On New Hair

Today’s post is a little aimless, but that’s okay, recently so am I.

It’s feels like forever since I’ve posted, though it’s been less than a week. I’ve smoothed over some wrinkles with worried individuals, and I’m mostly back to being confident about what I post. The internet is public and a bit scary, but I think i’ll manage for now. Please don’t expect a decline in honesty or difficult subject matter, I promise that I’m not changing anything.

That being said, I wanted to keep this post light tonight, to buffer the heaviness of my past couple of entries.

So I’m going to talk about new hair!!

Well, not new hair. Technically very old hair, as I haven’t chopped any off in years. New hair color is a more accurate term, and it’s coming on to two weeks of having a new doo.

I’ve always wanted cool hair. I’ve never much been attracted to the idea of concealing my natural color with a different natural-esq color. I’ve always been tempted by really vibrant, bright, unnatural colors. Before now, I’ve been too scared and lazy to really change anything up. The biggest hair change I’ve had in years is the brand of conditioner I use.

I know, wild.

My father calls bright colored streaks “Halloween hair”, but has come to ( more-or-less)  accept my choice after multiple lengthy discussions and assuring him that “no, I am not getting a tattoo or anything permanent, hair is very versatile, yadda yadda yadda”.

Anyway, I’ve never had the guts to make a statement with my hair. Mousy brown has been a safe choice. I know that I could fit in anywhere with plain curls, navigate seamlessly from professional to casual to everything in between. Brown hair is easy.

But it was also easy to get lost in my hair. Granted, I do have a lot of it, but it’s more than sheer volume. I felt like my person-hood was sheltered behind the normalcy of my curls. I felt safe, but also restless. I put on a lot of faces, but underneath any bravado or showiness others may see in me, I can be very introverted. Brown hair made it easier to slip into the shadows, to fade away just a little bit.

Big, bright hair, on the other hand, is kind of hard to miss. Maybe this is just another challenge to myself. Can I handle looking in the mirror every morning and seeing green? Can I carry the statement my hair is making into actual practice and reality? Will I be perceived as anything besides straight if I queer code my hair, just a bit? Am I making too big a deal of this?

Probably.

But everyone has their firsts. This was one of mine, and I’m pretty excited to know that after two weeks and a bit of fading, I’m still happy that I made this choice.

Post Dye, Pre dry.

The blue is an illusion.

The Finished Product!

 

 

On not apologizing for being open

So I have this blog.

and on this blog, I write pretty personal things.

In fact, it’s this very blog that you are reading.

Hello!

It’s only been a couple of weeks, a couple of posts, a bit of chatter here and there.

I am proud of this blog. I am really excited to open myself up to the world. The internet is such a huge space full of possibility, and I get to express myself here. I am learning how to accept myself , learning how to put my experiences and emotions into words.This blog is a place for transformation, a place for healing.

And I will not apologize for being here. I will not hide myself behind my words.

My name is Shira. I am 20 years old and  Junior in College. I am a Psychology and a Gender and Women’s Studies double major.

I am Queer.

I don’t really know how I feel about my gender identity.

I am mentally ill.

my illness is chronic and often times disabling.

and I will not apologize for existing

in private and in public.

in my own home or in college or on the internet.

I am still exploring myself. This blog is part of that exploration.

Why is it, in our society, I can share surface information like the pleasure I take in eating chocolate, or my interest in theater. But I can’t say that I suffer from severe depression. I’m not supposed to express my experiences with anxiety. I shouldn’t speak about crushes on girls.

screw that.

I’m going to anyway.

I will not censor myself for the comfortability of others.

I am going to continue to be honest and open on this blog and in my life. I will be vocal, expressive, passionate, idealistic.

This is who I am. This is a part of my story. I will not tear out these pages of myself so that someone else can approve me.

swallow me up and spit me out.

I am not digestible.

If, in the future, someone decides to reject my application for a job because they searched my name on the internet and found “Medicated Mess”, then it’s their problem.

I am 100% sure that any future prospects of mine ,the things that I yearn to do, will still be there for me.

I am committed to this.

I am here.

Welcome to my blog.

*************

 moderately angry rant,  courtesy of the following email: 

On Candid Photos and Fatness

By Shira Devorah 

Today was the Clothesline Project at UMBC, and I spent most of the day setting up the display and tabling along with other volunteers. I woke up groggy and with a bit of a cold, but my mental health was more or less stable. I was pretty okay.

And then the candid pictures from putting up the clothesline project went up.

And now I feel like I’m drowning in my own body.

candid photos from the clothesline project set up. I’m in the stripped shirt.

Who is that person in this picture? Who’s arms are those? who’s belly? Who’s double chin? Is that…is that me?

Getting fat happened really slowly. First, I started a really invasive form of hormonal birth control. Then I started eating meat again. Then my anxiety and depression got worse.

