TRIGGER WARNING: SELF HARM
I have a tenuous relationship with my body. Oftentimes it feels like a prison, a barrier to a pure mental life, and in my more desperate moments I still wish I could shed it and escape the physical world completely.
I wear an insulin pump for my diabetes, have acne that I compulsively pick at, and numerous scars from my stint with self-harm (now more or less ended, thanks to antidepressants mostly). I also identify as neither male nor female, which has led to much of the “tenuousness” in the relationship with my distinctly “feminine” body, with its short stature and wide hips, although physical transition (see: top surgery scars) has eased some of that.
Between the scars, insulin pump, and genderqueer-ness, I feel like I never see anyone who looks like me, at least not in the media. I often get questioned about those three things, and I feel like I must either hide them or face endless side-glances and semi-inappropriate questions. Usually I opt for the latter because it’s more convenient to tell someone to fuck off than to alter my whole wardrobe. But more nobly—maybe someone dealing with the same stuff will see me out, alive and unashamed, and we’ll both feel less alone.