Tag Archives: midlife crisis

THIRTEEN

My first-born son is now a teenager. This has both he and I spinning. I HAVE A TEENAGE SON. How this happened I don’t know because I still feel like a teenager myself.

My sweet boy has resisted growing older every step of the way. He has always told us he does not want to grow up – even as young as 3 years old he knew that childhood was the best of times. I guess maybe his father and I have not made adulthood seem like much fun.

In his observation at skate parks and out in the world, teenagers have been both extremely annoying and also terrifying to him. He did not want to become a teenager. He was truly sad about the inevitability of it. Did I mention that neither of us can believe it actually happened? Here we are. With the growth spurts and puberty and cracking voice and big feet and interest in girls and changing vocabulary and eye rolling and everything.

I asked him on his birthday if he felt any different and he actually sat and contemplated this for a few minutes and finally told me the he did feel different. He said he feels SAFER.

SAFER! I mean…WOW. And obviously I asked him why and he told me that he is not a child any more so he is safer. He is a teenager. More responsible and equipped to take care of himself.

God, I could just cry my face off. Why does this seem so profound to me? This recognition that he has reached a new level of independence and it is so real to him? It has always been my job to keep him safe, and of course still is, but he also feels that he has a role to play in is own safety and he is up for the task.

How can he be so self-aware?

And why don’t I ever feel safer? I mean, safer because of my own self and not external forces like a police officer is standing nearby or I have a life jacket on.  If anything I feel less safe as time goes on. More vulnerable. More fragile. More mortal.

Part of me wants to open the can of worms about gender – is feeling safe a right of passage for boys? A natural state? So many questions beg to be asked but I am tired. I am busy. I don’t have the capacity to got there right now and I also wonder if that is a fundamental issue in our society. All of us women are too tapped out to rail against a modern civilized world in which being a female is still considered a weakness. The older I get the clearer it is to me, the more I see it and hear it. This pervasive tone of sexism here in our own very progressive country. AND how to describe the outrage I feel on behalf of all women who are living under total oppression all around the world, and I would go so far as to say hated in their societies. Unable to drive, receive an education, have independence. Made to cover themselves. Made to feel shame. I am ashamed. Ashamed that I do nothing to fight it but feel pissed off and blow off steam in what is essentially a secret blog.

Well, not nothing. I am a Mother to boys. I have a very serious and real responsibility to raise them to understand and respect the differences between women and men, and to shatter every myth that exists in our society about women and their inferiority. It overwhelms me at times. Like now.

I guess what is sinking in for me is that I don’t have much time. Childhood is so FLEETING. Life is a blink of an eye. I feel very urgent right now about reorganizing my priorities and where I put my energy and thoughts and effort. I am working on it.

For now, I take every chance I get to hug that kid as hard as I can AND he lets me. He has never been a particularly huggy kid, but I think he knows our hugging days are numbered, or maybe he knows I need it right now, or maybe someone gave him a stern lecture but I get to hug him and I do not take that for granted.

Holy Shit. Thirteen.

 

 

 

 

Stigma

I am so sick right now. I think it might just be the worlds worst cold, or maybe the flu. I feel dreadful and could barely lift my head off my pillow all day. My eyes are puffy little slits. My nose is running like a tap. I have been using nose flowers (aka stuffing tissue up my nose to absorb the constant drip. The ends hanging our your nose look like the carnations you made in art class when you were 7. You’re welcome for both the imagery and the ingenious tip). My skin is chapped. I am alternating between shivering and sweating – casting off the duvet one minute, wrapping tightly around myself the next. I am sneezing everywhere. I cough.

I am throwing everything I’ve got at this cold. Vitamin C. Vit D. All of the B’s. Various drops and drinks and remedies. Advil and Tylenol and even Midol. I just want to be well. I am pissing and moaning to anyone who will listen to me about how crap I feel.

Because suffering with this cold or maybe flu for 3 days now is just not acceptable!!!!

I have a point here. I am getting to it. It feels hard – because, well, stigma. That is why.

There is a big push to end the stigma surrounding mental illness. For good reason! I’ve been basically just ignoring the campaign. Staying silent. Like a complete total chump. Until right now.

Me, a person who will do basically anything to rid myself of a cold, went about 27 years before I got help for bouts of depression that lasted for months on end, and more recently crushing anxiety.  I mean, I only just recognized about 6 months ago that there was help for me, because I only just recognized that I am not well and that it is not a personal failing.

