TW: Disordered eating, weight, numbers.

I’ve struggled a lot with disordered eating. I have been improving greatly, and I’m so grateful, but one of those reasons is because I don’t allow myself to step on the scale. Even at the doctor, I will ask them not to tell me my weight. I know you should base your confidence off of how you feel about yourself, not the number on the scale. Still, my mind lets a number dictate how I feel about myself. I hate that regardless of the number I see, it will not warrant a good feeling, or outcome. This is a piece I wrote one night regarding this (I’ve never written a poem before, so bear with me, lol).

A World  Without Numbers

A language without numbers
Is perfect for me
Maybe then I will feel worthy
Of what life has to feed

I could have pizza
And soda
And still feel like me

The digits won’t decide
If I get to eat

In a world without numbers
I would have peace of mind
There won’t be evil figures
In my head on rewind

Fluctuations up and down
It all ends the same
Make it go lower
No matter the ache

So arrest the digits
For they’ve become felons
Vandalizing my thoughts
With pounds armed as weapons

On a beautiful day in May of 2022, I was driving over to my then girlfriend’s house after a long shift when I was hit by a drunk driver. I was helped within 7 minutes by firefighters, EMT, doctors, a nurse, and police with selfless and kind intentions. But were those intentions an excuse for them to disregard my voice and pain?

After I was hit, I reached for my seatbelt to try to get out, but it was stuck. You can’t see it in the pictures, but the machinery in front of my car imploded inwards, crushing my legs between my front and seat. The seatbelt was stuck as the impact destroyed it. I was in so much pain. I couldn’t do anything but sit and wait for someone to help me.

Two doctors and a nurse who were on the street as it happened rushed to help me. They open the door and ask me if I can move my legs, unbuckle the seatbelt, move my neck, and see them. Crying and in shock, I tell them there is a shooting pain in my lower back and legs every time I move my neck or feet. They ask me to stay calm and argue about what they should do. Amongst the arguing, the police, firefighters, and EMT arrive at the scene. They approach me, and before they even ask me anything, they begin leaning over me to try to unlock my seatbelt. I tell them it is stuck and I need to be cut out. They cut the belt off around me; now it is time to figure out how to get my legs out without causing damage. Long story short, every method they try causes me too much pain. They eventually decide to cut as much of the metal around my legs away until I can pull them up to my chin/chest so I can get out.

They start cutting them metal, and I can feel the release of pressure around my legs, but somehow, that shooting pain becomes even worse with the release of tension. I tell them to stop. They tell me to calm down and that it will be okay. I am pleading with the firefighters and police to stop. They don’t. I’m crying hysterically now. I am told by the police that I am just in shock and that it’s the adrenaline wearing off. I plead and cry, telling them something is wrong as they pull my feet to my chest and carry me out of the car. They lay me in the ambulance, and I told the doctor something was wrong. Once again, I’m told that it’s just because my adrenaline is coming down, so the pain from the impact is at its peak. I keep telling him this isn’t the case. Something is wrong. “They shouldn’t have moved me. Not without stabilizing my back and legs.” Throughout all my cries and complaints, I am told to calm down and that it will be okay.

I’ll meet with a neurologist and orthopedic doctors at the hospital later. They tell me I have irreversible nerve damage in my lower spine. If I’m being honest, I knew. I fucking knew it. I simply look them in the eye and say, “It could’ve been avoided if they hadn’t moved my legs. If they had listened. If they had stabilized me. Couldn’t it?” Their response: “They did the best they could. There is no telling what could’ve happened. Ensuring you got out of the car was the number one priority in case the car went up into flames or if you were bleeding out”. I didn’t say anything.

Over a year later, I have physical therapy, dozens of unused medications, and thousands of dollars in hospital visits. I constantly feel pain in my hip, lower back, and legs. I live in a constant battle of “They did what they could and only intended to help me.” and a state of rage for my complaints and pain being ignored and costing me my mobility. Why does it take physical and mental impairment/disability for women’s voices to be heard? It’s ridiculous.

I think about the privilege I have every day. Even though I am a minority, I fit today’s beauty standards, I am financially well off, I have never had or needed a job before, I get an allowance, and I have a body that gets me everywhere with ease. I become aware of this privilege every day and everywhere I go because I always realize how much easier I have it then others. After watching the documentary Aftershock, I became even more aware of this to the point where I was telling the people around me about this documentary and what I was shocked to learn. Even though I am a minority as well, I am treated differently because I am not specifically black. When watching this documentary, I realized that there are many black women who feel worry and fear when they realize they are pregnant. Not because of having to provide for a baby or a having a changed lifestyle, but a fear for putting their lives in the hands of people who do not care for them. This is a feeling I can only imagine, as there is a high chance that I may never experience the same fear as a black women when she gets pulled over by the police, or when she finds out she is pregnant. When I advocate for myself, I am more than likely be heard than a black woman. And this is a sad fact about the job fields that are meant to help everyone indiscriminately. Because I have grown up privilege, I want to continue learning, sympathizing, and empathizing with others so that I can treat others with the kindness and respect that any other person deserves.

