Body Talk Page 12

  It was about family because my dad and brother came out and it was the best. My dad made T-shirts, and they both wore them and met me at the breast cancer cheer points at miles 9 and 18.5! Ana’s mom and sister were there, too, and supported us with the best screams and hugs throughout the race! I remember segmenting parts of the marathon in my head: get to mile 6, then to mile 9 to see family, then to the halfway point at mile 13.1, then to mile 18.5 to see my family again, and then to the finish line at 26.2. At the end of the marathon we were greeted by so many of our London-based friends at the Breast Cancer Care after-party at the Sofitel hotel—it was so well-organized and fun and family-oriented and just so magical and special. I walked away from this experience understanding how much being there for someone else in a totally selfless way can carry them through a difficult time. I felt my friends’ support, and that bond is now for life.

  It was about feminism because I RAN THE WHOLE MARATHON WITH MY PERIOD BLOOD RUNNING DOWN MY LEGS. I got my flow the morning of, and it was a total disaster but I didn’t want to clean it up. It would have been way too uncomfortable to worry about a tampon for 26.2 miles. I thought, If there’s one person society won’t fuck with, it’s a marathon runner. If there’s one way to transcend oppression, it’s to run a marathon in whatever way you want. On the marathon course, sexism can be overcome. It’s where the stigma of a womxn’s period is irrelevant, and we can rewrite the rules as we choose. It’s where a woman’s comfort supersedes that of the observer. I ran with blood dripping down my legs for sisters who don’t have access to tampons and sisters who, despite cramping and pain, hide it away and pretend like it doesn’t exist. I ran to say it does exist, and we overcome it every day. The marathon was radical and absurd and bloody in ways I couldn’t have imagined before the day of the race.

  From a young age, women are told that their main value to society is to look beautiful, consumable, f*ckable. A period doesn’t fit into this image, so it is made taboo. So much so that parents have an awkward time discussing it with children, period commercials are all about concealing yourself or saving yourself from “embarrassment” (they don’t even show blood in a commercial about blood—they show a metaphorical blue liquid!), and girls are quiet about periods when boys are nearby, even though it shouldn’t be something to be ashamed of.

  While I am not advocating for free-bleeding, I am advocating for it to be OK for women and trans folks to speak comfortably and honestly about their own bodies, to ask for medicine and not have to pretend they have a stomachache when they are experiencing menstrual cramps. To not fear someone will make fun of them for PMSing instead of asking how to help, and to ask for a short break in school or at the office if that’s what they need to deliver their best work. Steve Jobs and Mark Zuckerberg have both said the reason they wear almost identical outfits every day is to have one less decision to make, freeing up the mental capacity to handle one more decision relating to their work. Just think, every day women have to worry about hair, makeup, weight, clothing, shoes, periods, and general desirability, instead of being given the freedom to just get on with their work. When we aren’t beautiful, we aren’t as desirable even when we are awesome at what we do, and when we are super beautiful, we aren’t taken seriously.

  Women, biologically, are given traits that are attractive. We don’t need any more. We have things like eyelashes, hair, and breasts, which are already feminine traits that make us naturally attractive. We should be able to love these things about ourselves, eat healthily, and focus on our passions and work. Periods are an important part of this conversation because the reason there’s stigma around them is that they’re not sexy and therefore not acceptable to talk about. For this reason, my marathon run was about reclaiming the fact that it is not my job to look sexy for others’ public consumption. My job on the marathon course was to choose what was right for me in that moment and to complete the 26.2-mile race in the safest and healthiest way possible.

  In the developing world, period stigma is even worse. I don’t know why we don’t talk more about the link between women’s economic oppression and period stigma. This is the pattern I see: Girls are not allowed to talk about or reveal that they experience a monthly biological process called menstruation. We then make it extremely expensive, unsustainable, and inaccessible to actually conceal it. Pads are a luxury for most rural communities, and tampons are not a practical solution for most societies that are extremely protective of women’s virginity—this kind of penetration would not be encouraged or allowed. Because periods are difficult to talk about and expensive to clean up, most girls in these communities end up staying at home monthly, missing school and growing up feeling shame, instead of confidence, about their bodies. And missing school means they don’t graduate with the same education that the boys have, immediately putting them at an economic disadvantage but also an emotional one—if you feel like you don’t have any power, you will act like you don’t have any power. This can happen to anyone—regardless of gender. It perpetuates a cycle of women having low self-esteem, a lack of information, and a lack of physical and emotional resources to lift themselves out of poverty.

  Although menstruation stigma is only one of many systemic factors that perpetuate gender inequality, I find it to be a rather large one that we frequently ignore. My run was ultimately about using shock factor to create dialogue around menstrual health as well as providing comfort so that women can start to own the narrative of their own bodies. Speaking about an issue is the only way to combat its silence, and dialogue is the only way for innovative solutions to occur.