It happened after I read an interview with Sarah Silverman – a comedian I adore. I don’t remember where I read it, or even specifically what she said. What I do remember is relating completely to her story. And learning that she takes a very low dose of meds everyday to stay well, and that it works. Shortly after that a dear friend told me that meds were the best thing to ever happen to her and she could not recommend them more. Two women I admire openly taking about how these pills saved them from so much misery. It was empowering for me.

The depression started in my teens. I believed that I somehow wasn’t holy enough, or good enough, or something enough and that is why I felt so bad. That it was my fault and that I alone could fix it. It came and went. Rolled in like a storm and would roll out sometimes just as fast. There were two or three episodes that are particularly difficult to look back on now, knowing what I know. That I didn’t have to suffer through it.

Through the six month stretch in my 20’s were I wept in the fetal position in the shower every day. Or the six month stretch in my 30’s were every morning I considered how hurt my family would be if I gave into the urge to jump in front of the Go Train. Or the horrible day last winter when on my drive to work traffic came to a stop because someone had jumped from an overpass. And I related to that person. My thought was just … yes, of course.

The anxiety though… that just came out of nowhere fast and furious. It started right after I had minor surgery 2 1/2 years ago. The anesthetic really fucked me up for days on end and the worst side effect was panic attacks. The first one was just awful and my husband rushed me to the hospital because I was sure, and so was he, that I was having a heart attack. Later, I came to recognize the early signs and do my best to breathe through them praying my pounding heart out, or sometimes taking an Ativan. The anxiety got worse and worse. Circumstances contributed – stressful situations amped it up, and up it would stay. My son had to have surgery… a family member died…I got in a car accident.  I was always so level headed and calm, but suddenly I was a disaster. On a 24/7 adrenaline rush – it was hell.  I went to a Naturopath, therapy, my doctor… we debated meds many times.

Then one day on my drive to work I felt the storm coming. As soon as I got to my desk I called my doctor. I cried while I told her that I could not handle both at the same time. Anxiety on it’s own…maybe. Depression on it’s own…maybe. Not both. She called in a prescription for me that day and that night I took my first Zoloft. It did not go well. I got violently ill. We tried again, this time Celexa. I joined an online forum and by reading literally every post I knew I was going to be up against a nasty few weeks of side effects until it started to work. Two weeks of basically hell. Extreme fatigue. Nausea. Heightened anxiety. This awful feeling that I had the major shakes, but I didn’t, I just felt like I did. Mental fog. I powered through because the internet told me that I was going to be ok. And guess what?

I am better than OK. I AM FRIGGING AWESOME. I had no idea how crushing my anxiety was – until it was gone. I had no idea how much lighter I would feel. I had no idea I could feel this well. I am not in a state of bliss or anything. I am not feeling any false happiness or flatness or otherness. I still get sad. I get mad. I feel like me. Me but without a mental head cold or flu. I feel relief. My quality of life has vastly improved. My husband and kids see it. People at work see it.

If there was no stigma, perhaps I would have taken action all those years ago. Recently we had family over, and I put my pills away in my bathroom. I have only told a few people that I am taking meds. I do not have secrets from anyone… except for this.

Today with this stupid cold I realized that I am part of the problem – I have zero shame about my physical sickness, I don’t blame myself for it. I don’t consider it a shortcoming that I have a cold and am looking for any relief I can get. I consider it perfectly normal and I doubt I could find a soul on this earth to disagree.

If more people were open and honest about their mental health experiences the stigma would not exist and no one would have to quietly suffer, questioning their strength, character, being. I am not saying that meds are for everyone. There are many ways to improve your mental health. Natural ways, therapy, diet, shit tons of options. Addressing inflammation, getting more sunlight. But the meds worked for me, and this is my story.

Now, you might be shaking your head at this point asking yourself why I am writing a blog about having a midlife crisis if I am doing so damn amazing…but the thing is, it is amazing that I am having a mid-life crisis. That I care about my future and how I spend my time and how I feel and that I feel I have something to contribute and have the energy to write about it and the will to make changes for myself and my family  and to really LIVE.

So today I say FUCK YOU MENTAL HEALTH STIGMA! (In my blog, which literally one person reads. Hey…one step at a time).

