brightlotusmoon: (Snow White Blood Red Light Pale)
I must quote this, because it struck me deeply and knocked me over and stunned me and amazed me.

*****
From: [livejournal.com profile] naamah_darling.
I don't know if I can explain it, any more than I can explain why I find anyone amazing, but you're open about what you are and what you are going through. You don't expend energy trying to be normal, and you never seem to even want to. You aren't afraid of what you ARE, even when the things that HAPPEN, sometimes because of things that you are, are scary. You seem sometimes scared of things that happen or that you (body/chemistry) do to you, but not scared of yourself, really. You're fierce. You're . . . we don't have a word for it. The way in which children and animals are alike, that we *call* innocence, but isn't innocence, it's just a kind of transparency and guilelessness-without-cluelessness. You're contradictory, and this isn't a problem. You've imposed . . . not order . . . but some sort of reason and meaning and story on the chaos in your life, and you have made beautiful things out of it inside you. You persist. You change, you are not destroyed. You're mercurial, joyful in the sense of being flat-out at everything you feel and not in the sense of being always happy, you're generous, you're very kind, you're forgiving. You aren't afraid to spend a lot of time working with and understanding yourself, because you know that is important. You are more people than just-the-one-you you. You are comfortable working with shape and meaning and color, when words aren't good enough. Whole parts of you are indescribable. You're a *good person*, while still being strong and fierce, and that is overwhelmingly obvious to anyone with half a synapse. You belong in fairy tales, like so many of the rest of us, writing better endings. You're kind of amazing.

And tangentially, THAT is why when people are all like "disabled people are so inspirational!" I get kinda pissed on the grounds of "THESE PEOPLE THAT I KNOW, they are SO MUCH MORE than a stepping stone for your ego or a friendly reassurance that hey, if those people can manage to get themselves to a beach/a gym/on a horse, you have a good chance of not being an utter asshole failure your entire life, and accomplishing REALLY important things!" and at the same time am like "No, really, we ARE inspirational; you have no fucking idea how 'inspirational' the disabled folks I know are . . . and if you had one iota of their self-awareness you might not be saying such asinine crap."
You want to find disabled people "inspirational?" I'll accept that . . . if what you are finding "inspirational" is their honesty in speaking out and sharing their opinions, their desire to help others, their weapons-grade swearing vocabulary (so many disabled people I know HAVE THAT, it's glorious), their ability to incorporate something literally disabling into their self-image and life when our culture gives them limited scripts and limited opportunities, their persistence in navigating the obstacles placed in front of them not by what they are, but by how our culture and the many dickheads in it unwittingly and often VERY DELIBERATELY make it harder to do so, the fact that they are often poor as dirt but are the most generous people you will ever meet, that they have known pain and so they often know great compassion.

*THAT* SHIT IS INSPIRATIONAL.

So is persistence, yes, which is why I am always impressed when I see someone who has had to deal with major issues accomplish something that is made particularly difficult BY those issues SPECIFICALLY, but when that sort of thing is nearly always ONLY praised in the context of visible, physical disability, or when it's some completely unrelated shit, that pisses me off.

It's like . . . people are apparently impressed by when disabled people do anything *while smiling*, because that indicates the triumph of overcoming our miserable existence? Or that we have a good enough attitude to forget, for a moment, that we are fucked up and are supposed to be miserable constantly? I don't even KNOW. But these same people aren't finding me inspirational when I'm at my blackest and am hanging on by my last claw, which is arguably when I am being my MOST BADASS. That's when I need to be pulling up my bootstraps and thinking my way out of it with sunshine and baby kisses. But an ungroomed, exhausted, surrounded by laundry, not moving, fat, blotchy, cat-strewn DEPRESSED person staring at a computer screen or TV or at nothing in particular doesn't look good in a facebook picture. "This person: probably exercising more willpower not to give up hope and eat a bullet than you will exercise at any point in your whole life. Stop. Bitching. That. Your. Yoga. Is. Hard." <---- Nobody wants that. (And, while maybe sometimes true, it's also kinda dickly, because Suck Olympics are uncool. The things that have made me most miserable sometimes do not seem to be proportional or make sense. To wit, the hour-long crying jag I had when my last pet scorpion died, years ago. Dude, I cried less painfully when my GRANDMOTHER died. What even the HELL?)

