You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one -- Guest Post

I was a weird kid.

A shy kid. A sensitive kid.

A dreamer.

I knew instinctively, from early childhood on, that I was somehow different from nearly everyone around me. I was perplexed by people, and they, in turn, seemed somewhat perplexed by me.

I was fascinated by them, though. I watched them constantly, everywhere I went. I watched them walking around, making small talk with each other as they passed. I watched their gestures, their easy, spontaneous laughter. I studied their faces, picking apart their features, observing the way they smiled and the way their eyes danced while they talked to each other, sharing some small momentary connection with one another. They were beautiful creatures.

But I wasn’t one of them.

Why?

I didn’t know. But I was somehow certain of it.

I made a conscious decision to become one of them. Surely I could do that if I really tried. I was smart enough, and I knew it. I could figure this out with sheer willpower and brain power.

One of the first things I realized by my observations is that people didn’t like smart, though. At least not in girls. My brother was smart and he was practically worshipped. I was three years younger, painfully shy and awkward, and I wanted what he had: an easy air of confidence and the respect and admiration of everyone around him. He deserved it; he was awesome! I wanted it too, and was determined to get it.

Good grades came effortlessly to me. I loved standardized testing days, and looked forward to them all year. School was fairly boring – even with gifted/talented classes – but it gave me plenty of time to observe my peers and try my damnedest to emulate their behaviors. Somehow, though, I always fell short. I still replay my childhood social errors in my head, over and over, and berate myself for being “so stupid.” I had a hard time reconciling the fact that I could be simultaneously intelligent and stupid. And it seemed that people disapproved of me if I displayed either trait. I yearned to be average, yet I liked being smart, because it made me feel competent in a world that was confusing and overwhelming. However, the smarter I appeared, the less people liked me. Well, the teachers liked me….the children, not so much. I made a few good friends over the years who accepted me, guided me, and even came to appreciate my weirdness. The rest of the kids, by and large, treated me with a mixture of mild curiosity and contempt. They called me things like “bookworm,” “geek,” and “schoolie.” They teased me for being horrifically inept at all things phys ed-related, for being “gullible,” and for the way I used to bite my nails and the skin on my fingertips until they were raw and bloody.

I kept trying though. Oh, lord, did I try to fit in. I’d choose a girl I admired – a cool, confident girl – and try to become her. I’d emulate everything from her clothing to her mannerisms and speech. I made an effort to tone down my use of big words while speaking to peers. It was almost physically painful to do so. In class, I knew just about every answer to the teacher’s questions, but I made a “rule” for myself: I could only raise my hand for every 6th question. I spent my school days sitting at my desk, daydreaming, humming tunes to myself, watching kids and counting questions, sitting on my hand to avoid it automatically shooting into the air with each of the teacher’s queries.

I had the typical “pedantic speech” of a child with Asperger’s Syndrome, a true “little professor.” At age one, I could speak in full sentences, yet I did not walk until 17 months. My mother said she thought I could have walked earlier, but I just too stubborn and scared to try (yep, that sounds about right). Even as a baby, I was not comfortable with change or trying new things. I ate basically NOTHING, which was a major source of contention in our family throughout my childhood. I knew that my “picky” eating habits (which I now know is actually an eating disorder called Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder) were causing my parents to tear their hair out. I was also keenly aware that my entire extended family was raising their collective eyebrows and wondering why my parents weren’t force-feeding me ham or the assortment of terrifying, mayonnaise-laden salads at holiday parties. I wanted to please my family so much, but it wasn’t enough to make me overcome my significant sensory issues and try new foods. Still, to this day, my diet is quite limited. I basically survive on assorted cheeses. My eating habits have only improved marginally since I was that little girl feeling disapproval every time I couldn’t eat what was served for dinner.

My childhood wasn’t all bad. In fact, in many ways, it was great. I may have been different, but I was definitely loved. My parents were unknowingly doing all the right things: consistency, schedules, and routines were big in my family. My social life may have been tumultuous, but I had stability and support at home. Dinner was at 5:00 pm sharp every single day. My mother was a stay-at-home mom, and kept a nice, tidy home. She and I were close. I think she was unsure how to handle my intense sensitivity and frequent emotional outbursts, but she understood me in a way that no one else could. I think she is somewhat of a “dreamer” herself.