  I could never have expected the international viral reaction that resulted online several months after my race. This reaction taught us two things: that period stigma runs deep and that we have a lot of work to do as a society to build a world that is more loving and inclusive of women’s bodies.

  A version of this essay was previously published on MadameGandhi.blog.

  Spinal muscular atrophy (SMA) is a neuromuscular disease that causes the progressive breakdown of motor neurons. There are several types, ranging in severity, but all forms of the disease cause progressive muscle weakness. —Ed.

  “Endometriosis is a condition where tissue similar to the lining of the uterus (the endometrial stroma and glands, which should only be located inside the uterus) is found elsewhere in the body.” The lesions “can be found anywhere in the pelvic cavity,” as well as in “caesarian-section scars, laparoscopy/laparotomy scars, on the bladder, on the bowel, on the intestines, colon, appendix, and rectum. . . . In even more rare cases, endometriosis has been found inside the vagina, inside the bladder, on the skin, in the lung, spine, and brain.” Unfortunately, “many myths and misconceptions about endometriosis still persist, even in the medical literature.” (Source: http://endometriosis.org/endometriosis)

  While I recognize and respect a full spectrum of gender identities, medical professionals I’ve seen have always assumed a simplistic binary approach, which is reflected here.

  Nancy’s Nook Endometriosis Education is a private Facebook group that can be joined by anyone, but be sure to answer the preliminary questions, which help keep out scammers. This is not a support group, so don’t expect hand-holding—it’s a self-education resource with a library of files to help you make informed decisions about your care.

  Some things about the experience of having a human body aren’t visible,

  like our brain function or our inner thoughts. In this section, we’ll explore the challenges of existing in a body when something is different but it’s a difference we can’t necessarily see.

  Different, of course, means that it deviates from the western ideal of how a body should function. The word different is too often used by people who misunderstand the variety of ways in which a body operates.

  This section explores not only the experiences of having an invisible or chronic illness but also what
it means when your sexual experiences lie outside what’s often seen as the singular norm. It also delves into how altering our appearance isn’t about how we want to present ourselves to the world, but rather about how we hope to make our bodies a little more magical for ourselves.

  When You’re “Broken” Like Me

  by amanda lovelace

  It was mere days after I got engaged to my now spouse.

  At the risk of sounding cliché, the proposal felt like something out of a storybook.

  While we were visiting family in Michigan, my partner, Cyrus, walked me down to what I always called “our fairy-tale bridge,” which overlooked the water and the local ferry system. After a few minutes reminiscing about our years-long friendship and partnership, they reached into their bag and pulled out one of our mutually favorite books, Clockwork Princess by Cassandra Clare, and got down on one knee.

  When they opened up the front cover, they revealed a space perfectly carved out for a ring.

  With the sunlight reflecting off it, I realized it was the amethyst claddagh ring I had designed—the same one I had always dreamed would be on my finger.

  Now it was.

  It was supposed to be the happiest time in my life.

  Until I checked my messages on Tumblr, where I ran a book blog:

  “You’re engaged? I thought you were asexual?”

  “How can you be engaged if you’re ace?”

  “You don’t deserve them.”

  “They’re going to leave you if you don’t drop this ‘demisexual’ nonsense.”

  Many of the messages were sent from anonymous accounts, but some weren’t. Some of them were sent from people I interacted with on a regular basis. Those people were so unashamed of their thoughts, they kept their comments attached to their names and faces.

  My heart raced.

  I imagined my stomach like a dryer: rolling, rolling, rolling.

  One of my greatest fears was coming true: part of the queer community I thought I had found safe haven in was turning against me.

  All the acceptance and positivity the community had taught me was dissolving before my eyes. It was something I couldn’t wrap my head around. I simply couldn’t cope with it.

  Maybe, just maybe, the commenters—and their comments—were right.

  I was broken after all.

  Growing up, I knew a few things about myself to be true: I loved Harry Potter more than anything else, I was going to be a writer, and I didn’t often feel sexually attracted to others.

  Back then, I didn’t have the language to describe the last certainty, but I was, without a doubt, on the asexual spectrum.

  And because I didn’t have that language, I spent so much of my life pretending.

  I pretended to agree with my peers about which celebrities they found hot or sexy. Looking back now, I realize I found some of these celebrities to be aesthetically pleasing, but sexual feelings had absolutely nothing to do with it.

  I pretended to have more crushes than I did. On the rare occasion I did begin to have genuine feelings for someone, sexual attraction followed only after knowing them on a much deeper level, and usually for an extended period of time. I thought this was how it worked for everyone—turns out I was wrong! Though I didn’t know it yet, this made me demisexual.

  I pretended to be curious about my body in the same way everyone else seemed to be curious about theirs.

