To bind, or not to bind? That is the question. Right now, that question is always on my mind. Either way, I can’t breathe–it’s just a matter of whether I interpret the word ‘breathe’ literally or figuratively. It’s sort of a lose-lose situation, really.
If I bind, my breathing is greatly restricted, and my breath is literally ‘taken away.’ My breathing necessarily becomes shallow. I can’t help but notice each breath I take because the binder makes it difficult. Continue reading
I had a physical today at the doctor’s office, with everything that being admittedly female and over the age of 18 entails. It was a disaster. Oh, everything went fine on the surface–the doctor was nice, and I seem to be healthy. I was determined to not appear squeamish or embarrassed–I’m too responsible, too sensible, too adult make a fuss over the doctor having to poke around down there. I held myself together beautifully (did I mention that I was into acting in high school?) . . . until the door closed, and I was alone.
Then, the emotions overtook me, and I was standing in the middle of the room–still in that stupid, open-backed gown–trying not to panic, trying (failing) not to cry, trying to convince myself that I shouldn’t be so upset. It was the responsible thing to do; I need to take care of my body and ensure that I’m healthy. I know that my body is female, and thus, there are just some things that need to be done. Making sure that I don’t have cancer is the smart thing to do. So why did it feel so damn awful? Continue reading