Things completely fell apart when my parents got divorced, right at the time I was approaching adolescence, when the social stakes get higher. I needed support more than ever before, and there was none to be found. I’m not sure I would have made it through middle school without the help of a very supportive guidance counselor. I felt….simply lost. I didn’t know exactly who I was yet, but I knew without a doubt that I was a failure. A defective person. I had tried SO HARD to be like everyone else, and I had failed. Effort and intellect weren’t enough.

It all came to a head at age 14, when I made the decision I had been seriously considering for four years. I decided to kill myself.

I rummaged through our medicine cabinet and found several bottles of prescription pills. One said in bold capital letters: “DO NOT TAKE WITH ALCOHOL.” “Perfect,” I thought, as I raided the liquor cabinet, took out my mom’s signature bottle of store-brand Light Vodka, and mixed it with orange soda pop. I brought all my supplies up to my room, and shook the pills out into three neat piles on the white dresser that used to reside in my pepto-pink little girl bedroom, but was now in a run-down house owned by my mom’s second husband.

Before I started popping the pills in groups of threes and washing them down with swigs of my vodka drink, I set my alarm clock for 6:30 AM. I thought that if this suicide attempt didn’t work, I’d better be prepared to get up and go to school in the morning, just like any other weekday. As silly as that action sounds….it saved my life. The next morning, my brother heard my alarm blaring incessantly and found me in bed, unconscious. The doctors later told my mom that if I hadn’t been found when I was, I wouldn’t have made it. Thank goodness for my compulsion for routines!

I’ve come a long, long way since that incident. That was my darkest moment, and although there were many other dark times in my life after that, they paled in comparison to that singular act of complete desperation and despair at age 14. Still, I didn’t quite find myself until I was 32…

You see, I’d had a daughter, and she was like me. She was different too.

She was a weird kid.

A sensitive kid.

A dreamer.

Her eyes shone bright like sunbeams. She was different, yes, but in a magnificent, magical way. And I saw myself in her.

I found myself through her.

We dream together now.

...

"Amber Appleton Torres" is a stay at home mother of three, the eldest two of whom are diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder. After their diagnoses, she realized she is on the spectrum as well, and got her own Asperger's diagnosis. She blogs about her family's journey at https://onebigaspiefamily.wordpress.com/

Shopping for fancy dress -- Contributor post

I’ve known about my husband’s office holiday party since early November. It’s at a swanky downtown hotel. The invitation specifies semiformal dress.

I translates this as “suit and tie” for him and “cocktail attire” for me.

I’m going to throw up.



Me: Short, postmenopausal round with chubby retail feet and roadmaps for legs. My hair is streaked gray. I’m starting to jowl.

Wardrobe: Work uniform, jeans, t-shirts in the summer and long-sleeved t-shirts or turtlenecks in the winter, hoodies, sneakers. I usually pull my hair back with a clippie. I always wear fake gold hoop earrings because I tend to lose anything that’s real.

A few years ago, at my husband’s urging, I splurged on two “just in case” outfits – two tweed jackets, two matching tops, two pairs of matching pants, two pairs of matching shoes. I haven’t worn any of them in over a year, maybe two.

Clothing makes me anxious. Oh, I can window shop and say that X is cute or that’s a really nice cut/design/color, but you have no idea how anxious it makes me. I can’t afford nor can wear most off-the-rack clothing with any kind of panache. Younger overweight me’s vomit-inducting body anxiety eventually exchanged itself for full-blown panic attacks in the middle of our local mall or refusing to attend whatever-it-was because I needed this particular item and I didn’t want to spend the money or admit that I was THAT size.

I’m nowhere near as overweight now but the anxiety still clings. Nowadays I treat clothes shopping as a military mission. Browsing makes me anxious because what’s the use of browsing if most clothing, nice clothing, doesn’t fit you, especially if you have a disappearing waistline?

Jeans, t-shirts, sneakers. It’s easy and I don’t have to think about it.



So back to this holiday party. One day my husband and our housemate tag with me to Expensive Department Store With The Widest Selection Of Evening Wear.

I’m automatically drawn to the sleek uncluttered dresses made for six-foot stringbeans crooning standards in a Las Vegas nightclub.

