Abnormalities in the Eyes of Society

(TW: SA, SH)

 I think about my disabilities and disorders sometimes

Whether it be late at night when the only sound I can hear is the running of the fan or the snores of my partner

I reflect on them during the mid-morning rush to get ready

and I wonder if I can ever get better. 

I think about being overstimulated by multiple conversations going on

and how when music is a little too loud I tend to pick at my hands, 

or scratch at my scalp until it bleeds.

At least I do not mutilate my body in the ways I used to when I did not know how to respond to the things that overstimulate my brain.

I called my mother the other day and told her I had not done dishes in over a month, 

and how my partner could not keep up with them.

I told her it was hard to shower and brush my teeth because depression exhausts me to the point where getting out of bed is the hardest chore of the day. 

She said she had never experienced depression like that. 

I am torn apart because of a job interview I recently had, where I mentioned my anxiety, my depression, and my bipolar disorder,

 and the two women in front of me sighed before one of them said that is all they needed from me and that they would be in touch. 

I ponder about my sexual orientation, 

and how a woman from my church who is bisexual told me stories of women and men 'changing' their sexuality who now have a significant other of the opposite sex and have children. 

She speaks about a woman not loving her husband romantically,

and how although she is happy she feels as though she cannot speak to members of her same-sex because of her attraction. 

I ponder that same loneliness is the same one I feel when I am rudely awakened by my alarm when all my body wants to do is shut down during an episode.

I think of the queer community and the disabled community. 

How we are outcasts because of things we cannot control. 

I remember how society views these 'abnormalities' as if they are unable to be loved, appreciated, and understood. 

and I think of how sad society must be...

to outcast those who are different because of their bodies and minds not being able to work. 

Or their sexual identity that they have no control over. 

I wonder if it will ever change. 

Or if it even should. 

I question if my sexuality stems from the assault of my body right days after my sixteenth birthday.

Or if maybe it happened during the same occurrence with a different man at the age of seventeen.

Or yet again, if it was because of the 'friend' that fed me shots like they were the elixir of life until I could not remember him groping me until I felt pain coursing through the entirety of my body.

I thought it was in my head until I drove his roommate to his job at Arby's the next morning,

and he asked me if I remembered anything.

I shiver when I remember responding, knowing he watched and did nothing.

In reality, I know I was five when I knew I was not only attracted to men, 

but I still question if those moments in time had something to do with it.

I tell myself others have it worse than me because I finally finished the dishes yesterday afternoon,

 neglecting my homework during a manic episode because I could not focus. 

But none of us experience mental illness the same. 

None of us experience our sexuality the same. 

and none of us should be abused, abandoned, misunderstood because we all experience our lives differently. 

I wonder if it will ever change.

Or if it even should. 

A Poem About Being A Man

it's because I listened to hozier isn't it

I can see the bodies of greek gods reflect in your eyes when you're looking at me

telling me soft and gentle lies.

I could cry at the rubble of a fallen empire

choking on the dust of men who have left me in the dust—

I could never be the boy you dreamed of

and I wish I could tear the skin off my bones 

to be born your favorite.

If the universe swears I'm a man,

then why must I rip myself apart to fit the sighs of those who love them?

"Ringing in my Ears" A poem about being queer & PTSD

 When I close my eyes, I'm there again:

Those who gave me life throw slurs across the room

and they each hit harder and harder until the word

"unlovable"

buckles my knees and sends me falling.

And they haven't hit me in years but

my brain is scarred, forever marred,

with this ringing in my ears.

Or maybe I am there again:

Holding her hands and kissing her lips

but someone sees and chases after, shouting

"dykes"

and the words hit just as hard as before.

And I want to curl up and cry but

we stay on the run, hearts weighing a ton,

and the ringing in my ears.

Now I am offered an explanation:

Sitting in this chair

box of tissues on the table

"PTSD"

and somehow this word acts as a shield.

And sometimes I think it's crazy but

just as many people face battles so have I,

all the pain and the ringing in my ears.

When I open my eyes, I'm here again:

Fiancée by my side

they remind me

"I love you."

and for a moment I am healed.

We speak of queer, we speak of crip,

their intersection and how it emits--

They show themselves in me. 

