I possess an unnerving understanding of the hubris of Dr. Frankenstein, vampiric sires, and any other lecherous being wading in worlds that are not their own.

Each admission of the rot and stilled rage I feel flooding even the gentlest parts of myself bodes a guilt eager to suppress any pain at all. I write my Penny Dreadfuls of journal entries, see shrouds in my sleep, seethe at those who admit to resenting the newfound faulty parts of me. Each day is the same; a perch at the crossroads’ pit, avoiding the eyes of a salesman that’s always got a deal on miracles.

When does the frenzy of a known absence become familiar— less frayed nerve endings and eyes that jitter at a mere mention of a mother? What is anyone meant to do when their reflection is no longer their own? I wasn’t prepared, soothed, given a brochure on how to continue being a person in the world once it was no longer the world I knew. The eyes I avoid the gaze of most are my own. I’m told I even sound like her nowadays. Is this what the Victorian horror tales were forged upon? If the grief is indefinitely active— the circuitry of knowing another rendered faulty—, one considers the impossible and macabre to simply be misunderstood ideologies by those who have never craved a salve of death transcended.

However temporary, relief can be found in a breath that unencumbered the lungs, a breeze carrying the scent of a shared meal, a patch of earth known best by a select few, the meld of household aromas somehow refined to a single mystic breath. Inhalation often seems to burst open my lungs when I am least composed. Only then does my physical being feel near to tolerable— it clings to that breath. In those moments, pulmonary contractions are the nearest to both persevering and venturing to reunite with who has been lost. Yet still— each breath is an anchor tethering me to what feels to be a great nothingness.

Some years ago, a day could be so beautiful that even the bluest skies seemed to perch just above my head; anything could feel akin to a cosmic gift.

I see the world in all its glory for all but myself. I haven’t yet determined a courteous way to release the dim fog of death above my head— a thicket just between me and the salvation of my big blue sky. I’ve never felt so far from divinity. Yet now it is the stoop upon which I weep, screaming at every star in the sky. if any star could grant a wish it surely has spurned me. I can only allow myself to believe in anything that isn’t an end.

I’d become the monster and its maker to rid myself of this constant vacancy I’ve succumb to in order to be a person in the world. Yes, she isn’t coming back. Yes, I would claw into the devil’s dirt roads to prove that she can simply because I will it to be so. There are no miracles— only desperately forged horrors. I continue to beg the universe to grant one anyway.

Across time, countless women have been immortalized on canvas, in lyrics and poetry, catapulted into iconography via the viewfinder of a camera serving as a conduit for connection. None of this is to suggest that it’s impossible for a man to simultaneously love a woman and find her to be inspiring, though it is a phenomena that has simply morphed alongside the world’s creative advancements. The Artistic Man of the moment is one who grooms himself though not too meticulously, dresses well but not so much so he is shunned by other men, has a creative career but one that is already established particularly online. From the vastness of new age manhood crawls Man Who Loves Fashion; he buys secondhand archival pieces with the determination of a betting man, vets romantic prospects based on how well she dresses—by his standards—, and navigates his world as though it is curated genius.

In the early aughts, this man would have been another closeted gay caricature on a cable television adult dramedy. Times have changed, however. Everything is oh so progressive! The reality is that these men are still often suspected to be that caricature, not merely because of an inclination to fashion. These men are not often anything outside of heterosexual and cis. Always partially out of frame is the woman he styles, photographs, and records obsessively as the woman he has just assembled or perfected. Does he love her? Yes, no, maybe. Love is not the determinant of this dynamic.

Fashionable Male has a tendency to believe—as many men do— that Woman is his; a display of his prowess and an extension of his believed taste, artistry, genius, or general chutzpah. This isn’t a social practice exclusive to gen z, a specific race, or a specific class. Men are simply socialized to believe that a woman should be a product of his life’s accomplishments and another facet to be proud of attaining. There’s a likelihood that a significant portion of men who navigate the world with that framework are unaware of the extent to which they live with such a narrow, rarely happy and fulfilled model to aspire to.

The norm boils down to a social contract in which men are taught to base their value on tangible possessions, careerism, financial security, and the status of domestic figurehead. Ideal Man is often unhappy, insecure, and feels there is always *something* missing. A woman *worthy* of Ideal Man should be a specific variety of woman and possess a specific beauty in direct correlation with said man.

Subscribe now

Read more

2. 01/12/2025

   MALLRATS (1995) Dir. Kevin Smith

   My rating: 4.5/5 stars but I think it’s a personal 5/5 stars now. Big Cellphone took our shopping malls and we have suffered as a result! Or something.

   If you like what you’re reading thus far, please feel free to share this post!

   Share

3. 01/23/2025

   SINGLES (1992) Dir. Cameron Crowe

   My rating: 3/3 stars. It’s a fine movie but nothing to write home about, and likely more enjoyable when watched with friends. Some characters were boring and it was difficult to engage in their storylines. However, I do love the film for what it intended to do.

4. 03/22/2025

   CECIL B. DEMENTED (2000) Dir. John Waters

   My rating: 5/5 stars. I’ll admit I’ve had my issues with John Waters where cinematic ethics are concerned but I absolutely adore his sense of humor and eye for trashy couture. This is the newest addition to my Letterboxd top 4— BONES & ALL has been dethroned!

UNTIL NEXT TIME…

As nearly anyone who has ever had a conversation with me knows, I watch a lot of fucking movies. I felt particularly moved to reflect on movies I watched in 2024 after watching Joel Schumacher’s Flawless with a close friend in early December. A commonality amongst some of my favorite first watches of the year is the motif of evolving identity— I realize that I feel most quietly self assured when reflecting on a movie that emotionally uprooted me in a way I wouldn’t have willingly faced otherwise.

Share Cyber Utopia

Maybe I have no desire for an annual resolution because I’ve spent my entire life, thus far, intently watching entire worlds unfold before me on any given day. I have no need for a reservoir of intention steadied not by faith in myself, but in a day that comes and passes the same as always. A widow rediscovering true love, a person leaning into the arms of the gender identity they’ve never viewed head-on, a miraculous feat of survival and renewal— in those moments, I remember that any day could be beautifully life altering. I cling to the notion of the difference a single day could make unbeknownst to those approaching it.

Life has a flare for the brutal, the cruel, the humbling— but it’s a life. I clench it all with the perpetually crackling fingers on one hand and leave the other open; coaxing forth another fractal in which I will consider a dozen more beautiful worlds— all of them with a place for me. Here are the movies that renewed my faith in myself and the vastness of a single life lived:

Flawless (1999), Dir. Joel Schumacher

As many know, Philip Seymour Hoffman was one of the absolute greatest actors thus far and will likely remain so. The synopsis of this film sounds wonky to say the least, but it near instantly soothes that anxiety the moment Philip Seymour Hoffman utters a word. While I am aware that a cisgender man portraying a trans woman is unsavory at best, I found myself enamored by his character, Rusty. She is everything any subjectively good person is; protective, empathetic, caring. Though she is also aware of her propensity for tempermental outburts and silent scheming. Hoffman’s portrayal of such an enigmatic character brought me a sense of peace at the time. I’d almost entirely forgotten that he is often flanked by Robert De Niro in many climatic scenes. Sometimes a woman is all determination and resilience, perhaps most often when she wishes to possess neither. Sometimes a proud man is incomprehensibly changed without his consent and is left to learn himself again.

