss you too. Arlo lays at the door most nights, looking out into the darkness. He never used to do that before you. He won't let me shower without being in the bathroom with me. I think that he feels my pain and he carries your absence as much as I do.

I look for you everywhere, in everything that I do. I see you in the trees, in the bookshops, in every pair of blue eyes that I find. All the things that drove me crazy, all of the bad puns and dad jokes, all of the movies and television shows that I never wanted to watch, I would give anything to have them back.

I miss dancing in the living room with you. I miss reading to you and you reading to me. I miss showing you my writings. I miss you telling me that you are proud of me. I miss showing you music and dramatically singing Tina Turner to you. I miss the face you would make when I was being ridiculous and silly -- the slight shake of the head, the crinkle of the crow's feet, the smile that isn't sure if it wants to make an appearance or if it wants to turn into a laugh. I miss picking you out gifts at Target and leaving them on your side of the bed to find. I miss writing in cards to you just so you knew I was thinking about you. I miss showering with you, our little dance squeezing by each other and arguing about the temperature of the water. I miss out routine when we were going to bed. I miss crawling into your arms and falling asleep to you rubbing circles on my back. I never felt safer or more at ease than I did in those moments. I miss you reaching over and pulling me close to you in the darkness when the nightmares woke me crying or yelling out, again. I miss our coffee in the mornings and your determination to perfect a vanilla latte for me. I miss the smell of you. I miss washing our clothes together. I miss cooking for you and sending you to work with lunches. I miss getting our pizza and salad and watching a movie together. I miss you bringing me chocolate from Sprouts and watching with delight as I picked out my favorites. I miss your parents. I miss the smell of their house. I miss combing through the books in your dad's office. I miss your mom and making iced tea and I miss her garden and the bees. I miss wrapping my arms around you and clutching the back of your head and playing with your hair. I miss kissing you like we were made to do so. I miss the way our bodies fit together, like we were cut from the same mold, desperate to find each other. I miss our date nights and getting dressed up with you. I miss the joy in your face when I ate something I loved and did a little happy dance. I miss running errands with you. I miss you being my rock in Costco. I miss you pushing the cart while I stressed over the grocery list. I miss walking laps around Target, window shopping and talking. I miss calling each other on our drives home -- it's too damn quiet now. I miss calling you to complain about my family and how crazy they're driving me. I miss dreaming about creating a family of our own, about how much you wanted a daughter simply so she could wrap you around her finger and you could spoil her rotten. I miss dreaming about giving you a boy to carry your name on. With all that I am, I miss you, my love.

I would give everything for a different ending for us. I would give anything to touch you one more time. I wish we had more time to grow together and learn from one another. I love you in ways I am not sure I knew I could love someone. "We loved with a love that was more than love."

You will always carry me with you, just as I know I carry you. I've never known anyone more beautiful than you. Yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen.

I don't know how to end this. I don't want to end this. I want to spend the rest of my life writing you this letter and telling you how much I adore you and all the things I miss about you and about all the plans we made. Time was never on our side. If I could, I would go to war against time itself to take back all that it stole from us.

I will find you again. I will search for you in the eyes of every stranger until I feel that familiar tug on my soul strings. "Ah. There you are."

With all that I am, all that I was, and all that I could ever hope to be, I love you. Eternally. Endlessly. Infinitely. Irrevocably. Until my last breath, you carry me in your heart.

Until I find you again, Your Sunshine

[hersurvival]

Look at her, 8 years old

With her hair chopped off

Rather than be taught to take care of it.

Old enough to watch the two younger kids

And sometimes the neighbors

But not quite old enough to make dinner yet,

Not yet expected to keep anything alive.

That would come at 10,

Full swing by 14.

By then, I was skipping school to drive them

To appointments in the city,

Not even old enough for a permit.

Woken up early by frantic phone calls

To go find and pick up my parents.

