This blog is as anonymous as I can make it.
Stigma is a real thing. I’m only just exploring how my mental and physical health interact with my identity, and I don’t really want to either deal with stigma from those around me, or have to answer a million questions from people I never would have shared this information with normally.
Regardless, you all presumably need some information about me to justify reading this thing, so here goes:
Australian. Intersectional Feminist. Mixed. Spoonie.
That last one is probably why you’re here.
If you don’t know what Spoon Theory is, go check it out here. I’ll wait.
I’ve been diagnosed variously with depression, anxiety, PTSD, asthma, endometriosis and various physical injuries that happen when you move a lot. I’m that friend you have that always seems to be ill and there doesn’t ever seem to be a real cause. They don’t even look that sick – they’re probably just being a drama king/queen/genderfluid monarch. I’ve had so many tests done my arms regularly look like a drug addict’s. I’m on enough meds now that my house resembles a pharmacy and probably would look pretty suspicious in the case of a police raid.
I live my life managing my medications, which seem to make me sicker; my lack of conclusive physical diagnosis (all in my head? Physical manifestation of emotional trauma? Actual physical condition?) and the only thing which really helps: dance. Oh sure, I go to uni and I work, but more than that I dance.
Ballet saves my life every day. It’s worth it even on days when I used my last spoon just getting out of bed. It’s worth it even when my hips feel shattered because the old injuries are playing up, or when my cramps are crawling up my throat and out my mouth, or when my platelets all disappear. It’s worth it when I can’t stop crying and when I can’t make myself care about my own family. It’s the only effective therapy I’ve ever known. It’s my home.
This blog does not give advice. If you think it does, don’t take it. Seriously, put that down. If you are suffering from depression, anxiety, PTSD or any other mental distress, please seek professional help and don’t listen to some unqualified person on the internet. I can’t deal with potentially causing you more harm than good.
This blog may sometimes trigger. I will tag. If I miss a trigger, let me know. I will always fix it.
Intersectionality means a lot to me. Sometimes I’ll fuck it up. When that happens, let me know. I will do my best to acknowledge the problem, fix it and not repeat it.
This is an inclusive space. If you comment in a way which offends me, I’ll probably leave it. I’m fair game. But if you comment in a way which triggers or targets another commenter, it’s going and so are you. Be kind to each other. No slurs, tag your triggers.
About the blog address: It’s stolen from the beautiful book The Alphabet of Light and Dark, by Danielle Wood (Crows Nest: Allen & Unwin, 2003). Go read it now please.
About my username: Stolen from a poem by my absolute favourite, Miroslav Holub. The poem is Brief reflection on accuracy, and the version I have is printed in Poems Before and After, (Highgreen: Bloodaxe Books Ltd, 2006), p.145. The relevant passage is too long for me to reproduce it here without feeling icky about publishing rights, but it’s interesting and funny and slightly ridiculous in that way that only human things can be. Go read his stuff.