Birth (2004), Dir. Jonathan Glazer

There’s little to say of this film that could succinctly summarize a calamity so delicately unfolded, yet unfettered in its honesty. Nicole Kidman is, arguably, at her best in this film. I’d expected nothing less than a harrowing portrayal of grief— still, Glazer possesses an ability and willingness to push-and-pull the audience with the vaguest shift in tone, intention and perception in Birth. This film is a rarity in its ability to suggest little more than coincidence and a yes-or-no conflict meant to be resolved or embraced. After all, life and death are ultimately just matters of biology and physics, yes? Concepts of everlasting life beyond physicality proven to be no more than concepts; a concept conjured to assuage the finality of corporeal death. Most know death to be true and finite, and that principle is as dutifully understood in Birth as it is in our reality. Grief, however, could leave any cynic bowed over— a reconsideration of faith and a willingness to believe in the fantastical. There’s something nearly perverse about the nature of grief; when death is impending we know only of clenching our eyes closed to manifest miracles. No one tells another how settled grief warps all discernment or perspective of what remains beyond that void. A loved one carefully wrought from death is our overlapping, hushed prayer. I could believe in whatever is set before me, if given a minute hope upon which to lean on— I know it to be impossible but I can resurrect this person and suspend their life within mine. The impossibility of this is merely ambiguity when shrouded with a willingness to believe in anything.

Cat People (1982), Dir. Paul Schrader

Well, Cat People is so incredibly unorthodox that I’ll simply say it ultimately reaffirmed my faith in everlasting love. A devoted heart can withstand anything.

I Saw the TV Glow (2024) Dir. Jane Schoenbrun

The closest I’ve been to adequately conveying how much this movie emotionally affected me is this frantic review on my Letterboxd account:

Poor Things (2023) Dir. Yorgos Lanthimos

While Poor Things was incredibly polarizing and rightfully so in certain regards, I personally interpreted it in a less fantastical way than its portrayal; I felt an empathy for Bella that was not dependent on the literal nature of her existence. Being a disabled woman—even simply being socialized as one while identifying differently— is an existence that often times feels surreal and cruel in a manner it seems the world should not be capable of. A life both infantilized and withheld from the concept of adulthood, all the while the world goes by.

My mom’s favorite season was autumn, with winter a close second merely due to the spectacle of Christmas. Some days, I feel serrated knife-in-gut anguish when I reserve more than a fraction of a minute to think of my last holiday season with her. Our thanksgiving was spent in hospice. I boarded an airplane that morning-- walking to her bedside felt like an omen I had spent 2 years desperately attempting to positive think our way out of. My sister, far older than me though far less capable of keeping a straight face, warned me that our mom didn’t look the same— I was told not to cry in front of her. It wasn’t a demand or a request, really. It felt as though she were steeling me in a manner that we both knew I was suddenly incapable of. 

I spent what seemed to be a lifetime affixing the perfect facade of indifference to my person, but it amounted to nothing during those days. Each developmental stage, a new area to tamp into something as near to imperceptible as it could be. I’d been an incredibly fussy toddler, as the story goes. I’d sob and flail in the arms of anyone who wasn’t my mom. I vividly remember my first day of preschool (my family swears I have an elephant’s memory each time I recite an event clearer than they recall), — my mother attempted to slyly turn away, into the hall exiting the building but I, much like the perpetually frantic child I was, turned in the nick of time and wailed bloody murder. I clasped my arms around one of her legs, crossed my legs tightly, and sat atop her foot. Each desperate sob, a plea for a forever. 

When I looked at the woman who’d always been the world to me, I knew that we wouldn’t land near to any corporeal forever with one another. I smiled, hugged her, held my breath as every second crashed further into a sentencing. I cried in the hospice guest bathroom; my clumsy mechanical gait merely an emergency exit tool, a cautious turn into the hallway accompanying the nurse’s station. I sobbed in a way that I can only begin to describe as inhuman. How is someone meant to look into the eyes of a loved one who has a time limit? 

My sister and I spent Christmas in her apartment that was slowly overcrowding with our mother’s belongings we’d begun moving from her small apartment. Atop cardboard boxes, photo albums, bins of every moment of our lives condensed, we were most surrounded by snow and the looming guilt of feeling incapable of going to see our mom. We managed to visit her that evening. Her memory worsened as time passed into each night; a telltale symptom of dementia, known as “sundowning”. She didn’t have much awareness of our reality, but she happily picked away at her festive dinner and conversed with us as best she could. This was one of the rare nights she seemed to feel a semblance of peace, her lapses in awareness no longer a terror. Imagine— spending a final holiday with someone who is entirely unaware of its finality in that moment. The holiday season following her death felt like a punishment for crimes we didn’t commit nor ever intend to. 

Our mom died the following February. Every particle of snow seemed ascended into eternity with her when I returned for the aftermath of a sequential loss unfathomable for most. The following October somehow felt more vibrant and livelier than I did. I don’t remember much else of it. That November is one of the few memories seemingly entirely lost to me. December was no more than conditioning myself for a forever that I have now expected to amount to no more or less than a vacancy. This October wasn’t my own. This November hasn’t been my own. I have lived month after month waiting for anything to be handed to me, a missing gear or puzzle piece— anything that will allow me to feel like a person again. I’ve been subconsciously intent on biding my time. Though, I have no expectations or awareness of what I am lying in wait for. December is currently unwritten by myself, and I am approaching it with trepidation— no expectations, no hope, though that should not be mistaken for a hopelessness. I only beg what and who I love to stay or return any time we dare to pull away. I have not felt capable of much else. 

There are many things I know to be true: my mother loved Scrabble, she bought every John Grisham novel as though they were grocery store newspapers, Charlie Wilson provided the soundtrack for her years of devoted motherhood. She loved horror movies but none of the satanic stuff. She anticipated and set mental reminders for cable airings of her favorite creature features-- Jaws, The Fly, Jurassic Park, Deep Blue Sea. I watched The Silence of the Lambs and The X-Files far before I reached middle school— when my mom sat on the couch or curled up in her bed, television remote her scepter, I watched along simply to have more time in a day with her. 

My dad and I recently giggled with awe when recalling our golden lady’s competitive streak seemingly reserved solely for Scrabble. Decades of storing 7-letter words, and easy winners, in a board game specific rolodex within her mind. I can’t recall a single time I defeated her, even temporarily ending her reign of linguistic superiority.

