In the early years of Facebook, 2009 or so, my mom came across a long post that was being shared around by some people who were friends of her friends. The post was essentially an essay about why parents should never let their daughters play princess, because it would teach them to fall into traditional gender roles, think they need a man to save them, and to only value frivolous things like dresses and parties. My mom, having a 5 year old daughter (me) who loved all things princesses, was annoyed by this post and commented on it in disagreement. Her comment was immediately pounced on by a dozen people calling my mom a terrible person for letting me play pretend with princesses, saying that she is part of the problem and upholding the patriarchy, among other things. To these people on Facebook in 2009, allowing little girls to engage in stereotypically feminine behavior was a bad thing.

This is the kind of messaging I would receive for my entire childhood: being interested in “girly” things was bad and being interested in more stereotypically masculine things was better. I know a lot of AFAB people had the opposite experience and were forced into standards of femininity that they didn’t connect with, but that wasn’t my personal experience. I have always been a “girly-girl,” preferring purples and pinks, loving dresses and skirts, and being obsessed with princesses and fairies. From a young age this had made me the odd one out, but by the time I was 9 all the other girls in my class had fully moved away from ballet and Rainbow Magic books in exchange for soccer and Warrior Cats.

In no way am I saying it is bad for girls to like stereotypically masculine things, quite the opposite actually. Everyone should be allowed to enjoy what they want regardless of gender identity. But I do think that the pushback against femininity that I faced was in part an overreaction to previous waves of feminism. I think that in an effort to establish that girls were just as capable of being interested in and doing stereotypically masculine things as boys, it came back around to implying that stereotypically girly things were somehow lesser. I’m still very girly. I still love Disney princesses and Barbie, and I couldn’t care less about sports or superheroes. That’s just who I am. 

In the past year or so I have been so excited to see things primarily targeted towards women breach the mainstream through things like The Barbie Movie, Beyonce’s Renaissance Tour, and Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour, and so happy to see other people embrace feminine fashions in public through Cottagecore and Princesscore aesthetics. It makes me feel like maybe society is starting to value femininity as equal to masculinity and androgyny.

Anxiety sucks. Depression sucks. There’s really no way around that. No way to spin it. “bUt AnXieTy iS jUsT TRyinG tO kEep yOu aLiVe” shut up, stop it, it definitely is not. I’ve gotten treatment, seen a therapist to help my mental health issues, so I feel a lot better now than before all that. But even still, there are times where my anxiety and depression just come back full swing. Sometimes something happens: a fight with a friend, parents getting divorced, etc. But other times? It all just happens without reason. I will be sitting in my dorm having a pleasant day, when all of a sudden I am just hit with a wave of “nothing matters, why do anything at all”, which will usually define how I feel for the next week or two or three. Sometimes I will be laying in my bed after having a very nice day, when suddenly my mind decides to remind me that I will die someday, that I will die tomorrow, that I will die in ten minutes. I can’t argue because if I end up thinking about it for too long I give myself a panic attack, so I just lie there trying to think of anything else. I’ve gotten to the point where I can manage this anxiety fairly well. I can distract myself, or do exercises to calm myself down. I wish I didn’t have to do this. I wish I could just be myself. Why me?

It is infuriating that I just spiral so easily. That I can be so fucking happy one minute, and in the next I can hardly breathe. That I cannot just go through my day unbothered anymore and enjoy myself. Before I developed anxiety everything was so peaceful. I need not worry about death, about what others are thinking of me at every second of every day. I used to have hope that I could “conquer” my anxiety. I do not have that hope anymore. I know now that I just need to live with it. To co-exist and to just deal. I can’t help but feel jealous of those who do not have to deal with what I do. Something close to 40% of adults suffer from anxiety or depression, so I am certainly part of a community. But that means that around 60% of adults just do not have symptoms of anxiety and depression? That absolutely blows my mind. I’ve talked with friends about what I have gone through and they cannot relate at all. I am jealous of their… innocence I guess. I cannot even fathom not feeling the way I do, and I feel like a great injustice has been put on me. Why me?

The only positive thing that I can get out of all of this is that I am better than I used to be. That I am in a better space now, and I can manage my feeling much more effectively than before, including feelings other than anxiety and depression. And yet I still can’t help but ask the question: why me?

As a young teenager, I embarked on the annual pilgrimage to my primary doctor for the customary check-ups. Each time, I would muster the courage to bring up my persistent issue – irregular menstrual cycles accompanied by excruciating cramps and debilitating nausea. However, my concerns were consistently brushed aside as mere byproducts of teenage stress. Little did I know that a visit to a gynecologist would change the trajectory of my health journey and unveil the silent struggle I had been facing – Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS).

