creatur3creati0ns - Tumblr blog

creatur3creati0ns · 8 months

Text

My History with Self Harm and Self Tattooing

I think it goes without saying that this will be discussing both tattooing and self harm, so if that’s something you don’t want to read about, here’s your trigger warning. I won’t be getting into explicit descriptions about self harm but for the sake of the story I will be mentioning the main form of self harm I used to engage in, which is cutting. I myself can not read, hear, or watch any media that shows or describes cutting, and even writing or saying the world evokes a very bad physical reaction in me so trust me when I say I will try to tell this as best I can while attempting not to trigger anyone, especially myself. But I will be talking about it, maybe more than you’re comfortable with, so do be careful if needed. There will also be mentions of suicidal ideation, mental illness, and the struggles that come along with those, as well as brief mentions of childhood abuse and trauma. No specifics, but the acknowledgment of them. I also show a picture where I have mild hives on my skin, in the “My History with Tattooing” section, and I do warn before I show you. I briefly mention sexual themes, as well as BDSM.

My History with Self Harm

I started self harming around 13 years old, after I was in a car accident that gave me a traumatic brain injury and triggered a myriad of mental illnesses including social anxiety, major depressive disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and depersonalization/derealization. Along with this I was dealing with abuse from my parents and pressures around school. Everything accumulated in panic attacks and general feelings of hopelessness and helplessness. That brought on heavy thoughts of suicidal ideation. I did not have any control in my life, especially over what happened to my own body. The way that I regained a bit of control was by self harming. My usual go-to was cutting. This also helped with my dissociation disorder, because it was a very grounding experience that brought me back into reality and my body. I had a whole ritual surrounding it, and it was something that I did very often and was the main coping mechanism I used at the first sign of trouble. It got to the point where I would even do it at school, under my desk or hidden in the office.

When I started getting help for my struggles, one suggestion I found online to help with self harm urges was to draw on myself. This was something that I connected with instantly. Very quickly I found myself spending at least an hour each night drawing on the places I wanted to self harm. I would spend time each morning refreshing the drawings that might have smudged at night, and redrawing them after a shower. My marker of choice was any Sharpie, and I still have a very large collection of them. Black was my usual go to, and I had a black Sharpie on me at all times. Usually two, one with a pointed tip for details and one with a rounded tip for thicker lines or coloring things in. I tried different brands of skin safe markers and I did like them, but they didn’t last as long and they were expensive. At some point I was obsessed with “Mr. Sketch Scented Markers” and I still have two packages of those. I loved experimenting with different markers and I still do, but now it’s mainly for drawing or coloring on paper. I also experimented with different ways to make the drawings last longer, like covering them with baby powder and hairspray. I would draw on myself any chance I would get, and would always spend the car ride to school doing it.

Pictured above was the first photo I have of a drawing I did on myself. I’m using Snapchat screenshot for most of the pictures in this post because it has the date there. These were done with the good ol’ Mr. Sketch, and I specifically remember I would only listen to Emma Chamberlain’s “spring 2018” playlist while doing this in my mother’s bedroom. She has since changed the playlist name and added songs I never listened to, but the first 16 or so songs were the ones I would listen to every night for a few weeks. Why I was in my mother’s bedroom is also a long story, but when I was dealing with my suicidal ideation I was not allowed to sleep in a room by myself for around two years. During this time I had to sleep in her room, in her bed. About an hour before bed I would be able to have the room to myself to draw.

I was never much of an artist before I started doing this, so most of the things I did at the beginning of my skin drawing journey were doodles I thought of or simple designs I saw on Pinterest.

At some point I graduated from drawing only on my inner forearms and outer thighs to my hands and fingers and all over my legs and pretty much anywhere I could reach. I got pretty good at drawing with my non-dominant hand so that my right hand and arm was covered in marker as well. Here I was still doing some Pinterest drawings.

Those triangles on my left knee in the picture above was something I would do a lot. It was the first “design” I ever created myself, and was definitely the easiest to do. You can see X’s on my hand here, which is something I started to do a bit before this picture, like this. Easier to do with my non-dominant hand.

One of my favorite things to doodle were triangles, like the ones seen here.

I started getting a little funky with my triangles.

One of my favorite things to do after a few years was to black out my knuckles with boxes.

In my spare time I would look at other people’s tattoos online and try to imitate them on my own skin.

I started to like blacked out shapes. Try to get as much color on my body as possible.

That turned into blacking out a portion of my arm.

Or even blacking out my whole arm.

I even drew on my neck and face.

Funnily enough, I ended up getting my first piercing there, an eyebrow piercing.

Some extras I like:

Little hint of a blacked out arm there.

My mother wasn’t a fan of any of this at first until I told her it helped with my self harm urges. Of course it didn’t completely stop my self harming, but it definitely lessened how much I did it. She would often gift me markers for holidays, or even just on random days when she was at the store and found something that I might like. That’s what happened with the “Mr. Sketch Scented Markers.” If you read my “The First 20 Years” post, you know I have a lot of complicated feelings about my mother. She was heavily abusive and our relationship suffered because of it . But as every other human being on the planet, she had her good moments and there were things she was good at as a parent. She would stand up for me when others made negative comments about my drawings. My grandmother didn’t like the fact that I had Sharpie all over my hands, but the only time I heard her bring it up to my mother, my mother said that it really helped me and that it was important. The next day my grandmother complimented some of my drawings, and a few months later when a friend of hers was visiting, she pointed it out to her friend and mentioned that she thought I was getting good at it. My grandmother was also very abusive and a decently bad person, but again. People are not only one thing blah blah.