All I know is that the shit people usually talk about as being inspirational is not really very inspirational to me. Like, *if* it's true that Chris Evans really does have anxiety/panic attacks (never read reliable info about how severe his "problems with anxiety" are, though he apparently went into therapy) and he still navigated two MONSTROUS blockbuster movies and associated press events, I find that totally fucking impressive, because I KNOW WHAT THAT IS LIKE, and I know I couldn't handle it. And that's the stuff people don't seem to understand. That's the stuff people latch on to and *make fun of.* Because people who don't Get It can be real dicks about that stuff.
*****
I truly believe that if Namaah and I lived closer, we would see each other several times a week and never get tired of each other's company.
My husband once told me that everyone has multiple soulmates, that a soul can be split into many different parts. I think Namaah may be one of my soulmates. It took me five years to realize that, and that's okay. I like to take things slowly.
brightlotusmoon: (Snow White Blood Red Dragon Witch)
http://naamah-darling.livejournal.com/623299.html
Seriously, you guys. Seriously. *points* This woman. This woman is awesome. She is AMAZING. All her custom ponies are amazing; they are fantastic, they are extraordinary.
But I think she and I can both say with total confident honesty that Serenity is the best. (Okay, the best so far. But still.) And Serenity belongs to ME, because this woman made her JUST FOR ME. As a special gift.
And she knew she was doing it even before I told her I was considering requesting a custom since they are pricey and I wanted to save up money. And there she was smirking and giggling smugly because I had no idea, and then I got Serenity in the mail and I cried and sobbed so hard because the happiness and joy was overwhelming.
And now Serenity is literally imbued with my magic, and I love her more than any toy I have received in my adult life...
And seriously, people, you should seriously consider Namaah's ponies. She is absolutely incredible.
But Serenity is still the best. Truth. *nods*
https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10151406320840684.1073741827.640545683&type=1

And still, whenever I feel anxious and upset and depressed, I just touch the lotus bud symbol on her forehead, and I actually honestly feel better.

Edited to add:

Serenity the pony called to me, so decided to take a photo to show how much I adore her.

I have not loved a toy so much since I was a teenager. I cannot thank [livejournal.com profile] naamah_darling enough for creating and naming this pony just for me. This may be one of the most perfect toy gifts I have gotten in my adult life.

Serenity has been charged and imbued with as much personal magic energies as I could give her. She is now a method of helping me work with physical, emotional, and psychic self stimming in a weird way.
I talk to her during episodes of anxiety and depression; I kiss the lotus bud blaze on her forehead when I say goodnight. I brush her hair with wood combs and boar brushes. It relaxes me.

She soothes my brain and centers my mind in ways I cannot explain. She is a toy, custom made... but she is special beyond description.





It doesn't matter how old or young you are. There will always be some sort of toy or physical object that represents something important, something life-like or abstract or surreal, that you bond to deeply.
brightlotusmoon: (Snow White Blood Red Dragon Witch)
So, a couple of months ago, I was chatting with [livejournal.com profile] naamah_darling about her fabulous custom made My Little Pony dolls, which she paints herself with her own designs and even new hair. She sells them on Ebay for reasonably understandably high prices, because they are really extraordinary and unique.
I casually mentioned that one day, when I could afford it, I'd love a custom pony for myself. The matter was dropped.
And then a week or so ago, on Facebook, Naamah mentioned on Facebook that she was sending me a package. Since I've been sending her care packages full of skin care and supplements, I figured it was something similar, like a thank you. I didn't realize how anxious and excited she seemed about my receiving the package.

A couple of days ago, the box arrived. I opened it up and found the card first, with a glittery dragonfly on the cover. I opened it and on the left it read:

"Funny you should talk about a custom..."
And my heart kind of skipped.
And on the right it read:
"It took me a while to figure out her name, but it turned out to be so simple once she told me.
Serenity.
I made her thinking of you start to finish. She's all yours. She'll be a friend who can always be there for you and remind you that you are never alone.
Hope you love her. <3"

And even before I pulled away the paper wrappings, I was crying. And when I had the pony in my hands, and I saw her flank symbol, I cried even harder, murmuring "Oh my gods, oh my gods, she did this for me, she made this for me, oh my gods, this is amazing, this is so beautiful, oh oh oh..."

Because I had seen a photo, on Naamah's Livejournal, months ago, of this pony being painted, and I had instantly been pulled toward it, wishing it could be mine...
And here she is.
Meet Serenity.
https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10151406320840684.1073741827.640545683&type=1

Every morning, I look directly at her when I wake up, and she makes me smile. It is a wonderful, beautiful thing. Honestly, I don't think I can express it in words. Just... incredible. Love you, Naamah.
brightlotusmoon: (Snow White Blood Red Dragon Witch)
Today is a day of deep, deep depression, fatigue, and chronic pain so endless that the abyss is right in my face grinning. Everything is a Cheshire cat.