The Frustration of Dismissal:

Year after year, I found myself grappling with a seemingly invisible adversary that disrupted the natural rhythm of my body. The irregular menstrual cycles were not just a result of the stress associated with school, as my primary doctor insisted; they were indicative of an underlying hormonal disorder. Despite my persistent complaints, my concerns were dismissed, and I was left feeling frustrated and unheard.

The Turning Point:

One day, my mom, sensing the urgency of the situation, decided to take matters into her own hands. She scheduled an appointment with a gynecologist, hoping to find answers to the questions that had lingered for too long. As I poured out my experiences to the specialist, they listened attentively and decided to delve deeper into the issue. It was during this visit that I received a life-altering diagnosis – Polycystic Ovary Syndrome.

PCOS Unveiled:

Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, or PCOS, is a hormonal disorder characterized by enlarged ovaries with small cysts on the outer edges. The syndrome can manifest in various ways, including irregular menstrual cycles, severe cramps, and nausea – all of which resonated with my experiences. Finally, I had a name for the silent struggle that had haunted my teenage years.

The Prescription for Relief:

With the diagnosis in hand, the gynecologist recommended a treatment plan tailored to alleviate my symptoms. The prescription was simple yet transformative – birth control. By regulating my menstrual cycles, the birth control not only provided relief from the severe cramps and nausea but also brought a sense of normalcy to my life. It was a solution that had eluded me during years of visits to my primary doctor.

The Frustration of Delayed Diagnosis:

Reflecting on my journey, the frustration of a delayed diagnosis looms large. It took just one visit to a specialist to unravel the mystery that had confounded my primary doctor for years. The dismissive attitude towards my symptoms as mere stress not only prolonged my suffering but also highlighted a gap in understanding and awareness surrounding women’s health issues, particularly those related to reproductive health.

Conclusion:

My journey with PCOS serves as a testament to the importance of advocating for one’s health, especially when faced with dismissive attitudes from healthcare providers. It underscores the need for a more comprehensive understanding of women’s health issues, ensuring that young individuals are not overlooked or their concerns trivialized. By sharing my story, I hope to raise awareness about PCOS and inspire others to persist in seeking answers to their health concerns, even when faced with skepticism. After all, our bodies often speak louder than words, and it’s crucial to listen.

Living with the constant fear of having a serious illness really takes a toll on you. I’ll never forget that one day last year when I got a headache out of the blue – something that rarely happened to me. Instead of brushing it off, I made the mistake of Googling my symptoms, and the search results made me think I had a brain tumor. Cue a major anxiety attack that kicked off my struggle with hypochondria.

In the weeks that followed, I became hyper-aware of every little sensation in my body. I went down a rabbit hole of health websites, learning way more about the human body than I ever intended. If something felt even slightly off, I’d convince myself I had some serious illness, leading to many sleepless nights filled with panic attacks. But over the next few months, things slowly got better. I’m happy to say that I’ve moved past that phase of hypochondria.

When I was born, I don’t believe it was me truly being born, I was waking up. I had been dormant, I think. I don’t recall any type of birth. Just sleeping. I was never small and never grew, I slept in the same body I woke up in, stagnant. I was in a dreamless sleep for a very long time when suddenly my lungs filled with something painful. It felt like what I now know as ashes and broken glass, my chest tightening and making my body contort with life. My eyes were ripped open, pried by fingers that weren’t my own and I couldn’t see, aggressive and unrelenting as I writhed in an effort to get away. It may have been a birth, although no mother was present, I still wailed for her comfort. I didn’t receive anything resembling comfort though, but I did receive touch. A cold touch, something dead and desperate, something that was tearing at my feverish body. There were hundreds of hands, a swarm that I could see, all reaching out and clawing at my skin, streaking through it and making it cry tears of tar. There was silence in their touch, they did not call out to me or face me, my screams falling on deaf ears and muted tongues. Their touch said all that had to be said. They were beneath me, above me, between my arms and legs, just a constant pull, pull, pull, pull from decaying fingers and palms. Their nails dug into me like frigid metal clamps, sinking so deep my bones crunched in the tightening hold, and I begged whatever they were to stop…stop…. Stop…Stop…Stop. Each time I cried out, more ash and shards of torture entered my body, cutting my lips and the insides of my cheeks. It felt like I was being shredded inside and outside, a simultaneous affliction of misery.  I don’t know how long that lasted…but what I do know is that it wasn’t a birth, nowhere close to one. The next time I opened my eyes I was somewhere empty…there was grass…and a moon…and stars…and I was as empty as where I laid…. I was hungry.