Once I was at a doctor’s appointment and had heavy black drawings all over my hands and a nurse asked if they were tattoos. I was maybe 16 at the time, and I told her no, it was just marker. She went on to say that that was good, because tattoos are bad and unprofessional and will kill your chance at being successful and I should especially not have them so young. I nodded along silently and then left to have a panic attack in the bathroom, and texted my mother telling her what happened because I didn’t know what else to do. It might seem like an extreme reaction, but in general I hated confrontation and any time any adult showed even an ounce of disappointment or anger over something I did or even just who I was, it destroyed me. My mother ended up calling the office to explain the importance of my drawings (this office already knew in depth about my self harm and mental health issues, as it was a small medical practice and my mother loved to talk) and say that what the nurse said was upsetting and inappropriate. A few minutes later the nurse came back into the exam room to apologize very sincerely and give me a hug, which was appreciated but also very awkward considering I thought it looked like I called my mommy to complain about the mean nurse to get her in trouble.

In October of 2020 I started taking drawing a little more seriously, and finally found my style. I was always doodling, literally any chance I could get. Every page in my school notebooks were filled with triangles and lines and dots. There was a drawing on some part of my body at all times. I found this artist, ihategreeneggs on Instagram and wanted to try my own version of something he did. This was his drawing that inspired me.

And this is what I ended up doing. My very first drawings of what would eventually become my style.

Here I drew my mushroom guy (who is my favorite, now) on my arm. A little hard to see but you get the picture. I plan on getting him tattooed on me for real. Probably by someone else, just so it’s as good as it can be.

I realized after a few years that I enjoy having marks on my skin. Whether it was self harm, Sharpies, scars, random scratches, or even hickeys and impact play marks later on in my life, any time I could see something on my skin out of the corner of my eye or in the mirror it would make me happy and present in myself. I’m still not totally sure why, but I think it has something to do with “my skin has changed or looks different than when I was born and that is proof that I am real.” This is still something I feel now, but I have developed healthier ways of getting those marks on my skin.

My History with Tattoos

I was around tattoos at a very young age. My dad has several pretty old tattoos, and two of them were decent sized pieces on both forearms. I can’t remember exactly what they were, but I’m near positive that one was a traditional full body tiger, and the other was a traditional scorpion. He had some other ones on his shoulder and his chest. He has my mother’s name in a red heart. My mother’s only tattoo is a giant rose on her ass that spells my father’s name in the leaves. Yes, they are divorced.

My mother said early on in my life that she did not want me or my sister to get any tattoos or facial piercings. If we did get tattoos, they needed to be very easily hidden. When I was younger, I didn’t really have a desire for tattoos or piercings. I thought they were cool, but not for me. I did want to dye my hair, though, and my mother refused to let us do that either. As I entered middle school, I was exposed to emo culture, as are most young queer kids, and then I did want tattoos and piercings. I knew that as soon as I turned 18, I was gonna spend that day getting piercings and tattoos and dyeing my hair. That’s not what I did during my birthday, but a couple months after turning 18 I got my first facial piercing, and a couple months after that I ordered my first hand poke kit. At least I dyed my hair immediately.

If you’re familiar with tattoos, you know that hand poked tattoos are usually called stick and pokes. I personally say hand poke because of the stigma around “stick n pokes” and the fact that I did mine with an actual tattoo needle and tattoo ink, as opposed to the sewing needle and pen ink that most people think of when you say stick and poke. Nothing wrong with that, I personally am of the opinion that you can do whatever the hell you want with your body as long as you’re still advocating for others to do it as safely as they can. A lot of the tattoo artists I was learning from called it hand poked, or even hand pushed, and it stuck for me. I don’t care what others call it, but I think hand poked sounds cute and is more fitting for my personal process.

I had been learning about the tattooing process for years, but in the months following my 18th birthday I started learning more about the hand poke process as opposed to machine done tattoos. I saw hand poke as more approachable and accessible. I had known for years that some day I wanted to be a tattoo artist. After drawing on myself for years, developing my style, and drawing on anyone who would let me, I wanted to be able to do it permanently. I love the idea of providing people with little friends on their body that go with them everywhere. That’s exactly what I want in life! And I like creating, it’s the best thing for me to do.

I really wanted tattoos and the easiest way was for me to do it myself. I was a few hours away from my parents, in my own room I was paying rent for, with my partner and close friend in the rooms across the hall. I finally felt safe and grounded. I had my own space and I had the freedom to do what I wanted. Now was as good a time as any to try hand poke out.

I had decided that I wanted my first tattoo to be meaningful to me, and I didn’t care if the rest I got were. “Firsts” have always been important for me in my life. In September of 2021, I decided to tattoo “LET GO” on the top right of my right thigh, the words facing me. This, of course, has absolutely no meaning to me now, but at the time I thought this was a good reminder. I think it came out pretty damn good considering it was my first ever tattoo on skin.

My second tattoo was a creature I drew a long while ago, and I did it on the top right of my left shin, right below the knee. This was a horrible and painful decision, especially for my second tattoo ever. I did this tattoo the same day I did my first one, because the first one was so quick to do.

A little over a week later, I did my next tattoos. My third and fourth tattoos were also done the same day. An “X” on my left middle finger knuckle, something I’ve wanted for a while, and a little smiley face on the second knuckle of my left pointer finger.

I don’t know for sure why I did that fourth one, as I was never a huge fan of smiley faces. I just think I wanted another finger tattoo while I had the supplies out. I regretted it pretty quickly, but the very next day my sister came to visit me in the new city I moved to and she was wearing a smiley face ring on the same finger I had my tattoo on. So it was very much worth it for the sweet memory.

A little less than a week after those, I did a pretty ambitious tattoo, my fifth. About a four inch by four inch snail I drew with some of my signature, uh, squiggles? I don’t know what these are but I’ve been doing them forever. The ones I currently do in my drawings are a bit different, but this was an old drawing when I first started out with this style. Either way, it was a lot more than I could handle. I wanted the squiggles colored in and I had only done one pass through the whole thing, but I had already spent hours on it and I didn’t want to overwork my skin, so I decided to stop for the day and do it again after it healed. Long story story I developed chronic hives after this tattoo (not related) so it was left unfinished for a while. “A while” being two years. More about those hives in my “The First 20 Years” post if you’re interested. This is the only pic I have of that tattoo, so if looking at hives freaks you out, keep in mind I have mild hives in this picture.

