grief for who you were, and who you might've been

 I am writing this because I am depressed and hopeless and sad.

I have no idea what I'm going to write. I just need to write something. I need to eject all these thoughts and feelings into some format, and these days writing is the only thing I can still do.

I may post this, or I may not. Who knows. I haven't exactly kept up with this blog that last few years. I want to get in the habit of writing more, whether it's blog posts or short stories or working on my scifi novel I started when I was ten. I can't dance anymore and I can't play my harp anymore and I just need some kind of outlet.

If you don't know, I've been in debilitating pain for over a year now. I've always experience pain, but in the past I wrote it off as dance injuries or that it was normal or that I was just plain weak. But in 2020 it suddenly got much, much worse and spread to new places and before I knew it I couldn't use silverware and had to use both hands to hold a book. My knees and ankles have become bad enough to where I use a cane (that I luckily bought from a thrift store years ago for a burlesque routine) to get around the apartment. I almost constantly wear braces on my elbows and compression gloves and often add my knee braces to the mix. I even went to the doctor (I hate doctors) and obediently went to specialist after specialist. No one could ever give me a real diagnosis, and no one seemed too concerned about the whole ordeal.

I'm still hoping and fighting for answers, but in the meantime there's an awful lot of waiting and pain. Turns out medical mysteries aren't like on House - where a highly trained team of professionals spend hours on your case trying to figure out the problem.

I never liked House very much. I didn't see what was so funny about a doctor being mean to patients and coworkers. My dad loved the show, appreciated how House treated "dumb idiots." Of course, my dad also likes the word libtard.

I've been sent to an arm specialist, an occupational therapist, a nerve study, a sleep clinic, and a mental health therapist who specializes in chronic pain. I finally asked to see a rheumatologist who I'll see next week.

Throughout all of this I've only gotten more depressed, and I've been unable to do any of the things that used to bring me joy - as well as the things that earned me money. Poor, depressed, and in pain is not a great combo, let me tell you.

Even if I finally get a diagnosis, if I finally get treatment, if I ever start feeling better and can function again... I know I'll still be depressed. I've been depressed my whole life and no one has ever been able to give me any kind of hope. Maybe I'm not trying hard enough. Maybe I'm just a dumb idiot patient in the world of House.

I feel like I'm constantly grieving something. All of my grandparents who died in the last five years. My dance mentor when I was growing up. Friends and family who don't talk to me anymore. Who I used to be before the pain settled in. Who I could've been if I had just been better.

I don't have a lot of experience with grief - most of the people I've loved who have died were old and had lived a long and fulfilling life. Sometimes I still get overwhelmed by memories, but in the end I can accept that they have moved on. But, selfishly perhaps, grieving for yourself never seems to stop. I'm still young. I haven't done anything great or made an impact on anyone's life. I'm not even dead. I'm just different, changed against my will. Desperately trying to find enough hope to keep going, to find some purpose, something greater than reading as many books as possible despite repeatedly being unable to concentrate on a book.

I used to be a little prideful of my hands. People said I had musician hands - long, slender fingers that precisely pressed keys, strummed guitar strings, and plucked melodies from a harp. I could express emotions through a simple port de bras in ballet, sending energy out of my fingertips to the farthest seat in the balcony.

Now my fingers are swollen. My pinkies are crooked, bending in unnatural directions. When I try to write by hand the words are illegible. When I try to type I have to constantly go back and correct typos because my accuracy has diminished. I'm afraid to try to play my harp. When at rest my fingers naturally curl into claws befitting an old wizened crone. 

I have nothing against old wizened crones. I've often had fantasies about being a little old person with an expansive library and multiple photo albums dedicated to every cat I've ever befriended. Of having a complete matching tea set to offer to guests and to invite them to browse my library and read whatever they like.

I just didn't plan on becoming that at 27.

My Blood Moon and Isolation

TW: depression, suicidal ideations

Sometimes I feel like I don't speak the same language as everyone else.

It's not just that I don't understand a lot of references and inside jokes. I'm pretty bad at watching TV and movies and absorbing pop culture in general and I'll often panic and pretend to understand a reference I actually don't. Or I'll just look at my phone because I'm only sort of involved in the conversation anyway.

Often people will say very simple things and I just don't understand it for several seconds, or minutes, or hours. Sometimes I will respond automatically and even as I'm saying the words, my panic will rise because what I'm verbally saying isn't actually what I wanted to say. Or as I'm speaking, I realize they were actually talking about something else and now I'm just making a fool out of myself.

Since finishing grad school, my mental health has dramatically improved. I haven't been depressed and anxious every moment of every day and I've been able to actually enjoy things again. It's not just that I have time to do things - I actually have the emotional ability to enjoy them again as well. But what has also come with the end of grad school is a crushing loneliness.

I didn't really have any real friends in grad school, but I was around people often enough to where it sometimes felt like I did. I saw the same people on a regular basis and we had conversations and got along. But then it ended and I stopped seeing those people. I stopped seeing anyone.

I don't know how to make friends. It seems like people around me just become besties simply by being around each other. They seem to speak to the same language. And I sit at the edge of the room, watching and not really understanding what is happening and unable to figure out how to do it myself.

Unfortunately I possess a uterus and currently it's the blood moon. (Usually) the physical pain is nothing compared to the emotional craziness that happens for the week. All emotions, positive and negative, get amplified. My rare bouts of positivity go into full blown manic episodes while my default depression becomes a severe, inescapable despair. My casual suicidal ideations become frequent temptations as my brain gives me all these reasons for it being a good idea. My loneliness makes me further isolate myself because I'm convinced no one wants me around.

My periods scare me and it's gotten to the point where I have to schedule around them (they've gotten more regular as I've gotten older, so I guess that's convenient). No, I can't work an extra shift that week, I'll be trying to convince myself not to drink a bottle of nyquil. No, I can't finish that routine in time for the show, I won't be able to believe anyone would want to see my body. I have to make sure to finish this project by this date, otherwise I'll decide it (and everything else I've ever created) is trash and I'll destroy it.

I feel like I feed into the stereotype of the emotional, uncontrollable woman (not identifying as a woman is beside the point for the moment). I don't like using my period as an excuse because I don't want to feed that stereotype and make it seem like women (and all those who have periods) are unstable because of their periods.

But I am.

And instead of attacking myself for being an unstable disaster, I try to place the blame on my period. No, it's not that everyone hates you, it's that you're on your period and are extra sensitive. It's not that your insignificant, it's that you're on your period. It's not that you can't do anything right, it's that you're on your period. It's not that you're alone...somehow that must be your period's fault too.

I feel obligated to be positive when I write blog posts. To find hope and bring hope to others. To have a point, or a moral, or a life lesson, or an inspiration. I don't want blog posts to be a cry for help or attention. It makes me feel needy and wimpy. Like I can't actually talk to anyone, but here's a blog post talking about how I can't talk to anyone and maybe someone will talk to me instead? Because now that I've written this, if anyone tries to talk to me I'll assume it's because they read this post and are pitying me or feel guilty for not talking to me or some other shit. Or no one will talk to me and I'll feel more alone than ever with the added shitty feeling of being an attention-seeking fool.

Or maybe I just won't publish the post. I've been doing that more and more lately.

Am I censoring myself? Keeping myself from posting things I'll regret? Or am I just isolating myself even more?

Does publishing posts about how miserable I am actually do anything positive in the world? Do they help anyone? Do they even help myself?

I guess I write them because I have no one else to talk to. I write them when I feel overwhelmed and desperate but I know my friends also have a lot going on - or I'm just plain tired of whining to them about how I'm a sad boi. Or I expect them to internally sigh and say, "Ah, they're on their period again."

But it being my period doesn't change the reality of what I experience. It does not make the pain any less valid. It does not make the despair any less crushing. It does not make the suicidal ideations any less dangerous.

And yet you'd think that one could find some way to deal with it after experiencing it for seven days straight every month. But it seems to get harder, not easier.

One day I'd like to write a blog post when I'm having a good day and I'm happy and full of life and joy and excitement. But on those (rare) days I'm too busy off enjoying my life to sit down and write about it.

Thanks for sticking with me through my self-centered whininess. I hope you're doing well. Drink some water and try to get enough sleep and remember to eat something.