They steer me toward the separates. “You’re smaller on top than the bottom,” my husband whispers.

“The trouble with tops,” says our housemate, “is that they’ll fit her at the waist but the shoulders will be too big, or vice versa.” She picks out several spangled tops and sends me into the dressing room.

This makes me feel like a sausage. Hate the color. Too low cut. I’d need a strapless bra (ack, MONEY) to wear this, Spanx (SPANX? ME?!?) to wear that. Too tight, too short-waisted, I’m swimming in this, too tight…

I feel queasy and sit down.

An hour later I’m staring at the floor trying not to cry, piles of shiny sequined bedazzled fabric at my feet.



They eventually find a top while I stare at the floor: It’s an explosion of rich red lace with beribboned roses sprinkled with small red sequins here and there. My husband knocks on the dressing room door and hands it to me.

Oh god no, it looks like something my GRANDMA would wear! No…wait a minute, it’s got some give. Oh, OK, it’s not THAT low cut. Three-quarter sleeves, narrow black ribbon makes it sort of peplum which means it’d give me waist, maybe? Hmm.

I slide it on and peek at myself in the mirror.

Ohhh, I LOVE this color! It’s not too low cut. It’s…holy crap, I HAVE A WAIST! OK, the shoulders are a little big, but maybe…if I pull it down like this maybe?

I keep gazing at my reflection as I turn one way, then the other. I don’t hear our housemate knocking at the door. She exclaims in delight and leads me out so my husband can see. He beams.

Suddenly my mouth feels very dry because OMG, I actually own a bona-fide evening-type fancy top…|ME?!?!?





Then there’s the tale of the skirt for this top, but I’ll save that for another time.



...

Kathi Bourke is a guest contributor on Parentwin.

Why are we always apologizing for expressing ourselves? -- Guest Post

Today I found out that I have Lyme Disease. It has already invaded my joints, judging from puffy tautness of my left hand knuckles and wrist. I have no memory of yanking a tick from my skin. But that’s beside the point.

Yesterday in my online journal I complained about how much my wrist hurt. Immediately after posting that I posted an apology for whining.

That got me thinking.

It’s a strange business communicating online. On Facebook we’re expected to put on public faces and post photos of our loved ones, or, save that, repost inspirational quotes or photos of cute baby animals. Online journals traditionally eschew that for intimacy with a handpicked built-in audience who will celebrate your joys, comfort you in your grief, help you solve an issue you’re currently experiencing.

One thing I’ve noticed over the years is how we’re apt to apologize for complaining online about something.

Doesn’t that sound weird to you?

If we want to vent, whine, or complain about something in our own space why do we suddenly feel the need to apologize? Is it because we shouldn’t express the, shall we say, less sunshiny sides of ourselves? Is it because we’re afraid we’ll alienate our audience? What if we can’t stop whining? Why do we feel we need permission to vent about an actual medical condition?

Maybe our support systems are too preoccupied to listen to our woes. Perhaps our friends live too far away for us to drop in for coffee and a chat.

Maybe we should just shut up, put on the proverbial big girl panties and deal.

BUT WHY DO WE FEEL WE HAVE TO APOLOGIZE FOR ALL OF THIS?

I sure as hell don’t know. All I know is that I’ve been diagnosed with a disease which, if left unchecked, can wreak havoc not only with my nervous system but also with my short-term memory. I’m already past the too-tired-to-move stage.

As I said in my online journal, I know, in the greater scheme of things, Lyme is a mere blip and it boggles my mind that someone as relatively healthy as me has it.

I apologized in my own online journal because I didn’t want my friends – my audience – to think badly of me. I still have that tiny “what if they don’t like me anymore?” shred left over from junior high. I don’t want them to think I’m tedious or I’ve branded myself as The Woman With Lyme. Ergo, I apologize. In my own space.

Heck, apologizing can just be as tedious as whining.

Here’s a thought: Maybe, just maybe, if we all stopped apologizing we’d be more apt to accept ourselves as the flawed humans we are.

I have Lyme Disease which now explains all the niggling conditions I’ve had for the past few months.

As soon as I finish this I’m going to take my first dose of doxycycline and call it a night.



And I’m not apologizing for it.
...

Kathi B. is a writer and baker living in New England.




