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

In My Skin

TW: self-harm, body image.

For various reasons, lately I've been thinking about (and look at) my skin. It has its problems, but it's changed a lot since my last post talking about it (why on earth did I not title that post "Counting Scars" and then write a full out parody of that song? Probably because that would be a little too morbid and offend someone, right).

I have many scars that are still visible. Although, as I mentioned in that post years ago, sometimes I'm not sure how visible they actually are and if they're recognizable. I've had people ask if they were self-inflicted or the result of cats. I did use cats as an excuse for a while, and I do have a few marks from an upset or overexcited cat encounter. But those marks don't generally last.

But now those aren't even the scars that I see first. Now I see the chicken pox scars, the acne scars. The one weird chicken pox/abscess combo right in between my breasts. An odd dry patch of skin on my arm that I have no idea when popped up. Probably some form of skin cancer but it's fine.

As many of you know, I'm doing my master's thesis on burlesque. This involves actually doing burlesque, which is absolutely amazing and I love it so much. I haven't performed yet, but just being a part of the world is incredibly inspiring and uplifting. For a significant amount of time each week I get to watch beautiful people be confident and love their beautiful selves.

Every once in a while (okay, most of the while), that little voice inside my head will whisper, "Why are you doing this again? You aren't beautiful like these people. You've got that weird scar between your boobs so your boobs aren't even pretty. Don't get me started with all the other imperfections."

I never used to care too much about my skin or scars that I didn't put there myself. But when I started doing burlesque, I began to notice my skin more. I used to have remarkably clear skin, but that's no longer the case. Who knows why. Stress, age, Florida. All of the above. Whatever the reason, my skin is far from perfect and my realization of that fact has given extra fuel to that little voice inside my head that likes to tell me about my shortcomings.

This voice usually has plenty of things to talk about as my anxiety makes me a perfectionist but my depression makes it hard to give anything more than the bare minimum. I like to think I'm immune to insecurities about my appearance because I've lived with my body and my appearance for so long that I shouldn't care about it anymore. Obviously that's a lie.

During one of my very first rehearsals in the burlesque troupe, one of the members was teaching us newbies how to pose in a "sexy" way. She said that you have to learn how to love at least one part of your body, and then you touch that part of your body and emphasize and show off how much you love that part of your body. Her instruction struck a chord with me and also made me acutely aware of how detached I'd become from my body.

When I was young, people always told me I had nice eyes. Kind older ladies would say they were beautiful, my best friend said I had the best "puppy dog eyes," and I was proud of how dark and big they were. Then one girl said I had "poopy brown eyes" and with the laughter of the whole English class, I lost confidence. Unrelated, I've always had a hard time making eye contact. Whether this is related to social anxiety or autism, I don't know. Probably a combination of everything. But essentially I learned to not love my eyes. Besides, how exactly are you supposed to sexily pose with your eyes (don't answer that, I'm sure it's possible)?

In the ballet world, I always had good feet. I have a high arch and good toe articulation that's useful for pointe work. So...every time I want to show off my favorite body part, I just need to take my shoes off, lift my leg up, and show the crowd how I can point one toe at a time. "There's always a foot fetish in the audience," as another burlesquer once said...

When I think about loving my body, I automatically think about it doing (or not doing) certain movements and positions. I had a pretty good arabesque at one point - but that's not really something you pop up in a sexy pose. I wowed many a modern class (and teacher) with my flexible hips (my hips frequently seize up, so I had to constantly stretch them out and keep them flexible), but what am I supposed to do, drop down into a cow face pose and wink at the audience?

Without actual dancing, I can't think of a body part that I actually like. I can think of plenty of reasons why I don't like every body part (and most of those reasons are linked to what it can't do or how injury prone it is). I don't like standing still because somehow it seems more vulnerable than moving. It's an invitation for the audience to stare closely at my body. It would seem like moving (dancing) would be more of an invitation and more attention grabbing, but it's never felt that way for me personally. Dancing, I always feel like there's a purpose other than my body. There's a story to tell, or a theme, or a concept. It's not about my body. Standing still and letting the audience look at whatever part of my body they want to feels far more vulnerable. It brings my physical existence into the equation.

In all of my years of performing and dancing, it was always easy to leave myself offstage. I could compartmentalize myself and only bring certain aspects onto the stage. Only the parts that were relevant, that were safe, that were acceptable, were displayed to the audience. When I was performing someone else's choreography, I embodied their topic, their character, their goal. I created a version of myself that only included what was relevant to that piece and I brought it to the stage. When I choreographed and performed my own work, I focused on one tiny aspect and shut out every other part.

