Orlando

I love Pride. It's easily one of my favorite days of the year. Yesterday was Boston's parade and festival. I woke up at 6 in the morning so excited that I laid awake in bed for an hour until my alarm went off. I spent the rest of the day (and much of the night) standing, marching, tabling, moving boxes, and talking with friends and strangers. I would (and will) do it again in a heartbeat. And again, and again. I had the opportunity to speak with people who had been activists since before I was born, and have seen firsthand the progresses and pitfalls we've made. I spoke with teenagers who were so confident in and enthusiastic about their sexual and gender identities that I was envious. With people who were so excited that our organization even exists, who had grappled with the intense loneliness that comes with thinking you're trapped between worlds. With people from the pansexual, asexual, non-binary, genderfluid communities who had caught a glimpse of home in our sliver of the inbetween. I got back to my bed late; exhausted and rejuvenated and so in love with what I do.

Maybe that's why the news I woke up to this morning took so long to truly sink in.

Last night, at a gay club in Orlando, there was the largest mass shooting in American history. At least 50 people have died, and many others are wounded. All this during Pride month, the one time a year where many people finally, truly feel like they fit into a society which tries, constantly, to alienate them. Make no mistake; this was a directed hate crime. This attack may spark another discussion about gun control, but the regulations are a band-aid on the ever-present root of the problem: hatred.

I, too easily, could have been a victim of such an attack.

When I travel, I specifically seek out queer spaces. To me, they've always felt like the safest places to be. I can go out and dance without being as hypervigilant about the repercussions of male attention. I can relax and not be expected to act befitting of my sex or gender. I can go out with friends, no matter their gender identity or presentation, and not have to worry constantly about their safety.

I've previously only written about my own bisexuality within a select, curated list. This is my most public posting on the topic. Honestly, I've been scared. Scared of alienation, scared of judgment, scared of countless forms of backlash. I have faced some of this already. Not as much as many others (for which I regularly feel thankful), but enough. I still have all those fears. I live with those fears every single day. But things have become bigger than me, and I no longer can or want to hide who I am. Last year, a 16-year-old girl was stabbed to death at Jerusalem's Pride parade, mere weeks after I'd likely walked down that very street. Now this. These attacks are so close to my home and heart, and it physically hurts me to think about. As much as I wish I could, I can't single-handedly combat all the hate that people so similar to me face every day. And neither can any one person. But there are things we can all keep in our minds.

When you read coverage of this brutal attack, make note of the headlines in which the word 'gay' doesn't even appear. When you call for volunteers to donate blood, remember that many of the same people affected by this tragedy are those who are still banned from donating under archaic and discriminatory regulations. When you search for the friends and loved ones of these victims, consider how many of them were likely ostracized by said loved ones simply for having the gall to exist publicly as their true selves. Or, worse, had their friends and loved ones with them in that club, in what should have been a celebration of love.

I've spent the day reading and hearing so many heartbreaking and strengthening sentiments. Some words that have particularly resonated in my heart lately come from a wonderful friend and ally of mine, about the LGBTQ+ community.

"They have fought hard, their whole lives, for acceptance in society, and they must continue to fight whether they want to or not. This choice is not a capricious whim. They choose every day to accept and love themselves and stand up to the hatred and fear of the people around them for what they know to be true about themselves; the alternative is to hide the truth and to build walls to protect themselves from hatred. This is literally a matter of life and death for them, because every day they face the possibility of not just emotional abuse but real tangible physical violence, just for being who they are."

Take care of yourselves, friends. And everyone love a little extra hard today, okay?

Unwelcome Company

I refer to "my anxiety" as though it's something I own, rather than something that owns me. There's something comforting in that - as though anxiety were a caring parent setting my curfew instead of a tyrannical dictator commanding my every move.

Used this way, it becomes an almost-soothing shield. I can't step outside my comfort zone, oh no - my anxiety would never allow that. It rides in the bus seat next to me, whispering in my ear. My anxiety is my best friend; the kind of friend who has been around for so long you can't even imagine life without them. The kind who, had you met today instead of so many years ago, you likely would never have connected. The kind of friend you keep even closer than your enemies.