 

Kids Don't Learn to Love Themselves In a Vacuum -- Contributor Post

With Monday's news, a lot of us on the team are trying to deal with our grief in our own ways. Today, Jerry Kennedy from Choosing the Truth looks to the future.


...

I had plans to write a different post today but, like many folks in my age bracket, the passing of Robin Williams on Monday rattled my cage. His death follows pretty closely on the heels of the suicides of three folks in my immediate circle of friends over the past year and a half, so maybe it’s hitting a little close to home. Whatever the reason, I’m a little sideways from all the reflection and thinking. Chances are pretty good that you are too. As evidence of exactly where my head is at, this post has already gone through three title revisions and I haven’t even finished the first paragraph.

I started out with “What I Want My Kids to Know.” It was going to be an inspirational list of life lessons that I plan on passing on to The Monkey and to any offspring of our own making that might one day happen on the scene. It was going to be a list of things for them to remember when the darkness seeped into their souls that would maybe, just maybe, cause them to reach for the phone instead of for a belt. Or a gun. Or a bottle of pills.

Then I expanded the title to “What I Want *All* Kids to Know,” because only a selfish prick would be concerned about just his own kids. The fact of the matter is that far too many kids have very little in the way of positive influences in their lives. Moms and dads who ignore them, or don’t have time for them, or who learned how to be dicks at the hands of their own parents and are just passing it along to the next generation. I wanted those kids to have the list, too.

And then I realized that my list really only had one thing on it. Only one item that I want all kids to know, no matter who they are or where they were born or what they grow up to be. Only one message:

Love yourself.

Some of you will be protesting at this point. “That’s so selfish!!” you say. “I want my children to love other people, not just themselves.” To you I say this: if you teach your kids to truly, deeply love themselves and that they are worthy of loving themselves by the very act of being born, you won’t have to worry about them demonstrating love for others. It will be second nature to them, and words and acts of love will flow from them like water from a bottomless well. They’ll be a blessing to everyone they meet.

Still others will be screaming that I’ve been drinking the Kool-Aid of the “self-esteem” movement and that I’m enabling the “pussification of America’s kids.” To you I say this: go fuck yourselves. You seriously want to bitch that a bunch of five-year-olds got medals for playing soccer, even though they didn’t win, as if feeling good about playing is some kind of mortal sin if you didn’t earn it by winning the game? Yeah, you might be exactly what’s wrong with “kids these days.”

If you ask me, the “self-esteem” movement doesn’t go far enough, mostly because they focus on things that are external to the child (medals, awards, grades, etc.), instead of on teaching kids that they’re worthy just because they are. No need for external validation because, while it’s sometimes nice to have, it’s always temporary. Loving yourself should be a forever relationship, 24/7/365 until the day you die.

It’s no mystery why most people don’t feel that way about themselves. From the second we came into the world, most of us were were greeted by a family that did everything in their power to get us to conform. They weren’t being malicious; they were doing what they believed to be in our best interest: teaching us to comply, to not make waves, to fit in so that we would be acceptable to the people around us.

How can you learn to love yourself when you’re taught from the very beginning that you need to change who you are in order to be acceptable?   

Before you think I’m advocating a “no-discipline” policy, please understand me: I’m not talking here about your child’s behavior. Children absolutely need to know acceptable from unacceptable behavior. They need to learn about when certain behaviors are approriate and when they’re not (check out the article “We Don’t Play With Our Vulvas at the Table” for some great tips on that subject - http://www.scarymommy.com/dont-play-vulvas-table/).

But they also need to learn that they are not their behaviors, that even when they do something unacceptable or socially inappropriate, they are still worthy of loving themselves. And that’s your job, mom and dad. That’s your job, stepparents. That’s your job, grandma and grandpa and aunt and uncle and teacher and neighbor and family friend. Don’t fuck it up.

I know it’s hard for a lot of us because we haven’t figured out how to love ourselves yet, let alone how to teach our kids to do it. But does the fact that you don’t know how to play the piano mean that you shouldn’t encourage your kids to pursue playing the piano if they have a knack for it? Or does the fact that you’re not good at math mean that you should tell your kids that math is stupid, even if they have a talent for it?