My sister and I have spoken several times of our mother’s zeal for Christmas. Santa snow globes, miniature ceramic sleighs filled with Hershey’s kisses—more so for her liking than ours—, stockings always overstuffed. As a child, I didn’t understand that my mom worked overtime stacked onto overtime to buy everything my sister and I wanted. I quickly resigned to indifference upon learning that Santa isn’t real— that revelation only made my mom that much cooler. I comfortably lived with the knowledge that I always got exactly what I wanted for Christmas simply because my mom loved me to the point of exhaustion. In her last years, she worked part time as a cashier and despite the pleas of my sister and I urging her to quit, she remained in a job she shouldn’t have felt the need to ever have. She inevitably told me, simply, that she wanted to make extra money so we could have a full Christmas tree the way we did when things were better. I assured her of the one thing I knew to be true that day; no explanation, limitation, or naysaying ever outweighed what I knew to be true-- my mother’s love for us could have upturned the earth on any slightly inconvenient day, perhaps with a not-so-kind person. 

As a child, I routinely hid Scrabble letters under my legs when I was a kid. I was always so eager and convinced I could win against an adult woman who personified the term “bookworm”, or I’d settle for outdoing my sister nearly a decade my senior. But even with an array of consonants stuck in the clammy crevice of my knee and thigh, our mom would win in a landslide. She always knew I was cheating-- I have never been a convincing liar or adept at sleight of hand-- but never cared much as it was only motivation for us both. We always believed in one another’s determination and resilience more than our own.

Her love always repotted me when I, or some cruel act of another, yanked my roots straight out of the soil. I want no more than to do the same for her. Even now as I lay beside a portion of her ashes mixed into a metal heart, tucked neatly in the back of a stuffed memoriam teddy bear I paid an astronomical amount of money for, without hesitation I seek to live my life in her honor— no straight-A report card, certificate of accomplishment, or unexpected career achievement will compare to the earth I intend to upturn every chance I get. She never expected less than a wildfire of me. Any day now, I’ll finally have that wildfire safely accommodated. Seemingly no more than a flicker— there she’ll be.

None of this is to imply a purposelessness of the bonds between adolescent girls, and women flung into young adulthood. Though, there is a curatorial aspect within these relationships with oneself and one’s peers. Subcultural signaling is nothing new to the zeitgeist of 21st century youth. There have long been fashion trends, media, and personas adopted or exaggerated by those who adhered to a label. Amidst every newfangled heavily aesthetic focused identity, cultural curiosity was no less than a leg up in bonding with one’s inner circle. A well chosen look was a beacon to kindred spirits adorned with charcoal drugstore eyeliner, hauling a laptop bag littered with cartoon character pinbacks, or donning BAPEs like religious garb. 

Read more

While this trope is often viewed as exhausted by filmgoers both casual and devoted, it depicts grief in a way that is not wholly far fetched. Horror merely provides a landscape for the most grotesque imaginings of someone who wants nothing more than to secure their hands around whatever false god failed them. My mother is the center of all I’ve been and will be. Could you imagine— sharing a body with another only to have them failed by modern medicine, faulty car mechanics, social engineering working overtime?

Talk to Me (2022)

Jason renders himself immortal in a quest for vengeance. Eric Draven is possessed by the spirit of a crow which allows him to enact justice for his slain beloved. Mia (of Talk to Me) knowingly communes with the dead in a futile attempt to reunite with her mother. Isn’t that what love is about in all its most untamed variations? Grief is an act of love in its own capacity; my love for my mom and my brother do not simply dull into something more distant or bearable. The unbound progeny don’t wander– we endure.

I exist solely in the rift between wanting to transcend death and wanting to succumb to it. I’m never quite entirely one more so than the other. Some days I imagine a reality in which resurrection could be bargained for. Most days I cry and bar my eyes from opening– I squeeze them as tightly as I can until they bloom candescent. Everyday in itself feels like a horror designed specifically for me. Am I meant to defeat death? If I were to shed every layer of lifelong neurosis, would I be misunderstood in my inevitable descent into the frenzy I’ve spent a decade trying to smother? If I cannot function 6 days out of 7 because I can only dream of my mom dying? Each time, a new display of viscera unfolds in my subconscious. When I speak of this, will it be socially acceptable to clarify that the dreams are almost never about cancer? I see car crashes, her reaching for my hand from her deathbed, her calling me to say goodbye, her entire physical being sloughing away as she tries to rise from death to hug me one last time. 

Some days I fear I will never be able to picture my mother in any form but the one she died in. I think of her face and see a gaunt, fearful woman– I see her full head of pitch black soft hair, a weight that was once her norm suddenly distorted by the bulk of her physicality ensconcing something destined to kill her. I hear her voice confessing her fear, inquiring about her own being because her mind is no longer what it was. It ultimately feels like a cruel, cosmic joke. My mother– the woman who loved crime novels, Jurassic Park, The X-Files, any monster movie she could find– is now the center of me more than she has ever been. The memories of and with her my only defense against what seeks to overtake me. We’d watch horror movies and shitty made-for-tv thrillers together as though they were run of the mill programming for children with debilitating anxiety. But in hindsight, I always felt safest laying beside her on her tall bed, always adorned with earth toned bedding. The bedroom window opened when she could smell incoming rainstorms, a dim nightstand lamp kept on for my comfort.

Some years ago, I bought the Criterion edition of The Silence of the Lambs for my mom. I never gave it to her because it dawned on me that she would never experience it as she did before– characters would be unfamiliar, our favorite lines nothing more than strange sayings. I no longer feel calm when it rains. I watch the entirety of The X-Files nearly every year. I watch a movie about demons and possession, and almost smile at the memory of my mom attempting to ban supernatural horror from our household because she thought it would worsen my depression. The last movie we saw in theaters together was the abysmal remake of The Grudge that I begged her to go see with me simply because of my long-lasting love for John Cho. We rolled our eyes and sighed the entire time– we didn’t even finish the movie but it didn’t matter. Twenty or so dollars gone, but not a second wasted.

When I’d visit my mom during the final years she’d refuse to let me sleep on her couch because I’m “too tall” at a mere 5 feet and 6 inches. Every night I laid in her bed in her small apartment, and miss her. A mere few feet outside of her bedroom, she’d lay soundly asleep with the TV still playing whatever sitcom or news airing she’d fallen asleep to. Some nights I’d rise in the middle of the night just to watch her sleep for a moment. When I was a small child, I often slept in bed with her because of nightmares or whatever inexplicable phobia I’d developed and been unable to escape. My mother is the one I will rise with and lay down with for eternity—the cloak of her pressing gently upon my chest, as I did to her as a child. This is no metaphor. Maybe this isn’t entirely the horror I’ve accepted it as. I don’t have to become the vengeful antagonist or the reckless girl itching to escape any semblance of self awareness. My specific love for her can sit nowhere but within me. Maybe grief isn’t a curse or a cosmic cruelty– that love is still mine, and even in death it is hers.