Sometimes, my anxiety is a sentinel - it watches out for me and any harm that might come my way (and there is plenty, always). It guards my brain and my heart, keeping out any ill-intentioned intruders. Sometimes, it's a prison guard, menacing me with its baton should I dare to leave the confines of my room.

My anxiety is the third member of all my relationships. Sex becomes an instant threesome with anxiety by my side. I spice things up by attempting to simultaneously please both my partner and my anxiety. I get freaky by struggling to smother my anxiety enough that I can focus on my own pleasure. My anxiety knows all my flaws and does not hesitate to trace them in every fingertip's touch.

I try to be conscious of the parts of my brain that anxiety built. I try to not allow myself to be held back by predicted fear or anticipated disaster. But, friends, it is hard. How do I tell the difference between my often-excellent instincts and my usually-overreacting brain weasels? How do I forge forward into new territory when all the fibers of my being are screaming against my skull?

Anxiety has a heavy hand. Some days, it's all I can do to drag myself from underneath it, panting and exhausted. But I'm doing it, and I'm going to keep doing it for as long as I need to. I wish I could say it gets easier as time goes by - and maybe, eventually, it will - but if nothing else, it does get easier to talk about. And, sometimes, that makes all the difference.

This is a Post About my Body

This is a post about my body. This is a post about the relationship between my insides and my outsides, between the tangible and intangible parts of my being. This was one of the easiest and hardest things I've ever written. This is, fittingly, far bigger than I had originally intended. This is me.

I've always been on the thinner end of the weight spectrum - bordering on underweight at times. I didn't qualify to give blood until college, and even until very recently, I wasn't sure if I was over the weight limit enough to not be worried about fainting. I've also never really been 'in shape'. I've dabbled in the gym here and there and was a fairly avid swing dancer for a period of my life, but exercise has never been something I excelled at.

Picking out my body's flaws, however, is a prowess of mine. The way my stomach folds when I sit. The way my skin never seems to be as smooth or as soft as other girls'. The way my toes resemble fingers more than toes should. Likewise, food and I have had a complicated relationship for quite some time. Put simply, I am not very good at it. I forget to eat meals, then panic and stock up my plate to make up for it. I overthink the ways in which calories, vitamins, and nutrients coincide and get overwhelmed at the daunting prospect of putting together a balanced diet. I don't go grocery shopping nearly as much as I should, then end up eating out too many nights. I worry about calories and trans fats as I fill up my plate with dessert, and shove raw spinach in my mouth as though it will absolve me from all food sins. I have gone to sleep hungry, and woken up with the acute awareness of my insides curling over into themselves. I lie when my coworker asks me if I've had lunch yet, because of course I haven't, and I probably don't plan on it today. I've Googled questions along the lines of "how few calories are dangerous" more times than I care to tally. I certainly wouldn't go so far as to say I've truly experienced an eating disorder, but I don't think it's incorrect to say I've struggled with disordered eating.

A few months ago, I started an aerial silks class. For those who don't know, aerials involve an incredible amount of arm and core strength. Strength which I certainly didn't have in my skinny chicken arms. It was the first physically strenuous activity I had ever found that I enjoyed doing regularly. I quickly saw the changes in my body. At first, I was stoked about my newfound strength and muscle mass. I hoisted an extension ladder above my head that I had struggled to lift just a month previously. I saw my flexibility increase noticeably each week. I had muscles - real, useful ones - for the first time in my life.

And then, it happened. I stepped on a scale in the bathroom at a friend's party. I don't weigh myself very often - I've hovered roughly in the same weight range since high school. This time, though, the number on the scale was a good ten pounds higher than I'd ever seen it.

Suddenly, I became hyper-aware of the way in which my pants were digging into my lower stomach and the slight strain of my shoulders in my shirt.

Logically, I know that muscle weighs more than fat and that weight and BMI are not reasonable indicators of, well, much of anything. But self-image rarely speaks to logic. I don't know the standards for my body anymore. I don't know what metric to hold up to see if I'm a successful/worthy person or not. If I can't go by the number on the scale, what can I go by?

