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It’s surreal to be in a relationship with someone who actually likes me, not just my ability to make them cum or cook them breakfast or be their punching bag. There is nothing in despite of with his love - it just is. He rages with me when a doctor still recommends bariatric surgery after my blood work comes back flawless, understands the hollowness of body positivity that floats across Instagram hashtags, knows that sometimes you just need to spend the whole weekend indoors with pizza and Star Trek. Don’t have to figure out how best to break the news to a partner that I will be fat when they take me to meet their friends and family, when we go out to eat, when we take photos. I breathed deeply and took my medication and went to therapy, but it was connecting with other queer, nonbinary and fat people that made the most difference.ĭating another fat person is incredible. I spoke up when I felt insecure in a relationship.
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It’s not something I can run away from or fuck my way to the only way to survive grief is to go through it, to feel every worst thing every time.īut through the grim, endless journey of my Saturn return and feeling every feeling and learning how to be present, I started to believe that I might be just as deserving of space and tenderness and love as anyone else. I’ve had to accept that survival isn’t a linear process or even one with an ending. I had to figure out what it meant to reconnect with a body I’d always been afraid of. In the fog of rage and grief and debilitating PTSD, I lost my ability to hold everyone else’s feelings because I couldn’t even hold my own. I changed because I had to being assaulted destroyed everything I was. This isn’t the part of the essay where I sit backwards in a chair, my eyes soft and warm with understanding and after-school-special, explaining that I just learned to love myself and celebrate my body. Always triple-checking the room, only concerning myself with how everyone else felt over how I did. I’ve lost so much time catering to others. Like many young Midwestern homosexuals, I repressed everything about myself that I’d learned was deviant. But I did give up on trying to bury myself. I held numerous faceless men, hopeful that I could escape myself for a while. I wasn’t relishing in sexuality or autonomy or body I just couldn’t handle the thought of my last sexual experience being so violent.
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For a summer, I frequented bars with my friends, flirting with men I wasn’t interested in, hooking up with others for disappointing, drunken, painfully heterosexual sex. After I left my rapist, I wanted to be someone different, to put as much distance between who I’d been and who I’d been forced to become. The loss of safety, body, the days and months and years washed down the drain. What I will say is that nobody tells you how much grieving is involved in being assaulted. Instead, I’m documenting this journey to becoming: to better understanding my queerness, my transness and my femme. I’m not going to write about the gory details of being assaulted, and honestly, I’m tired of rehashing the worst moments of my life. I was a Fleshlight whose feelings - and whose no - didn’t matter. My previous relationship was violent and lonely. We’re certainly not supposed to have sex or even talk about it, and when someone throws us a pity fuck, keeps us hidden from their friends or only dates fat people at night, we’re supposed to be grateful that someone would want us, no matter how dehumanizing and abusive a relationship can become. The strain we’re allegedly putting on the environment and our employers and the rest of society. The decadent swelling, ham-fisted lack of self-control.