I did a lot of research before tattooing myself. I bought a kit from a website that wasn’t Amazon, and I practiced on a lot of fake skin. I watched a lot of YouTube and Instagram videos by hand poke tattoo artists and read many articles. Yet when I did the tattoos, I still fucked up. It’s in the nature of the practice, when you’re first starting out. I was happy with what I did, though, and I was safe doing it, so that’s all that mattered. About a year passed by, and they faded pretty badly. The ink the kit came with wasn’t the greatest, and I definitely poked too shallow out of fear. I had a friend who expressed interest in stick and poke, and since I had a lot of supplies, I invited them over to use some and pretty much showed them how to hand poke. I wasn’t the best teacher considering the last time I had done it I barely knew what I was doing, but they knew it wasn’t going to turn out perfect and didn’t mind. I touched up my X on my middle finger while they did a smiley face on their middle finger. I just checked in with them a couple days ago, and about a year later, it still looks pretty good. Still quite dark, so clearly they poked deep enough. This time after my tattoo I actually did aftercare and treated it well. It was a good experience. We watched Adventure Time while doing it, and it’s a great memory for me. I think that’s what tattooing should be all about.

Why I’m Even Writing This

Last week, I was having a hard day. I was deep in relationship problems that I thought was going to end it, and leave me having to move two hours away from the city I call home, to move into my sister’s apartment with her and her boyfriend. That is, of course, better than being unhoused, but there were a number of reasons why this would be my last option. There were also a number of reasons why me being unhoused was a very real worry at the time if my relationship ended. This isn’t about that, though, so I digress.

The night prior, right as the relationship problem started, I had reached out to a friend to come pick me up and take me to their place. I can’t drive and I needed to get out of the apartment for a bit. We weren’t that close, never hung out outside of a group, but they were my only friend who lived near me and had their own place. We ended up talking about what was happening in my relationship, and as five hours passed, we talked about other things as well. Tattoos got brought up, as they inevitably do when I’m talking to, well, pretty much anyone.

This friend had a few tattoos on their arms. They had a stick and poke done with a sewing needle and pen ink that a friend did years and years ago, and a professionally done stick and poke with incredible detail. I say stick and poke because that’s the word they used. This is the first friend I have that has both hand poked tattoos and machine done tattoos, so I was pretty excited to ask about the difference, specifically with the pain. I don’t remember much of what they said because it was a week ago at this point and I had a lot on my mind, but some key things they said was that the hand poked ones hurt a lot less, and the machine done ones ended up feeling numb after a while because of all the buzzing.

I mentioned that eventually I want to be a tattoo artist, and it felt like they lit up. They said that they thought I would be a good one. I honestly think I give off tattoo artist wannabe vibes so it was very nice to hear someone else say it would fit me well. I said that I haven’t tattooed myself in a long time, at least a year at that point. I told them that what they said made me want to start up again, and now was as good a time as any considering I’m unemployed and quite literally have nothing better to do. Not to mention I really needed the distraction at the time. I said that I would spend the next day practicing or maybe even touching up one of my old tattoos that you can barely see now that it’s been two years since I’ve done them.

Without going into too much detail, the next day after talking with my friend, things got unimaginably worse. This was last Friday. I was experiencing thoughts of wanting to self harm, which was something that I hadn’t experienced in at least a month. The emotions I was feeling at the time were overwhelming. They were the kind of feelings that I knew self harm would immediately fix. Put me in control when I thought my whole existence was coming to an end. I thought that I had made my mind up while I was sitting in the bathroom having my second panic attack of the day. I don’t know what stopped me from doing it. Maybe it was because I was thinking about the therapy session I had that morning before everything went to shit. I had told my therapist that I was going to spend the day practicing tattooing while waiting for the inevitable conversation my partner and I would have to have. I didn’t expect the conversation to come so quickly after my session ended, which is one of the reasons I had such an extreme reaction. I guess I decided to go through with what I told her I was going to do, but now the urge had moved to tattooing myself instead of fake skin. Practice is practice, I suppose.

I got out my supplies and set everything up and decided to basically re-poke my second tattoo that was on my shin. I spent a few hours doing it while watching House M.D. and it made everything a lot better. Afterwards, I was writing everything that had happened the previous few days down for my next therapy appointment. I realized I had “urge to self harm” and “tattooed myself” in the same sentence. I was worried that it would come across like I had exchanged the razor for a tattoo needle in a way to cause myself harm. I decided to spend some time thinking about the difference in self tattooing and self harming for me and if they were related.

I looked online to see if people had written about a connection between self harm and tattoos. I wanted to hear others' thoughts, especially people in the mental health field. I, of course, found some people saying that body modifications were an extreme form of self harm or that body modifications were only done by people who were mentally ill. That’s definitely not what I was looking for. I found this article, though, which interested me. I decided to sit down and write through the process and intent of my self harm vs. my tattooing, and what the similarities were, if any.

The Difference Between My Self Harm and My Self Tattooing

I went through the feelings I have before, during, right after, and the following days after I self harm or tattoo.