--Dexter

First Year of Graduate School

After my freshman year of undergrad, I wrote a handy first year guide. Looking back at it, it's kind of funny because they all apply to my first year of grad school too.

I'm tempted to say that my first year of grad school was even more of a train wreck than my first year of undergrad, but that might not be true. They may be equal.

First of all, I hate Florida. I hated Mississippi the first year too, but I really just hate Florida. It's hot, it's rainy, there's a ton of half naked undergrads who don't know how to drive (LITERALLY I cannot believe how people drive here), the pollen is awful, and there's no parking anywhere. It does, however, have a lot of cool thrift stores and coffee shops and bars. I can't speak on the public library, BECAUSE THERE'S NO FREE PARKING FOR IT.

Anyway.

School.

There are a lot of parts I do like about school. I love the readings, I love the discussions. I love my thesis (usually), and I'm actually excited about what I'm doing. But there's so much more outside of all of those things that I hate and don't know how to do or just can't do correctly. It feels like everyone expects me to know how to do a lot of things already, but I don't.

Also, suddenly everything is written in Chicago style instead of MLA? Why did I spend four years memorizing every detail of MLA if no one uses it in grad school????

I've been thinking that maybe I'm not suited to grad school, but I'm halfway done now and in plenty of debt already so why not just get her done, y'know? My brain can't really handle it, I don't think. I'm constantly confused and I suddenly find it difficult to focus on four different final projects, and I feel like I haven't always had that problem. I used to be able to write twenty pages on something I didn't care about, but now for some reason it feels impossible.

I don't really know who I've become this past year. I've done really shitty work, missing some assignments completely just because I somehow forgot about them or got confused or couldn't keep track of the weekly syllabus changes.

Growing up I hated asking questions in class because I thought I should already know the answer, and usually I could go find the answer myself instead of having to ask. Even in undergrad, I could usually get away with it, though I did get better at asking questions. Now, all the questions I have can't be looked up. I can't google which syllabus is correct, I can't google the exact parameters of an assignment, I can't google how exactly the inner workings of the school function. So I tried asking questions. And it feels like every other question is met with disgust and awe of my ignorance. Or I need to check the syllabus. Which I already have, but am still confused.

It's also very hard to make friends in grad school. I don't know why. I honestly don't know how I made friends in undergrad or at any point in my life. But I don't see anyone outside of classes, so I know virtually no one who isn't an FSU grad dance student. But they all quickly formed friend groups and found besties and now I'm like, awkwardly part of some friend circles but not enough to actually do anything with them.

I'm used to that. But it's still hard.

And it's really really hard to have a shitty year and not have anyone there with you.

At the end of the first semester, my beloved car finally died. I spent several weeks with no mode of transportation and walked a few miles to campus every day. Okay, I know that's not that bad and now I'm really just showing what a wimp I am. But seriously, my body is falling apart. I'm depressed all the time so I'm already exhausted and low on motivation. And it's fucking hot outside. But it wasn't as bad as it could've been.

With an amazing stroke of luck that is absolutely unheard of for me, my grandfather gave me one of their old cars that's just been sitting in the yard for years. It's super old and doesn't run great, but I love it. It's an awesome little car.

Then, I got the stomach flu the last week of classes and felt like I was actually dying. AND THEN the flu left me with an intolerance for lactose.

Guys, I fucking love cheese.

I accidentally had some cream cheese and seriously nearly died.

But that semester did finally end, with an awesome little car and lactose intolerance..

Second semester was an absolute disaster. I almost failed one class and I'm not sure why I didn't fail one of the other ones. It felt like I couldn't do anything right, which just made me lose any motivation to do anything well. I just got more and more depressed and more and more anxious.

No, part of that definitely was my fault. Since moving to Florida, I have been pretty bad at regularly taking my medication. See, one symptom of anxiety is gagging in the morning. Literally every morning, I gag half a dozen times. I also reflexively gag almost every time I enter a bathroom.

Now, one of my daily pills tastes absolutely awful and dissolves really fast, so the taste just gets worse and worse and stays in your mouth for ages if you don't get it down fast. But sometimes I can't, because I start gagging before I even try to swallow. I have to hold my hand over my mouth, and sometimes it still doesn't work and I have to spit it out and at that point I can't face trying another pill and potentially wasting it. So the more anxious I get, the worse I gag, and the harder it is to take my medication, so I get more anxious, etc. etc. It's a great loop I have going.

I could also talk at length about my roommates and everything they do to make my life miserable, but I'll save that for a fun table book or something.

This past semester I did get to go to a conference in Indianapolis and present some of my own research, and that was pretty cool. I do love conferences. Except for the people who said, "Wait, you're a dancer but you don't like people?" and "You can't be a teacher if you don't like people!" and "One day you'll just have to get over it." Like, thanks tech guys who know nothing about me or my area of work. I just asked you to fix my nametag, but thanks for also telling me I'm a failure and can't do anything (I could write another fun table book about all the people who have told me I can't be a dancer and/or a teacher because I'm too shy, anxious, introverted, etc.).

The last week of classes, I was seriously considering taking myself to the emergency room. I was beyond stressed, super anxious, super depressed, and I had no one to talk to. However, my roommates were downstairs having a party, so I wasn't about to walk by them in hysterics to go to the emergency room, with no idea of what would happen if I got there.

When school finally ended (half a week after finals), a huge weight passed of my shoulders.

This last semester definitely turned me into someone I don't want to be. I don't want to turn in shitty work and I don't want to miss assignments and I don't want to disappoint professors or anyone. The stress also made me a really shitty partner to my boyfriend, and our relationship got super strained for a while. I was constantly having a crisis (which, let's be honest, isn't that unusual for me), and it was affecting more than just my schoolwork.

So... now what? I'll be working on my thesis all summer and would like to get some kind of job, but I don't have a lot of expectations there. Grad school has severely lowered my self esteem when it comes to me being capable of doing any kind of job.

But then school will start back in the fall. Will this whole cycle start over? I like to think it won't, because I'll be taking different classes and should be spending more time on my thesis and on stuff I care about. But I think I said that about grad school in general. That's what people told me about grad school.

I'm going to try to see FSU's student counselling, which is apparently free. Maybe I can get that sorted out of the summer or something. But I really, really hate therapists. I have had incredibly bad experiences with them.

I originally wanted to go straight to PhD land after grad school, but now I don't know. For one thing, I don't think I could do all the applications and take the GRE while still finishing my MA. Plus, I just don't know if I can do PhD school anymore. I still want to teach at a university level, so I'm required to have a PhD (not just an MA), but I really just don't think I'm good enough anymore.

I felt very supported and loved during undergrad. Maybe I'm romanticizing it, but it's at least partly true. I had professors who supported me, other people who supported me, an actually decent roommate. At FSU, it feels like I have...nothing. That's one reason why I want a job, to just get out of FSU.

I'm not trying to shit on FSU or anything. It's a great school and a great dance department. I'm just not so sure that I fit in or belong.

Sorry for the crazy long post, but oh well.
--Dexter

On the Female Aesthetic (Pubic Hair)

I am writing this while drunk. So consider that while reading. To me, this means that it is more honest than I normally am, rather than being more ridiculous than I normally am. Or maybe it's a bit of both? Maybe they go together more than I, and most people and situations, realize.

I'm also writing this while waiting for a video game's population to expand and therefore level me up and therefore make it easier to beat a boss. So I guess that's an important factor too.

There are so many factors to everything. It's pretty amazing, really. I think about it a lot; there's really no way to account for every factor of life when considering the outcome.

Disclaimer: I may go over this when I'm sober before publishing. I would publish it immediately, but I have no internet at the moment. So take this to mean that I am brutally and shamelessly honest in this moment.

Note to self and readers: any modifications will be to spelling and for clarity's sake, not to hide or modify my thoughts or beliefs.

I've been thinking about pubic hair. There's no delicate way to say it.

Why does it seem so embarrassing? So shameful?

Like, it's normal. Pubic hair is normal. Everyone has it.

Some people choose to get rid of it. That's fine, you do you.

As long as you aren't getting rid of it for someone else.

My first boyfriend (my ex-fiance) was constantly pressuring me to completely shave my vagina and pelvic region. So much to where I considered shaving it for a birthday present for him. I never did, because I really couldn't stand the thought of actually doing it. I trim, I adjust, I shave enough to wear I can actually wear shorts or a leotard and tights without feeling self conscious, but heck no am I gonna shave my entire pubic region. Especially not for a boy.