Most kids come into the world with a leaning towards self-love. It’s their natural state, a seed planted in each of them. All the seed needs is a little coaxing, a little encouragement, a little tending and watering. Before long, it will grow into a beautiful, strong tree at the core of their being, a tree that will bear fruit in the form of loving words and deeds.

In loving memory of Mork from Ork, the guy who taught me that it was okay to be a weirdo. Na-Nu Na-Nu.

 

Mama's First Pride -- Guest Post

Today, Aubrey Harmon, who blogs at World Split Open was gracious enough to share her experiences at a Pride Parade with me. And it's wonderful. All of it.

...

You spend half the day worrying about what to wear.  You spend more time than you’d like to admit applying make-up, which you never use.  You make sure your hair is done just right.  You want to do it perfectly, this first Pride as yourself.  A lesbian.  A dyke.  But you don’t know who that is yet.  You are just coming out to yourself, and the world around you.  Everything still feels new, as though you’re young as your kids and trying to figure out how to make friends.  You want to be part of the community, but you don’t know where to begin.  So you hold your breath and dive in.

The last weekend of June is Pride in San Francisco.  Friday is Trans March and Pride, Saturday is the Dyke March and Pink Party, Sunday is the Pride Parade and celebration at the Civic Center.  I’ve been living in San Francisco for fifteen years, and I’ve done half a dozen Pride weekends, maybe more.  But this is the first year I went fully acknowledging myself, both inwardly and in public.  Starting with the Dyke March.

The closer my friend Nina and I drew to Dolores Park, the more women we saw.  Women in rainbows, in pink, in no shirts with rainbows over their nipples, in dapper shirt and tie, in punk leather and safety pins.  Women with short hair, long hair, crazy wigs.  For a moment we stood at the corner of 18^th and Dolores and just looked.  Dykes and lipstick lesbians, butch, femme and in-between, trans people, older dykes, younger dykes, fat, skinny, alternative and mainstream.  A few tourists, a few drunk dudebros there to see topless women, but mostly women.  Mostly dykes.

Nina has kids too, and neither of us are exactly party animals anymore.  We tend toward the quiet life (except for toddler shrieking, of course), so it took a while for us to take everything in.  The sound of a poet sharing her work over the roar of the crowd.  The smells of asphalt and patchouli and weed.  The shifting kaleidoscope of the crowd.  We blinked in the sunlight and the experience and slowly my heart began to open. 

As we made our way down Dolores, we saw one of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, in full nun-drag regalia, offering a blessing to a thirteen year old girl who had a sign on her back that she had come out to over 100 people this year.  I smiled at the girl, at her bravery.  At her self-knowledge.  She wasn’t living a lie.  She wasn’t hiding. She deserved a blessing.

Finally we found a place in the sun to sit and wait for the march to begin, and to listen to Leslie Ewing, the Executive Director of the Pacific Center for Human Growth, give her speech.  At first I just closed my eyes, lifted my face to the sun and reminded myself to be present, in that moment.  This was a moment for me, a woman, surrounded by other women.  No longer alone.  And then Leslie’s words began to penetrate.

The theme for this year’s Dyke March was “My body, my business, my power”, but she began by talking about shame.  Shame of our bodies, our sexuality, ourselves.  She spoke of women who could not meet her eyes, hesitated to be seen with her because by doing so they were coming out.  She spoke to my own fear, my hiding from myself.  She spoke of rapes on college campuses, the danger to women, queer women, trans women.  She spoke of the violence that is done to so many women’s bodies.  That was done to my body, though in a more limited way.

And then she spoke of hope, of change.  She spoke of her dream that we could all ‘look each other in the eyes… secure in our personal power and not threatened by those whom feel threatened by us.  Coming out – and staying out – is the first step to reclaiming our bodies and taking personal responsibility for our lives.  Coming out is how we take back the power taken from us all our lives.”  Her words reminded me of my power.  She reminded me that when I speak up to my family, to acquaintances and tell them my truth as a queer woman I am working for change.  I am making a difference, though it feels so small to me.