I have always feared fatness. You wouldn’t know by looking at me now, but I had anorexia in early adolescence, and I still struggle with disordered eating. Today, instead of restricting, I tend to overeat.I purge. I crave. I put on more and more and more weight. And I’m doing nothing about it, because it takes so much energy to get out of bed in the morning, let alone go to the gym. I always crave chocolate, never spinach. I love the taste of the fatty, the sumptuous, the delectable. Food is comforting, food is something to do when you’re bored or tired. Food is ruling your life.

Logically, I know that  I would prefer to be chubby than to be underweight and deathly ill again. Logically, I know that purging, even if it’s every couple of weeks, it a sign of a bigger problem. Logically I know that exercise helps relieve depression. Logically I should accept all bodies for what they are, their specific good and bad qualities, and the person that lives inside them.

I fear that I am not logical when it comes to my body. I fear that I never will be.

I became a vegetarian for the wrong reasons. I used food as a means to control my size, and vegetarianism as an excuse to eat less. Eventually I got healthier, and vegetarianism was just a part of life. It’s been almost two years since I’ve started eating meat again, which I chose because it was more convenient and maybe, just maybe, it meant that I didn’t have to be in control anymore.

The other day, after a particularly difficult discussion about my weight in High School, I went outside to be alone with my thoughts.

Post Anorexia by 1 year, 2010

Right before Purim 2016

For a brief flash of a moment, I decided to be a vegetarian again. Then the moment passed, and I realized that I was doing it for all the wrong reasons. I wanted to lose weight, wanted to control food. If I’m going to go back to restricting meat from my diet, it’s going to be because I have a reason more powerful than my body image. It’s going to be when I’m totally committed and ready, for a cause that I believe in, not for a disease in my head. I’m not there yet. I’m not even sure if I’ll ever be there.

My Abba. I’m not the best photographer.

Tonight I’m going to see my father. He’s a big guy who struggles with his own weight. Many times, when I was gaining weight rapidly, he worried about me.This worry at first seemed like he only cared about my looks, but as time wore on I realized that he was concerned for my health. A few months ago, I called him on the phone crying about how hard it is to be so much bigger, to fight with your body so much. He consoled me and gave me advice, and just really understood.

Some days I’m totally fine in my skin. Some days I even feel amazing being a bigger woman. These aren’t most days, but they exist, and they are beautiful. I know that I’ve never been happy in my body, even when it was theoretically more attractive. I need to remind myself that camera angels are difficult, but I can still look good, even with a double chin and protruding belly. I have bright eyes and a good smile and a friendly demeanor and really cool hair. My body is not my enemy, not my prison. It is just where I live.

I’m not stick skinny, and I probably never will be. I have a lot of eating problems that I’m going to address with a psychologist, as soon as I find one that suits my needs. I’m dealing with a lot, but I’m mostly okay. There are bigger things to be worried about in this world, like sexual assault and violence ( the point of the Clothesline project that I completely neglected to explain). I’m just going to keep working on creating personal happiness. I’m going to do good things with the Women’s Center, with my future degrees, with my life. If I’m chunky/chubby/flabby/flubbery, so be it. I’m still me, and I deserve to love the vessel that I am in. I’m working on the love part, but someday I just might get there.

 

 

On Spoons

By Shira Devorah

I ran out of spoons pretty early on today. I woke up late and befuddled, headed to class at 8:30 without brushing my teeth, forgot my wallet in my room and sat through a lecture that took Freud waayy too seriously. I know it doesn’t sound like a lot, but by the last ten minutes of the class I was worn down to my core. I hadn’t even been awake for two hours when I found my way back to my dorm. I promptly fell back asleep.

Snapchat from this morning

I promised myself that it was just a delay in the day, and I would get all of the work that I needed to get done after 1pm. I read the chapter due for tomorrow, put up flyers for my office hour, went to a training. I still haven’t finished everything, but I did the bare minimum.

Recently, the bare minimum is all that I’ve been doing. I’m worried that my mental health is going to catch up to my school work. It’s already affected my personal life, but for some reason I’ve been able to manage school since the beginning of college. Over the years I’ve mostly repressed my anxiety and depression in order to accommodate college. When I didn’t want to do the work that I had to do, I made myself miserable and did it anyway. I gave up social interactions in favor of homework assignments. I got so stressed about getting good grades that I forced myself to excel, even if it constantly felt like too much. I have the grades to prove it. It feels really good to be seen as smart and high-achieving. I always pushed away the intense anxiety and frustration with constant scholastic upkeep because it was somehow more worth it to get the “A” than to feel good, to be fully happy. Every semester I began bright-eyed and ready to cast off the boredom of the summer,  but by the end I am frazzled and incredibly drained. This is not so unusual for a college student, but added to pre-existing mental health concerns, it’s usually a mess.  This semester I had to deal with a huge life changes. Having to come face-to-face with all of your issues without your support people there all the time to catch you isn’t easy, and I’m still adjusting.