Like, ew. And ouch. I know some people do, and that's totally fine if you want to. I'm still slightly confused as to how you can even do that without hurting yourself. I can't even shave my legs without making it uncomfortable or itchy or sensitive for a day or two. Admittedly, it's not like I pay enough attention to really do it "correctly." I only do it because I physically can't stand the sensation of prickles while trying to sleep. It's a sensory thing due to my slight autism rather than a need to appeal to the opposite sex, or to appear "sexy" in any way.

But that's in regard to leg hair.

Pubic hair, however.

It's way more complicated to shave.

It's way more likely to result in an injury (however slight).

It has no result in my sensory obsession of prickles and physical sensation.

I am moderately self conscious when it comes to sex if I don't shave around my pubic area, but not enough to where I go out of my way. Shaving is a chore, man. Razors are expensive. They really don't last forever, no matter what my cheap mind says. People say you should switch them out once a week. Fuck that, man. Like, maybe once a month.

Well, it doesn't help that I keep losing or breaking the main part of the razor. I started buying disposable razors cause I got tired of telling me mom that I lost or broke the main part of the razor and needed not only new blades but a new main part as well.

Plus, after reading this, she may not give me any new razor parts at all because it does kind of imply that I have sex on a semi regular basis (and sex is of the devil). Even though I don't, because I'm asexual. Even though I kind of wish I did, cause my boyfriend is allosexual. He doesn't pressure me, of course (cause he's great).

Anyway.

Pubic hair.

Why is it considered so ugly? Unattractive? Unfeminine?

I should do more research on it (when I have wifi and when I'm sober), but from what I've heard pubic hair is actually pretty healthy and hygienic. I mean, as long as you yourself are also healthy and hygienic. Speaking from experience, too much shaving in any area results in itchiness, discomfort, bleeding/scabs, ingrown hairs, etc.

(I just leveled up in this video game, which proves that my patience for population growth has paid off)

I started shaving part of my pubic hair because of my first boyfriend/ex-fiance, because I thought that was what I should look like, behave like, be like. It didn't help that in ballet class I was forced to wear a black leotard and pink tights that made my very dark pubic hair all too visible when I did an arabesque or a penche or anything. I was so self-conscious about it that it did indeed influence my dancing, not only making me a less skilled dancer but also making it so that I didn't enjoy it myself. I was too self-conscious about the other dancers seeing the hair peek out of my leotard, about my (male) teacher noticing, about the other girls mentally criticizing me for not being "feminine" enough.

If I could tell my high school self anything, i'd say, "fuck them. Be you." In reality, there's a high probability that even if anyone noticed my pubic hair, they didn't care.

Yes, I have very very pale skin. Yes, I have very very dark hair. All of my body hair is very apparent, whether it's on top of my head or at my ankles. It's visible, but that doesn't make it shameful.

I was lucky enough to grow up in an environment where I wasn't physically or verbally abused for my body hair. The closest I came to such abuse was my first boyfriend who constantly pressured me into shaving simply because he liked it and said it was "sexy" and "more attractive." Since he was my first boyfriend, I knew no better. Since I grew up in the church and was taught to be relatively submissive, I knew no better. Since he told me that "in his eyes" we were "already married in the eyes of God," I knew no better.

I hate myself for all the things I did just to appease him. It has nothing to do with religion or Christianity in this regard. He didn't make me turn away from God, he didn't make me distrust religion. I blame him.

Anyway, that's not the point.

Do men hate female body hair because it seems too similar to male body hair? Is their masculinity so fragile as to be worried about body hair on female bodies? Is that it?

I don't know. I'm drunk. It looks like I really can't level up anymore unless I fight this boss, which probably won't go well since I'm pretty drunk.

I've fucking beat this boss multiple times but the save file has always fucking messed up. Partly because of me, but also because it's a fucking old emulator so you have to be super fucking speicific about saving the game.

It's Actraiser on the nintendo, for anyone that cares.

I haven't exactly said anything revolutionary in this post, but tbh I never do. In this instance, I just want you to think about it. Think about pubic hair. Think about male and female pubic hair. Think about male and female body hair. Male and female facial hair. Why do you dislike either of it? Do you have a reason? Or is it just "unattractive"? Because if you can't provide another reason, then I don't totally believe it. I say this because there's a lot of things that I automatically find unappealing, but upon further inspection, I realize I have no reason to find them unappealing. It's just that I have been taught by advertising (and other sources) that it is ugly, unattractive, incorrect, wrong.

I used to shave part of my pubic hair, if only so that it didn't show in a leotard, swimsuit, or underpants. I haven't shaved any of it in a long time because I've been to depressed, stressed, and apathetic to go to all the trouble.

Plus, when I think about it, I really can't think of a real reason why I should go to that trouble. My current boyfriend says he doesn't care. And when I don't shave for months and months, he still says nothing. When we don't have sex for months and months, he says nothing. When we do have sex but I haven't shaved, he says nothing.

Maybe I've just found the perfect mate. Who knows.

MORAL OF THE STORY:

You shouldn't change you based on social standards or the expectations of a romantic (or otherwise) expectation.

You are you.

You are you because of who you are, who you want to be, who you are meant to be.

You are not you because of who someone else wants you to be.

No one else has the authority to shape you into something you aren't.

I say this because of my abusive ex-fiance who thought he had the right to dictate how I behaved, how I dressed, how I groomed. He dictated whether it was okay or not for me to have sex. I gave him my virginity because he said it was okay. I believed that my virginity was important because of what he and others said.

But it shouldn't matter. You are you not because of who you've had sex with or what you've done with your body of how you dress or how you groom yourself.

"You are what you love, not who loves you." -- Fall Out Boy.

I have no idea what FOB meant when they sang that, but it always makes me think of my ex-fiance, of my rapist, of the countless people who have abused me in various forms.

I am who I want to be, not what others try to make me to be.

You are not reliant on other's definitions of the female, of the woman. Of the wife, the fiance, the 

girlfriend.

You can fucking be whatever and whoever you want to be;

You are beautiful.

Amazing.

Awesome.

Inspiring.

Who you want to be.

What you want to be.

I love you.

I hope you love yourself.

I am ecstatic in those moments when I love myself. They are very rare moments (usually only when I'm drunk, like now), but they are truly beautiful. I look back on these moments and am amazed, but also inspired. When I am super depressed, I look back on these moments, I read my past words, and I reflect on the honesty that I once had. It is incredibly hard to believe that things will be better, that things have been better. But it's true, despite my drunkeness or lack thereof.

Things have been better, they are better, they will be better.

They have not been easy, they are not easy, they will not be easy.

But they are. They have they have the potential to be.

I have totally lost track of what I'm trying to say, but I hope you get the idea.

Pubic hair is natural. You can get rid of it or keep it, and it doesn't matter. Whatever makes you comfortable.

I really hope I one day beat this game.

I really hope I actually do my homework and get my Masters in American Dance Studies.

I really hope I, and you, don't give up.

I sadistically hope my ex-fiance learns his lesson and realizes he's a total dick and asshole.

I recommend any and everyone read Skip Beat! By Yoshiki Nakamura. It's always been one of my favorite mangas (and anime), but is surprisingly relevant in regards to this post. The anime is only one season, but the manga is pretty long. You can still find it online pretty easily (I finally gave in and have been reading it online everyday and have almost caught up).

Well. I'm gonna turn on the hotspot and post this because if I look back at this tomorrow I'll chicken out and won't post it because pubic hair is a stupid topic and rather embarrassing and something I've been self-conscious about for as long as I can remember.

The woes of having pale skin and dark hair.

Yeah, I know, my life is so hard. (That was sarcasm).

I love you all, and I hope you love yourselves just as much. Because you should. You are valid, you are beautiful.

--Dexter

Bad Asexual Representation (i.e. me)

Currently I've been mulling over the concept of asexual burlesque. Neo-burlesque is a newfound love of mine, and at the moment my graduate thesis will be on asexual burlesque. The two terms aren't as conflicting as they might seem at first, but nevertheless I've been having a hard time just thinking about what I've perhaps hastily committed to doing.