For various reasons, I haven't been able to do that as easily as I used to. When working on my thesis, I find it very hard to separate the different factors and aspects of myself. I have to sit and deeply think about why I'm reacting a certain way. Is it because of my ballet training? Is it because I grew up in a church? Is it because I'm on the autism spectrum? Is it because I'm asexual? Which part of my identity is relevant here and how the heck do I keep the rest out?

I'm not entirely sure this is healthy. I would love to be able to fully embrace my entire existence - all factors, all aspects, all elements, physical and mental. I shouldn't have to constantly split myself into pieces and try to figure out which piece or how many pieces are acceptable for different situations. But I keep doing it over and over again until sometimes I can't remember who I am and who I want to be.

I may have gotten a little off track here. But if you've read even one post on here before, surely you expect that.

I've wanted to write this post for a while, but I kept putting it off because if I'm not writing my thesis, I shouldn't be writing anything. I don't have the time or energy to devote to anything else. But...this is my thesis. My thesis is about me and burlesque (and some other things). I've gotten too wrapped up in trying to be appropriately academic and write everything in a certain way and forgotten that really it's all about me. And this is how I work through issues about me. I have to write it out and follow my rabbit trails and act like I'm being inspirational and spouting words of wisdom and truth. And then I have to publish it because I just love attention, obviously.

Florida frequently makes me feel like I'm not good enough. Whether it's roommates or classes or allergies, it feels like there's always something out to get me. It's hard to not take things personally. And...man, it's just hard. I was going to say some more specific stuff but then I got overwhelmed with just how hard existing is these days and how pointless it all seems. The planet is going to die anyway, so what's the point? Gender is a social construct, women and people of color and minorities have been systemically oppressed for millennia, why bother trying anymore?

But...I will keep trying. I know other people keep trying and keep fighting and keep believing. It is hard.

Today I had a bad anxiety attack and did everything I could to break my skin with my fingernail, because I make a point to keep sharp objects out of reach. It is hard. But...I am still here. And I haven't broken my skin in a very long, long time.

--Dexter

ps. Even though "it has nothing to do with my thesis," I do want to start writing more posts again as well as go back to making videos. There's a lot of topics I know a lot about and want to spread awareness on (mental health, asexuality, gender, etc.). If you have a specific question or topic you'd like me to talk about and/or look into, let me know. Maybe you're genuinely curious and have a hard time finding answers, or maybe you aren't able or comfortable talking about it yourself. Either way, I am here for you.

One Semester Left

I wouldn't want to say that this is the most depressed I've ever been, because I've been in some pretty bad spots. But I think it's safe to say that this is the most my depression has ever affected the rest of my life. Somehow in the past, I was always able to function - sort of, at least.

The past few months I've been filling out PhD applications, following my big dream of becoming a professor and doing research forever. Balancing this with general grad school life hasn't been easy, but it also hasn't been impossible. I actually started off this semester feeling pretty strong and confidant.

I finally went to the university counselling center after hearing so many good things about them, and was feeling hopeful. We scheduled an official intake appointment...and then a hurricane hit, so my appointment was cancelled. I couldn't force myself to go back again to try to figure it out. Counselling centers are a huge source of anxiety for me (ironic, I know) because of past experiences, and it's insanely hard for me to take the first step in trying to get help.

Anyway, a few weeks ago as I was struggling to write a paper, I came to a kind of epiphany. I realized that ever since coming to Florida, I had been continually sacrificing the quality of my work in order to cling to shreds of my mental health. Because I knew I was not and had not been turning in quality work and it was starting to feel like I was just getting worse and worse instead of improving (which is what is supposed to happen in school, yes?). Every time I sat down to write something, even a tiny two page response paper, I would get overwhelmed with anxiety. Concepts that I fully understood only moments ago became complete mysteries, I couldn't understand what the words meant anymore, and I certainly couldn't figure out how to form a coherent sentence. Looking at the stuff I've written over the past year and a half is like watching myself slowly go insane and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

It's worse because I know I was a good writer. I got good grades, writing teachers loved me, I loved writing. I was a writing tutor for goodness sake. So I completely recognize how bad my writing is now and yet can't seem to do anything about it.

I wish there were something I could blame it on because then I might be able to fix it. The only thing I can clearly say is that I have been deeply unhappy since moving to Florida. Maybe it's just a coincidence and I was bound to continue spiraling downwards regardless of my location. Maybe it's the weather here. Maybe it's the absolutely insane drivers here.