Before I self harm, I look forward to it. I’m clear headed, sure, and confident. During it, my thoughts start to devolve. I get a little panicky and shaky, and no longer feel clear headed or confident. I try to make it quick. I do it without looking, and as fast and as much as possible. If it’s an especially painful one I pause for a second or so, usually let out a curse and try to calm myself with some quick rocking back and forth, then go back in before I lose my nerve and can’t continue any longer. Right after, I feel a lot of relief, and am nervous but smiley. Not happy, but I smile pretty much immediately. It’s not because I find it funny, either, but it has to do with the immense relief. I feel grounded again. I get rid of everything quickly, never clean myself up, and immediately go do something else. Then comes the shame. I used to be the kind of person to track my “clean” days, so every time I relapsed, there was deep sadness and frustration when it finally sinks in what I had done. The following days after I self harm, I will hit or slap the harmed area quickly when I experience something triggering or upsetting in any way. A hit of pain helps ground me and make me feel more in control, and reminds me of what I did to gain control. After a few days I can finally look at the area I harmed, and I look at it closely, running my fingers over it, and bringing it up to my face so it’s the only thing I can see and focus on. Self harm helps me in the moment, but immediately afterwards I feel so much worse. The days following, it helps me through other triggers, but instead of using my healthly coping mechanisms, I automatically re-injure myself.

Before I tattoo, I’m anxious but excited and prepared. During it, I am slow and careful and will look at the area I’m tattooing closely, taking my time with the piece until I feel like I’m done. I pause for a bit if there’s a lot of pain, and let myself take a rest and come back to it in a while if I need to. Right after, I’m happy and proud. I’m still learning tattooing, so it can be quite a hard and long process, but that just makes me more proud of myself for being able to do it. My focus is then on carefully wrapping up the tattoo and taking care of it, and then slowly putting everything away, being mindful of not hitting my tattoo accidentally. I spend time afterwards looking at it and appreciating my work. The following days after I tattoo myself, I am careful to not touch it, hit it, or scrape it. I leave the second skin on for a while, looking at it every so often, which makes me happy. After the second skin is off, I spend time taking care of it using tattoo ointment, then moisturizing when it’s ready, and am careful to not have any rough contact with it.

I realized that I don’t tattoo for the pain, but for the closeness it brings to my body. Tattooing myself is very grounding. I have to listen to my body and be aware of where my hand is and where I’m tattooing, how I’m stretching the skin, where the needle is going. It’s a ritual of caring for my body, in addition to putting something that makes me happy on my body using my own hand. The pain is just a byproduct of the tattoo, while the pain of self harm is one of the only things that matters.

Using Self Tattooing as a Substitute for Self Harm

The next morning when I had my therapy session, I brought this all up to my therapist. She made some great points that made me feel more secure in how I was feeling. She said that tattooing myself was a substitute for self harm. Pain is just a sensation, and it’s something that’s okay to endure or even seek out. Tattooing myself is a creative and regulated pain that doesn’t put me in harm's way or make me unsafe. Just because there is pain in an activity, doesn’t mean it’s a form of self harm. I have five facial piercings, which all hurt to get, but the purpose of getting them was to have cool metal in my face, which then connects me more to my body. Even people who do things like body suspension do it for reasons other than the pain. And if pain is the main reason why you’re doing something, I don’t necessarily think that’s a bad thing. Speaking as a masochist and a sadist, pain can be enjoyable in many different ways. There’s a difference between self harm and being hurt. Safety has a big part to play in it, as does listening to your body when it tells you to stop.

Because I wanted marks on my skin at all times, I would self harm constantly. With a tattoo, it’s a one and done deal. I do it and then it’s there forever. There’s no need to constantly keep it up, causing more pain and injury each time. The fact that I designed my tattoos myself aids in the grounding and “I am real” feeling that skin drawings have given me in my life. When I tattoo I am clear headed and not overly emotional. When self harming, I am very vulnerable and on edge. Each time I leave a mark it's different than the last, and I couldn’t care less about how deep I’m going. It’s a very dangerous process that I would do very often. I stopped tracking my clean days, but I know it’s been a while since I self harmed. Having tattoos to look at instead makes me a lot happier.

Closing Thoughts

As of writing this, I re-poked my shin tattoo nine days ago.

I redid my thigh tattoo two days ago, using my tattoo machine for the first time. My partner bought me my machine for our one year anniversary in October of 2021, and I’ve practiced with it a few times. I definitely should have done more research considering most of my tattoo knowledge came through hand poke and my previous knowledge of machine tattooing is quite a few years old and I don’t remember some of it. I had to look up a few things. I spent around three hours on it, but mostly because I took 10 minute breaks very frequently. I’m going to be honest, machine tattooing sucked. I felt I had less control and it was so so so much more painful than handpoke. I definitely want to make a different post talking about my experience with hand poke vs machine. I think I’m going to stick with hand poke for the most part. But long story short, I stopped halfway-ish through because I couldn’t handle the pain anymore and I was having trouble with the needle I was using. Fucking magnums. I’m going to let it heal and then handpoke the snail and finish the squiggles with, unfortunately, my tattoo machine.

Art has been incredibly beneficial to me for a large portion of my life. It has helped me through very rough times. Even now, when something has happened and my nervous system is dysregulated, I end up grabbing my iPad and making some vent art. It instantly makes me feel better and provides an outlet for anger, sadness, and any other emotion I might have. It also helps me to process my feelings. Art and body modifications are one of the most important things in my life, and they both have helped me to connect with myself, in general and also in my trans identity. I’m going to be saying this phrase a lot, as you have seen so far, so get ready; this is something that I want to write about more in depth at some point.

I’d say that’s all. This only took, I don’t know, a little less than a week to write. Finding the pictures and placing them here correctly was the hardest part. So far the two things I have written have been very long, a little over 5,000 words. Hopefully soon I can write something a bit more simple. And hopefully soon I can figure out how to end something without outright saying “the end.” Anyway. Thanks for reading!

The End :D

#trans #queer #body mods #body modifications #tattoos #piercings #personal essay #tw: self harm #self harm and tattoos #self harm and body mods #personal writing #queer body mods #queer tattoos

1 note · View note

creatur3creati0ns · 8 months

Text

The Past 20 Years

I thought this would be the best way to start this blog. I think that’s still what this is called. Clearly I have no idea what I’m doing.

I’ve told my life story before to a lot of people, yet every time I try to sit down to write some of it out, I just don’t know where to start.