 

 

 

Calories, Calories

None of my pants fit. NOT EVEN MY FAT PANTS. I am chunking out pretty fast. I recently told my husband “It is like my body WANTS to be fat”.  As soon as I said it I felt this big UH OH and rushed to buy a pregnancy test.  It was negative so I have no idea what is going on.

Actually…I have a small idea about what might be going on.

The other week some of the folks on my team invited me for Poutine. Which after pizza, is my favourite food. But get this… I said ” I would love to, but I can’t. I have a salad in the fridge. I went to yoga last night so I don’t want to spoil my hard work with junk food”.  To which my coworker responded “No, it’s BECAUSE you went to yoga, that you can eat Poutine”, to which I responded, “Ok, let’s go!”.

I have no willpower when it comes to food so I completely embraced this new thought that I can actually eat shittier because I am exercising.

And then there are the car snacks. I have a long commute…and somewhere near the start of it I get this crazy snack attack because it is the end of the day and I am ready for dinner, but I still have to drive for an hour or more, which is boring…and I eat when I am bored so…. So I basically feel ravenous at all times in the car.

If I don’t have healthy car snacks ready to go (aka I have literally never had a healthy car snack ready to go), I stop at a gas station and buy Zesty Cheese Doritos and a Crunchie bar. Then I need a drink, and because I have a fundamental issue with the bottled water industry (But yet never remember my reusable bottle, ever), I can’t get water so I get ginger ale or apple juice or coconut water. When I have PMS  I get really smart and actually stock up on car snacks and my PMS tells me that the best snacks are at Bulk Barn, in bulk, and you see where this is going. My centre console is filled with dozens of those flimsy film bags with holes ripped in them. My glove compartment should be renamed ‘salty snack world’.

I recently took action and reactivated my My Fitness Pal account to count my calories, and it was pretty shocking. I was going over my daily allotment by 50%, 60%…70%. But I mean, really red wine? 450 calories a glass? WTF. And who knew how many calories there are in a burrito bowl! Like come on, it is not even wrapped in bread!

In all seriousness, I really do find tracking calories to be a very useful tool to control my eating habits. I am super competitive and sticking within my calories feels like a game I have to win. It also motivates me to exercise more to win back calories.  I have to WIN. I have to end right on the number.

Over the last three days I have eaten 300% more veggies and stocked my car up with snacks that are healthier. Like these puffed quinoa cubes that are super gross but hey, they fill the void, are low cal, and have protien.

Also, I am learning a lot of new things … here are some samples from my internet search history:

  • What foods have negative calories? (Celery! Black coffee!)
  • What are the most low cal cocktails? (Gin Gimlet! EW)
  • What causes sudden weight gain? (Cancer, inhaling food)
  • How many calories do you burn doing yoga? (hardly any, is it even real exercise?)
  • How many calories do you burn during sex? (well…depends on how long you go and wild you are. (None of your business!))
  • How many calories do you burn jumping on a trampoline? (doesn’t matter, it’s too cold out and I haven’t been doing my kegels)
  • How many calories do you burn walking up stairs? (THIS IS A COP OUT)
  • How many calories are in a shot of maple syrup? (less than you think! WHOOP)
  • Why am I always hungry?

A friend of mine told me to get a step counter that syncs to my fitness pal because it will automatically roll back the calories for you. Since she got hers she has been going up and down the stairs 10x a day. Sounds like fun.

I feel like having a step counter would actually destroy my life.

Did I mention this thing I have where I have to win? Winning at steps means doing 10,000 a day. I am willing to bet my next paycheck that I currently clock about 800 steps a day. I walk from the house to the car, the car to my desk, my desk back to the car and then home where I sit or sleep. Very grim. Fucking yoga won’t get me steps.. too much flow. I think I need to switch to Zumba.

If I had a step counter I would go crazy trying to get those steps to the point where everything and everyone in my life would be completely neglected. Sure, I would be skinny and fit, but also prob get fired and divorced. Where do people find the time for 10,000 steps?!

This whole clothes that don’t fit, car snacks, steps situation … SIGH.  I know my middle-aged body doesn’t rock the same metabolism I had when I was younger. That is an issue. My lack of self-control, also an issue. Poor food choices…all on me. But the thing is…this is a symptom of a greater problem.

I need a complete lifestyle overhaul.

 

Yes or No, or, Yes and No?