There are actual asexual burlesque performers out there, which is comforting and awesome. I want to get that out of the way first.

The reason why I love burlesque is that it's a celebration of self: of your body, your sexuality, your everything. That's why there's no reason asexual burlesque shouldn't be a thing. In fact, burlesque is the perfect medium to celebrate asexuality. Except that burlesque is seen as a sexualized event. I can't even break away from the inherent sexuality that I see in burlesque. And there's no reason why an asexual can't be sexy. Asexuality is the lack of sexual attraction, not the lack of asexuality or the lack of being sexually attractive.

But why on earth would an asexual want to be sexually attractive? What on earth do I want to get out of that scenario? Cause it's certainly not sex. But something in me wants to be sexually appealing, sexually attractive, sexually...normal?

It's hard for me to wrap my head around it all because I've always felt like a bad representative for asexuality. All of the stereotypes fit me.

I was sexually abused, sexually assaulted. I'm clinically depressed. I'm a plant.

I'm all the things asexuals are constantly trying to prove they're not.

Which does not make my asexuality invalid.

I wrote that whole post about the difference between fear of sex and disinterest in sex, so I know the difference. I know I'm valid.

But I don't feel valid. And my love of burlesque seems to just make everything even worse.

And instead of quietly sorting all of this out in my own head, on my own time, on my own blog, I instead decided to publicly commit to researching it in grad school. Telling all my professors about it. Finding out they're super excited and have been talking to other professors about it. Finding an overwhelming amount of support for the project even from people who don't really know what asexuality is.

What I don't like about support is that now I can't just drop it. Which is good. I shouldn't drop it.

But I don't exactly know what to do with it either.

I feel the need to be blatantly obvious with my professors, my peers, myself. My experiences and biases towards sex make me distrust all of my own inclinations and feelings rather than seeming to help me find answers and information. I still have bad days and bad nightmares and wake up never wanting to think about sex or my own body ever again.

One of my professors mentioned the need to add in time for self-care when planning research, especially when the topic is emotionally close. I don't think she was talking about me, but it definitely applies. 

The reason why I never tackled sexual assault in my undergrad work was because I was afraid I would just spiral into self-destruction. I managed to get through it all independently after I graduated, but I still wonder what would've happened if I'd been forced to talk about the process and the subject while doing it.

I can write graphic truths but I certainly can't talk about them verbally.

As usual, I've kind of been writing through lots of rabbit holes and dancing around topics, but if you've read a single blog post on here then you know that's nothing new. My head is always so jumbled with this stuff that I find it hard to actually lay it all out and look at it. Writing helps in that way.

I haven't found any real answers through writing this, but my brain feels a little less cluttered. That's all I can ask for, I guess.

Anyway, grad school is going about as expected. I still miss classes, fumble through assignments, panic and avoid responsibility. Still get way too drunk on bad days. Still am unable to figure out how the disability services works. But hey, I haven't hurt myself in a really long time. That's something, isn't it?

I'll take what I can get.

--Dexter

PS. Although I did actually book my own flight for a conference today. So somehow I'm still stumbling through life convincing people I know what I'm doing.

nothing new here

It's been almost a week since I finished my film and shared it with the world. Since I conquered those fears. Or at least, faced them. Sort of. Sometimes facing doesn't equal conquering.

Fuck that. There's no such thing. Because I'm back, shaking and crying and being in general the unhealthy, dysfunctional, disabled adult I'm known for being.

I love my film, even though I get embarrassed and cringe thinking about people watching it and worry about their reactions or if they think the camera's too shaky or the editing too choppy or they don't understand something I did purposefully, which means I didn't do it purposefully enough. I do love it and I loved making it and without a doubt it helped me.

But I'm so far from functional and I hate it. Right now the idea of sex makes me want to puke. When my body enjoys it I feel betrayed and distrustful not only of whoever I'm with but of myself as well. It's not like I'm a slut or anything. At least, I don't think so.

That doesn't stop me from feeling so fucking dirty. I sit here and think of just that one guy and I feel disgusting and broken, and then I think of my first boyfriend and feel worse, and then I think of my second and feel worse, and then I think of when I was just a little girl and I feel so fucking dirty and broken and twisted.

I don't have coherent thoughts right now. I don't have anything. I have nothing but myself and really that's all I ever have and oh how I hate myself. I hate this body for its physical and mental and spiritual weaknesses. I hate it for not wanting sex and I hate it for wanting it and I hate it for being so ugly and yet for still having those stupid traits that make people want to touch me in the dark and then wipe their hands clean of it.

That's victim mentality, that's survivor guilt. It has to all be my fault, doesn't it? I can't find another reason. Wouldn't that make more sense than there being a seemingly endless supply of people who just want to put their hands on me and maybe don't mind my brain so much, but it's not worth much on its own?

I must be the problem. I must be doing something wrong to attract these people, to let them do what they want, to fool myself into thinking they're something or not or that I'm not something I am. I'm just stupid enough to convince myself it won't happen again, that I'll be stronger, better, more mature, more assertive. That I'll know what I want and I'll say it. That I'll actually do something, anything.

I haven't even technically started grad school and already I just know I'm not going to make it. Sometimes I feel at home here, simply because it's a beautiful community of people who love dance and love art, but I don't feel like belong. They're all passionate and willing to speak. I'm passionate and willing to do nothing but sit and work in silence and solitude. I'm either weird or creepy or stupid or "not right in the head," which is technically true.

There's this conference going on right now for graduate students that essentially is preparing us for being teaching assistants or teachers or whatever other responsibilities that will be thrown our way during grad school (and beyond). Today there was an extremely long segment about discrimination and sexual misconduct.

While without a doubt that thing is needed (which in itself is just sad and awful), I also had a very hard time staying in my seat. At that  point I was doing my best to lose myself in a book, blatantly reading during a lecture. Trying not to shake too much or to bite the skin of my thumb or to pinch the inside of my arm too hard.

Why am I trying to get an MA and be a professor and be a real person?

It's obvious I'm unreliable and weak and dependent. I can't take care of myself and stress gets the better of me far too easily. When I'm stressed, I get even weaker and more prone to panic over things that under normal conditions I might be able to handle.

But I'm just so fucking broken and gross now. There is no part of me that has not been touched by someone else. There's nothing I have left to give. How are you supposed to tell someone that they're getting used goods? A damaged product? Someone who is graysexual, which for me means means sometimes I like sex but also sometimes I might freak out and suddenly burst into tears, so just please don't take it personally? Who sometimes has a hard time distinguishing between actual desire and the compulsion to please? Between passion and obligation?

I have no idea what the fuck I'm talking about anymore. Long story short:

I hate myself. Looks like that will never change.

--Dexter

Conquering Fears

Today I started editing an independent dance for film that I worked on over the summer. I filmed right before I moved, and haven't had a chance to fool around with it until now, nearly three weeks later. I was having the time of my life. I hadn't done anything creative in ages and, as always, forgot just how amazing it makes me feel. Fooling around and editing is cool and fun and frustrating and time consuming - really just like any artistic endeavor. I love it.

This film is something I've been trying to make for almost three years now. Every time I choreographed in undergrad, I would start out with this topic in mind, but end up switching. It just wasn't time and I wasn't ready. But as my time in Hattiesburg, MS came to a close, I realized that my time to make this project was also running out. And in some ways, doing it as an independent project gives me more control. I don't have a deadline (which also means it'll take forever, but oh well) so I can take my time, and I don't have to share it with anyone before I'm ready.

This project is about sexual assault, mostly stemming from my own experience. Everything about the process was pretty terrifying, from creating the movement to sharing it with others. And of course, the brilliant idea to film it in the very place where I was date-raped.

I'd been by this place plenty of times before because it was right next to the tutoring center where I worked for a semester. It always made me nervous and I always walked quickly, but I could still do it. Long after my assaulter was gone, I still expected to see him hanging out there, waiting. Even when I stopped passing by, the place is engraved in my memory in incredible detail. I remember the dim lighting, the smell of a far off cigarette, the feeling of concrete. I remember studying for a dance history exam I had the next morning, I remember that it was slightly too warm for my sweater, I remember him trying to play "What Does the Fox Say" on his guitar.