[valentijnsstuff]

There are not just 2, or 3, but at least 4 wolves inside of me. And at least 2 of them are horny

[write-feel-live-love]

Therapy Homework

My therapist recently decided to enlighten me that I've had depression for 6 years. I had done an amazing job hiding it with my anxiety disorder, but now that that particular disorder is being handled, depression has reared it's head. Yay.

We've been discussing it in my sessions and she decided to give me some homework (I'm a school nerd. I love homework. Actual yay!)

I have to rewrite the ending of Inside Out, but from MY emotions perspective. In my therapist's words: "How SHOULD the movie have ended from your perspective?"

So here goes....

"Guys... we can't make Riley feel....anything."

Anger, Disgust, and Fear stood frozen in sheer terror at what they had done. With Joy and Sadness out of the picture, they had ruined Riley. She stared out the bus window not even seeing her own reflection. Empty. Feeling nothing. Thinking nothing. Just running. Running from the life she had in San Francisco and hopefully Home, to where she was happy. She had friends there, her family was happiest there, her whole life was there. It was stupid to move out here anyway. It was time to go home.

But would anything really change? Mom and Dad would still be Mom and Dad. Her best friend would still have a new best friend. Where would that leave her?

Where does that leave her now?

"Stop the bus! I want to get off!" Thank the heavens Joy and Sadness were able to reverse the damage. But there was still a problem. Sadness has been put in a box. Riley had no idea what this emotion was, or how to handle it. She'd been sad before, but this.... This was different. This sadness demanded time. Time Riley didn't want to take. Time that her Mom and Dad didn't want to take.

"You're always our sweet, happy girl. Thank you Riley."

That's what Mom had said that night. When they were sad, or stressed, they depended on her. She couldn't let Sadness hurt her family. That wasn't her role to play. Her role was to keep every one happy. And happiness brings happiness. Right?

She walked into her home, and her parents nearly tackled her to the floor. And as their love sunk in, Sadness looked at her yellow friend. With a small, sad nod from Joy, Sadness approached the console.

Shiny tears welled in Riley's eyes. The battle was lost, and Joy had let go of control. She silently begged for Anger to take control, Disgust, even Fear! But they knew this was one emotion she had to learn to cope with. They all took an agonizing step backwards away from the console and watched Riley start to cry in her parents' arms.

She explained what had happened. How she missed home. How she thought going home would fix it. She explained that the years of being the "happy one" had finally taken its toll. As she let her dark truths pour out, something started to happen. Sadness glanced back at Joy, and rushed to her new found friend.

Joy had started to go dim. Against all rational thought, Joy was burning out. She'd been going so strong, for so long, that she was burning out. They all managed to wrangle her into her room to let her rest, and all of the manuals said she would be fine. Joy cannot permanently burn out, but she could fade for longer if she didn't rest.

Even Joy couldn't find the bright spot in this situation.....and neither could Riley.

Her parents did what they could, adjusted expectations, took her to get help, but Joy wasn't getting any better.

Sadness, however, was almost happy. She finally got to meet Riley. She got to really understand her and bond with her in a way she never could with Joy around. And while sometimes things went a little too far, Fear was always there to step in to stop Riley from going too deep into Sadness.

This went on for some time. Occasionally, Joy thought she was improving and would come out to the console, but it never lasted long. Her light would dim, and she'd have to go back to bed.

Anger, Disgust, and Fear all took turns helping Sadness so there weren't even more emotions out of commission, but that didn't always end well either.

Riley was stuck. And so was Joy.

And that's a wrap for tonight. I'm gonna go cuddle up with some nonfiction to shake that off. Happiness Project, here I come!

Goodnight void.

[lastsecondsquirrel]

Today's therapy homework was go to the grocery store and buy something and I did it and I'm back at home still arguing with myself about whether or not my entire existence was and is embarrassing and a failure

I did the homework I did the homework I did the homework I did the homework I did the homework and that means I did a good job I did a good fucking job

I'm exhausted

[sad-poets-society]

[olameni]

My therapist advised me to start a journal or scrapbook to work through some grief I’ve not been dealing with.