Cripping Motherhood

Not until reading Alison Kafer's temporal definitions of crip did I recognize the crippling nature of motherhood. I also recently read a Buzzfeed article in which parents anonymously shared their experiences of being super unhappy as parents. Both notions, that motherhood is somehow crippling and that people could not like their children or could be unhappy in parenthood both feel taboo and dangerous realms. Yet there is value in cripping motherhood in that it expands crip theory and disrupts the binary of (dis)ability which rests comfortably, for the public at large, in the bookends of permanently able-bodied and (dis)able-bodied. 

Temporality

Kafer writes about how social and cultural definitions of (dis)ability hold a "normal" standard of temporality. In that standard, people are punctual and the future for those with (dis)abilities is one of desired ability or none at all. What's more prenatal screening techniques stigmatize (dis)ability by giving parents the eugenicky option to terminate the gestation of fetuses with Down syndrome and other genetic (dis)abilities. Finally, sterilization, institutionalization, etc. are used to prevent crip folx from passing on their "inferiority". Crip folx, in Kafer's view, live lives anchored in the anxieties and intricacies of scheduling everything including bathroom trips and meals, or "eating and sleeping and shitting- and the ways in which they shape our days" (Kafer, 2013, p. 39). In this temporal view of crip life, the bodily needs take center stage and, without great care, may cause people to be late or miss out on mainstream definitions of "normal" life. 

As I was lugging my reluctant toddler to the car and wrestling her into her car seat yesterday, I had a revelation. My front-loading language an hour ahead of our quick trip to the dollar store to buy her a balloon and bubbles, my conscientious scheduling of this trip in between meals and naps, my attention to whether she'd pooped or not, and so much more, ran parallel to the notion of temporality in crip theory. My life has been restrained and strained in the places where mothering interrupts normal attendance and where the mind is constantly focused on how to live in a time-driven world responsible for a human body that does not understand or respect time. 

Mental Health Impairments

As a new mother, I was almost literally rendered (dis)abled by the toll which sleepless nights take on the body and mind and my painful and terrifying anxiety that my baby might literally die due to my action or inaction. During the first few weeks of my child's life, I lost my shit completely. I am the type of person that truly needs at least eight hours of sleep every night. Waking up every 2 hours to feed, dealing with feelings of inadequacy and frustration around difficult breastfeeding, and living in constant terror over my every move caused me to break down. I remember sitting in the office of the lactation consultant with my sister-in-law, husband, baby, and consultant (not that I'm religious but God bless her). They all had this look on their faces of a mix between sad puppy dog and disappointed parent. I could tell in the reflection of me in their eyes that something was not right. I started, embarrassedly, crying. They reflected back to me that I was so used to being in control of every aspect of my life, including my sleeping. They reminded me that I once took joy in mealtime and that I now had no appetite. In the same breath, they cautioned me that I needed to be eating to care for my child both physically (through my breastmilk) and emotionally. I confessed to them that every time I breastfed I felt a pit in my stomach, a lump in my throat. As I write this, I'm having a physical memory of those moments. I felt guilty for crying while breastfeeding because I did not want my child's mirror neurons to pick up on my utter sadness. In that office, under the fluorescent hospital lights and the gazes filled with care and fear, I got permission to let my husband and his sister bottle feed my baby so I could get some sleep. I got permission to drink Gatorade and the push to talk to a therapist who specialized in post-partum care. 

As I write this, I recognize the innate medicalization of my experience which rendered my earliest post-partum days as crippling. In crip theory, the mere fact that motherhood was crippling to me through the recognition of my pain and sorrow by a medical expert (and now someone I consider a "soul sister") is not lost on me. 