I mean, it's probably the lack of a support group. That one time I went to the counselling center, one of the things the intake counselor said was most concerning was my isolation. When she asked about my closest friends or emergency contacts, all of them were at least one full state away. But I already knew I was alone, and I know I have a hard time connecting with people, and unfortunately my life is not like a melancholy comic where the solitary depressed protagonist stumbles into a lifelong friendship with a group of quirky individuals.

She was also concerned about how I had no "safe zones." There really isn't anywhere I feel at home here. I'm constantly on edge in my house because my roommates and their dogs, constantly on edge on campus, and too poor to hang out at coffee shops that often. Let me tell you, one of the most depressing thoughts I've had in the past year and a half is sitting at my desk in my bedroom on the verge of tears, desperately wishing I could go "home," and then realizing that I already am where home is supposed to be. Most college students go home for holidays and breaks - I visit my family, but that is no longer my home. There is not a lot of extra space in my mom's house and my home town just brings back a shit load of bad memories that I hate reliving.

During the last two weeks of this semester, I knew that if there were a way for my to drop out of grad school with no repercussions, with a source of income, with a purpose in life, I would absolutely do it and not come back next semester. Campus gives me anxiety, thinking about assignments gives me anxiety. At this point it's too late to go back to therapy and figure out some kind of accommodations for this last semester. I'm not saying therapy wouldn't be helpful and that I'm not going to try to go back, just that at this point it's too late to figure out a way to make my time here less harmful.

I will clarify here that of course I'm going to finish grad school. I would hate myself even more for quitting with only one semester left. I'm not counting on graduating with a high GPA or flying colors, but I will graduate. And if I don't, then, I don't, but at least I tried.

Like I said, my big dream was to go to PhD school after graduation. I'm only applying to three programs because I'm poor and don't have a lot of time (or sanity) to spend on a bunch of different applications, but I know my applications have not been stellar. I've received one rejection so far, which came as no surprise. I still have one application left to finish, and it's hard making myself work on it at all. I quite honestly feel embarrassed and ashamed to even try at this point. Asking for letters of recommendation from my professors feels like a waste of their time, not to mention the ever present thought in the back of my head that they think I have no chance anyway and are just doing it out of pity. I honestly think they are better people than that and they wouldn't agree to write a letter if they didn't think it was worth it, but I still think about it every moment of the day.

Plus, this whole time I've been talking about how I'm not good at grad school. So why on earth would I want to continue into more grad school? Part of me is clinging to the hope that maybe it's just Florida and maybe I would be more functional somewhere else. Maybe this time I'd have an idea of how to manage my life. Maybe I'd finally live somewhere I felt safe. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

I still want a PhD, but part of me believes I should try to get my mental (and physical) health in order before continuing. Except, I also doubt I will ever have my mental and physical health in order. I don't have the money for that kind of thing. I feel like I will always be a mess and all I can do is damage control and try to stay out of situations that exacerbate it (i.e., academia).

But then...what am I supposed to do after I graduate?

One option is to stay in Florida until something changes, maybe apply to PhD programs again in another year while I'm not also trying to graduate. I could invest more time into the burlesque troupe I recently joined. I could find some kind of other part time job, I could start doing music jobs again, I could try some other random things and just hope I make enough money for rent. There are a shit load of downsides to this (I'd still be in Florida, I'd still be with my current roommates, I'd still be incredibly alone), but also some positives (I wouldn't have to move, I'd be able to continue with the burlesque troupe).

Another option is moving back to the city where I got my undergrad. It's a tiny little town, but it's one of my favorite places, and I think I'd find some peace there. I still have some friends in the area and potential living options. There's some burlesque opportunities, and I could still do music and probably find some kind of job. There are downsides (having to move, having to join a new burlesque troupe) and positives (a happier environment, friends, there's still burlesque, more dance opportunities).

Or I could move to the opposite side of the country to where all the PhD programs are, even though I wouldn't be in the programs. This sounds like a stupid idea if I'm not actually going to school, and sounds kind of pathetic if my goal is to just keep applying until they ban me or accept me, but that wouldn't be the only reason. I actually have friends in that area too. However, this option is a lot scarier and sounds a lot riskier than the other options, and seems the least feasible. Downsides (incredibly far move, big scary unknown city, who knows what kind of burlesque opportunities, potentially harder to find a job because there's more competition, high rent), positives (brand new city, very good friends, definitely some kind of burlesque, potentially easier to find a job because there are more jobs, would make getting a PhD easier if I ever do decide to try again).