I have been going to Yoga for a few weeks now. Over the years I have gone off and on but mostly off. The main reason for this is laziness, followed closely by the secondary issue of just not having the time. To have the time means taking the time away from other things – like lying around with a book and tea.

The thing about lying around with a book, or my phone, or watching TV  is that I am present at home and available for the kids. They are older now and have their own thing going on in the evenings. Mostly revolving around Minecraft and Skyping with buddies. They don’t much need me, but when I am not present at home I am missed, I know this. Missed my them, missed by my husband.  I hear about it.

So I go to Yoga in fits and starts because eventually a combination of guilt and laziness sets in and I just give up. Those weeks when I have work obligations in the evening, or coffee with a friend or a new episode of Brooklyn 99… exercising falls off the to do list.

Why don’t I get up early and go in the morning you ask? ARE YOU JOKING?! DON’T YOU KNOW ME AT ALL? (If you are reading this and you are not my sister, you prob don’t, since I have only told like 3 people I am writing this blog, but trust me, I would never).

Back to Yoga. The instructor I had last night is my fave (Normally I do not abbreviate words but spell check objects to the Canadian spelling and I object to US spelling so it is my way of keeping the peace).

Back to the teacher. She is totally into the workout, which is what I like about Yoga. It is totally my speed, and as far as any of the working out I have ever done (stop laughing people who know me!), it is what my body likes the most (All of that great stretching and balancing and lying around setting intentions (which I suck at btw).

Another reason I like this particular instructor is that she never talks in that soft airy yoga voice, or says anything about chakras, or makes us chant or any of that other shit that makes me uncomfortable in other classes. (UPDATE: I have grown to embrace the “woo woo”)

She is pretty hardcore about the moves, her set list rocks, and I am sweating my ass off at the end of class (yes, it it HOT yoga, shut up).

Last night though, she got kinda philosophical and what she said was this:

Saying yes always means you are saying no to something, and saying no always means you are saying yes to something.

Maybe I was delirious from being dehydrated and doing a hundred cobra to downward dogs (I have low blood pressure, it makes me light headed) but in the moment, and still today, I find this obvious truth to be so profound.

I feel like I have a new framework for decision-making that is more holistic and thoughtful, with the potential, just like my pin #, to bring more positivity into my day.

It came at a good time. I have been asking myself a lot of really intense questions lately, and my husband too. I have been impatient for us to make some pretty massive life decisions so there is a lot of conflict going on right now (i.e. he is being passive aggressive and I am shrieking and swearing). It’s not great. I know I am stressing him out big time.

I can see now, one of the problems is that I am very much YES. YES. YES. YES. YES. We need to do this amazing thing that I want to do because it is amazing!!

And he is kinda like… well, maybe, but no, ok fine yes, actually no, but why? It might amazing or maybe what we are doing now is more amazing…

What we really need to do, together, is determine if we say yes to this amazing idea (or bad idea depending on who you ask), what are we saying no to? And if we say no, what are we then saying yes to?

Am I right?

 

 

 

 

Word Power

So I have been thinking about how I keep using the word crisis to describe my current state of life. It is nagging away at me because the word is just so extreme and not at all accurate for how I really feel. I feel so bratty and ungrateful every time I write it.

Because all over the world people are experiencing real crisis. The millions of Syrians fleeing violence and destruction. The wonderfully kind people of Istanbul who are under increasing threat from ISIS suicide bombers.   The guy I went to high school with who told us on my facebook that his wife died this morning. The little boy with terminal cancer that the community is fundraising for.

I imagine any one of them reading this blog…I cringe. Poor me. I hate my pores and I don’t want to wear a bra anymore. BOO FUCKING HOO. I am basically a monster.

I have learned in the past how powerful words can be. A little while ago my bank card was compromised. I had to reset my PIN number and I froze up at the pin pad and said to the teller “HELP”, I didn’t think about this! I don’t know what to make it that I will remember!” And then, I was inspired by the very words I had just said and I made my pin# 4357 which spells HELP. I use my bank card for everything. Several times a day. The more I used my bank card, the more pathetic I felt. It took my a while to clue in that my PIN # was seriously bringing me down. When I finally realized it was negatively impacting my life  I changed it again. To 4673 which spells HOPE, and all of a sudden I was being uplifted throughout the day. It made a remarkable difference for me.

(FYI my card got compromised AGAIN. So I changed it again. Don’t try to guess.)