Physical Impairments

The actual physical impairments, which rendered my body temporarily incapable of certain physical activities following (and during) pregnancy, labor, and delivery hold an important place in how motherhood has been crippling. Let's start with the fact that I am an avid athlete. My mental and physical health depend on my outdoor recreation. I bike, run, ski, snowboard, hike, play roller derby, and am generally happiest after a vigorous workout. Yet during pregnancy, I put on weight early on; experienced pelvic symphysis, which felt like my pelvic bones were separating (because they were...); had debilitating back pain; and a numb left thigh (damn that was uncomfortable). Following labor and delivery, I experience the worst upper back pain of my life from engorged breasts, breastfeeding, and bending over constantly to tend to my little one. You know those awesome baby carriers that are the best way to help your newborn nap? They were excruciating for me. Since my baby was born, it has taken me almost two years (and a breast reduction surgery) to lose all but five stubborn pounds of baby weight, get more comfortable running (although I still cannot go the long distances I enjoyed pre-baby), and regain the strength that I had before motherhood. 

Concluding Remarks

I would not trade motherhood for anything in the world. I am incredibly proud of what my body did and enamored with my child. My toddler walks, talks, has opinions, is assertive, and is super strong, agile, and daring. What this post reckons with is the notion that my life experiences, when considered through the lens of crip theory, allow me to draw parallels between the circumstances that deem certain bodies (dis)abled and other bodies abled. I cannot help but compare my own body to my fellow mothers. In a mountain town arguably obsessed with physical wellness, I feel like I am outside the norm in my bodily proportions. However unhealthy it may be, it is difficult to be satisfied with my body. Yet, writing this post provided me with important reflection on the ways in which my body is very abled and how temporary my own (dis)ability was. Even so, as I write this, my left arm has gone numb and my upper back screams for a stretch and a rub. 

D&D and queerness emerging

     In the last couple of years, namely 2018-2020, there has been a significant increase in both Tabletop Roleplay Game usage, as well as an increase of Queer-identifying people playing Dungeons and Dragons. In many ways, Dungeons and Dragons is an escapist tool meant to get away from daily life and live out your adventurous dreams in a fantasy world where you can be anything your imagination creates. With the recent growth of resources that open the gates for more people to have access to playing Dungeons and Dragons, among other tabletop roleplay games (TTRPG), there has been a surge of welcoming communities bent on creating a fun environment for new players of all creeds, colors, and backgrounds. with the growth, comes the inclusion of diversity. 

    In the early days of D&D, many saw the game as belonging to the straight white nerds of game stores and nerdy activities. It wasn't until recently we saw massive growth in not only player diversity, but as well as in-game character diversity. This was not by an accident by any realm of imagination. With the introduction of the game's 5th edition of the game by "Wizards of the coast", the players were exposed to new gender and sexuality devices that may have been inaccessible to the players in the years before. In some of the prewritten adventures, some of the main characters the players can interact with are identifying outside the human gender binary and go by they/them pronouns or even use androgynous terms for themselves. There are canonical characters that have sexual preferences and open the world for players to seduce, romance, and befriend characters of all kinds of definitions. 

    The ability to find games where one can feel welcome and allowed to express their gender or identity has also gotten more accessible. A new surge of online games and game platforms that allow the playing of TTRPGs has opened the door for queer folks to find games where they can play for a time, see how they feel, and even jump groups and sessions to find the playgroup they mesh the best with. At any time, one can take to the forums of the internet, the website Roll20, or discord chats, and find a game to play in. To incentivize a new player, many DMs (game controllers or "Dungeon Masters") will create accommodations to allow for play to change between sessions if need be or allow changes to character to make the player more comfortable. 

    Whatever you're seeking, Dungeons and Dragons has a group waiting out there for you to roll up a character and begin not only exploring a fantastical fantasy world but also explore yourself and how you express yourself through a character you create (maybe in your image).

"High Priority to Achieve Basic Equality"

This week, we explored how Wyoming's LGBTQ+ community lacks protection from discrimination. According to an article by WPR, the Human Rights Campaign says that Wyoming is a state that is a "High priority to achieve basic equality." The way Wyoming has treated its LGBTQ+ community has become famous-- or rather, infamous-- over the years. Whether it's conspiracy theories surrounding the death of Matthew Shepard or former Senator Enzi telling a high school student that a man wearing a tutu "gets what he deserves", the state has failed to live up to its motto of "equal rights" when it comes to its queer citizens. But how do these lack of protections impact the average queer Wyomingite?