Of course, the exercise I'm now getting regularly now further complicates the matter - I knew how much food my mostly-sedentary self needed to consume in order to at least stave away the dizziness. I have no idea how much fuel my growing muscles need. I don't know how to not damage my body as much as I'm improving it.

I realize that this isn't a problem from most perspectives, given our culture's idealization of bodies that are roughly the size and shape of mine and demonization of bodies that stray from this shape. Often, this makes me feel guilty for my feelings - how could I so hate the very body that others compliment? But things look different from the outside than from the inside. From the inside, I see the strong, confident way that people of all body types walk around and I feel myself curling over in insecurity. I envy those even with bodies less "ideal" than mine, because of the way they carry themselves in their own skin. I like my body best when I'm slightly hungry, when I can feel the sides of my stomach pulling inwards as if to seal my rib cage to my spine. At these moments, my mirror probably reflects more accurately the reality of my body.

At the age of 6, my mom bought me a bathing suit with a cutout in the stomach area. I spent my entire time at the pool frantically yanking the two pieces together, too distracted to even enjoy the summer afternoon. I didn't yet have the words to talk or think about it, but somehow, even the three inches of midriff peeking through my swimsuit was enough to send my little brain into a tailspin.

At 13, I silently watched several of the most popular (and therefore, unquestionably attractive) girls in my grade crowding in front of a mirror, groaning about their flaws. These girls had meticulously-straightened hair where mine was curly and untamed. They were striding into puberty gracefully, where I was all elbows and knees and too-big glasses and awkwardly-fitting clothes. This was my first introduction to the universality of body dissatisfaction. This was also my first introduction to the fact that, if these so-desired girls had so much to complain about, I must be worse off than I had ever imagined.

At 20, in Japan, I experienced a public bath house. I entered the women's section, alone, armed with a full-sized towel to shield myself from the inevitable stares. Shortly after stealthily submerging myself, I had a revelation - no one cared. There were groups of friends there together, girls with their mothers, solo bathers of all ages and sizes. For a brief period of time after this experience, I felt great. There was something so freeing about seeing all those bodies, just out there with no stigma or shame. I wonder regularly, if places like this were more common in America, would it help us? Would spending more time surrounded by non-sexualized nudity have helped me accept my own?

At 27, I know body love is likely not something that will come easily to me. It's a goal I'm going to be working towards, possibly forever. But I also know that I just signed up for a beginner burlesque workshop and I'm freaking out excited about the journey!

New Years Intentions

It's a new year, and with that comes a time for solemn reevaluating of one's self and life. Or, you know, a drunken bacchanal followed by a week of halfhearted gym attempts.

1. Renew a habit I've tried to start in the past of writing down 3 good things that happened each day. Read through this journal periodically to remind myself of small happinesses.

2. Be more authentically me. I've noticed that the more I feel like I'm being my true self, the more interesting my life (and the people in it) seems to become.

3. Exist more consciously. Don't say yes to that outing/plan/event because I feel I have to. Don't continue relationships of any sort out of pure momentum. Make the conscious choice to remain connected to a person, thing, or activity.

4. Replace as many instances as possible of "I'm jealous of you for X" with "I'm excited for you about X". Even if it's a method of faking it 'til I make it, I want to purposely cause this shift in my thinking.

5. Write more. This is kind of an ongoing goal in my life, but I really do want to make the effort to do more writing. In 2016, I'd like to get something published (and perhaps even get paid for it!). The first step: actually show people things I've written. Perhaps even tell people about this blog! (Note: if you're reading this post, I've succeeded!)

6. Accept compliments/praise! It might sound like a silly one, but this is something I often struggle with. If somebody praises me for a thing, my immediate reaction is to spit back a reason why it's not that impressive.

7. Think less about my body. My relationship with my body and what I put in it is a complicated one. I aim to think more about putting good inside it, and think less about the "bad" things. Accept my body as it is and as it becomes. Step away from the mirror and the scale.

8. Be more vulnerable. Talk about when I'm feeling anxious, insecure, jealous, angry, or just plain sad. Discover the facets of my relationships that are built from the negative, not just the positive.

9. Love without consequence. I tend to go into each new relationship with a mindset of "here are all the ways this interaction could go wrong". Don't do that. Seriously, just don't.