☆彡Welcome to Cyber Utopia—My personal trove of internet history, cyber culture ramblings, and thoughts regarding the everchanging state of the internet and technology as a whole! This tier of Cyber Utopia will feature a weekly—give or take—reflection on perpetual internet chaos, media (games, films, music, blogs etc.) recommendations that reflect cyberpunk themes or other nostalgic internet themes, and whatever else comes to mind. ☆彡

As a precursor, I’d like to apologize for being an aging nerd, but I am sometimes a bit baffled by the resurgence of “Y2K”, or more so the misinterpretation of what the term ultimately theorizes and the representation of it in popular media. The internet has largely become a chain of iterations of iterations of snippets of past cultural phenomenon. Now, every coin has two sides; while there is a wider appreciation of what has become a vague amalgamation of the 1990s and 2000s, there is so much unexplored cyber territory. The kids don’t know how to surf the web!

Modern social media is, of course, a large contributor to less naturally forged cultural and self-exploration. The question is how to inspire a sense of personal curiosity in younger generations that has gradually dissipated over the years. The concept of cool is becoming increasingly condensed to a TikTok trend or a YouTube video essay stemming from the content of lesser known creators, academics, and impassioned hobbyists. This rant isn’t an effort to shame those who enjoy TikTok or YouTube summaries—nothing of the sort really. The excitable, perpetually curious hamster instead of my skull merely wants others, of all ages, to experience the liberation of self-exploration and discovery.

The world never felt more significant and conquerable than when I was 12 years old with what seemed to be the entirety of time illuminating my eyes when I should’ve been asleep. A person should never feel so stifled by aesthetic trends, and labels that are entirely finite. Every version of yourself that could exist, can exist. Well, to an extent of course. But guys, did you know that you can be a different you whenever you want? There are few rules to identity, and even less so on a vast sea of ethernet. It’s never too late for that emo phase. It’s never too late to explore a dead blog or pop culture forum from 2006.

☆彡EARLY INTERNET REFLECTIONS (09/15/24) ☆彡

Read more

Luca Guadagnino’s acclaimed gothic horror film, Bones and All explores the landscape of the desolate midwest as a conduit for ostracism and inner turmoil. The film is set in the late 1980s— a world in which the monotony of small town isolation is far from easy to be quell. Bones and All’s central character is a teenage girl by the name of Maren—tenderly portrayed by Taylor Russell—. Her father has maintained a lifestyle of temporary homes, feigned normalcy, and isolation for himself and Maren. The cause for this lifestyle is revealed fairly early on in the film— Maren has seemingly inexplicable, often uncontrollable cannibalistic urges. When a sleepover with classmates goes horribly awry, her father abandons her thus leaving her with the bare necessities for survival and a series of confessional tapes he has recorded for her. Maren ultimately opts to traverse the dull, seemingly unthreatening Midwest in search of her mother whom she knows very little of. 

While Maren’s search for her mother and an explanation for her affliction is a primary focus of Bones and All, it ultimately sets the scene for a frenzied coming-of-age romance unlike most other films. Maren encounters an array of characters, including several eccentric fellow cannibals. Maren is quick to understand that cannibalism doesn’t make someone a monster in her world; there are those that choose to embrace it violently, while others seek to tame it in favor of a life of semi-normalcy. Maren eventually stumbles upon a boy named Lee after he has brutally killed and eaten an unfriendly trucker that he’s met. The pair quickly bond and embark across state lines together— love devouring them quickly and unabashedly. 

However, love is not sustainable when handed to those who will never believe they are allowed to possess it. Chaos predictably ensues and culminates in a tragedy that cements what Maren had not allowed herself to believe; she is no monster, and the extent of her love is proof of that. While there are many tales of cannibals, vampires, and all sorts of shadowy beasts who consume humans for one reason or another, it is rare to be presented with a character who seeks to wholly obtain a genuine sense of self that also aligns with their societal backdrop.

Hannibal Lecter’s penchant for dissection or Dracula’s long-lived immoral affliction are amongst many culturally significant examples of human consumption as a horror trope. Many of these stories feature men as the fearful creatures lurking about for their next gustatory indulgence, but there are both centuries old and modern tales of women who are assigned this role. Julia Ducournau’s 2016 festival hit Raw, Sheridan Le Fanu’s 1827 gothic romance novel Carmilla, and Ana Lily Amirpour’s A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night are only a few examples of women with cannibalistic urges that are biologically innate or obtained. The women in these stories are ultimately undone by their inability to control their urges, or lessen the ferocity of them.  

Cannibalism and body horror function as mechanisms of romanticism— the body contorts and offers itself for an insatiable desire, and we are all but helpless— a tangible hunger for others serves as the apex of such desire in  Bones and All, and it’s executed as tastefully as can be done. The subject matter is only complemented by earnest performances from Taylor Russell and Timothée Chalamet, carefully contrasted by the sinister behavior of their fellow cannibals. The terror of a vast, vacant landscape with little escape or possibility often serves as a tool within horror to communicate the solitude of being the monstrous disguised as the mundane. 

Isolation—of course— accompanies the dismal surroundings of malefic horror antagonists, or doomed victims of their circumstances more often than not. It serves as a fabled parallel to the loss of identity, companionship, and belonging that plagues those befallen with a differing identity or appearance. There is an innate victimhood in existing as the only thing within 100 miles disallowed to roam freely. While the North American south has its own legacy within horror, southern gothic stories typically feature the beauty found in the environments of the south. From Michigan to Illinois —Halloween for example—, the land of the midwest often serves as either nothing more than a backdrop, or a feature of the horror itself. The midwest is also sometimes presented as a sepia-tinted dead zone lacking beauty or softness, which is far from the reality of such an environmentally versatile region.

The intimately sorrowful landscapes are sometimes juxtaposed by the imagery of other regions, particularly when said regions serve as an antithesis to the central characters’ origin. In Bones & All, Maren’s surroundings do not drastically shift to places of great beauty though they do somewhat vary in size of populace, state of local architecture, and perceived extent of ideal American normalcy. The moments that lend hope to Maren are undercut by revelations more cruel and unfamiliar than expected. A small-town carnival serves as the backdrop to Maren and Lee’s terse run-in with a gang of cannibals who relish in not only the act of consuming, but the act of killing in order to survive; it is a form of blood sport undisguised as anything more upstanding. It is then that Maren, as well as the more experienced Lee are informed that there are others like them that choose to Eat— fully autonomous cannibals who have chosen a lifestyle that has plagued others. This is ultimately merely a precursor to further devastating confrontations for the pair. 

In a more hopeful tale, perhaps the environments would increase in scale or the color grading would morph into candy-coated shades that fail to succinctly reflect the happiness granted to Maren and Lee. Perhaps, the monstrous girl and the monstrous boy would have more than an illusion of a world more bright and welcoming— a midwestern dream all their own.

Subscribe now

FKA Twigs’s experimental short film, M3LI55X, opens with her ominous, yet enchanting track Figure 8. Michèle Lamy is the star of this act, and is costumed as an angler fish adorned in gold. The duration of this act features Michèle leering into the camera, laughing, or staring pensively off camera into a dimly lit landscape. “I’ve a baby inside / But I won’t give birth / ‘Til you insert yourself inside me”, Twigs sings. There is something borderline indescribable about the belief of the possibility of creation that she sings of. 