Leslie Ewing has been working in the LGBTQ community for over twenty-five years.  She is an older dyke.  She is who I hope one day to be.  As I listened and watched, I felt hope spreading its wings in my heart.  It has been so long since I have felt the power of women together.  I felt the edges of it in birthing classes, and in giving birth to my kids.  Before that I felt it in women’s studies classes and when I worked with other women to start a feminist organization on my college campus.  I want my daughter to feel this power all of her life.  I want her to hold tight to her power, her voice, her truth.  Whoever she is, whoever she loves, I want her to know that it is her body, her business, her power.

Then, as I was still basking in the glow of the speech, I heard the rumble of many Harleys.  Engines revving and the sound shook the air, shivered in my chest.  The Dykes on Bikes were getting ready and the crowd surged forward to begin the march and I surged with them.

 

Growing Up, Coming Out - Guest Post

Today we have a powerful post on how to live your truth and the benefits of it, no matter how hard it may be at the time. We all have cliffs off which we must jump. Take courage, take heart. You will be understood.

...


Once you have kids, every time you blink you’re certain they grew while your eyes were shut. Infant to baby, baby to toddler, toddler to kindergartner. They grow out of clothes over night, seeming to shoot up like weeds when your back is turned. Clichés spout from your lips, “Wasn’t he just crawling? Didn’t she just learn to talk? Wasn’t it just yesterday…” You’re practically humming “Sunrise Sunset”. You go to rock your kindergartner at night and his long legs dangle over your lap almost to the floor. Your arms still remember cradling him to your breast, when his whole body fit on your lap. Even the younger one is always running away and ‘do{ing} it myself!’ It’s to be expected. Needless to say, it’s better than the alternative. But what you never expected… what I never expected was my own growing up, keeping pace with theirs.

As I’ve watched them grow, my kids have taught me things that prompted my own growth. My son, T, has taught me to move past my default introversion. From the time he was a baby he was a social kid. He loved meeting people, being out and about, in the middle of things. I pushed myself to join a mom’s group where both he and I made friends. I didn’t want him to be afraid of the world, as I had been so often when I was a child.

Even though she’s only two, my daughter, M, is teaching me to speak up for myself and for what I need. To be discerning with my attention. She doesn’t just smile and talk to someone because they talk to her. She checks them out, considers them. She is not afraid to let me know when she wants, or doesn’t want, something.

So the changes in myself have taken me aback. After all, I wasn’t a kid when I had my son, my firstborn. Not like my mom who had me at seventeen. I was, ostensibly, an adult – thirty-two. I’d gone to college, to grad school, had jobs, gotten married. I thought I knew who I was, had it summed up in a handful of words – thirty-something woman, stay-at-home mom, writer, feminist, spiritual-seeker, polyamorous, bisexual, fangirl, wife. But as T and M got older, I found myself surprised as I walk past windows and mirrors. Who is this woman? Where did she come from? Where has she been hiding?

Even as I smiled my way through my life, there were cracks in my mask. I burned out during my internship as a grief counselor, I drank a little too much, I ate a little too much. There was a year of digestive issues that the doctors couldn’t diagnose, some depression, some anxiety. But over all a pervading feeling that I was not really living. I had responsibilities, a family, and I wanted to do it right – have the 2.5 kids, the perfect home, the perfect husband; not rock the boat – but I had the nagging sense that I wasn’t. Doing it right was doing it wrong.

I was drifting in this limbo when suddenly life slapped me upside the head. A friend had a serious health scare; a family member nearly died; a friend of the family lost her son who was T’s age; a neighborhood mom my age with a daughter M’s age was killed, randomly. I was drowning in wave after wave of knowledge – this life is fragile, short. Whatever comes next, we have this one chance. How could I keep living in fear? I closed my eyes and leaped.

I came out as a lesbian, to myself, to my mom, to my husband. Slowly, I am beginning to live. I still don’t know what that means, or if I’m doing it right. I have been immeasurably lucky – my ex, B, and I are committed to becoming friends and remaining a family. Mostly for the kids, but also for us. We were together for twenty-one years. We grew up together. We don’t live together, but we are just a few blocks away from each other. We share custody 50-50. We are determined to create something new, to not be constrained by the way divorce usually is done.