Part of my job involves periodically proof reading the work of my team, normally proposals and final reports, sometimes emails.  One of my talents is wordsmithing other people’s writing.  (My own…Meh. Not so much.) I hunt out insecure words like I just, or I think, inserting confident words and partnership words. Replacing words like Challenge with Opportunity.  I absolutely love transforming the tone of business writing to better reflect the values and culture of our company. I want the reader to have a positive experience, feel inspired, know they made the right choice to work with us, and keep working with us.

In a million years I would not let a document out the door that contained the word crisis (Actually, in the context of climate change I do allow it, but that is another conversation) so why would I allow myself to throw it around so casually in relation to myself?

When I met my husband he was using positive affirmations every day and it totally worked out amazingly for him, after all, he found the woman of his dreams!

I know a few other people who have testified to the power of positive affirmations. I myself have never really gone there…I really suck at talking to myself. I can’t even thank myself for giving my body the gift of yoga at the end of class when the instructor suggests it. Maybe this is something I need to work on. Here, I’ll try right now:

 

 

Nope. And No. Not there yet. Maybe not there ever. Maybe it is the cheesy posters that I can’t get behind?

Here is my personal truth. My affirmation for today.

I am blessed. I have so much more than I need. My body mostly works great. I know all the best people (yup, me and the Donald). I have a loving husband and healthy children and a beautiful extended family and the best friends a girl could want or need.

To even suggest something is out of sorts feels profoundly selfish. But yet, something is out of sorts.

Bottom line is that even if technically I am having a midlife crisis, it is not sitting well with my to call it that. To repeatedly say that makes me feel desperate and sick and sad instead of just searching.

So if not a crisis what?  A midlife scavenger hunt? A midlife transition? An awakening? An adjustment? A conversion?  Renewal? Shift? Transformation?

When I figure it out I will let you know.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Remembering 38

My crisis (when I realized I was not really being true to myself) started right before my 39th birthday. I remember the exact moment. I was shopping with my youngest son who was 6 at the time. He was looking for a birthday present for a girl in his class and he had observed that she had her ears pierced and he wanted to get her earrings. It was actually one of the sweetest times I have ever spent with him because he was SO thoughtful about it and so little. I had to pick him up to see into display cases and his cheeks were still pudgy and his hair was so soft. And it was just so much fun to shop for earrings. I told him that I thought he was getting her the perfect present and that I love earrings so much.

Because, I did and I do. Love earrings. So why, in the heck, did I not have my own ears pierced?

I desperately wanted them pierced as a girl and I begged for it. One by one my friends were getting earrings. It was agonizing.  It was just simply not allowed in my house. Because  “If Jesus wanted you to wear earrings you would have been born with holes in your ears!”.

Of course now I have a hundred come backs. Like maybe he wanted us to have a choice and oh, hey, what about my brother’s foreskin THAT HE WAS BORN WITH. Didn’t Jesus want him to keep that and not have it cut off for no good reason whatsoever? (So sorry to my brother for dragging him into this no longer existent debate and outing him as circumcised – Q: Is this a big deal? Do I have to get his permission for this? Can he sue me?).

I was told that when I turned 16 I could make my own decision. By the time I was 16 I was literally the only person I knew of that did not have pierced ears. I was a curiosity. I felt cool about it. People actually said things like “You don’t have your ears pierced? That is so cool”.  Later, when I got other body parts pierced, the fact that my ears were not pierced was even cooler.  I was legit cool. But that era has long past.

Case in point… my older son asked me one day a few years ago why my belly button looked weird, so I told him because when I was a teenager I had it pierced and I used to have a ring in it and it looked really cool. His response? “Having your belly button pierced is pretty much the opposite of cool”.

(Note to self. He must NEVER know about the nipple ring, and how both of my babies favoured that boob because milk squirted out the holes on the sides too.)

So at 38 … who was I being cool for? Um. Not a soul. Actually I was being totally uncool to my own soul. Because, as it turns out I never stopped wanting earrings. Actually, there are lots of things I never stopped wanting. Lot’s of denial. Lot’s of choices made for the approval of others, when really, what matters is being true to myself. It is starts with small steps, and it is a marathon, but one day I will get there.

On my 39th birthday I got my ears pierced. And I love wearing earrings. And I love when my sons buy me earrings.  I love that I have perky ear holes from waiting so damn long. Some of my friends complain that they can’t wear danglers anymore – but not me! Bring on the danglers!