10. Tell people how they've affected me. I know so many people who have inspired me in some way who likely don't even know it.

These are not easy goals for myself. I know that. They're hard to consciously implement, and so easy to forget. If I can work even half of these solidly into my everyday life, 2016 will easily be my best year yet. Here's lookin' forward!

Totally-Real Star Wars Spoilers

• The Force awakens, then hits the snooze button for just 10 more minutes, honest.
• Luke sends a cheek swab to 23AndMe in the hopes that Leia isn't really his blood sibling. Sadly, she is. The weird thing, though, is that so is Jar-Jar. The upcoming family reunion is promptly canceled.
• Padme falls into a deep slumber after eating a poisoned pickled space worm. Her only hope of waking is a kiss from a royal. Chewbacca misunderstands this as "a kiss from a loyal" and obliges. Strangely, it works.
• R2-D2 and C-3PO finally proclaim their love for each other. They ditch the whole fighting thing to become spokesbots for inter-droid marriage rights.

There. Now you don't have to see it and you can stop talking about it.

For Grandma

Recently, I was going through some old writings of mine and I discovered the speech I gave at my grandma's funeral, about three years ago. I wrote this speech on my ipod on a bus ride home from NYC. That was one of the longest bus rides of my life. She was 92 when she died, and continued to inspire me until the very end. I still think about her all the time, and strive to make people feel as cared for as she did.

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Emily Dickinson once said, "unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality."

If this were true, my grandmother would be alive for the next eighteen lifetimes. There has never been a person on earth who met my grandma and did not love her. Stuck in hospitals and nursing homes, my grandma would befriend even the grumpiest of nurses and roommates.

"She was a real grouch when I got here," she'd whisper to me, after a smiling, chatty nurse left her room, "but now she warmed up".

I don't think she even realized the effect she had. She naturally assumed that everyone had good in them; it just took longer for some people to show it.

No matter how long it had been since she had last stayed in a particular place of rehabilitation, the nurses would remember her. They would come by just to say hi, even if they weren't on duty in her area. It could have been months past, and they would still tell us how wonderful she was.

But the person I'll always remember my grandmother to be is not who she was in the hospital. Even now, as I think about her, I can barely see that image of her.

I remember the woman who would recollect, and ask about, every friend I had, regardless of whether or not she had met them before. She would recall friends of my mom's who she hadn't spoken to since high school. She'd never met them, but that didn't stop her from loving them.

The woman who humored two year old me (with a straight face, nonetheless) when I told her one morning that my imaginary friend, a character from Lamb Chop, had come wet my bed in the middle of the night.

The woman who loved to watch me, as a child, twirling around her room, making outfits by tying her scarves together, not complaining once, though I surely wrinkled and frayed them.

The woman who couldn't wait to hear about and see pictures of everything I was doing. I'd bring my laptop to her house and scroll through pictures of my friends, of any parties I'd been to, of whatever adventures I'd been on that week.

The woman who took so much pride in what her family and friends were doing, it was as though they were her own accomplishments.

The woman who, no matter how sick she got, would always be ready with a quick joke or a kind word.
If you didn't know my grandma, I'm sorry. I really am. She was one of the most genuinely caring and selfless people I have ever met. She would inspire people around her to be nicer, happier, more generous. She's notably responsible for my sense of humor. When I think about the kind of person I want to be, my grandmother is what I imagine.

So to everyone who knew her: always remember and love her. But most importantly, always remember to love each other. Because that's what she wanted more than anything.

Here are Some Things that are True about Job Searching:

1. It is the worst.
2. You will, inevitably, get tired of talking about yourself.
3. Even in casual conversation, you'll start cringing when asked about your life.
4. If you don't cry first.
5. You'll try to have an elevator speech for what you're "doing" right now. Maybe it will be coherent!?
6. If you have 'Bisexual Resource Center' on your resume, it will be the one thing you never get asked questions about in interviews.
7. For a period of time, your "adventure : job security" ratio might be skewed fairly far to the left. That's...actually okay.
8. You'll probably question your worth as an employee and a human on a daily basis.
9. Cover letters are a homework assignment spawned from hell itself.
10. It is the worst.