He said I made you hit the bottle So you could make it through the day But love, you broke my spirit When you made me run away

This essay contains mentions of body image, body issues, and various forms of abuse; is this is not for you, I understand. See yourself out and I will see you next time. xo.

This full moon and Freddie in the Gatorade has been something else. WOOF.

Yesterday was a trauma anniversary, so I decided to dress up a little extra special for it.

I know, how much does it literally suck for a trauma anniversary to fall on Star Wars Day? I just want to be very loud about my love for Ewoks and Wookies, and enjoy seeing everyone's amazing cosplays and Star Wars bounds--- and not have to think about it. It's also the birthday of my late friend Evan, whom I miss more than words in any language could ever begin to articulate. 

Much like in the same way today is both Cinco de Mayo and the National Day of Awareness for Murdered and Missing Indigenous Women, Girls, and Two-Spirit people. It's both emotions at once, and it's difficult navigating them existing in equal measure at the same time.

The particular trauma anniversary of yesterday, and what was to come, makes me think a lot about how, had I not done things the way that I did, and remained constantly vigilant--a trait that I am ruthlessly belittled for--that I might have become another MMIWGTS statistic. Especially, of course, when you consider that I feel as though a lot of the attention and attraction (and fixation) towards me was rooted in rac!al f3t!sh. Being an Indigenous woman is a great time, let me tell you. Fantastic stuff.

All the things I am constantly mocked for saved my life. My inherent distrust and vigilance saved my life. My "always running away" saved my life. Even when this person was trying to ply me with alcohol to coax me into saying things they wanted to hear, I never drank as much as they thought I had in case I had to escape.

All the things I am constantly mocked for ended up saving my life.

My body did, as it usually does, start in with its trauma muscle memory. It wasn't as bad as it can be, but it was committed to make SURE I KNEW what day it was. Even if I fool myself into thinking I can outrun it, even if my mind forgets, my body does not.

I even wore my little bindle necklace for added protection.

This outfit received a considerable amount of attention yesterday. The kind that most people want.

Only I find any kind of attention completely dehumanizing. In the same what that I find  being seen as a r@c!al f3t!sh, devoid of personhood or agency, is dehumanizing.

I know that there are people who want to punch me in the face right now reading that. But the key here in this is consent: you want this kind of attention, I don't. You don't have my history of violence against your body, you don't have the history of experiences of being reduced to a r@c!al f3t!sh fantasy, you don't have the experience of most of your experiences being devoid of personhood. And, listen, I wish you all the attention and validation that you want, need, and deserve. But as for me, I wish to be innocuous. 

I always want to think that I am more than my body, but sometimes I wonder if I am even worth that much. I have previously written at length about the litany of dehumanizing experiences surrounding my body, my inability to have normal experiences, all whilst being blessed with this *gestures broadly* Jessica Rabbit body.

I took the selfies in the mirror to send them to my tattoo artist, to show her the placement of the tattoo, and how we are going to have to navigate my scar tissue. My scars are my armor. I used to tell people who asked where they came from that I "walked into a door knob," before immediately redirecting. I also tell people know, with a laugh that "I was born and bred in the briar patch" when they ask. The laugh throws them off and lets me have enough time to, as you guessed, escape.

I made it through yesterday okay enough. I did make a  (semi-reckless) trauma purchase. (listen, I only have three coping mechanisms: (s)mothering my friends, buying *ahem* delicate clothing, and re-watching The Rescuers. This could be a lot worse.) But I did it. I made it through. Me and my lacy and embroidery and my little shoes with hearts on them, and my little bindle necklace, and even my scars--we made it through yesterday, even if it's 80 bucks lesser (hahahaha).

I am more than my body, but in a world where we are perceived through our bodies, I have to resign myself to the fact that I have to be okay with my body, too. I can be, and am, more than my body, but I have to be okay with my body, too.