Perhaps she croons of what too many women often believe to be true: if I’m wanted, then something good will burst forth and I will know the truth of myself and love. That deep seeded yearning is often weaponized against women and wielded like a knife at the base of the skull. As Figure 8 comes to an end, Michèle Lamy opens her mouth and out floats a blow-up doll version of FKA twigs, contorted, as she laments about the insatiability of wanting to be desired, and the violence that can accompany desirability. M3LI55X ultimately serves in part as an exploration of the ways in which desirability, beauty and violence are intertwined due to misogyny, and forced subservience.

Figure 8 transitions into Twigs’s song I’m Your Doll— a tale of docility and the inability, and perhaps at times, unwillingness to free oneself from the binds of desirability politics as a woman. Women have been conditioned on a systemic and interpersonal level to value beauty, and view it as something intertwined with desirability, as opposed to two concepts that are linked by misogyny. Twigs is shown dressed in a white pajama top, pigtails adorning her head, dancing about the room before she approaches the man watching her. She approaches and leans into him. 

Her face, mouth agape, then appears attached onto the head of a blow-up doll. As she is mounted by the man who observed her with lust in his eyes, she lays still beneath him, her own eyes observing the room and vision distorting. He bites and licks at her latex flesh, stains her with spit, and leaves her deflated atop the bed; a husk of her former self. Desirability can sometimes seem as though it is the end all, be all of womanly achievement.

There is an unfortunate notion rattling about in the heads of many women: If this person sees me, if they want me, then maybe I am good; maybe they see beauty in what I have been told could never be so. I’m Your Doll explores the vulnerability in wanting to be desired enough that you are chosen over the other girls, and that maybe that doesn’t yield the results we feel we need in order to become whole. 

In Time opens with FKA twigs awaking on a mattress in a stark white room, pregnant— unexpectedly— and dressed in an all white silk pajama set.

In Time features Twigs wearing a prosthetic pregnant belly, wearing all white, which alternates with a more confident version of herself aggressively dancing in a baggy denim set, and reaming the man she is addressing. After she expresses the pain of silence, docility and the ways in which she is mistreated, as a more masculine and actualized version of herself, the perspective transitions back to the formerly docile Twigs, now teeming with liberation. 

There is perhaps something tragic to be said of the common desire women have to transcend the gender binary in order to gain respect, whether it be professional, platonic, or romantic. The act of retaining one’s womanhood while utilizing masculinity and bravado to attain a goal is one that Twigs depicts in a way that feels truly authentic to her experiences and personal need to express this dichotomy. Does it ever ache to want more? Does it ever feel easier to stay hidden and avoid the pain of losing what you believe to be love, in exchange for yourself? No longer pleading for compromise and understanding, the subject of Twigs’s audacious declaration watches in disgust as her water breaks, leading to her absolution and self realization. A myriad of color cascades from FKA Twigs. She dances and stomps about in it.

She then appears—again in all white—, and repeats herself once more. She is free. 

The last act of M3LI55X is Glass & Patron. It opens with a shot of a van in a forest. Twigs is then seen laying in the van, wearing her previous white ensemble, and begins to frantically pull multicolored fabric from within herself. The fabrics begin to shroud various people as though they are emerging from her womb. They wander onto a stage where Twigs serves as a judge for a ballroom competition. She and the dancers perform as the song—a shift in tone and theme— plays. 

The finalact of M3LI55X serves as Twigs’s declaration of self. She has sourced her pain and excised it. This is the swan song of someone refusing to be afraid or pigeonholed by desire or pain anymore. From within emerges a candescent, unabashed FKA Twigs.

My Substack is free and public, however I do accept tips on Cash App and Venmo under the tag JSMNRN.

A traditional archetype of a nerd, Betty wears glasses, has braces for half of the series, and wears a multi-colored graphic poncho to her first day of work at MODE. She is meant to be a lowly underling to her peers, despite her journalistic talents and commendable goals. Betty Suarez is an ultimate manifestation of transgressive beauty and style, along with the likes of characters such as Penelope Garcia from Criminal Minds, and Harper from Wizards of Waverly Place. 

Ugly Betty is a masterclass in camp. Betty Suarez’s characterization aside, the show features an array of characters that subscribe to camp in various forms— from Wilhelmina (often characterized as a Cruella-esque figure), the outwardly cold yet lonely fashionista, to Mark, her snarky gay sidekick and his cohort. In Susan Sontag’s Notes on Camp, it is described as so:

There is no shortage of outlandish storylines and kooky and/or couture outfits to grant viewers a sense of upscale chaos.

(Source: TV GUIDE) 

With regards to the beauty politics within Ugly Betty, most of the women around Betty were thinner, “sexier”, and more stylish. Patricia Field served as the costume designer for Ugly Betty (as well as Sex & The City and The Devil Wears Prada). She notably created the infamous Guadalajara poncho, that is later seen hanging in Betty’s office, an homage to her former self. Betty ultimately has her braces removed, opts for sleeker eyeglasses, and more form flattering silhouettes such as peplums and outfits cinched at her waist by chunky belts. Her one trademark accessory however is the jeweled “B” necklace given to her by her late mother, a testament to her allegiance to self and family.

Betty was almost always styled to be the most outlandishly dressed in every interaction. Betty, the awkward younger sister to a stylish, confident, yet professionally unaccomplished older sister Hilda, often struggled to main her sense of self as she felt ostracized in both her professional and personal life. 

Betty wore clothes that weren’t exactly fashion forward; a fan of primary colors, neons, chunky accessories, and bold patterns, Betty Suarez dared to present herself, as a fat woman, in a way that said “I’m here and I deserve to be”, much to the discontent of seemingly everyone around her. Ultimately, fashion has never been for fat people, especially Y2K fashion— the era of low rise jeans, crop tops, and “whale tails” wasn’t the best of times for fat people, particularly fat women. The purpose of fashion for fat people has always been to conceal or disguise our bodies. Dull or colors, unflattering silhouettes, and the Godforsaken cartoon character tops we’ve all seen, were—for quite some time— our most accessible options. Imagine The Devil Wears Prada if Andy weren’t thin and white; she’d be out of luck in the fashion department. Well, that was the reality of Betty Suarez. 

Ugly Betty was also no stranger to celebrity cameos. From Victoria Beckham playing a dramatized version of herself, to Naomi Campbell appearing as herself to play on the MODE softball team to Lindsay Lohan being cast as Betty’s high school bully, this series strived to prove that it had a place in the fashion and pop culture realms of the mid-aughts. 

Fashion—particularly fast fashion— has become much more inclusive of fat people—of course, but with the resurgence of Y2K fashion trends, I find myself wondering if there will ever truly be a place for the average  fat person within fashion. There are a plethora of clothing stores that refuse to even carry any size larger than a large or extra large, which is only one size above the average American woman. Body positivity hasn’t done enough for the people it was intended for; fat and disabled people are still disproportionately discriminated against in many areas of life. 

