The stories we tell matter.
I have a lot of complicated emotions surrounding the coverage of Leelah Alcorn’s suicide in the media. I’m not transgender, but I am queer and the child of conservative Christian parents who did not deal well with my coming out…. Read moreSurviving Abuse
Sometimes I think I could let myself off the hook more.
Maybe doing what I love can be enough.
Maybe I should stop worrying so much about whether what I’m doing is the most important thing I could possibly do, and worry more about if I feel alive.
I want to feel that joy and exuberance Julia Child felt when she graduated from cooking school, and again when her cookbook was published.
And if I was full of that joy, maybe I’d have the energy for something else, too.
I was bullied mercilessly growing up. It wasn’t until middle school when I was in class with the other smart kids that I started really having any friends. Having someone to defend me meant a lot, even though the teasing continued. Yes, I am smart. Yes, I am fat. Yes, I do have hairy legs. Yes, my accent was different from that of my classmates. The difference is that none of those things actually (should) impact my ability to be loved. None of those things make me an inherently bad person. And that is what no one ever told me when I was 12 years old.
Overall, life is going better for me. Being in therapy is making me realize how far I’ve come with developing coping mechanisms, and that’s positive. I am slowly creating the kind of life I want. Just more slowly than I thought.
I’m still not where I want to be creatively. It’s just hard to have the brain space to think about crafting performances when I work so much. And I have some creative people in my life, but I’m not surrounded by a creative community like I was when I was in school. It feels harder. I am rusty and less brave or willing to make mistakes as a result.
Last Friday night was perhaps the first time I’ve felt legitimately unsafe walking the streets of Austin since I moved here a little over a year ago. I wanted to attend a Halloween event at a queer-friendly bar downtown, and… Read moreThoughts on Street Harassment
I’m happy with some parts of my life right now, and I try to be grateful for what’s good in my life. But there are other areas where I’m very dissatisfied. I’m not trying to throw myself a pity party…. Read moreTrying to Make Sense of It All
I’ve watched this video before, where the narrator compares his depression to a black dog who follows him around. Mine feels more like an estranged relative who decides to drop by for a visit even when they know they’re unwelcome. I thought… Read moreMy Black Dog
I’ve been an emotional person for as long as I can remember. I’m more easily drawn to tears than others. When I feel a strong emotion, whether it’s anger, sadness, frustration, jealousy, disappointment, or even happiness, it all seems to… Read moreWhat to Do When You Feel Too Much
I know I cannot speak for everyone; perhaps some who attempt or complete suicide don’t care. All that follows is based on my own experience. But I feel it is important to break the silence in this instance, to come out against the myth that suicide equals not caring for one reason: I know I did. I wish I could express how deeply and profoundly it’s possible to care. I wish I had words for the guilt compounding already unbearable pain and desperation.
For those who are grieving over the loss of a loved one to suicide, I want to say I feel sure they loved you very much. I am sure the thought of you kept them going for many days, weeks, or months longer than they would have otherwise. They also knew you loved them, and there is nothing you could have said or done to stop them. But love isn’t always enough.
My depression, that is. Or that’s the only explanation I have for the way I’ve been feeling. Ever since I got back from Flipside I’ve been stressed and anxious. There was so much on my to-do list and not the… Read moreIt’s Back…