I returned to this place almost four years later to see if it would actually be a good film site. I went by myself instead of waiting for the friend who said he'd go with me. It was exactly as I remembered it, minus the assaulter in the guise of a friend. It still made me nervous, and looking at it from the point of a videographer only gave me enough emotional distance to look around a bit before speed-walking back to my car.

And I showed up again the next day to actually film. I had my chill pills ready in case I needed them. Some strong coffee to give me comfort. The dancers who laughed and did stupid things together. And a job to do.

That day I conquered that place. I turned my terror into art (who knows if it'll be good or bad, though) and created something new to remember and associate with the site. Not necessarily to replace the bad, but to truly put it in the past.

Then, as I was packing for the big move, I found the ginormous sweater I was wearing when I was assaulted. I couldn't look at it without thinking about that night, but I still loved it enough to keep. I live in the south anyway, so it's not like I had a lot of opportunities to wear it. In the spirit of conquering old fears, I made a rather popular instagram post about it, challenging all of those people who say victims are asking for it by dressing provocatively.

So I was asking my friend to rape me because I was wearing jeans, a humongous sweater, and Doctor Who hat that hid most of my head?

Yeah, okay. Sure.

I love that sweater and I will always remember that night when I look at it, but that won't stop me from wearing it. It's not the sweater's fault and it's not mine, and I've had plenty of good memories in that sweater as well. Why can't those be as memorable? It's not really fair.

I was thinking about all of this while in the shower not too long ago, feeling pretty proud of myself for finally facing a few of my fears. I mean yeah, I'm still super duper anxious in public and don't like people behind me and get freaked out if people try to touch me too much and distrust anyone who claims they like me for something other than sex, but I'd still done something.

Then I go get on Facebook and end up clicking on an article about a woman who was assaulted and some of the horrifying replies she got after sharing her story. And I got scared again.

I am very, very honored to be surrounded by such good people who support and love and respect me, and yet all it takes are a few shaming comments to rip me apart. It's like I think I'm building a brick wall but then it turns to tissue paper; it barely takes a breath to make it disappear.

I feel very alone here in Florida. I have two friends and they're both great. But I'm only just starting to get to know them, and like I said: I just don't trust people very much.

None of my recent posts seem to make much sense anymore or have a decent conclusion, but hey, that's life.

Anyway, I'm still working on the film and grad school starts in one week. I like Tallahassee despite the roads' tendencies to switch around and make no sense. I miss Cane's, but they have Dunkin Donuts here and Steak n Shake, so it's not like I don't have access to comfort food. I have my two friends for now.

That's all I got right now.

--Dexter

ps. This shirt technically refers to suicide and came from Live Through This, so go check it out cause it's cool.

Why I Don't Talk To You

AUTHOR'S NOTE: It is recommended you listen to "Bring Me to Life" by Evanescence while reading this post. Please see the PS at the end of the post to see why. Thank you.

Just about any time I write a more honest post about how I feel, I get lots of offers from very kind of loving people to talk if I need to, and to know that they're always there for me. I always appreciate these messages. I look at them, appreciate them, feel a flutter of shame at what they know about me, and resolve to thank them later when the post isn't so fresh on my mind. And then of course I forget that I didn't actually respond. But I do that in a lot of situations.

I don't know how serious people are when they say they're there to talk of I need someone. I don't doubt their sincerity, I just feel like they underestimate the tornado they would be welcoming into their home, so to speak.

When I am having a bad day or having a panic attack or have a manic phase or anything like that, I do not sound like my blog posts. Maybe that's what it is. I'm not at all coherent or logical and I can vehemently and wildly deny anything I want to while swearing up and down that my own idea of self is absolutely true.

Right now I have two friends I talk to when I am in those moments, and I feel worse and worse and worse about it every time it happens. I talk to them because I trust them and because they make me feel at least a bit better, or at least like I'm not so alone. They don't panic (to my face, at least), but just kind of...accept it, and do what they can. They are rather amazing people.

But I don't just have a crisis every once in a while. I've been in a constant state of crisis for the past week, and even though it finally seems to be normalizing, just the events of the week have left me terrified, exhausted, and guilty.

In those moments, I am terrified and my first instinct is to find someone, but then I remember that people have their own lives and that just a few hours ago I was feeling the same way and bombarding people with my issues. And already, here I am again, doing the same thing to the same person.

The more honest I get about my feelings, the harder it is to stop talking about them. I've almost always had them bottled up. I have rarely had someone to talk to about any of it, and the only way I could handle it would be writing it all out here, on a shitty blog. Having actual friends be with you turns out to be pretty different.

Plus, there are some things I cannot bring myself to write about on here. They may be huge sources of stress in my life, but they're also about someone else who certainly doesn't want their problems (or my problems with them) to be out in the open. It would be cruel to write about it.

I believe that is the main reasons my two friends have had so much to deal with lately. There are so many little things going on in my life that I can't vomit out into the world, but I have to get it out of me. But, being me, I don't even know how to have a normal conversation. So I skip around the subject because I don't want to whine or insist we talk about me, which results in a nonspecific depressing pity party hosted by me.

I consider myself a very open person because I like to talk about my problems, if only because they are real issues in the world that other people face as well. Some people will not speak out for themselves, and don't ask me why I feel that I have to do it for them. I feel responsible for being a voice, however soft and quivering.

But I also don't like to talk about me. I don't like to talk about my problems. If people ask specific questions and prove that they care and are interested, then yeah, I have no problem. I actually like that. It makes me feel human.

But if no one asks, then I feel vain bringing it up. I whine and I pity myself and force my "problems" on other people who surely have their own things to deal with. And so many times people have not told me their problems just because they knew I had too much going on. Even though I understand, it hurts. I don't want to be a friend who always needs help but never helps. I want to know how people are doing and if there's anything I can do.

So to kind of bring this back to where I started, there is a reason why I don't reach out to many of you beautiful people when I'm having a crisis.

I don't want to ruin anything.

I don't want to lose a friend when they realize how fucked up I am. I don't want to overwhelm a friend with all of my problems when I have no idea what they're going through at the same time. I don't want to turn a friendship into a one-sided therapy session.

Every single time, I try so hard not to reach out to those two friends. It used to be I would force myself to talk to someone because that's what you're supposed to do. You're supposed to ask for help. But I think in this perfect world, there is somehow always the best friend group where there will always be one person who somehow has a perfect life and is always able to help.

But it's not. I have two whole friends I trust and love and who I can count on to make me feel better (even if it's a little delayed). And I hate myself just as much when they are there for me, because am I ever there for them? Do I even have any idea what their lives are like right now? I want to. I want to know so badly. But then I start wondering if they'd even want to talk about it with me. I'm a "if they want to talk about it they'll bring it up" kind of person (even though obviously I don't bring shit up when I need to talk about it), which means I rely on vague "How is your day going?" questions.

I have been the sober friend trying to talk to a drunk, self-destructive, mentally ill person. While I would of course do it again, I don't want to make anyone else do that for me.

Sometimes I wish I could make them hate me, or admit that they don't like me or that they don't care, because then maybe I wouldn't care either and I could make myself stop talking to them.

I get so sick of friends, close or casual, telling me how amazing I am and that I'm cool or whatever. I sometimes believe those two friends. Sometimes. I never believe anyone else, because they don't know me. They read my blog and think they do, or they've gone through all of college with me and think they do, or they've had a few conversations with drunk Dexter (who is far more entertaining than sober Dexter) and think they do.

I guess now is where you could get philosophical and ask, "Well do you ever really know someone?"

Look I don't shit about that. But every time someone says I can talk to them, I think to myself, "Can I? What would you actually do if I called you crying mid-panic attack, or in the middle of the night when I'm drunker than I've ever been and have a knife, or if I'm in a manic phase and beg you to do something with me only to cancel five minutes later because I've fallen through that cloud like a brick? If I called you and just asked you to come sit in my house with me while I read, would you actually? If I showed you just how pitiful, dysfunctional, and fucked up I am, would you really still want to talk to me?"

I can guess that the answer would be yes. But I guess it's also something you have to see to believe. And no one's seen me in a very long time.

Out of sight, out of mind. I have always been rather forgettable (I grew up with a boy who I met for the first time at least ten times, so you really can't argue with me here).

I laugh and cry at the same time because I'm starting to look like Sally from The Nightmare Before Christmas.