Would Ugly Betty be a different show entirely if created now, during the age of body positivity? How much has actually changed in the time of body positivity and allegedly inclusive fashion? All in all, Ugly Betty is a one-of-a-kind treasure that existed during a time when fatphobia seemed to be at its peak (Ugly Betty aired from 2006 to 2010)—the grocery store tabloids blasting women for eating too much or too little serve as a fierce reminder of those times.

Subscribe now

• The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane, d. Nicolas Glessner (1976):

  

  A tale of feral girlhood, this film served to further kickstart Jodie’s childhood acting career. The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane was admittedly something I should’ve waited a few more years to watch. It divulges the traumas and resilience of a pubescent Rynn (portrayed by Jodie), as she navigates a new town, absentee parents, young love, and a much older neighbor with too much curiosity for anyone’s good. 3.5/5 STARS

• Foxes, d. Adriane Lyne (1980):

  

  While I haven’t watched this in several years, it sparked my own teenage yearning for freedom and adventure as it followed 4 teenage girls, all battling demons that are presumed to be exaggerated by young girls. With a cast lead, in part, by Jodie Foster and Cherie fucking Currie, Foxes is a horribly unseen addition to my personal Feral Teen Girl Canon. 3.5/5 STARS (with a bonus .5 for Jodie Foster’s final scene in the film).

feeling the need to really be a part of it and let it inhabit her because she felt it’s all she’d ever have. and adrien as the boy who got lost to time. a figment thing in the imagination of his father, ready to become anything he needed to be so his withered father could get by. alexia becomes adrien and vincent. both clinging to what changed them and made them the beasts they see themselves as. alexia looked in the mirror one day and saw something monstrous and thought “i can be this. i will show them a monster” and the spiritual car sex as a metaphor for disability and disfigurement and clinging to a fragment of what life was before. and at times, wanting the catalyst for the unbecoming of your humanity to be so deep inside of you you feel it pulse. because if we can’t be monsters, what is left? like # Illness as Metaphor!!! virginia woolf tea!

alexia became adrien out of desperation but also i believe a part of her wanted to escape the binary of cis womanhood. she felt perverse and unruly in her desire for more than what she was saddled with. so she fucked the thing that made her “ugly” and “strange”. she formed a bond with her disfigurement in a way. as if to say “this is my unholy traipsing. my hideous gait. i am what titane took from me” and she made it divine yet perverse and she sold herself for the chance at transformation and ascension!!!!

Murders begin occurring and after a lot of confusion and unpredictable segues, it is discovered that Madison is —not only— adopted, but also living with a parasitic twin, Gabriel, who shares a brain with her, but had his body removed when he began to endanger Madison and those around her during their shared childhood. As it turns out, Madison had been committing the murders of the medical team who performed the removal of Gabriel’s body many years ago, because Gabriel had been forcing her into a fugue state and controlling her body, after spending two years siphoning the nutrients from her womb. A lot more chaos ensues but I’ll leave any further spoilers out. This all sounds very outlandish and impossible to execute in a way that isn’t a giant clusterfuck, but James Wan somehow pulled it off. 

The concepts and realities of women (and those socialized as such) plagued by bodies and minds that are seemingly uncontrollable, are not unheard of. Films such as The Brood, Possession and even the more recent Possessor and Raw follow the canon of ‘the uncontrollable woman’ or ‘the woman plagued’. Tales of excision, female hysteria and such are ultimately as old as time. The woman loosed by sudden, inexplicable madness isn’t foreign to the horror genre, but it’s a bit rare to see a work of art—specifically created by cisgender men— that so adequately ecapsulates the experience of inhabiting a body that has ultimately been pigeonholed into a standard that exists for the sake of others’ comfort or pleasure. This isn’t exclusive to “womanhood” by any means, as the ideal of body horror is very much based on varying identities. However, the experiences of women and—quite frankly—anyone who simply isn’t an abled cis heterosexual man are the narratives that deserve the forefront. 

As someone who is non-binary, disabled (I was diagnosed with chronic pain 6 years ago), and Black, stories that feature body horror and ultimate catharsis resonate more than most other horror tropes. I often feel that my body is not mine to inhabit, let alone control. I will always ultimately exist within tiny confines between checked boxes. Most days, my body and mind are that of someone who has me blindfolded yet burdened with the responsibility to keep shit from hitting the fan. This isn’t solely because of simply one of my identities, but all of them whether independently or comorbidly. 

The coveted scream queen roles are posited as the end all be all of women in horror, by those unfamiliar with the broad genre or simply misogynistic. There are women who consume everything or everyone around them, scream into the nights, and wake to the feeling of shattered bones. And every single one of them is me; someone who is no woman at all but treated as such solely because of how I have to assimilate into a gender that is not my own. But I see the snarling woman and think of every woman who has ever held me. I gaze lovingly at a trans friend and wonder if they want to distend their own jaw to see what’s underneath that timid bite. There is something guttural in all of us.

Image: Still from the Disney film Pixel Perfect (2004)

In recent years, social media aficionados have seemingly found the secret formula to “otherworldly” and “perfect” beauty. The concept of conventional beauty has been warped so extensively that it’s indistinguishable from physically tangible forms of beauty that are possible to achieve. Face and body editing via filters, and editing apps such as facetune or remini have, for many people (often women and other misogyny affected people), instilled within an unattainable standard that they must surpass. Even instances of 3D modeling figures gaining traction on social media (refer to Instagram user, and influencer, LilMiquela) are proving to be increasingly disturbing, not solely due to the false personality attached but also because of the general public’s initial inability to distinguish these artistic figures from actual humans. 

There’s always been a desire instilled within misogyny affected people, to be beautiful in a way that others can not be, not necessarily in the sense of gender transcendence and gender euphoria as many of those fallen prey to these standards are cisgender women, but in the sense of standing apart for the gain of social capital. The end goal, however, has never been mere internet fame for most people; the ultimate goal is for internet fame to translate to tangible opportunities, physical alteration, wealth, and some semblance of offline recognition. 

Beauty is capital. That’s the gist of beauty politics and survival in a superficial, racist, colorist, fatphobic, and ableist society. While this won’t serve as a revelation for most, it is important that everyone fully understands the full scope of this at some point in our lives. Being deemed too fat, dark, “ugly” etc. is often a one-way ticket to interpersonal and systemic violence and inequality. Women, and those perceived and socialized as such, who are deemed undesirable are granted less opportunities in workplaces, are paid less, and face disproportionate violence at the hands of coworkers and higher ups. There is also the matter of domestic violence and forms of microaggressive mistreatment in interpersonal relationships. It’s to be noted that microaggressions are only minuscule and unnoticeable to those utilizing them.

All of this isn’t to say that it’s wholly impossible to have a healthy relationship with the digitization of desirability. However, the exaggerated ‘blurred skin texture, nearly imperceptible nose, and dramatically altered eyes (refer to the “fox eye” trend which has been called sinophobic by some East Asian people)’ look that has been utilized by white women, is something that exists at the expense of others, some of who naturally possess certain features that others are adopting in a way that is quite frankly, often racist and fetishistic.