For me, discrimination first reared its ugly head when I started working at my first job. I’d been working at the small gift shop in downtown Casper for about a week when it happened.  I was fifteen, excited to make some money on the side to help save up for college, hang out with friends, and go on a big trip my Girl Scout troop was planning.

The business was a mom-and-pop style shop. Wilson*, the owner, employed his nephew, Jack, an ex-con named Mark, and me. The four of us had varying schedules. On this particular day, it was just Wilson and me in the shop. It was a slow day; one that was highly uneventful for the most part. Wilson had gone upstairs to his office when the familiar chime above the door sounded. A couple of women were coming in.

“Welcome to Wyoming Shirt and Gift,” I said, confidently filling the role I’d been called forth to. “Are you looking for anything in particular today?” The ladies smiled and told me they weren’t. I let them know I was here to help. They went into one of the side rooms in the store and I continued doing some cleaning behind the counter.

The stairs groaned as Wilson made his way down. This business was his pride and joy. It made sense for him to want to take my training seriously and not quite trust a high schooler to run the show while he wasn’t around.

The women emerged from the side room holding hands and carrying some baby clothes. They seemed so happy. As a young lesbian who had been harassed after coming out and had told myself that I could never have a life as a queer person in Wyoming, just seeing this couple gave me a bit of hope. My heart felt lighter. I smiled and looked over at Wilson.

He was frowning.

The women came up to the register, paid, and left. Nothing eventful happened as I punched the numbers in the register and Wilson bagged up the items. We engaged in a bit of small talk, but everything that happened was normal. Average.

The door chimed again. The women had left. Immediately, Wilson went into a rage. He started talking about how gay people were ruining marriage and demanding special treatment from society.
“In fact,” he growled, “I would never hire a gay person. They don’t have the same work ethic as us normal people do.” He put his hand on my shoulder and the lightness in my heart turned into stone, sinking deep into my chest. I knew then that if I wanted to keep this job, I wouldn’t be able to tell anyone there who I really was.

I worked at that job for four years. Despite never coming out, I was still treated differently. Maybe it was because Jack was Wilson's nephew, or because I was a woman, but they always took it upon themselves to make me feel like an outcast despite being the most thorough worker in the building. I could not be, and would not be, appreciated at that job.

[*To protect the identities of those involved, all names have been changed.]

a poem about a couple of guys in the summer

Summer Kissed Questions

How I wish to float on my back upon waters just cold enough to soothe my sun gripped skin. In my head, I am not alone and it scares me as much as it would if I were standing in a dark hallway 

in a horror film.

What if I turn my head and you're there?

What if the sun were to shine on your skin too?

On us both?

What if you also feel the touch of the water as I do?

What if you could feel my touch between the waves?

What if our skin allowed us to simply be

and we became part of the world

as one?

Failure: From the Perspective of a Pessimist Coming Out Story

Sometimes the thought of failure drowns me. It eclipses any amount of passion that once circulated through the very veins of my existence. I think my fear of failure stems from my childhood, like most of ours does. What is it though, from my childhood experiences that make the aspect of failure so uncontrollably paralyzing? Is it the fact that I was overshadowed by an overachiever of a twin sibling? Or is it the remarks of my father that still bruise me today? Is it the experience of living with a mother who was kind and accepting of my sibling and I until someone who disagreed with our existence came around? I may never know.

I was never given the luxury of being an optimist. Throughout my life, I have always been a failure. I have learned how to perfect a fake smile and laugh in order to surround others with the comfort I never received. I have seen the breakage of a family. The loss of loved ones and the disapproval of the church. Halberstam states: "Relieved of the obligation to keep smiling through chemotherapy or bankruptcy, the negative thinker can use the experience of failure to confront the gross inequalities of everyday life in the United States" (pg. 3). But am I a negative thinker? in a lot of ways yes? I was raised to win. And whenever I lost, I was reminded that I was the child my parents never wanted.

Now, I am not looking for a pity party. I am just exercising my thoughts around the subject of how failure was presented to me in my youth. I know as a human being am not a failure in day-to-day life. I win, by taking a breath of air when I wake up in the morning. But I am also reminded, often time in the most dreadful moments of the day, that others see me as a tragedy. I know for my father, the moment he lost all hope in me is when I came out to him. Granted I probably chose the worst moment in the history of ever to tell him that I was not heterosexual. But nonetheless, I did.