I have been forming this post in my head since yesterday morning, when I woke up with nothing working properly, with only bits of my brain and body truly functional, and I had to put on a mask and a whole costume, I had to grip my spears and even a sword for dear life, I had to smile and pretend to shine because I refused to worry anyone, because I didn't want to sink further.

And people tend to get tired of me constantly talking about my pains and feelings, because whoa, can't I talk about happy things, things that maybe don't involve medicine and coping mechanisms and feelings?
But here is the Big Thing: So many people feel this way. So many dear friends will read this and understand and perhaps comment and know they have someone to help them stand and fight.
And that is the other Big Thing. We do need help. We do need to stand with each other and fight. On the internet and in life, there are people who will say we are faking, that we are pill addicts, that we are attention whores, that we are crazy.

I will stand up and say, No, I am not faking, nor a pill addict, nor do I desire attention. But crazy? Yes. Yes, I am crazy. Yes, I need help. I am getting help. Medications. Therapy. Exercise. Nutrition. Supplements. Herbs. Vitamins. Holistics. I am not afraid to tell you what is happening, because you need to hear it, you who would mock and tease and bully and tell me to "Just slap a Band-Aid on it and walk it off, just exercise and feel better, just eat this food for two weeks without any drugs, just smile a lot, oh hey, I felt sad yesterday and then I got over it, I know how you feel, I wrenched my ankle last week and wrapped it up and now I feel better, I know how you feel, maybe you're just pretending, why don't you just get better? Quit talking about how much you hurt, everybody hurts, it could be worse."
It could be worse, yes oh yes. Ohhh, sweethearts, it could be so much worse. Yes.
Here, let us try something: You can have my body for a while. You can feel every single feeling I feel, think every thought I think, know every pain I know. See how it feels. No? You can't? Really? Are you sure? Still no? Oh, dear. Well, then, I suppose we will have to stop associating, even if we have only been talking via a forum, a community, a social network, a bus stop, a party, via phone, via web video, in a store, in a house. Oh, well. I thought maybe you had enough compassion, or, you know, empathy. I guess I won't find out. But you know what? If it ever happens to you - and part of me hopes it won't and part of me hopes it will - I shall still stand with you even if you hurt me, because warriors stand up.

There are beautiful, wonderful, incredible, amazing, extraordinary, fantastic people who are being slowly devastated, crippled, destroyed by their own bodies' various systems, for no true reason other than they just happen to live in those bodies. Some of them think about how horrible they are, how they are useless, worthless, pointless, draining, a burden to everyone around them. I feel that way quite a bit. There are some who want to harm themselves, some who want to kill themselves. I cannot do that, but I admit I have imagined it. If I truly wanted to harm myself, I would stop taking my medications. I would let all the pain crash over me in one single tsunami with wave after wave, while I spasm and shake and seize and sob and scream and shiver because I refuse to give myself relief, because I refuse to make it stop. But I will not do that. I can not do that. It would destroy everyone who loves me, whom I love. And I know that. That is another Big Thing.

To everyone reading this who feels the same way: I love you. You are loved. You will always be loved. You are extraordinary. You are amazing. You are fantastic. You are beautiful in so many ways. I love you. I will stand up with you. I will give you spears, swords, shields. I will show you how to scream a battle cry loud enough to make the gods hear you. I will show you how to launch into battle with these monsters. We will never win the war. We will often retreat covered in blood and darkness, growling and licking our wounds and crouching together to patch up each other's wounds.
I will take you by the hand and lead you outside. We will stare up at the sky and say, "Oh, this is such a beautiful sky." The sky may not look beautiful. The sky may be full of dark storm clouds and we cannot see the sun. But just because there is a storm does not mean that the sky has gone away. The clouds and the dark will move, and we will see the bright, bright sky, all shades of blue, and we will see the sun, gazing upon us like the eye of a god, giving us light and warmth and strength. We cannot look directly at the sun, but we can look at the sky and call it beautiful, and we can look at each other, covered in war wounds, and say we are beautiful. We are. We are beautiful.
I love you.





















