Romance Body Positivity and Diversity in 2020: a Short Essay

Let me back up a few years and tell you where it all started, I came out as lesbian later in life. I lived with my internalized homophobia. I lived with these words in my head it’s good for everyone else but that’s just not me. While I choked on my jealousy of others being out and proud. I self-destructed on whatever drugs I could make disappear up my nose or however much alcohol I could get down until I reached the bliss of blackouts. I make no apologies for the past. I can’t change what I’ve done; all I can do is accept it and pledge to myself to do better.

For decades of my life I was too fat, too depressed, too manic or whatever the fuck the weekly stigma was to elicit self-loathing. I wrote my dreams on the lined pages of well-worn notebooks. Swearing to myself that I’d never share the stories I hid. Then one day I started posting them anonymously online. Saving myself from the inevitable trolling that the internet is famous for.

Bipolar & the Seven Deadly Sins: A Manic Essay

The first panic attack I ever remembered having I think I was around twelve. The details of the triggers or the event itself are hazy. But, oh, how I remember my current ones. I lose time as if I’m outside myself. My brain a misfiring of billions of neurons, I recognize them for the way my skin feels. It’s like it’s not…mine. Foreign and cumbersome, almost like a cheap suit that’s too tight and the legs too short. Millions of bugs crawling beneath my skin. I pick, scratch, attempt to hurt myself for it to go away. It’s only when I skip my count, my prayer beads don’t spin as smoothly as I roll them between trembling thumb and forefinger that the rage starts.

Hallucinations form with the building crescendo of every labored breath—each more ragged and painful than the one before it. Time ceases and I’m frozen, skinning the flesh from my arm, setting myself on fire, removing fingers, and driving 100 miles per hour into oncoming traffic and it doesn’t stop. Seconds, minutes, maybe an hour goes by and I’m back, yet always a piece missing. I know I should feel terrified, no, horrified at what my mind devises for me. Yet I’m not.