It's suffocating to wear long sleeves to go buy milk.

It's terrifying to have to find a cardigan before answering the door.

It's nauseating to visit an empty campus to go look at that little courtyard where you were date-raped because you are finally trying to get that story out of you and turn it into something artistic, to be that quivering voice for all of those other people who will talk to me but no one else.

I had planned a far more coherent post, but that just kind of proves my point, doesn't it.

I am a lot crazier than you think, and I'm afraid you will leave when you figure that out. Or that you will leave when you try and fail to "fix" me. Or you will leave when I do start feeling better and don't "need" you anymore.

I am so afraid of being alone that I'd rather just be alone.

-Dexter




PS. Evanescence just came on my Spotify and the angst is just too much to resist.

Mentally Disabled

For me personally, the best coping method is to be with or talk to friends. It doesn't have to be about my issues, and sometimes it's better if it's not. But having someone with me makes it easier, gives me something to do, and keeps me from doing things I shouldn't.

I have become extremely dependent on my friends. I hate it. Every day is a new crisis for me. There's never a day where I feel okay from morning to night. Maybe it's a panic attack, maybe it's being too depressed to move, maybe it's the urge to hurt myself.

I try not to talk to my friends too much about it. On the one hand, it seems like I should. I should ask for help when I need it, I should try to take care of myself even if it means asking other people to help you do it. Right?

But do I have to ask for help every day? Do I have to constantly be seeking attention?

I'm just an attention whore hiding behind a mental illness.

So I don't talk to friends. Or I don't tell them it's serious. I brush it off when they don't respond or don't have time. They have their own lives and I can't expect them to be at my beck and call and not get sick of me every once in a while. I know I get sick of me. I've had friends with problems and I know I wasn't the best friend to them. I couldn't handle their issues on top of mine. So why should I expect people to do that for me?

But then people tell me they'll always be there for me if I need them. They just didn't expect that to be every day.

I will never be independent. I will never be able to take care of myself.

But is that so surprising? I am diagnosed as mentally disabled, mostly in the context of needing certain accommodations in school, but why wouldn't it affect the rest of my life?

It's not shameful to be disabled. Or rather, to be differently abled. There are plenty of people in the world who fall under the category of "disabled," whether it's mental or physical, and yet they are not lesser people because of it.

As much as I joke about it, I've never really considered myself disabled. I've always thought I could be independent, take care of myself, and at least sort of function in society.

But I can't. And I should come to terms with that. I have different abilities, but in our society I am definitely disabled.

But does that change anything? No, not really. I still feel like a needy annoyance constantly depending on friends and forcing them to talk to me. I let myself be dramatic and sensitive when they don't, regardless of the reason. Then I just hate myself more for being dramatic and stupid. It's an endless cycle and I don't ever see there being an end to it.

This is not supposed to be directed at any of my friends, and certainly not a guilt trip. I'm not calling anyone out and I'm not blaming anyone for my own behavior or problems.

I've just been thinking about it lately. So, as always, I try to give myself some peace through writing. Try to sort it all out as I go. Hoping that by the end of the post, I'll have found some life-changing inspiration in an effort to share a hopeful message.

Every day feels like an impossible challenge, harder than the day before.

You can list off all my good qualities and accomplishments, and it won't make a difference. It'll just make me feel worse. All that talent wasted on someone who simply can't get up to feed herself.

I did go grocery shopping today (which means I bought bread and milk). I read. I'm writing this. I guess I'm still trying.

--Dexter

Good

I am a foolish idiot.
Writing this makes me feel pathetic and silly and stupid.
But I hate myself anyway.
I have to write to understand.
I do not understand myself at all.

When you're around, I feel good.
You don't make everything better, but you make it a little easier to exist.
I laugh when I don't want to.
My mouth hurts from smiling.
Your goodness makes me cry.

You talk me out of the dark.
You never push my boundaries, though sometimes I wish you would.
I can't get away with lying.
I'm not afraid to tell you my stupid jokes.
I'm only afraid to tell you how I feel.

How your goodness makes me cry.

I don't think you know.
You have no idea how special you are because you're just being you.
You don't realize what you do.
You don't pay me any special attention.
You're just good to everyone.

That goodness makes me cry.

I never see you.
You are surrounded by wonderful people, all in the same world together.
I don't fit in this world.
There isn't even any room for me.
I'm not excluded, just not thought of.

I've never written a poem about someone.
I haven't written poetry at all since I was a young, angst-ridden teen.
I feel awfully pathetic, just like back then.
It's killing me inside.
I feel stupid saying it to friends.

Is this even a poem?
Anything can be a poem these days and anyone can be an artist.
Especially a pitiful girl in love.
It's the thought that counts, right?
But I don't even want you to know my thoughts.

Your goodness makes me cry.
It's not the usual kind, not out of desperation and hopelessness and exhaustion.
I cry because I've never felt this way before.
No one has ever been like you.
I don't think anyone ever will.

I am afraid.
I will leave and meet new people and you will forget me.
You will never know how special you were.
And I will never meet someone as special as you.
I will forever dwell on a one-sided romance that never even happened.

You make me cry.
I wish this poem would give me closure, but I know it will not.
I will keep trying to talk to you.
I will keep trying to see you.
I will keep watching as it never happens.

Your goodness makes me cry.
But at the very least, I knew that goodness.
I am glad to have known you.
I hope to know you for many many more years.
I am afraid to ask for that much.

You know.
I'd go straight for you.

48+

I have spent the past hour counting scars on my body. Obsessively going over it again and again, trying to figure out if the scar is actually visible or if I just remember it once being there. Am I responsible for it, or was it something else? The first time I counted 49 scars that came from me. The second time, 54. The third time, 48.

I have been told that I have unusually soft skin. My time on acne medications has left me with a surprisingly clear complexion, and I get one pimple for the duration of my period, and then it goes away.

For such soft skin, it is amazingly disfigured.

I pick at my skin a lot, especially my legs and my neck. This has left me with irritated spots that would probably go away if I were just a little kinder to myself.

I got the chicken pox when I was 19, and my back is absolutely riddled with chicken pox scars. I also have one right between my breasts that, for whatever reason, will get inflamed every now and then and will be extremely painful and sensitive. Probably means I have cancer or something, but whatever.

I have a lot of scars that come from overexcited cats.

I have one scar on my forehead from when I was four and ran into a wall while chasing a balloon (I ruined my older sister's birthday).

And then I have upwards of 48 scars that I purposefully placed on myself. Maybe there aren't even that many that are actually visible; I have a hard time telling whether I see the memory or the real thing. A lot of them you have to really look for. Some have completely faded, but I remember where they were, and I wonder if those even count. Some are bright red and impossible to hide. There are a few that haven't even become a scar yet.

Soft to the touch, rough on the eyes.

There is no inspirational message this time. I've just been stuck in my head for what feels like forever, staring at my skin, counting scars, trying to keep the number from getting any higher. I count them over and over and over and over again. I can't stop.

But what do a few more matter? At this point, no on will even notice.

Feel empty? This will let you feel something.

Feel like everything is going wrong and you're going to explode? This will give you release.

Feel like your nightmares will show up at your door? This will distract you.

Feel like the worst fucking bitch on the planet? This will help you atone.

Feel happy and hopeful? Mood swings are exhausting, but this will keep you grounded.

Feel like dying? This isn't quite as permanent.

--Dexter

PS. I graduated college a few days ago.

PPS. I ate two whole meals today.

Reasons Why I Hate Myself and Why They Are All False

You're asexual. You're never going to have a lasting romantic relationship because of it.

Not true. I was engaged once, remember?

Oh yes, what a happy relationship that was.

Shut up.

You say "asexual" and people assume you're aromantic too. Even if they didn't, they'd steer clear.

That's their fault, not mine. If they don't care enough to ask or to assume, then they obviously aren't worth it anyway.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight. Guess it's a good thing you're ace anyway, since so many people have touched you now.

That wasn't my fault and it does not make me dirty or broken.

It's cute when you pretend like you believe that. You can't even keep platonic friends. No one likes you. You're annoying, needy, and constantly faking some emotional disaster just for attention.

Not true. Everyone's a little annoying and needy sometimes, but I actually have proof that people at the very least put up with me without too much irritation.