I remember being in High School, and laughing around his living room, while he endlessly flipped through television channels. He landed on RuPaul’s Drag Race, and the room went quiet. He was a few drinks in and was feeling the burn of alcohol. I could tell by the way his face lit up like a firetruck as he muttered something having to do with the f-slur. His wife, my stepmother said nothing, and my twin clearly uncomfortable looked in my direction. I am not scared of confrontation. I reminded him that saying hateful things about people who are different is not an acceptable thing. Of course, it triggered an argument. He began to go on and on about how 'the gays' are a burden to society, and that they are all going to hell. Now, I have never known my father to be a religious man, so it shocked me that he would bring religion into it when I could count the number of times I have seen him step through a church's doors on one hand in my time of life. I laughed, which I think triggered him because I have my mother’s laugh. and after hearing him ramble on about others' lifestyles and his opinion on the subject I came out to him, angrily. I saw the five stages of grief pass through my fathers' eyes all at once. He launched upwards off of the couch screaming about how I was not his daughter anymore and walked outside to have a cigarette. I remember bursting into tears, as my sibling held me and my stepmother (who is always caring and considerate as long as my father is not around) saying he was just upset and that he would come around eventually. At this time, my sibling had also expressed to her, their identity in the LGBTQ+ community at a previous time. He did not. Which sucks. I remember the days after, being stuck in his home, hoping the days went by fast so I could return home to my mother. I was scared, upset, and overall, I felt like I had failed my father.

I am not scared to be this failure any more in his eyes. His opinions do not matter to me, nor should they ever mattered in the first place. I found my place in the world with friends who accept me. and I am not scared to be a failure to him or anyone anymore. My identity has nothing to do with failure, but it has everything to do with how others perceive me. Halberstam, later on in his text states: "some of us who have escaped our cages may start looking for ways back into the zoo, others may try to rebuild a sanctuary in the wild and a few fugitive types will actually insist on staying lost" (pg. 26). I never want to return to the cage in my father's zoo. I have built my own sanctuary here. With my partner, with my friends, even if far away in distant states in the US, and around the globe. I am a pessimist, but I have to say my community gives me optimistic tendencies. I do talk to my father, once every few months while he plays house with his new family. But I am reminded every single time that I am not the daughter he wanted to have. And quite frankly, I am perfectly fine with that because I am content with the situation I am in, even if it is not perfect. I still question myself, my existence, my sense of self, and my winnings and losses. But I am not going to let others dictate what makes me a loser. I get to decide that for myself.

I am a failure for other reasons, but my sexuality and my existence as a human is not one.

 I decided to write to this post in hopes there were more parents out there like me.  I, myself am straight, but my son is gay.  I have known this for most of his childhood.  It was just a matter of time for him to figure it out for himself.  When he reached high school, everything changed.  He was finally figuring out who he was and what he wanted to be.  

Being a parent of a gay son never came with an instruction manual.  And in turn, being gay never came with an instructions either.  We just had to figure it out as we went along.  He still hasn't been able to tell some of the family members how he feels in fear that they would disown him.  On his dad's side though (were divorced), they took the news and blew it way out of portion.  His dad rushes him to his preacher, trying to preach the gay out of him (I was so pissed).  This made him feel worse about himself.  He was already feeling like an outcast that this little stunt made things worse.    

But I had other plans for my son.  Not only is he gay, he enjoys putting on make-up.  On one of our trips to Wal-Mart he asked if he could get a couple things.  So, we put together one of his first make-up kits. With the help from his cousin who lives in Denver, they spent the day trying it out and experimenting.  I have never seen his so happy, and a better self-esteem.

I don't think of myself as a mother of a gay son.  I think of myself as a mother period.  I want my son to be happy and enjoy being who he wants to be.  But this world can be cruel, and it kills me that I can't protect him from everything that will cause him pain.  

The reason why, I took this Queer Theory course is because I wanted to understand.  There are so many things that I don't know, but I am willing to understand.

The only advice I would give to another parent is don't forget to Love.  Love who they are and who they are growing up to be.