        I’ve tasted bone marrow of all kinds…flesh of all sorts. I have bitten, licked, gnawed, and savored. None of this is enough. I am hungry. My skin sticks to my bones and my eyes sink into my skull. My hands are delicate and paper thin. I am hungry…. When I find you, and beg to be fed, what will you say? I am beautiful as well…I have a body that as ghastly as it is, has been touched by many. The handprints are still there. Because everyone is hungry, that is what I learned, everyone wants to consume something… What will you say? Don’t you want to rip me open? See what I’m made of? Don’t you want to comfort me and wipe my tears? Don’t you want to clean the blood stains from my arms and legs and pick the rotting fragments of death from my teeth? I am coming to you…and I am hungry.

I used to walk before I tip-toed. I used to sing before I whispered. I used to cry before I endured.

My colorful shorts had dirt stains on them from sitting on the park bench. I heard cheering for my brother’s baseball team in the distance. In my own little world, I opened my little pink journal and put bulky headphones on. There were words that poured out of my fingers onto a page with tears ridden on the sides. I had no proper language for the strangeness I felt.

I wouldn’t say I was the type of kid that had no friends. In fact, I was always at a friends house. I didn’t get home sick or miss my mom like the other kids did. I enjoyed the attention of other parents so much. They praised me for being so mature, so thoughtful. I was a kind soul to everyone but myself.

I feel like my body has always ached. My stomach brews an emotion so deep it can’t be thrown up. I feel fuzz in my brain but pain in my chest. My brain and my body begin to disconnect. Which one was doing this to the other? What is wrong with me?

I remember looking in a mirror, seeing a little girl look back at me. She’s so small, her face full and nose undefined. Her eyes look darker and heavier then she feels like they should. I stared at her as I put her hair into a bun for ballet. Pulling, twisting, arms getting tired. I couldn’t get it right that day. I laid in bed crying the rest of the night instead of going.

“You are the most stressed out kid I’ve ever seen,” My mom would say. “What do you even have to be stressed about?”

Everything, mom. God, I was a kid worried about everything. I was being buried alive and didn’t know why. I wrote in my journals about never being good enough and failing everyone around me. I was just a child, I hadn’t even been relied on for anything enough to fail someone that badly. While so many people talk about the ease of childhood, the lack of worries, I thank god I’m not there anymore.

I forgot about how long I’ve felt like this until I found those journals one day when I was older. I cried and cried at the thought of my little toothless self feeling inadequate of living. I hadn’t even done anything yet. I started out my childhood with a love for Just Dance and singing Britney Spears songs. How did the light leave my eyes before I could even sit in the front seat of a car?

My body. How I had been so cruel to it. I had no value for it. My body was my enemy. My body was given the punishment of my thoughts. For that I am so, so sorry. I wish I could say I was a careless and fun kid. I wish I could say that I loved myself.

Growing older, I know my unruly body is one that deserves the kindness it bestows to others. She should sing Britney Spears and play Just Dance. She should get rest and do the things she enjoys. She is me and I am her. My brain and body are still working on their relationship, but they’re beginning to understand how they are endlessly connected. While I have to undo a mindset that I’ve had my whole life, nothing makes me feel more at peace than the thought of feeling okay with myself. Just laying in the grass, quietly, feeling the wind and just the wind.

My unruly body thanks me, finally.

It’s not much of a surprise that a white guy in the 1950s was racist. But reading the paper More Than Just Play by Runstedtler reminded me of one way that he was racist. While my great grandfather and I weren’t alive at the same time, the information that I know about him comes from my grandfather.  One time, my grandfather described his experience of growing up during segregation. He talked about how he had no real exposure to Black people outside of sports, and what his parents told him. 

When my grandfather was pretty young, his father would take him to football games. In these games there would be some Black players, and being curious, my grandfather asked about them. My great grandfather told him that they were the better players because they’re stronger, and aren’t as smart so it would be ok if they got hit in the head more. With no other source of information, it wouldn’t be surprising if my grandfather believed this for years. 

Runstedtler’s paper describes how black people were displayed as primitive, especially in the 1900s. Black athletes were also put on display for the enjoyment of white people.The way that they were shown in sports contributed to how they were seen outside of sports. When you have a generation of white men who’s only exposure to Black people is seeing Black athletes displayed in a subhuman way, it contributes to institutional racism. 

My grandfather’s story helped me to understand how racism is passed down from generation to generation. My grandfather was lucky enough to have his beliefs challenged at a young age, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he is in the minority. Understanding the way that many white people were first exposed to Black people is pretty helpful in understanding why racist views and sentiments continue to this day.