Trigger warning for mentions of religious trauma, childhood trauma and abuse, mental illness struggles, mention of self harm and suicidal ideation, alcoholism, eating disorders, fatphobia, homophobia and transphobia.

I was born in Michigan, and when I was around five my parents moved me and my twin (fraternal) sister to Arizona. Around then, my grandfather passed away from lung cancer. Sometime before that, I think, my parents got divorced. I have a very bad memory, a lot of that is attributed to childhood trauma and abuse and lifelong dissociation. I really only remember what my mother has told other people while I’m in the same room.

My father always lived nearby, and eventually he moved back into the house. Separate room than my mother, but because she would leave town for work often, it was easier for him to care for us while she was gone. My dad is retired from General Motors and is an Army veteran. My mother was a commercial bus driver. My sister and I got to go on trips a lot because of it. Everyone from out of the country loved the two twins who were dressed up as cowgirls.

Sometime in third grade, my parents moved us to a rural part of Arizona. Very small and conservative town. We lived on about four acres of land, with neighbors pretty far away. We were about 15 mins from town, from civilization. The church me and my sister were dragged to every Sunday was about forty-five minutes away. It was then that my mother went back to college. After a few years, with homeschooling thrown in there, my sister and I got moved to a bigger town about two hours away.

This is probably when I start remembering my life the most. Now is a good time to mention my stomach problems, because it’s a huge part of my life and after reading this whole thing a few times, I have nowhere else to stick this paragraph in. My mother says I was practically born with these stomach issues, I don’t remember them as a young kid, only when I hit maybe 11 or 12. Without getting into too much detail, something is wrong with my stomach. I would love to be more descriptive, but after literal years of allergy tests and diets and even an endoscopy, no one has any idea what is wrong with it. Every food and drink (even water) upsets it and I have stomach pain nearly constantly. It’s gotten better in the past two years, mainly due to not being in school or around my family, but it’s still pretty awful. On average I spend at least two hours in the bathroom each day because of this, and I have to be careful with consuming anything in public if I don’t have a bathroom near me. Okay, that’s personal enough. It’s a big problem. I’ve had chronic health problems all my life, so just keep that in mind as you read later about the other crazy shit that my body pulls.

A few months into fifth grade we went back to public school, and my mother finished her college degree for social work about a year or two later. We were living in our van for a while, then an RV, then an apartment, and then finally the house where I would spend the rest of my childhood. My dad lived in his own room across the hall.

My dad is diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and has been on medication for it most of my life. He’s also an alcoholic. Three beers before noon, more throughout the day. He never was really drunk unless my mother had friends over. I didn’t like when he was drunk. He got louder. My father had anger issues my whole life. He yelled over anything someone did that upset him, except if it was my mother who did it. She was always the one in charge. Even though they were divorced he was deeply in love with her. He acted more like an adult older brother who still lived at home. He never acted like a father. I have a lot of trauma from his yelling. Dropping a glass or a drink or running into something. Folding a towel the wrong day, not cooking the way he liked. Any time I was in the kitchen he would come in and stand behind me, watching and not saying anything. I’m still working through all that. But I used to watch westerns with him on the couch, his arm around me. We would watch baseball and football, but baseball was my favorite. Or at least, it was his favorite. I got a lot of my music taste from him. Rock and roll on the radio whenever he was driving us somewhere. We bonded over that as I got older. I dyed my hair orange when I turned 18, and he loved it. Orange is his favorite color. When I started getting piercings he loved those too. Asked when I was going to get a tattoo. He had a few old ones from when he was younger, and he loved talking about them almost as much as I loved asking about them. As an outsider, my dad was a pretty cool guy. But he was an awful father.

I was always closer with my mother. I’m having a hard time right now thinking about what to write about her. She has some good qualities, but I’m not at the point in my life where I could name them sincerely. She is suspected to have borderline personality disorder that is untreated and ignored. She had horrific childhood trauma that she would casually talk about over Christmas dinner. It was her dad that passed from lung cancer. She tried her best, that’s what she always told me. But I honestly don’t care. She was a horrible mother, a horrible person.

At thirteen, I was in a car accident. Rear-ended at a stoplight while my dad was driving. My sister and I were in the back seat, and the car was totaled. The guy hit us at about 30 miles per hour. Hit the gas instead of the brake. We went home to eat dinner, and then my dad took us to the ER. Mild whiplash, no scans, no nothing. Told to go home. The next day I had my first ever panic attack.

About a year of panic attacks, self harm, grades dropping, and suicidal ideation, I finally told my mother about it. Primary care physician appointments nearly every week led to a Phoenix Children’s Hospital referral. Psychology, neurology, anyone who might help. After about another year I left with a diagnosis of a traumatic brain injury, social anxiety, and major depressive disorder. I was put onto medication. I switched medications about eight more times. Eventually my mother didn’t let me try anymore. Soon after I started getting chronic migraines and nausea. The nausea went away sometimes, but for over a year I had a migraine constantly. At its lowest it was a 5 on the pain scale. It never went away. When I woke up and when I went to bed it was always there. Even a shot of Toradol in my ass didn’t make a dent.

This is where I’ll talk more about my mother. Most of the issues started after the car accident. Along with my struggles came her ignorance. I would break down in front of her over school, she would stare at me coldly, saying that grades and graduating is important and that she’s trying everything that she can. I would say I was suicidal and self harming, she would cry and say she was an awful mother. I would leave the conversation with me having consoled her, telling her she’s great and I’m going to be okay. Of course, her doing everything in her power consisted of taking me to church programs that were meant to heal me, asking her prayer group to pray for me, telling me to pray and meditate when my chronic migraines were getting so bad I could barely stand, and threatening to take me to the hospital if I kept saying I was suicidal. The one time she took me to the ER, she wouldn’t let them put me into an inpatient program. She took me home to be on suicide watch. She said if I hurt myself during it that she would be arrested. She took me off my antidepressants and told me not to tell my doctors, to lie and say I was still on them. She did everything she could think of, but apparently she never thought of actually listening to what I was asking for.