Those who “poorly” attempt to adhere to this new set of digital standards, are scrutinized for their inability to successfully fool the masses. Ultimately, that’s what everyone is looking for, right?: an illusion. Even women who are famous outside of the realm of social media have failed to be this perceived “perfect woman”. There’s a seemingly thin line between appearing perfect online and in photos and altering one’s appearance with cosmetic surgery to obtain perfection; those who aren’t famous who are victims of “botched” results are often negatively judged for their desperation to gain a leg up in the world, with little empathy offered to them. 

This phenomenon raises a few concerning questions: when is any of this too much for onlookers? When do we gain compassion for those of color who alter their bodies to fit the beauty standard, and not to simply poorly imitate the appearances of other various women of color?: Black women who have been oppressed for having larger lips, bigger noses, and darker skin than counterparts, or say, East Asian women who have been taunted for their eye shapes etc. Beauty is a game, a farce. It’s built on notions that view certain demographics as lesser, solely because of the features possessed by these demographics. Being viewed as desirable isn’t the end all, be all of life. Sure, it determines the treatment of individuals, but what could happen if we finally said no? What could happen if we put beauty down?

RATING: 4/5 STARS

Set in the fictional oceanside town of Neptune, Veronica Mars is a neo-noir which takes place in the years of 2005 to 2019. Initially spanning from 2005 to approximately 2009, Veronica Mars spawned a follow-up movie taking place in 2010, with the characters as adults, and eventually a fourth scene which took place in 2018. The series follows the life of its titular protagonist, Veronica Mars—portrayed by Kristen Bell. A spunky, defiant teenage girl with a heart of gold, and an apt for detective work, Veronica is considered an outcast amongst her wealthy, mostly white, bigoted classmates.

Veronica’s reputation, which is influenced by her father’s—the former sheriff— choices, the company she keeps and her inclination for meddling, is not a favorable one. Nearly each episode of Veronica Mars follows Veronica—and typically her loved ones, and formidable foes— as she solves a new crime while inching nearer and nearer to the season’s big mystery. I’ll spare you the major spoilers, but Veronica Mars is honestly a very heavy show, considering that the majority of the show’s characters are teenagers, and the show’s target audience were teenagers as well. Themes of racism, classism, homophobia, murder, and sexual assault are recurring themes.

While the show is far from perfect, and ultimately had its share of unfavorable moments—season four is ultimately ignored by much of the show’s fan base— Veronica Mars did what some shows made for teenage audiences were afraid to do; it dared to make some of its characters forgivable by abandoning the concept of ‘black or white morality’. I mean that in the sense that Veronica’s classmates—many of whom were hated at one point or another— were given the opportunity to grow and develop depth that many characters are often denied in other media. As the audience, we watched characters such as Weevil—the resident gang leader and ‘troublemaker’— prove themselves to be complex people, who, while capable of harm, were also capable of changing, and repairing damaged relationships (This isn’t to say he should have had to prove himself; it’s simply to say that the writers seemingly had a better understanding of the complex nature of ‘morality’, and justice).

Veronica, described as “a marshmallow” and “a twinkie” by her closest friend, Wallace, gave everyone she met a chance, even when she had every reason not to. This isn’t to say that Veronica is a perfect person; she absolutely isn’t, but that’s what I love about her as a character. She saved the people around her in whatever way she could, and usually didn’t expect anything in return.

I personally consider Veronica Mars to be one of the best heroines of the mid-2000s. Veronica Mars had its issues pertaining to race and the topic of sexual assault—particularly in the third season, which is also largely disliked by the show’s fan base— but the development of the characters offset a world so utterly dangerous and occasionally macabre, that the show has wormed its way into my heart even when I was watching as a child, and didn’t understand much of what was happening. I could write about this show for hours and hours, but I’ll let the show speak for itself. Maybe at the end of the day, I’m a bit like Veronica; a “marshmallow” with a heart of gold.  

To those who are abled and convinced that they do not have underlying ableism-prejudice against disabled people- it is worth attempting to understand the fact that it is impossible to be absolved of ableism. Despite how much you believe that you care for disabled people it’s likely to be unfounded. You will spend a life agreeing with the notion that disabled people are lesser, whether it be consciously or unconsciously. Able bodied people have been born and bred to understand that those with disabilities are inherently inept or incapable of being their equals. However, it’s possible to attempt to unlearn your ableism and help those of us who need it, despite our appearances, presumed health, and the idea that we are a monolith. 

One morning I woke up with my body feeling unlike the one i was used to. It was a school morning, and when I attempted to drag my ragged bones out of bed I discovered that I couldn’t move. Sure, I was able to move my hands and my head but I physically couldn’t move any other part of my body. Racked with fear I called my father to inform him of what was occurring. What happened immediately after isn’t clear to me, as I was in a considerable panic. I was only sixteen years old when I got my first MRI and CAT scan. I only remember them because of how hard I cried in the parking garage because I somehow understood that I was different now. I feared death despite my past of embracing it.

By the time I was getting tested for anything that could have caused this I was able to walk again, though not without excruciating pain. Over the course of a few months every test I’d had done-the blood tests, the nerve test, the MRI, the CAT scan- all came back negative for absolutely anything. I began to exist as an enigma within a void; a void I believed to exist between being able bodied and physically disabled. I was experiencing a presumed total body death.

There was no guidebook or manual to educate me on how to live my newfound life. I was alone on this crash course as no one around me could begin to comprehend what I felt every waking moment. There were things I had to adjust to; not being able to take a bath or shave because I could no longer manage to sit or stand in the tub without my entire body radiating with pain. I learned to always keep snacks beside my bed, and plenty of water because there was no way to know when I would wake up unable to journey downstairs for food. I can’t lift most heavy things because my joints have weakened, or even open some packages of food without my wrists folding in on me. I got adjusted to most of the changes over time. The hardest thing to accept was the ideal that my quality of life had decreased, and it seemingly had.

I eventually began treatment for my mysterious ailment with the help of my new neurologist. When I received my first epidural my toes curled. For a split second I thought I’d been given the opportunity to become healthy again. My legs became ribbons as I walked out of his office; I had never felt so light. My neurologist also prescribed medication to ease the pain, only to be used as needed. My body quickly adjusted to them and no time was wasted in providing me with something stronger to be taken daily. Rinse and repeat. I do not feel compelled to divulge every medication I’ve been on for my condition but looking back I do not believe a sixteen year old should have been prescribed them so carelessly, especially considering the high risk of disabled people becoming addicted to our medications.

Admittedly I became dependent, leaving class to take whatever as needed medication I’d been prescribed, only to end up so drowsy that I’d sleep through two or three classes. At the end of the school day I’d stretch and sigh, relieved to have had my pain alleviated. Despite missing much of my last two years of high school due to these impromptu naps, doctor’s appointments, and sick days, I managed to keep up with my schoolwork, be a teacher’s assistant, and tutor after school. Being mentally busy kept me from focusing on how much I was physically and emotionally suffering. I now realize this further contributed to the belief of my classmates and teachers that I wasn’t really disabled. I quickly realized that abled people had very little expectations of disabled people. There’s the standing belief that we are supposed to accomplish very little, not because of lack of determination, but because we are assumed to be incapable of excelling at anything; the exception for able bodied people being people like Stephen Hawking who set standards for excellence.