Oh, and I wanted to add: I took my painkillers and anti-anxiety drugs today, of course. They are helping, of course. I got exercise, I meditated deeply, I spoke with a therapist, I ate healthful happy foods, I did all the things people suggest one does in these situations. I am very very slowly working my way back to a steady and stable mood, but it will take a while - many people don't understand that it takes a while. That is yet another Big Thing. "Why isn't your treatment working yet? What is wrong with you? Shouldn't you be feeling better by now? Why are you still like this?"
It is tiring, and it is irritating. But I am still going to share, and speak, and stand, and stay strong. Because you asked. Because you need to know. Because I love you.
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
It was hot enough today that I wore one of my favorite summer outfits: A fashionable swirl-patterned purple cotton tank top and a swirl-pattered gray and black skirt down to my knees with slits on the sides. It showed off my figure very, very well. I was not wearing makeup. My hair was loose and a little frizzy from the heat.
On my way home, I stopped at the local Yes Organic Market to get some SmartWater and chocolate. The checkout clerk was a lovely young woman whose name tag read Mel. After she had rung up my purchases, she looked at me and said, "I hope you don't think I'm being too forward, but... you have the most amazing, beautiful figure I have ever seen!"
My jaw dropped slightly and my brain took a second to process this. A complete stranger, a woman, not hitting on me, just told me I had a beautiful figure. I managed to gasp, "Thank you! Wow. Thank you so much, what a wonderful compliment!"
We chatted for a few minutes. I told her I was recovering from anorexia, and she praised and complimented me for my strength. She couldn't stop raving about how beautiful I looked. "There are women who are born naturally beautiful," she told me, "and there are women who work at being beautiful. I think you are one of the naturally beautiful women."
She was not trying to hit on me, she explained, she really just thought I was that beautiful with an "amazing body".

It was truly one of the best compliments I have ever gotten.
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
Realizations, ideas, conceptions, and intentions fall suddenly, sometimes, absolutely no warning or preparation.

Last night, I was sorting through the drawer that holds my underwear and bras. I realized that some of my bras (34B) seemed tight around the band, and some of the extra small panties were tight around the hips; and that this had been going on for weeks. I got the measuring tape. I knew I was an or two larger, but I hadn't understood, not until I finally measured my chest.
I am a full band size larger.
Stunned, I quickly measured my waist and hips. Then I measured my bust again. Then my hips. Then I grabbed a pen and paper and wrote the numbers down and stared and stared and stared.
36. 24. 36.
A perfect hourglass figure.
My initial reaction was not one of joy or pride or smugness, hooray I have the apparently ideal body. No. It was confusion. Intense puzzlement. Suddenly I was outside my body. I was not me anymore, but me outside of me. Thinking, when did this happen? Why did this happen? Who am I? What is this body? Why do I feel so strange? Is this me? Is it?
I stripped naked and stood in front of the mirror. I took note of how my bust curved gently into my waist, which dipped inward and flared out to my hips. I turned sideways. Somehow, my butt didn't seem so big anymore. It was round and full but... just right. Just curvy enough. It wasn't sticking out like I had always seen it do. I measured yet again, all over, just to force my brain to believe my eyes.
Then I cried, a little.
The realization was this: I was supposed to have this body. As an adult -- as a woman -- this was how my genetics and my biology worked. My father is full Sicilian, and all the women in his family have petite curvy hourglass figures. My mother is Russian, Romanian, Hungarian, and German, and all the women in her family have petite tiny slender frames. It wouldn't make sense to be very skinny in that combination. It would make sense to be slender and curvacious both.
It took me how long to understand this?
During the peak of my anorexia, I shrank my body down to skeletal proportions, but the parts of my body that were genetically predisposed to curviness stayed curvy. Through the eyes of body dysmorphic disorder, I saw my hips and my butt as being too big for my body. Because at the time, they were. Those parts were normal sized. The rest of me was too small.
Children grow into their bodies. Limbs are too long, hands and feet and head are too big. Things seem disproportionate. I feel as though I am a child growing into a body that has been pushed down, ignored, rejected and neglected for too long.
When I was in my late teens and early twenties, my body had not yet caught up with its own feminine ideal. At 21 I had started forcing it into a life of illness and depravation. No chance to grow. I ignored the screaming inside me, the desperation to be free and to blossom. Once I began recovering, over time, my body started to wake up. The food and the nourishment was nectar in a dying flower. And over the course of a year and a half, I ripened. I grew. Parts finally began fitting together. Curves fleshed out in the way they were always meant to be in this adult woman's body.
Part of me, the part that may never break free of the disorder, looks at it all with a muted sense of confusion, thinking that the body must not get any bigger, could even stand to be just a little smaller, just a little. But the other part, the healthy part, says that it has nothing to do with big or small. This is how it is.
I am still only a size four. I still have what my fashion illustrator artist mother calls a miniature waistline. I am still petite. That is still tiny. I am still tiny. But I am no longer so skinny, no longer hidden.
I am a woman now.
I am a woman.
I am.
Now.

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