Maybe I'll be out of this funk in another few weeks. Maybe it's pre-period depression. Maybe, somehow, my brain will start working again next semester. Maybe I'll be able to convince myself that I'm not getting dumber, I'm just getting sicker, and that it's not my fault. Maybe that will be enough to give me a little peace and to get through a semester, even if it it doesn't improve my actual work.

Every passing day makes me more and more convinced that I'm just incapable of taking care of myself. I've never been able to envision being able to support myself. I don't know how easy it would be to let myself depend on someone. I can't imagine there being someone who was in a situation where they could help support me, much less that they would actually want to. But I really have become incapable of doing a lot of things that are necessary.

It's kind of ridiculous though. In order to get any kind of help for my mental disorders (or to qualify for disability benefits or anything), you have to somehow surpass your disorder. But also prove you have it? And also have money?

After turning in my last final, I got absorbed in a video game and played it almost nonstop for a few days. Then I beat it. Then I got absorbed in a web comic and read it all day. When I got up to date, I read another one. And then another one. And then another one until 3 am last night, and then cried for a while because I felt so hopeless and exhausted and tired of trying to hide from myself and my thoughts.

Anyway. One day, things will be okay. One way or another.

It helps to write things out and clear my head a little. I feel like all I ever do is complain and vent, so I appreciate you for reading all the way through this. And if you're one of the people I regularly vent too, I appreciate you for listening.

--Dexter

Queer Identity

Welcome to my first semester of my last year in grad school! I can't believe I've made it this far. And I can't really believe I'll make it any further, but I will certainly try.

The summer was, to put it lightly, stressful. I moved, had a few break ups, had a lot of mental break downs and a car break down. But now I'm in my new place, healthier relationships, and I've even gotten comfortable riding the bus. I'm actually feeling rather positive about this semester (but just check back with me tomorrow, I'll probably be back to Dexter the Depressed, whom we all know and don't really love).

Throughout all the crazy madness of summer, I was (theoretically) doing research for my thesis. So now that the semester has actually started, I've started actually doing more work on it, and it's made me realize a couple of things.

My thesis is on asexuality and burlesque. I've been extremely fortunate in all the support I've received from both inside and outside my department. I've even connected with the local burlesque troupe and I may actually get to do burlesque and get some awesome exciting fun experience.

The thesis itself has shifted to focus on performing identity, specifically queer identity, specifically asexual identity. Which I mean, makes sense. I've been an out and proud ace for at least three years now.

But I've never really felt comfortable identifying as queer or lgbtq+. Lots of people don't believe asexuality belongs in the community. Some asexually identifying people don't care and don't feel the need to be part of the community. But I do, and I always have, but have been afraid to say so in regards to myself, especially in something as important as my thesis.

In the School of Dance, being queer is totally fine. But is being ace fine?

Sitting in my into to lgbt studies class, I suddenly wonder if the professor or the students around me will actually be okay with me being there, or if they'll accuse me of being an imposter, a wannabe.

I could go on about acephobia and cite some nasty experiences, but my point is, it's awfully hard to write about performance identity when you're afraid that your identity isn't valid. It's very hard to stake your master's degree on your identity, when you're worried that your identity is invisibilized and ignored and mislabeled time and time again.

My main concern with actually performing an asexual burlesque was that people wouldn't get it, would be angry at it, would dismiss it. At best, they just wouldn't even notice the asexual jokes or themes. So what's the point?

The School of Dance has a guest artist in residency right now, Marjani Forte-Saunders (look her up, she's amazing), and she came to our dance theory class yesterday. We read and discussed a lot of stuff, but what really stuck with me was her response to critics and audience members who couldn't identify or find themselves in her work. "No, not for you. Enjoy." She also showed a clip of an interview with Arthur Jafa (check it out here), who talked about how everyone except white males have had to walk through the world constantly putting themselves in the role of a white male in order to identify with or enjoy entertainment and art, because everything is oriented or aimed at white males.

So you don't need to talk to white males. You don't need to find some way to appeal to the majority. If it's not about them, then it's fine. They have enough stuff about them. They can still listen in and watch, but they do not need to be able to find themselves in the work.

No, this is not about you. Enjoy the show.

--Dexter

PS. But still I kind of feel like in order to write a successful master's thesis, I should probably worry about it. Ugh.