I had started therapy maybe a month before my car accident, because I had come to accept that I was bisexual and I knew that, according to my mother and my father and my grandmother and my church and the Bible, it was a sin. That therapist stopped answering our calls after my mother told him that a few sessions in.

My mother continued switching me from therapist to therapist, most of them Christian, none of them I had a say in. When I finally found one that I connected with and who was helping me make progress, my mother stopped making me see her. I was realizing that my mother was abusing me, and I was trying to help myself and set boundaries, and according to her, “I’m your mother, you can’t have any boundaries with me.” So that therapist was out. With all the therapists I had seen, one of the worst was my second one, who was the step-daughter of the first therapist who ghosted me. She liked to quote scripture at me, and say that she wished God would let her love gay people, but unfortunately he didn’t.

The worst therapist I had ever seen, by far, was a woman who specialized in equine therapy. I was never into horses. My mother, though, loved horses dearly, which was of course the only thing that mattered. When talking to her, it was fine. I don’t remember it much. The way she practiced therapy, though, was, in my opinion, unacceptable. Because she recognized that I struggled with placing boundaries (because I was told by my mother that I couldn’t), she decided to try to help me by placing me across the room and speed walking toward me, not stopping until I place my hand out in front of me and say “stop” loud and clear. As you can imagine, this caused issues, because this was her very first solution to this problem, rather than actually talking about it. And refusing to stop until I say “stop” in a way that she likes seems pretty messed up. Each time she did it I was forced closer and closer to a panic attack. She told me her eventual plan was to have herself replaced by a horse, who was walking (maybe even trotting) towards me. This probably would have killed me, because I was honestly afraid of horses at the time. Yes, my mother knew this, no, it did not matter. Any time we interacted with the horses, I was filled with anxiety and fear and every week I dreaded the appointment, and left with more trauma than I came in with. I asked to stop the appointments quickly, but my mother made me go for at least a month. After I left, I was done with therapists for a while.

I struggled through school since the car accident. My sister and I changed schools after starting 9th grade. I almost dropped out a few times, and I don’t think anyone actually expected me to graduate. I sure didn’t. I had to get a 504, which was basically a set of rules my teachers had to legally follow because of my disabilities. My brain injury, and at the time, chronic migraines and nausea. This meant extra time on assignments, no presenting in front of the class, no being called on in class, and being able to leave class at any moment to go to the office if I started having a panic attack. I had to do this often. Some weeks it was every day, and I would be there for hours, missing classes. This caused me to fall behind more. I was admitted to a psychiatric hospital twice during high school, once in December of 2019, and again in April of 2021. I graduated in May of 2021, and walked across the stage high out of my mind on the half pill of gabapentin my mother gave me before the ceremony.

The last therapist I saw as a minor was through my high school. I was very close with the principal and guidance counselor due to my issues. We had to interact daily due to my 504 and me being constantly in the office. The last semester of senior year I took every class via Microsoft Teams while working in the guidance counselor’s office. My anxiety and depression had reached a point where I could not be in a classroom setting and around other people. She mentioned starting a group therapy for students, and when the therapist came to the school I was the only one who had signed up. I saw my chance, and I told him everything. The car accident, the panic attacks, the abuse, the self harm, the suicidal ideation, the fact that I was so sure I wasn’t going to graduate high school but my whole life depended on it and it was all my mother cared about. I had less than an hour and I talked the whole time because I knew this was my only chance. I hadn’t seen a therapist in a while and I was self harming daily, and was very close to a very real suicide attempt. And so he went out to the parking lot where my mother was (that’s a whole other crazy story. For a short time she was parked in front of the office all day to “make sure” I was doing my work and to “be there” if I ended up having a panic attack. My principal was not pleased.) and tried to talk her into letting me become his client. She told him that I had an eating disorder, which at the time, I had no idea she knew about because she never asked or did anything about it. There’s another point off for the Mother of the Decade award there. Long story short, she signed the forms, and he came to the school every week to see me. I joined the group therapy anyway, but the students just ended up unintentionally triggering me and the worksheets given out weren’t helpful if you had been in therapy for around four years already. He helped me get through the last few months of my high school career. He helped me go back to inpatient psychiatric care when things just got worse. When I turned 18 he still kept me as his client, despite being a therapist for adolescents. I stopped seeing him about a month after I moved out, because the company he worked for realized they weren’t getting paid by insurance so we had to end sessions immediately. He wasn’t the best therapist I’ve ever had (my current ones are a lot to live up to), but he quite literally saved my life and got me through the last few months as a minor, and for that I owe him. He was a sick dude and I hope he’s still good.

I turned eighteen five days before I graduated, and the first thing I did as a legal adult was go to the DMV and get my ID. My partner and I had been planning for a few months to move to Phoenix. Them for college, me to get the hell away from my family. I needed an ID for that, along with getting piercings and tattoos, which I knew I wanted to do immediately. My mother hated tattoos, piercings, and dyed hair but always told me that once I turned 18, I could do what I wanted with my appearance, even if I was still living with her. This proved to be a lie, because when I dyed my hair at 18 she got mad I didn’t ask her, and when my sister and I wanted piercings, we had to let her know in advance and promise it wasn’t a septum piercing because we were “still under her roof”. Don’t worry, after I moved I continued to mess up my appearance without letting her know and gave her multiple mini heart attacks over it. And I of course got a septum piercing. It felt good.