Sometimes I can’t believe I’m just figuring out who I am at nearly forty. I can’t believe that I’m just growing up. I feel guilty for changing my kids’ family out from under them. For hurting them, and hurting B. But I also want to teach the kids that it’s necessary to live one’s truth. Even when it’s hard, even when it’s painful. Even when it’s a mistake. Because otherwise you aren’t living. And that is a lesson that I don’t want to teach them. I want them to avoid the masks and the limbo, and to remember who they are. To stay true to themselves.
...

You can see more of her journey here, at World Split Open.


 

More of Me Than Anyone Wants to See...

Internet, can we just have one thing? Can't we just do one trend without talking it to death, dissecting every side, defending, offending, attacking, contemplating, etc.? Must we intellectualize everything?

Well, truth be told, I don't mind discussing every tiny thing to death, so this is okay with me. Though if we were to have a trend where everyone just raised their collective shoulders in an idk shrug, I'd have thought this would have been it.

Selfies.

You take them, I take them, we all take them.

Why? Does it matter?

There are too many reasons to list, but I'll give a few: because we like them, because we like ourselves, because other people like us, because we want to show something to someone else or ourselves, because it's a form of communication.

Because we can.

Selfies, though, are actually more than that. I challenge all of you to go through your selfies from the past three years. Go collect them, put them in order, and flip through a slideshow.

Your selfies tell a story. And not only do they tell a story, they tell your story. And that shit is important.

Want to see mine? No, you don't, but I'll show you anyway. It's okay not to want to see a million selfies of someone else. It's not your story, after all. But the people taking them? They're telling a story over time, whether they know it or not. And each of those stories is beautiful.

Here's my story, from the last three years, as told by cellphone selfies.

We'd just moved to Gainesville, here. Notice my frustration, the opened graham crackers on the counter, along with the crumpled towel and wine bottle. The magnets on the fridge. My new life as a stay at home mom.

I had just bought new tights and boots. Why did I post it? To show them off. Also, because I feel I look awesome here.

This was to show an internet friend of mine how to do a twirly knot in her hair. This is not an easy picture to take of yourself, by yourself.

This is mid-potty training. I'd just cleaned up more pee than I thought was humanly possible and the emoticon D: just wasn't enough to express my feels.

Fed up with cleaning urine, I decided to go on a job interview. It didn't work out.

This was for a DITL (day in the life). I was lucky enough that day to start it with a shower. This was the only picture of me taken that day (on my phone, anyway).

I'm documenting my genetically curved eyebrow. One of my twins has this eyebrow (which is one of the main ways people can tell the girls apart), and as an adult, I know how to make it straight. But I wanted to show my friends it came from me.

I get my hair cut once a year in October. Here are 2010 and 2011 consecutively.

This was taken for one of those take a picture of yourself right now memes. Notice how I hold the phone way over my head? I didn't know how to take a selfie. Important to note also, up until last year I didn't like the shape of my face and thought it looked better from space, apparently. Sorry about the boobs.

 Showing off my wine and apron. Feeling like a right housewife, just a year and a few months after that first photo.





 Tried to dye my hair platinum and wear makeup. Welp, that was a mistake, eh?

 I was feeling like a moody poet that day. A mood poet with large, outstretched arms attached to a camera. What?

 Halloween last year. My kids thought I was a witch, but I was a goth kid from 1996.

We were moving and I found my fedora buried in my closet as I packed. I mean, I really didn't have a choice, here. What else could you do after finding an old fedora?

Documenting a sick day, showing how close my kids were sticking to me that day.

 I have two kids.

Showing off new sunglasses. This is the picture where I realized taking pics of myself from an angle so far above my head my arm could have been a crane was ridiculous. See how selfies helped me shape my self image?

I'm standing with Wendy. From Florida. Because selfies allow me to do that.

 On vacation. I took this photo to show my husband my abs. Then I shared it because...abs.

 Look at how artsy I am! But seriously, it's not meant to be art. It's meant to show that I felt like attempting to be artsy. This is an important distinction in the selfie-era. Many critics think the pictures are something they're not.

Halloween this year. I'm looking happier as the years go by, I think.

 Showing myself hiding from the kids for a few minutes after the gym. Because it's okay not to go get them immediately. And I wanted to tell people that.

 I had just gotten catcalled three times while going to pick up the girls from school. So I documented it. Notice the lower camera angle? This time, though, I'm not sorry for the boobs.

 Today. In defense of selfies and the stories they tell.