See, you can't even fully commit to saying people like you. You're so afraid of everything. You won't take the trash out because of your neighbor and you won't go to class because people might casually glance at you.

That is true. But considering those crippling fears, you've got to admit it's pretty impressive that I do actually take out the cat litter and do actually go to class half the time.

You're failing math.

That's an exaggeration.

Your house is a fucking disaster.

Yes, well. Y'know I've been involved in seven dances and three conferences this semester, on top of the measly seventeen hours of school, the occasional work day, and being chronically ill. I think I shouldn't be so hard on myself in the cleaning department.

Speaking of work. When was the last time you did that? You're such a difficult employee and you're lucky if you even still have a job.

Very true, I am lucky. I do wonder about this, but I know I also do the best I can, and any and all trouble I've had here has legitimately been out of my control, whether other people believe me or not.

You're mentally incapable of holding a full time job, you realize that, right? You're just going to end up living with your mom.

I refuse to believe that. No, I could not hold a regular full time job, but that's not what I'm after.

Oh yeah, the starving artist thing. You'll be good at that, since you don't eat anyway.

I'm working on that one.

Sure. There's the whole cutting thing. You working on that? That's pretty gross. And shameful. I'm ashamed to even know you.

Addictions are hard. Recovery is a neverending process.

You're ugly.

Thanks. Rationally speaking, I think that might be an exaggeration.

Since when are you rational? And why are you such a shitty daughter, btws?

It's complicated, and you know it. I love my family. I may not be the best family member, but I do hope they all know I love them, even when I don't talk to them.

You're kind of an idiot. You don't know how to talk to people, you can't do anything right, and it takes you like, five minutes just to remember how to subtract.

Okay, well. First off. Even if you use the argument of me growing out of my intelligence, somehow I still got into grad school and got an assistantship so I can't be that stupid. I may not be socially smart or mathematically smart, but please remember that, while those are important and valid, that's not all there is in life.

So remind me, what the heck is the point of a dancer who physically cannot dance due to injury?

I mean, at least I have a good excuse for not being very good.

Remember that time you had a panic attack while watching the stars? On a peaceful, relaxing night? Ha, good times.

Again, not my fault. That's out of my control and there is no shame in that.

Or the dozens of times in class, while eating, sitting calmly with friends, or on any of the other nice happy days of your life? Lolz.

That does not make me broken, shameful, or less of a person.

Keep telling yourself that. Maybe you'll believe it one day.

Maybe.

You're probably going to commit suicide one day.

But not today.

The only reason you're even writing this is because you don't believe any of it, and you're trying to convince yourself.

Yes. Because that's better than accepting it.

The Good News

In case you haven't heard, I GOT ACCEPTED INTO FLORIDA STATE'S M.A. AMERICAN DANCE STUDIES PROGRAM. This is a pretty big deal. FSU is a very very good dance school, and their graduate program only accepts around twelve people per year. On top of that, THEY GAVE ME AN ASSISTANTSHIP. That's right, imma be a research assistant and get paid and not starve and be homeless. I'm pretty excited.

I also recently attended the National Conference for Undergraduate Research with four other students from USM. I presented my junior research and got to attend a lot of other interesting presentations. I'm such a nerd, but honestly this was one of the best weekends I've had in a long time. For some reason it was just so enriching to be surrounded by passionate people talking about what they love, whether it's dancing or biochemistry.

I should be overjoyed with all of these great things happening, but I passed that stage long ago. I'm constantly waiting for an email from FSU retracting their acceptance, saying that it was a mistake. The post-happiness depression hit me hard after the conference was over as I get overwhelmed with self-doubt and loneliness. I replay the events so many times that I start thinking that it wasn't as good as it seemed, that I looked stupid, that I sounded stupid, that people were just being nice, etc. etc. It's not uncommon for depressed people to get especially down after they have a really great day. And that sucks. Like, we can't even enjoy the good times.

I had been waiting until after the conference to write a post about FSU and everything, to share all the nerdy happiness at once. I wanted it to be a happy post. But since when do I write happy posts? Since when am I a well-functioning member of society? Since when have I been a healthy human being?

I feel so overwhelmed with school right now. My house is a disaster. My personal life is a wreck, my emotions are trying to be happy and sad at the same time. I just lie down and wait for it to be over.

I accidentally started talking about the hospital yesterday, blabbering about how you can't have pencils but you can have crayons. We were talking about crayons only, there was no need for me to bring that up. But it came out of my mouth and once it was out I couldn't take it back and y'know it's those little things that make me hate myself even more.

But... but... good things happen. It seems like I'll actually be doing something with my life next year and that just maybe I'm not a complete failure.

Trying not to think about being alone in a new city surrounded by new people. In case you haven't noticed, I can't talk to people, but I get super lonely, so I try to talk to people, and then just freak people out or annoy them to death. That's life.

BUT GOOD THINGS HAPPEN. Trying very hard to remember that.

I feel like that's all I can ever tell people: I'm trying very hard. I swear I am.

--Dexter

Asexuality vs. Genophobia (fear of sex)

The usual disclaimer: I speak from my own experiences and no one else's. By no means assume that all aces or assault victims are like me.

I struggle with sex a lot, for a variety of reasons. Whether it was intentional or not, I grew up being taught that sex was a sin and terrible and disgusting and awful (and that boys thought about it all the time). Premarital sex was ESPECIALLY awful and of the devil. So from then on out, any time anything remotely "sexual" happened, I was overwhelmed with guilt, whether I was responsible or not.

Asexuality already struggles to be recognized as a legitimate orientation, and I feel like I sometimes just make it worse. I've been sexually abused and assaulted, as well as being emotionally manipulated into sexual acts. My father left, then soon after my ex-fiance left, and I've been told that all of this would obviously turn me off sex.

I mean, yeah. All of those things are legitimate reasons for someone to develop a fear of sex or distrust of sex. No doubt about that.

So, am I actually asexual or just scared of it? I debated myself on this quite a lot, then reached out to other asexuals to ask their opinion. I researched it, I thought about it, I talked about it. I finally decided.

Yes, sometimes I am just plain terrified of sex, from a casual touch of the hand to, y'know, intercourse. I have nightmares about it, flashbacks about it, panic attacks about it. But that fear does not control my whole life and does not affect me all the time.

Sex just isn't really my thing. It's gross. It's messy. It's a lot of effort. It takes forever and people for some reason like it to last as long as possible.

If I really loved someone, I could see myself compromising on the sex. It's taken me an extremely long time to even start to understand that some people DO need sex and that it can be an important part of a relationship. I would never just become a doormat for someone or allow anyone to manipulate me into things because that's what I should do for someone I love, but there's a line between manipulating and compromising.

So no, I do not consider myself to be operating solely on fear of sex.

Antidepressants can sometimes affect a person's sex drive, which I understand. And I guess it's possible that it's affecting mine a little bit. BUT I was in a relationship before I got put on medication, and I wasn't big on the sexual activities back then either. The only reason I think I even did them was because again, manipulative bastard fiance.

But anyway.

I have no doubt that my assault and medication do affect my sexuality and my sex drive, but they do not control my sex drive.

Even if they did, I would pick my medication over sex. I think that alone is kind of telling. I'd rather be happy than have a sex drive.

Honestly I don't like to be super public about my sexuality because it seems like a private topic and I'm worried about offending people or upsetting people who think I should be a completely innocent heterosexual female. But that's not me. And I can't go on pretending like it is while inside I'm thinking I'm broken for not wanting sex.

Yes, my sexuality is my business, no question there. If people ask, I have every right to ignore them. But it's an important topic, and it's bigger than just me.

And this way, when people ask about it I can just send them this instead of try to explain it all over again.

--Dex

PS. For more info on asexuality and gray sexuality, I recommend visiting: AVEN or AmeliaAce.

My Final Semester So Far

Day before school starts: grandfather dies.

Two days after school starts: dream grad school rejects me.

A whole freaking month BEFORE school starts: get sick and stay sick for two months.

Now: still mysteriously sick probably gonna die tbh.

I've already missed way too many classes, from both being majorly depressed as well as being so sick I couldn't stay standing for very long. The actual workload from all my classes isn't too bad -- or at least it's nothing that's too difficult for me to keep up with. It's actually getting to class that sucks.