August of 2021, the lawsuit against the driver who hit me in 2016 finally came to an end, and I was awarded, quite frankly, a fuck-ton of money. I was eighteen. Safe to say the money lasted a little over a year. Between crazy medical bills and the fact that I was a teenager who just got out of an abusive household and started living with my partner, the money went by quickly. Especially when I wasn’t earning any money. For a year I stayed inside our apartment, had therapy appointments every week, doctor appointments almost every week, many tests and procedures and hospital trips. I started to have chronic hives a month into moving into my apartment, with no apparent cause. Every allergy test came back negative, and no one had any idea what was going on, but I was still spending a lot of money trying to figure it out. It landed me in Urgent Care about three times, due to my face blowing up about three times normal size. I left with a Prednisone prescription and an epipen. After 3 months of hives that never went away and would get worse randomly, my therapist suggested my body was trying to tell me that now was the time to start medically transitioning after waiting for five-ish years. Weirder things have happened, and there was a lot of evidence as to why this might be the case. This is probably something I want to talk about at some point, my relationship to my body and how it communicates with me. And it was communicating pretty clearly. “Testosterone now or I’m going to kill you” was heard loud and clear. I was in a safe place, physically, and, at the time, had money. So one gender therapist appointment and a single phone call later, I started testosterone February 17, 2022. I haven’t had hives since.

I developed an eating disorder in middle school, not long after my car accident. I don’t think those are related, but my mother was plus size all my life and there was not a day that went by that she didn’t speak badly of herself, and that definitely is related. Same for my grandmother. They were on diets constantly. I was put on diets due to my stomach issues, but never for my weight. I was average weight as a kid, and at around 14 I started gaining weight. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for my mother to comment on it. Into the “thinspo” and “ana” pipeline we go. I remained thin for years, and when I moved out I was probably at my lowest weight. Then my hives started. I was put on steroids for months straight. A side effect of that is weight gain. I don’t know how much I weigh, because I chose not to weigh myself, but I think saying I gained 70/80 pounds wouldn’t be too far off. It was a big change, something I could not control. All I could do was watch. It was a lot to get used to so suddenly, especially when dealing with so many other things in my life. My body was changing even before I started testosterone. As most people with an eating disorder know, gaining weight is your greatest fear. Pretty quickly my eating disorder got worse, and an old eating disorder I hadn’t had in years got kicked into high gear. I am fat now, and I am more than okay with that. It took around two years to come to terms with that, and it’s only been the last few months where I finally felt comfortable calling myself fat. My body will never be the way it was before. There’s stretch marks and fat where there wasn’t before. I’m no longer the thin 18 year old. But that’s what life is. I’m 20, and I’m on testosterone, and I have tattoos and piercings and stretched ears and dyed hair. I’m never going to look like I did before and that’s okay. I like that. I’m a lot happier with my body now. Unlearning internalized fatphobia was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I’ve made a lot of progress and I’m really proud of it. It’s still something I struggle with, but now I can say I’m “recovering” from my eating disorders, and that itself gives me hope.

I realized I was transgender when I was 14. There were signs before then, but as I said at the beginning of this, my memory is pretty bad. Since my mother didn’t know about this, I can only guess the timeline based off of my Snapchat memories and pictures I took at the time. I don’t remember exactly what was the final nudge, but one thing that sticks out is when my mother told me to be careful with how I styled my short hair, because I could “look like a boy”. I admitted to myself that that’s what I wanted. I did want to look like a boy. There were a lot of other complicated feelings that I honestly don’t remember. I told my best friend at the time, and she was accepting. I told my sister a few days later, and as always, she loved me and accepted me. I first identified as genderfluid, but that lasted maybe a day. I realized nonbinary fit better. I wasn’t a girl, I was neutral. I wanted to look androgynous and slightly masculine. I used they/them pronouns with close friends for a few years, and I went by Noah. At 17, not long before I turned 18, I told my best friend I am trans guy and my pronouns are he/they. I had known I wanted top surgery and hormone replacement therapy for years, and I knew I could still do that using they/them pronouns and being nonbinary, but one day I just looked in the mirror and it all clicked together. I’m a trans guy. I still don’t connect with “trans man”, and if we were to get into it fully, I am still nonbinary. But “trans guy” is the best descriptor for me right now. In late August of 2021 I told my best friend that I really liked the name Ezra, and had been thinking about it for months. I finally told my partner (over text, because I was terrified), and then came out to everyone on my Instagram and Snapchat, which had my friends and old classmates, as Ezra and using he/they pronouns. I try not to focus on the fact that I can’t completely remember how I learned I was transgender, and choose to focus on the fact that transitioning brings me a lot of euphoria and has turned my life upside down in the best way possible. I am so much more comfortable in my body, my life, my appearance, my relationships, and just how I move throughout the world. I am, for the first time, happy and content in myself. Still need top surgery, but you know, money.

I came out to my mother via text in late February of 2022. My grandmother said it was the same as if my mother texted me telling me that she has cancer. So you can imagine this was well received. I endured a week of phone calls and texts where my mother was crying, saying she wanted to kill herself. She told me she called a suicide hotline the night I came out to her. She was texting my sister constantly asking where she went wrong. She told me several times she “knew in her heart” that I wasn’t trans, that this was just the current trend. She was angry that I had never told her this before. There was a Zoom call with her and my sister where she spent most of the time crying and denying the homophobia and transphobia I was brought up on. My partner was out of frame holding my hand. The call ended with me breaking down in tears, telling her that I’m fighting to be heard here and that I’m sure about this and have been dealing with it for years and this is something that I never brought up because I knew this is how she would react. Eventually the call ended, and the next morning I had a therapy appointment. We talked about everything, and I decided I needed space from my mother. I told her that, and I have not talked to her since in 551 days. There has been one message from her since then, where she did not apologize, and said she loved me amongst a bunch of religious bullshit. My grandmother berated me over text and when I told her I was not going to have a conversation about it, she berated me more. I haven’t talked to her since then too, despite her texting me twice since then saying where Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner would be held if I was “still interested in family” and asking if I had “divorced myself completely from my family” which is truly a hilarious sentence. I, of course, never answered. My dad shared his opinion, which was based on misleading comments my mother told him. When I told him the truth, he never responded. Haven’t talked to him since, either. I am still very close with my sister, but it makes things hard when family gets brought up. I do my best with placing boundaries and being honest, and she is endlessly supportive and loving, just like she has been all my life. I’m doing a lot better. Going no contact was the best thing I could have done. In the week after I came out, both my mother and grandmother said horrible things about me to my sister and to her roommate. Things I don’t want to repeat here. Things like how I’m not her child anymore. I never got an apology from anyone. I think they expect me to come back and pretend everything is normal. I have a lot of family nightmares, and I’m working through all of this extensively in therapy. I’ll probably talk about all this more another time. But it’s still hard to think about. I was 18 when I stopped talking to most of my family.