As a woman, growing up you were most likely taught to be careful with your body. Don’t be promiscuous, be weary around boys/men, don’t let anyone touch you, etc… Despite any precautions or teachings, lectures don’t keep us from whatever we will experience in life (good and bad). Sooner or later our bodies are experimented with, picked, prodded, poked.. if you will.

Now that the time has passed, I look back at times that I treated my body as if I did not occupy it. For the lack of a better way to say it, I fucked around and found out. Once I found out that my body could in fact reproduce, I was in such a bad mental state I laughed it off because I already knew what I was going to have to do. My recklessness had caught up to me and I didn’t care because duh, I was being stupid of course this would be the outcome…

Since no one knows who I littleham2 is I guess I can announce without shame or guilt that I had an abortion when I was 17. I was In an emotionally abusive relationship and he got me pregnant. Although I knew the logical thing was to get an abortion, going through with it was very hard because I had no support whatsoever. My mom is very catholic, so I did it behind her back and I knew my older sisters would be disappointed so I also kept it from them. I was ashamed and guilty, I still feel disgusted sometimes.

Regardless, it goes without saying that I do not regret the decision I was able to make on my own as a minor. Without my autonomy, without that 6 week and 2 day period of secrecy my life would not be what it is today. I wouldn’t have left my ex, I wouldn’t be in school right now, and I know for a fact I would not be happier than I am now. I would be a stereotype in society. A poor hispanic teen mom with a shitty baby daddy. Plus that baby probably would’ve been ug*y. I try to keep a lighthearted mindset about this experience– at least when I talk about it to others because I don’t want others to pity me or look at me differently. I am not proud of it either, but I will never regret it. I am in charge of my body, yes this is true, but I wish I didn’t have to worry about it in the degree that I do. It is so cruel to say that I wish I couldn’t have children. I would love to hand someone my perfectly working womb for free if it were possible.

I have been on two types of birth control since my abortion. First the pill, now I’ve had an IUD for almost a year. Despite all the stupid side effects, modern medicine is crazy. I’m like 99.99999% protected, but I am paranoid. I don’t get my period due to my IUD which is beautiful, but this also makes me worry. I think a lot of us have heard horror stories of IUD babies and cryptic pregnancies. I DO NOT NEED THAT!

I am scared of getting pregnant again because I know that I will have access to an abortion which is something I have the privilege to say. Not that there’s anything wrong with easy access to medical abortions, I simply don’t think I could handle the experience twice. Girls all around in underdeveloped countries don’t get to have the autonomy a lot of us in the U.S have. Did you know the youngest recorded mother was 5 years old? That makes me want to curl up in my moms arms and cry. How could a baby possibly want to be a mother?!

There are a lot of mother’s in society that wish to not be mothers anymore. There are also some shitty one’s that simply don’t deserve to be mothers. We cannot forget the ones that are taken advantage of and denied a choice. Motherhood terrifies me. I don’t think I’m strong enough, I am loving, but my patience is thin, and my anger burns bridges. I am not strong enough to do what my mom did for me and my sisters. I am not as strong as the mother’s in my family.

Full-blown autonomy is important. Societal, cultural, and religious pressures are all factors that affect the decisions we make or don’t make for our own bodies. It’s the reason most of us don’t openly talk about our sex-lives and the reason why we might feel shame for wanting pleasure. We’re not supposed to talk about what are bodies can do, it’s shameful and can make you look “easy.” Women are supposed to control their sexuality until it is requested and young girls are supposed to remain naïve, pure, and untouched.

Society is fucked, so today I will pray for the women and girls of the world. For their autonomy and bodily rights. For the moms trapped in abusive relationships. For the women and girls with intellectual disabilities that are treated as asexual beings. For the asexual women and girls who are over-sexualized For the women and girls with crippling anxiety about motherhood and pregnancy. Even for the crappy moms, so that they can find the resources they need to face their reality.