This human is my rock/one-person support system. ( he gave permission to use this photo, a rare image of him not making a silly face or trying to eat my head)

I’m not going to lie, it’s been a really taxing couple of months. I’ve made a lot of scary-adult-life- decisions while simultaneously feeling like a helpless infant. The good news is twofold, though. I still have my support people, always there to lend a hand, a hug or anything else that I might need. Though he’s no longer on campus, my partner is an amazing fixture in my life and has helped me expand so much in this difficult time.

The second really awesome thing is that I’m finally doing things that I’m excited about, in and out of class. Working at the Women’s Center is a huge, wonderful responsibility that I hope to grow into. I’m creating a reader about LGBTQIA+ and Jewish identities mostly from scratch, and it’s slowly coming together. I wrote my first survey and I’m heading a  discussion to help improve health education on campus. I’m actually contributing to the community and doing things that I’m passionate about. I just wish I wasn’t so drained from doing so.

Tomorrow’s another day. My goal for right now  is to do something I’m proud of.  Maybe I won’t be excited about my homework,  but at least I’ll have done something to keep me going. Even if I’m on my last spoon, I know that I have the ability to do good things despite mental illness.

 

 

On being bad with follow through

by Shira Devorah, resident blog-owner

When I created this blog for personal use, I didn’t actually know how to blog- not that there is a specific right way. Still, I was doing something wrong, because I gave up really quickly and pretended like blogging wasn’t for me. Since I’ve started working at the Women’s Center at my school, I’ve been challenged to blog as part of my employment. I’m going to be honest, it’s been a challenge. I never feel particularly articulate, and my lack of dedication to developing a voice has really held me back. I often worry that my words read like a textbook; stilted and broken. I worry that I disassociate too much from what I write, that I make things too clinical, that I’m too passive or boring or don’t take enough risks.

I’m sure my worries stem from truth. I haven’t really been keeping up with creative writing at all, at least not in my adult life. Or really ever. When I was 12, I told my best friend’s dad in passing that I wanted to be a writer, because at the time it was true. A writer himself, he found a copy of “Zen in the Art of writing” by Ray Bradbury and gave it to me, no strings attached. It was probably the first time I told an adult about my dreams and got unwavering support. I have yet to read the book; it’s currently decaying on my old shelf in my old home.

That’s not to say that I haven’t found creative outlets for myself. I’m a born doodler and I’ve cultivated a personal style over the years that some might call actual “art”. I’m a decent singer with a deep alto belt, nurtured through years in choirs and musical theater. It really scares me that I don’t sing as much as I used too; it feels like my voice is rusting in my throat. Luckily it’s still pretty decent, even without regular training. I just wish I could get in some practice without violating quiet hours.

“A doodle, I do Doodle, you too, you do doodle too”- Willow Rosenberg, fictional queer crush

I feel like I’ve thrown away so many of my passions over the years. I’ve given up on writing, on acting and singing, on baking and graphic novel design, on so many dreams and pleasures. I can attribute a lot of it to college stress. Lately ( as in the past three years lately), I’ve only really focused on academic achievement. On getting straight “As” and “Bs”( and one evil, rarely mentioned “C”), on speaking too much in class to prove my self worth. On studying for tests, on taking detailed notes, On grad school/PhD programs that I’m not sure are worth it. On pushing myself out of my high school zone of “school is boring and I don’t care about college” to “people are rooting for me and if I fail I am worthless”.

I haven’t ever stuck with a blog. I’ve written and deleted countless entries into this specific WordPress account, none of them lasting more than a month or two. Maybe I deleted them because I needed validation, and no one was reading my stuff, so what’s the point?

The point is this: I am doing this for me. I am not writing this post because it’s impressive. A) it’s not and B) it’s not supposed to be. I need to commit to something. I need to take risks. I have this beat-up journal, a leather moleskin,  second in a (hopefully) life-long series. It’s a huge mess of doodles/random thoughts/sadness/organization/to-dos. I actually finished the first  journal, cover to cover, just a couple of months ago. I’m on number 2, but I’m worried. I’m slipping again, and taking less and less time for myself. The most recent entries are really depressing; either literally because of my depression, or because it’s just practical scheduling stuff and lists of homework. I’m just glad I’m still writing in it. recently I’ve been more hesitant to put things in this journal at all; I’ve been so busy with school that I’ve forgotten the importance of reflection and relaxation outside of Netflix marathons and too-long naps. My rules for the journal make it really easy; fill up pages, make mistakes, don’t tear anything out and move on forward. I’m going to work on that, though it’s going to be more private.

Excerpt from my current Journal. I never really grew out of that angsty stuff.

 

As for this blog, I’m going to try to actually stick to something besides the basic personal musings in a hidden-away journal. I’m going to write in more-or-less readable sentences. I’m going to be honest and sad and as real as I possibly can. I’mg going to pretend like other’s validation doesn’t matter to me, and maybe one day that will actually be true.

So Here I am. Exposed. Exhausted. Ready to try again new.

Here’s to keeping this post.