 

 

Hair Woes

Personal Truth #6 I want to go full Britney. Yup, I am THAT crazy.

My husband had a dream last night that all of his hair fell out. He worries about losing his hair a lot, as do most men I think. The fact is, he has a nice head full of hair, but his hairline is ever so slowly creeping back. I mean…EVER. SO. SLOWLY. But I get his anxiety. We express ourselves through our hair, our youthfulness or lack of it, and what sub culture we belong to. He is a professional musician so his image is a critical part of his work, and his hair is a critical part of his image. One thing that I really envy about him is that he can do whatever the hell he wants with his hair – grow it long, get a hyper stylized cut, dye it crazy colours. He has no limitations. Unless it all falls out. That would be limiting. So I guess his dream was really more of a nightmare. His hair represents so much more than just his hair.

Anyways, this blog is about me and I also have a preoccupation/obsession with my hair. Every month like clockwork, for the last 22 years or maybe longer, I have coloured my hair back to its original very dark brown, almost black. The white hairs started coming in my mid teens… and never stopped coming. I don’t know what my real hair looks like. If my roots are any indication, it is all pure snowy white. When my roots come in, I look like a skunk.  Obviously (or I guess since you don’t know my personal financial situation it might not be obvious) I can’t afford professional upkeep so I am a DIY hair colourist.

A few years ago I developed an allergy or sensitivity to PPD the main ingredient in permanent hair dye. Like my entire scalp got scabby and my hair started falling out in clumps. Then a hairdresser/colourist told me she had to quit her job because she was peeing blood and that hair dye causes bladder cancer. So I researched alternatives and switched to henna colour.

If you are like me, and your hair is white but you present as a brunette, this is shitty solution. First of all, it literally takes about 5 hours from start to finish. So kiss a whole day goodbye every 2-3 weeks. Second of all it smells like sewage. Third of all, it fades fast to a very unnatural looking colour in a gradient, so you need to use it OFTEN. On the plus side, zero chemicals. Hair gets healthy fast. I only stuck with it for a year.

Finally I found a decent product, sort of natural, no ammonia, no PPD, none of the harsh stuff. I can only find it in one store in the entire province, half the time it is out of stock, it is expensive and I need to use it every three weeks (and that is stretching it by using mascara on my roots for a few days). I have to call and order it and really plan ahead or I am SCREWED.

I feel like a slave. I am a slave to my hair, and to my image. Because I don’t want to look old. Because I don’t want to look like a skunk. I just don’t know how to be free.  I don’t even know what hair I actually have! But know that right now I don’t have the hair I want – The same way I can’t wear ripped jeans and flip-flops to work, I can’t show up with purple hair (most of those vivid gemstone colours are vegetable based!!), or even better NO HAIR AT ALL. I totally get it. Why Britney shaved her head. To have freedom from her image.

I can’t shave my head, but I want to. I want a fresh start. I want to see what is really under there. Maybe it is really nice and I won’t look old after all. When I was in high school this guy’s mother was famous for her gorgeous head of white hair that she wore swirled up into a messy bun. She had a young face. Everyone thought she was so hot. I want to be the cool white haired Mom. Or pink haired Mom. Instead I just keep dyeing it. Wearing it in an ok but not great style. Growing it longish and parting it in the middle because someone told me that is supposed to make you look younger. Contemplating bangs because I think dramatic bangs look cool and edgy but still conservative enough. Wondering if it is too late and I already have bladder cancer but that the silver lining is that the chemo will make my hair fall out and I will be forced to start fresh without being perceived as crazy – if I don’t die. Very fucked up shit right here. OVER HAIR. Talk about first world problems.

And just now as I type this I am having a sad kind of revelation.

Our 9 year old son has extraordinarily long and really beautiful hair – by anyone’s standards. He hasn’t cut his hair in about 3 years. The reason he stopped getting his hair cut is because the result never quite matched what he hoped for.  At 6 years old he decided would rather never cut it all and deal with people constantly misgendering him, than be disappointed with his image. He is a person who avoids negative feelings at all costs. Not liking the way he looked profoundly affected him. I always wondered why he cared so much about his hair at such a young age…and now….

DUH. Fuck. Shitty, shitty, shit.

If I was queen of the world I would smash EVERY. SINGLE. MIRROR.