This begs the question: Is one’s worth as a disabled person contingent on the expectations others have for them? You’ve probably seen a person you’ve presumed to simply be lazy take the elevator up a level or two instead of using the stairs; you’d have convinced yourself that person had no logical reason to do things the “easy” or “lazy” way. Here’s where the ableism comes in: what if that person were disabled? You were functioning under the belief that all disabilities are visible or the belief that every physically disabled person uses a mobility aid such as a wheelchair, which is simply untrue. One does not have to openly suffer and struggle in order for us to be valid as a disabled person. From family to doctors there are people that believed because I was a fat black person I had to have been being dramatic, I was only in pain because of my weight, or I simply wasn’t a hard enough worker.

There have been plenty of times I considered getting a cane or a wheelchair so I wouldn’t have to endure the pain of walking when I was at my worst. I’ve considered back braces, knee braces, weighted blankets, and holistic medicine. I resigned to suffering because I didn’t want to be further accused of being dramatic or attention seeking, a shared fear of others with invisible disabilities like myself. I genuinely believed the opinions of strangers mattered more than my health.

In my final year of high school after many meetings, a doctor’s note explaining my condition, and complaints from my father and I my school granted me a seemingly all exclusive elevator pass, which in reality was simply a laminated piece of blue construction paper with my name and “elevator pass” printed out on it. I was also excused from physically participating in gym classes and given the position of coach’s assistant. My classmates seemingly simultaneously hated me and treated me like I had found a cheat code; I’d managed to cheat my way through high school all in the name of being lazy. Or so they believed. 

Most days however I was locked out of the elevator and denied access by uninformed teachers and administrators, despite my frequent demands for a key. The adults around me were somehow convinced I was a malicious, conniving liar. They were functioning under the suspicion that because my disability wasn’t visible I must have just been lazy; my being fat only worsened their doubt. I was fat so of course my level of activity had to be even higher than that of the average thin person. They were “allowed” to have “poor” diets and low activity levels. There’d been nothing to support their suspicion but nothing stopped them from making things hard for me.

After becoming disabled I lost all hope that I’d have a future doing what I enjoyed, let alone a future at all. I couldn’t convince myself that there were any viable career options for someone like me, that I’d ever be able to maintain any form of a relationship, that I wasn’t a burden to those around me. After graduating from high school life slapped me in the face once again; I’d decided I couldn’t handle college merely months after I’d become disabled but it wasn’t set in stone until the fall after my high school graduation and I simply didn’t go. I didn’t have anything left in me and the expectation to outperform my peers once again was too much to bear. I also lost my health insurance because of my unemployment. The epidurals, the medication, the moments of bliss were all swept from under me.

This was where things got harder than I’d prepared myself to be emotionally and mentally equipped for. I applied for disability benefits and of course I was denied under the notion that I simply wasn’t disabled enough, that I could handle the daily responsibilities of any abled person. I’d also been repeatedly denied health insurance. I had no options, not even the terrible, gritty, options. I suffered further. Unable to cook or clean most days I simply resigned to staying in my room watching films and television. Day in and day out I needed an escape for what I didn’t want to admit was my reality.

My disability coupled with my mental illnesses lead me to believe my life was unlivable. I wouldn’t be being dishonest if I said I hadn’t been brought to the verge of suicide on many occasions. However, there was something in me that wouldn’t allow it. I wasn’t living for anyone or anything in particular at that point; There was simply an indescribable feeling that I had to be here. Maybe I wanted to believe that one day things would be better and my life would turn out to be some inspirational story suited for the Lifetime channel. I fantasized about proving my doubters wrong and accomplishing everything I dreamt of. Either way I was stuck.

I began to educate myself further about many things that piqued my interest, one of those things being disability. I sifted through pages of Google desperate to learn anything that would give me an understanding of this world and why I’d been dealt such an odd hand. I found people like me on forums and blogs; people with unexplainable conditions, physical disabilities, mental disabilities and any combination of those things. I finally began to feel that I wasn’t alone after two years of internalized misery.

Fibromyalgia was among one of the names that describe my conditions. Characterized by widespread pain caused by trauma it was the only thing that made me feel close to an explanation. There’s no definitive way to determine if that condition is what causes my pain but knowing that there were people with experiences that parallel mine was enough for me. I had found my people.

When I was able bodied I’d never thought negatively of disabled people. In fact I got along with them and felt that it was my responsibility to help them if need be. I’d always been a shining example of a child and this was no exception. This has never been the case for the people around me; no consideration for what I need to make navigating my disability either simply because I look “normal” and there are things that I can manage to do without assistance.

Some days, some moments, are worse than others. I can wake up in the morning able to cook breakfast but my noon I am writhing in agony, likely curled up in bed under my blankets. My body has no rhyme or reason for the pain. I’ve learned to live from minute to minute. I rarely leave the house alone for various reasons, one being that if my nerves go haywire and I need help walking after a long period of time or not crying I’d prefer not to rely on a stranger. I’ve only had one friend to regularly take my disability into account, and I don’t think I’d be able to go a lot of places without them. I’m lucky to have anyone willing to care about me in that way. Some of my counterparts are not as fortunate.

I often look at my disabled counterparts who have it worse than me and have to remind myself that misery is not a competition. There are days when I seethe with jealousy at the prospect of someone’s disability being considered more valid than mine simply because it is visible; I find myself wishing I were them. If God or the Universe had to give me this life why couldn’t they give me a disability that would at least garner sympathy? I’ve often thought that I would rather be considered weak than strong, because there are days that I crumble and can not be expected to fight for myself.

In a world where there are so many varying forms of human existence, mine seems to be the most unbelievable because I don’t appear disabled enough, or disabled at all even. How can one deny a suffering that they can not feel? You can not feel the way my nerves light up when someone’s fingers graze my arm, the way my skin burns and aches every moment-but especially in the summer- the way the cold of the winter stiffens my joints. When I fall down a set of stairs, trip, or stumble it’s just me being clumsy to most, not my joints giving out and failing me. There is no way to measure the pain of another so why must everyone attempt to do it with disabled people?

There comes a moment where everything stops. The suffering, the assumptions, the judgement; for a brief second all you can hear is the best of your own heart. I’m not sure of when the second happened for me but it changed everything. I was alive. My life is not unlivable or worth any less than yours because I’m disabled. If I can find value in my life there is no reason others can’t. My life isn’t filled with nothing but abject suffering.

I’m still a person; I enjoy as many things as the next human being, if not more passionately. I laugh a lot-maybe too much. The good and the bad do not outweigh each other, but exist in perfect harmony. Contrary to my former belief being disabled had not ended my life; at the ripe age of twenty-three my life is only just beginning.

Sign up now so you don’t miss the first issue.

Subscribe now

In the meantime, tell your friends!