I forgot how to function around people, and having such a rough start makes it that much worse. My first day back at work was a nightmare trying to take people's orders or make small talk with them. It took my like, two semesters to figure out how to do that and now I'm out of practice. Just let me make your freaking latte and accept my silence. Stop freaking telling me that I don't look happy to be here.

Sorry, anyway.

I decided that if I'm forced to take a year off of school because I don't get into the grad schools I applied for, it won't be the end of the world. It will actually be pretty nice to just live for a year. But at this point, everyone seems to expect such great things of me. I'm supposed to go off to grad school and be a famous researcher and be a big name in the field or something. When I choreograph, it's supposed to be new and innovative and unusual. I'm not supposed to go work in a bookstore and become a hermit.

Although I can't lie, that sounds pretty nice right about now.

Everything just seems so pointless now, even with that backup plan in mind. Even knowing that I'll be able to re-apply to grad school, and that I'm not a failure even if I never go to grad school. But I still feel like a failure, even now. When I go to class I feel like a failure in dance. When I don't go to class I feel like a failure as a student.

Why do I need to go to class to do math? Why can't I just follow along online and not have to be with other people? Why can't I just silently turn my thesis assignments into my professor's box? Why do I have to show up in class to do it? Why do I have to keep showing up to technique classes when my body's just going to break some more and I'll never actually be able to do a double pirouette, even if I really wanted to? Why do professors give me responsibility when it has been proven that I am extremely unreliable? Why does everyone still seem to believe in me?

Lately all I've wanted to do is lie down and stare at the wall. It's so hard to make myself do anything, even if it's just to flip open my DS and poke at my Tomodachi friends. I'm miserable all the time and just want to be hugged and told it will be all right, but at the same time I don't ever want to see anyone or be touched again.

So please if you see me, offer me a hug. But if I say no, don't take it personally. But if I say yes and then start crying feel free to just gently push me on my way.

I hate myself so much sometimes. I listen to the words that come out of my mouth and hate myself for being so obnoxious and stupid. I look at myself walking around with a miserable expression and hate myself for being so gloomy and whiny. I look at myself in class and hate myself for thinking I'm good at it. I hate myself for being a difficult student and for being an asexual girlfriend and for being a depressed individual.

It doesn't matter that I know most of it's not true, that I can't possibly be as bad as I think. Knowing and believing are two different things.

Bless anyone who has been kind to me, who has listened to me, who has offered me an extra shot of espresso. I can't imagine having that much patience.

-Dex

Grandpa

Constant offerings of seconds.

Ice cream every afternoon -- the perfect ice cream cone. This isn't a scoop of ice cream atop a cone, oh no. It's ice cream jammed down to the very bottom of the cone and then layered until there's a perfect, giant sphere on top.

Dessert after every meal.

Salt on top of everything.

Giant, beautiful pancakes.

Baseball in the backyard -- when he wouldn't miss a single shot but I was lucky just to graze the ball. Too many players and not enough space, so everyone would take turns being out in far "left field," meaning you stood in the dead patch of grass and didn't actually get to play.

Riding tiny bikes down the slanted driveway.

Playing a complicated outer space game where the truck bed was the spaceship and water guns were our weapons.

Swinging on the porch swing when my feet wouldn't graze the ground.

Pizza pronounced "peeza" instead of "pete-za."

Dominoes where I couldn't do the math, so he helped me but still beat me.

Walking around with my feet on his.

That beautiful laugh that went on and on because he couldn't help it.

I hadn't seen you in years. No time for the eight hour drive, too many classes I couldn't skip.

But I love you, and I hope you knew that.

You will be missed.

Stares and Stigmas

For whatever reason, lately I've read a lot of blog posts/articles on self-abuse and visits to the ER for suicide and that kind of thing. Not totally out of the ordinary for me, but still. I've read a lot of horror stories about the treatment people got for being self-harmers or for being suicidal. They are treated with condescension and disdain, considered selfish and less important than other injured or ill patients. They are told, "Why should I help you when you're just going to do it again?"

These stories made me realize just how fortunate I have been.

As I've mentioned in the past, no one has ever called me out for the scars on my arms. People have asked questions, but never said more. Sometimes I think people look at them, but even then I can't tell if I'm imagining it or not. Because I see every scar. I don't know how many I have, but when I look down at myself I see so many even though well over half of them have faded. When I look at pictures of myself I can see them. But can anyone else? I have no idea.

I can't remember exactly why, but when I went to the hospital for suicide I went through the ER even though we had called in advance and I was being sent there by my then-counselor. The guy who took my information was professional and polite, but I don't remember much more than that. That hospital had a very good psychiatric department, so maybe that's why I had such a good experience.

Though the psych ward was full of people with various issues, I was the only self-harmer and one of the few who seemed to be there for suicide. I was in the lowest-risk ward, so to speak. The nonviolent people and the ones who weren't expected to be staying much longer. Even though I was the only cutter at the time, they seemed used to it. Obviously there was a lot of stuff I wasn't allowed to have, but I also had to show the doctor every cut on my body and was often asked if I'd hurt myself since the last meeting.

Now that I think about it, the psych ward was actually where my arms got the most looks. Maybe because there, people knew what they actually were.

The nurses were all very nice as well. My favorite always told me to find her if I needed someone to talk to (I was practically mute for most of my stay there), and the one who took my blood was always jolly and cheerful. I have no idea how they all remained so happy when dealing with severely depressed people. I remember the first time she took my blood she asked, "You been cutting on yourself?" but not in a mean way. More like a casual remark. I can't even remember what I said (probably nothing). "Why you do that? What reason a young girl like you have to do that? Too much peanut butter and not enough jelly?" I wasn't sure exactly what she was talking about anymore, but I remember saying, "More like too much jelly," because I never liked jelly very much and if we were using peanut butter and jelly to represent the universe then I definitely had too much sticky gross stuff all over the place. "Too much jelly?" she laughed and seemed confused. We were both confused. But moral of the story is she was nice.

No one has ever asked me to cover up my scars for a performance. Maybe they strategically costumed me in long sleeves, but I'd never thought about that until now.

I don't usually make an effort to hide them anymore, except when I relapse and can't bear the shame of looking at it. I live in the south and it's hot here. I'm also a dance major and we wear tights and leotards on a regular basis.

Sometimes I almost hope someone will ask. But if they did, I probably wouldn't be able to say anything. I daydream of a meaningful, deep conversation with someone about mental health, but in real life I can't make eye contact and when I try to explain things I go down too many rabbit holes and don't actually explain anything.

Anyway.

I guess my point is that a lot of mentally ill people are treated horribly at ERs and hospitals. But I, at least, had a good experience. There is hope out there. Please don't be afraid to get help if you need it, but know that if you have someone to help you find a good place to get help, the help you receive will be much more, well, helpful.

I know all too well that some people don't have anyone to help them and are left with no option other than the one ER, and that they don't have the time or privilege of finding the best emergency mental healthcare. And that sucks.

But don't be afraid to get help. No matter what people may tell you, you're worth it. No matter what people say about scars you bear, you're strong and you made it through. You are making it through.

--Dexter

PS. I tried to wrap this post up with an inspirational ending but I'm not sure I'm even convincing myself anymore. I'm such a hypocrite sometimes.

Overheard.

Boys will be boys. But they definitely choose to by gay.

He's a boy, he can't help being enticed by a low-cut shirt. But this boy definitely chose to be gay.

Boys can't help thinking about sex with girls, but they can help thinking about sex with other boys.

Boys don't choose to sexually assault girls. But boys choose to be gay.

Asexuality is the lack of sexual attraction. Are they LGBTQIA?

Having no sexual attraction is the opposite of having an "abnormal" sexual attraction, so they're not queer.

Having no sexual attraction is abnormal.

Asexual? I can fix that.

Asexual? Maybe you should get your hormones checked.

Asexual? It's just because of your assault, you just need therapy.

But you have a boyfriend.

Don't worry, you'll change your mind.

Good for you for choosing abstinence!

Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans, Queer, Intersex, Ally.

Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans, Queer, Intersex, Asexual.

A boy will see a pretty girl and instantly think he wants to have sex with her.

He can't help it.

Girls don't want sex as much as boys. It's just in their nature.

You don't want sex? What's wrong with you?

Why do you have to be such a tease?