  I pretended to exclusively like boys even after I realized that gender had no bearing on whether I could find someone attractive. I didn’t have the knowledge to understand that, on top of being asexual, I was also pansexual, let alone the knowledge that you can be on the spectrum of two sexualities at the same time.

  To top it all off, I never saw these pieces of myself reflected in any of my favorite fictional characters, at least not until my late teens.

  It became even more complicated when I began dating. I didn’t have a full grasp on my own sexual feelings, so how was I going to find the words to explain them to someone else? And in such a hypersexualized society, would my partner believe that not only was sexual attraction a rare occurrence in my life, but even when I did feel attraction toward someone else, the desire to have sex with them wasn’t there most of the time?

  The answer was no.

  Most of the time, they did not understand.

  Just as I had anticipated, it was difficult for anyone to wrap their head around the idea that I could love them dearly yet not give them what they saw as the ultimate portrayal of love: sex. This led to many an awkward conversation, and it also led to arguments about their need to feel desired. One partner told me I just had to keep masturbating until my body magically “turned on” like a computer, never to power off again. Unfortunately, this lack of understanding also led to a number of traumatic experiences that I didn’t even realize were assault until later on.

  Since I was a little girl, I’d wanted that great fairy-tale love for my life, but I started to believe that maybe being alone would be safer for me.

  One day, I was feeling brave enough, so I confided in my best friend.

  I told her I mostly had no interest in sex.

  I told her I had no interest in exploring my body.

  I told her I understood that other people wanted those things but that I’d rather be doing something—no, anything else.

  There, it was done.

  Mountains were lifted from my shoulders.

  I no longer had to hide who I was, at least not from those I loved and trusted the most. If anyone was going to accept me as I was, it was going to be her, wasn’t it?

  “I feel so incredibly sorry for you,” she told me.

  I didn’t respond.

  I let other people convince me that I wasn’t normal.

  That I was a broken thing that couldn’t be fixed.

  I kept on living my life, pretending I wasn’t queer, and it was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. But I was terrified of the way the world would react to my identity. The violence, the ignorance—it didn’t seem worth it anymore, so I disconnected myself from it.

  If no one knew it was part of me, then it could no longer hurt me.

  It was while I was running my aforementioned book blog on Tumblr that I started to see posts about asexuality floating around.

  It surprised me how many other people were relating to them just as much as I was. But I didn’t feel like I personally connected to the term asexual until I learned that it wasn’t just one thing, but an entire spectrum with many points on it, including something called demisexual, otherwise known as someone who usually doesn’t experience sexual attraction to another person until after they’ve formed a strong emotional bond.

  That . . . was me.

  It was exactly me.

  When I came out as demisexual on my blog, and then later as demipansexual (a common term used to indicate someone who identifies as both demisexual as well as pansexual), I could practically hear the cheers of the community from different cities, states, countries, continents. There were some innocent questions from others, but mostly just joy that I’d discovered a part of myself I’d been searching for my entire life.

  My book blog was about how much words had changed and shaped my life, and that’s exactly what happened then, too.

  It was with the same blogging community I fangirled about The Hunger Games with.

  Katniss was someone I could relate to on so many levels: I was antisocial; I didn’t feel fit to be in the spotlight, let alone to be the one who saves the day; and I would fight fiercely on behalf of my loved ones. Though it was never confirmed in the text of the story, I always felt like there was another thing we had in common: we were both on the asexual spectrum.

  It turned out that other people in the community felt the exact same way I did, and it was through Katniss, our unconventional he
ro, that we saw ourselves and found validation.

  If she could fight for justice and win, then couldn’t we do the same?

  Somewhere down the line, one of my oldest friends became my partner, and unlike the ones who came before them, they took the time and care to understand the intricacies of my sexuality, even as I was still navigating it myself. I referred to them as my Peeta, and they referred to me as their Katniss.

  I felt safe enough with them to say yes when they took me down to that fairy-tale bridge and presented me with that ring, and none of the events that unfurled afterward can ever take that moment away from me.

  Acephobia is an ugly, insidious monster.

  Sometimes people who don’t understand asexuality decide to other us, to dehumanize us. Some decide we’re experiencing an illness of some sort, not an identity.

  Other times, people who do understand asexuality decide we aren’t queer, because we haven’t suffered enough to their liking. Despite what some may think, many of us do suffer, but I don’t think that should define our right to identify as queer.

  When my community turned on me that day, it took everything in me to not turn my back on myself again.

  As my tears dried, I told myself I hadn’t come so far in my own journey of acceptance just to tiptoe back into the closet and turn off the light. The people who hurled their hatred at me didn’t represent the whole community—only a small (but loud) part of it. Despite what they had done, I still had a support system within the community that never faltered and a partner who offered words of affirmation whenever I was in doubt. No one ever gets to take away the love I feel for myself and the pride I feel for my identity—not even if they were part of the community that helped me get here in the first place.