I think I’ve found the appropriate medium

[sorryimnotsoberanymore]

Speaking up.

It's never gotten me anywhere. Well, if I knew how to do it, it might.

My head is full of conversation. Come backs, opinions, corrections, anything that could cause an argument.

It stays inside. I wouldn't be able to face the response. The reaction. The rejection.

I keep it all inside. Wrapped in a bow. "Problems I have, that I will never tell you."

I mean it when I say I'd rather die that disappoint you. Upset you. Lose you.

Dying is non confrontational, you know.

The things vary between childish things like "you're wrong", or "that's dumb" and "You have hurt me irrevocably" or "The things you say make me feel like I am worthless"

I dont pick fights. I don't join fights. I don't finish fights.

I apologize for things I didn't do. I do things I never wanted to do. I make allowances because I couldn't handle the thought of someone agreeing that you are in the wrong and I need to say or do something.

I dont say anything. I do everything. I have to keep you happy. I have to keep you safe. I have to keep you here. I have to keep you.

But here. In words that will never be read. I need to tell you that the way your mood changes truly scares me. The way I react scares me more.

Things have gone from good to bad to better to worse to sickness to health. Til death do us part sounds like a record to set some days.

You make me feel like the only person in the world. Flying high. 100 feet tall. All it takes is a tone change, a face, and sentence that sounds like it came from the lips of my father, not my husband. And I'm no longer flying.

I'm crashing. I'm falling so fast into the dark place that I can't get out of and you don't even know it exists.

I'm lonely in the bed next to you. I walk barefoot on glass you didn't even break. I accept what I get because I don't want different or better, I just want you.

I'm terrified of getting better because then I will have to acknowledge that you have to get better too.

And if I tell you that you need to be better, then I am telling you you are not enough. And that means I have to admit that sometimes, you aren't.

And where does that leave me?

Everything I do revolves around you. How you'd react. How you'd respond. If you'd leave. I'd hurt forever if it meant you'd stay.

Maddie says "You could break my heart and I'd say thank you. At least that means you think of me in some virtue. I know it sounds reckless that I put myself in danger. Rather let you hurt me than love another stranger. You could burn my house down, don't know what for and all I'd be is grateful you're back at my door."

Listening to her, I realized that not only was it true, but I didn't have a problem with feeling that way.

You wouldn't want me to. The therapist definitely wouldn't want me to. All I want is you.

So I stay quiet.

[makomaki5]

Did hw since 8am today….I wanna fall onto my face.

[cathedral-spires]

Therapist: Try letting people do nice things for you. People want to do nice things for you because they like it.

Me: But what if there's an ulterior motive or they hold it---

Therapist: *Mmmmorgan, No~* We are going to challenge these thoughts.

Me: o ^ o ... okie.

[toalloftheboysivelovedbefore]

Graveside Letters #3 J.D.B.

October 21, 2024

My Most Darling Love,

It rained on Saturday. Not just a drizzle. Huge, torrential downpours that made going to see patients and driving to Bernalillo somewhat difficult. I took Arlo out first thing it the morning and my hair was completely stuck to my head and face in the few short moments I was out there. It reminded me of that photo on your phone that you had of me, completely rain soaked with a shit-eating grin on my face.

I miss smiling for you — is that weird to say? There was a smile inside of me that only you could bring out. I had no control over it or my face when I saw you. Whether it was walking out of the elevators at work to see you in the waiting room with a cup of coffee or losing you momentarily at the store and then finding you again. It didn’t matter how long we had been apart, when I saw you again, I lost all control of my facial muscles and a massive smile crept across my face.

I miss that smile. I don’t know if I will ever have it again. Maybe I buried it with you. I miss you. I love you.

All my love,

Your Sunshine

[olameni]

Yes. But as i often have to remind myself safety at the cost of one's purpose is an untenable sacrifice.

Glen Martin Taylor, “but i am safe in here.”