Not long after my hives disappeared in 2022, and pretty soon after cutting contact with my parents and grandmother, I got kidney stones. That was a bad night. My partner had to drive me to the ER at 2am. I don’t have my license, mainly due to the issues I was facing in high school. All my energy went to staying in school and staying alive. Plus a car accident that gives you a traumatic brain injury and an insane amount of mental health problems is pretty traumatizing and doesn't really make you want to jump behind the wheel. By the time I realized my stomach pain was not my normal stomach pain, was consistently getting worse through the hours, and was in fact an emergency, the kidney stones were almost done passing. Still had to endure medical care professionals who had apparently never met a trans person before and a fun little CT scan. So I lived through that, without support from my parents, and that was tough but it showed me that I was able to live without them. I was 19 at the time.

The therapist I’m seeing now is, funnily enough, the same therapist my mother stopped me from seeing when I realized I was in an abusive household. After moving I found her on LinkedIn and contacted her. I’ve been seeing her for almost two years. She’s a great therapist and the progress we have made is immeasurable.

Another health issue that came up, around seven or eight months ago at this point, was photophobia. Photophobia is a sensitivity to light. It’s a symptom of a bigger condition. You guessed it, I have no idea what the condition is. This isn’t really the fault of doctors, though, my primary care physician said there was nothing physically wrong with my eyes and referred me to an opthamologist, but that’s about when the money ran out so I still haven’t been able to figure it out. All I know is that it is very painful. My left eye is worse than the right for some reason. Photophobia burns, it feels like someone squirt hand sanitizer in my eyes. My eyes get red and watery, tears start flowing and I physically can’t open my eyes without immense pain. The only way I have been able to help it is to turn off all the lights and close the blinds, lay down for a bit with my eyes closed, after maybe 30 minutes open them, and then slowly introduce lights back into the room. It’s a whole ordeal.

I think those are all of my health conditions, and they are very hard to deal with. This in addition to my mental health conditions make living very difficult, let alone living well. I don’t leave the house much, mainly due to my anxiety and my eyes. I’ve had the same friends since high school and I love them dearly but I’ve really only made one in my adult life, and I’m 20 now. Because I can’t drive I rely on others to get me where I need to go, unless there’s an easy bus route. I wasn’t able to take the bus for the first year and a half when I moved out due to my anxiety. Even the thought of it sent me into panic attacks. I can’t be out in the heat for too long, which sucks because I live in the Phoenix, Arizona area. I have bad heat intolerance, so bad that any time I leave the house I have to bring an ice pack. I used to not be able to walk long distances for a while without insane leg cramps (something that testosterone effects, apparently) but thankfully that’s gone away. I’m very much not physically or mentally healthy, despite how often I try to treat these issues.

I did have a job, though. Only the one, after the money ran out. March 11, 2023 to May 11, 2023. Doing exactly two months was an accident. I worked as a retail recovery associate for J.C. Penney. It was hell. I was having panic attacks almost daily, dissociating during the whole shift. My stomach issues were a hundred times worse, and the photophobia was acting up daily. I had to leave work because of it twice. I couldn’t see and it looked like I was sobbing while hanging up clothes. I liked the job, the work, some of my coworkers, and the customers. Repetitive and easy. I liked talking to new people daily. Misgendering was a huge problem, despite me wearing a pronoun pin. It doesn’t help that I was placed in the women’s clothing section because that’s where I was needed. Coworkers would misgender me constantly, one even found out my deadname somehow and wrote it down on a paper we were using for the dressing rooms. The main issues were with the managers. Every time I tried to call out because of my medical issues or just straight up fear and anxiety, no one would answer the phone, no matter how many times I called. I would leave a message on the manager’s phone, because that’s all I could do. Apparently they weren’t getting these messages, and thought I was always a no call no show. They didn’t tell me this until the day before I quit. They were deducting points from me without my knowledge and I reached a point where so many points were taken that I would be fired. I had to leave that day because of my eyes, but the second I left the store I had a panic attack. I called and quit the next day. No one answered the phone, so I had to leave a message. I still don’t know if they actually got that message.

Since then I’ve been unemployed. I’ve been to a lot of interviews, but no luck. My partner of almost three years has been completely financially supporting me. Thankfully my insurance covers my psychotherapy and EMDR appointments I have weekly, but my partner pays for my testosterone (about $50 a month) and my prescription medications (about $20 a month). They pay all of our rent and have been for months. They pay for our food and for the food for our pet bunny, Bunjamin Buttons. As you can imagine, that causes a lot of pressure on them and some issues for us. We’re working through it a lot right now, but that’s a story for another time.

I think you’re pretty much caught up! This is the first time I’ve ever written (most) everything down, and clearly it’s not in chronological order. Hopefully it was understandable. But that’s what I’m working with! At 20 years old I’ve lived the life of 10 men, it feels like. And I have the brain injury, OCD, PTSD, major depressive disorder, social anxiety, eating disorders, and depersonalization/derealization diagnoses to show for it. Fuck.

#life story #queer #transgender #trans guy #personal writing #writing #nonfiction writing #nonfiction #personal essay

0 notes