During class we talked about the medical attention and care that is not consistent across the board when it comes to the pregnancy process of women of color, specifically black. As a male I cant really relate to that from personal experience outside of the two successful sea sections that my mom went through with my siblings. What I will talk about however is the times of my life where I personally was misdiagnosed with something that was never present. Inconsistency and failure of medical procedures across the board doesn’t only extend to the pregnancy process but other aspects and avenues of medical support with people of color. The amount of times I was falsely diagnosed with Glaucoma is criminal. Throughout my years switching from medical provider to medical provider, the only thing in common that always came up was Glaucoma whenever it came to my eyes, without thorough testing of any sort. Out of all the doctors I have ever visited there was only one that properly was able to find out what was wrong with my eyes. As a backstory, growing up, I’ve always needed glasses ever since the age of 3-4. As time past by my vision and eye sight started to dissipate as I got older to the point where I had to get new prescriptions every time to accommodate. Any person of the field after hearing that is going to automatically diagnose it as Glaucoma but that was never really the case. The one doctor that was able to get it right informed me that it was something biological that I was born with. It turned out to be that I was born with a set of enlarged optical nerves in my eyes which was the cause of my poor eyesight. As a lot of people don’t know, if you have an enlarged optical nerve, it blocks more light coming into the eye which causes eye vision to dissipate. After all these years dealing with this abnormality and still dealing with it today, it also raises concern to me that my problem isn’t necessarily labeled a disability. As we’ve talked in class, depression was one of the topics that we tossed around as being a disability or not. With me, I wonder how blind I have to be for it to be considered one in the sense that whenever I fill a medical waiver or form, everything else shows up except anything eye related. I find it crucial to wonder this because if I fill out a form for some type of medication that might have affects on me and my body, how am I supposed to trust it when the medical form before taking it includes all of the health questions, but anything eye related in terms of what side effects it can cause. To me this just highlights yet another problem that is prevalent within the medical field and how it took one out of a bunch of eye doctors to actually take their actual time to monitor and diagnose the abnormality that I had.

The notion of child free women and the newly visible prevalence of them, often sparks intense debate amongst individuals in which women, their bodies, and their choices undergo intense scrutiny. Those who object to this notion often perpetuate the narrative that making a choice to not bear children makes one selfish and that the child free choice is one individuals will regret making once it is “too late”. Such arguments inherently equate the ability to reproduce with the responsibility to do so, which undermines the position of reproducing individuals in society and undercuts their access to personhood. This narrative continues to vilify women who choose not to have children and pins the phenomenon of a declining global birth rate on individuals who are making a choice that best suits their wants and needs.  

Thinking that having children is a certainty for any person who is physically capable of doing so, further solidifies the grossly incorrect idea that everyone should have kids. Though, having once been children themselves, many can attest to the fact that not everyone is fit to be a parent. There are those that often shirk their responsibilities in this role and grow resentful of their children.  

Additionally, even if reproduction were an obligatory part of the human condition this would logically require unwavering access to quality reproductive health care, which is not the case. Maternal mortality remains a prevalent issue globally that stems from insufficient and bias structures and often times a lack of access to quality care. In pressuring individuals with reproductive capabilities to reproduce and to do so within the confines of systems where they are actively harmed exposes that this issue has never been about safety or care for community. There is great irony in coercing women into having children and then not giving them a safe space to do so or enough time to heal, then further placing the burden of this choice on them by placing the responsibility of the family’s emotional labor as well as physical labor on them. Such considerations are often why women are hesitant to have children in the first place and this is only further exaggerated when their quality of life diminishes from the load of all they must do.  

Since I grew up, I always heard of inheritance as a good thing, but the older I got, the more I realized that was a white thing, apparently. Another I was tricked into the thing I could look forward to. I didn’t have some glowing substantial thing to look forward to when I reached of age, or some secret way to get ahead of life. Instead, the system gave me nothing to look forward too. Instead, I’ve developed an inherited perception, a kind of eyesight, like a pair of enhanced goggles that force me to see double. When I started wanting to drive, it wasn’t just that teenaged excitement of independence right at my fingertips, in addition, I had a talking to that if I make one adolescent mistake, it could be my life I lose not just my license. When I wanted to go to the pool during hot city summers, instead of just relaxing into the happiness of summer fun with my friends, I was worried that my hair would be ruined, that I would be seen as the pool weirdo for wearing swimming caps and grocery bag on my head for extra protection, because they didn’t make caps large enough to stuff my hair. When my brother, who was a rainbow baby, was born, my thoughts didn’t just center on the new joy of being a big sister, it echoed the worry of parents who were concerned my mother wasn’t going to receive the proper care she needed. Would I not be a big sister for the second time? My inheritance is one that has been taken on a thousandfold and I don’t want it anymore.

I hate stepping on the scale. But I always do it. Why? I know it might sound a bit crazy, but that number determines my mood for the day. Even if it only increases by two or three pounds, I can’t help but feel like I look drastically different. It’s like I have this “perfect” number in my head, and when I’m above it, it’s all I think about. To get the number to drop, I usually count calories. But I’m realizing that this isn’t a healthy way to live although it’s been my definition of “normal” for years. I’m working on shifting my focus away from that number on the scale, understanding that my self-worth isn’t tied to it. I want to learn to appreciate myself beyond the scale and find a healthier way of living.