Parents of Privilege, Parents of Hate. (Trigger Warning)

Sometimes I want to just change my blog’s name to Trigger Warning. Sometimes I feel I cannot escape the depths of the darkness in my life in order to write something happy. There is a post in the works that is actually just some goofing off but this post has to come first. I just wish I didn’t find out things in this way. Some of the language in this post will be triggering based on abuse. Some will be triggering based on the entirely racist statements made or statements of privilege that are related to sexism, gender, and sexuality. In this post I will be displaying some very upsetting things from my past, because blogging about them helps me contain them and I have learned other people benefit from knowing they are not alone. Please click the link below to read the article. Continue reading

Day of Silence Shriek 2010 (Homophobia Trigger Warning)

When it comes to people who are important to me my identity as a bisexual person has always been either something to exploit for the men’s pleasure, something to demonize, another reason that I am surely going to burn in hell, or … some other painful thing. There have been a few women yes that I loved, but even then we hid ourselves away from the world. We lived in the closet.

That is… until Keiko. She was beautiful, younger than me and older than me all at once, she drew me out of my solitary life. She lead me into some interesting and very safe situations. She taught me that sex was not about my pain and sacrifice to give others pleasure but for my pleasure and hers. Windows opened, and she is why I started to live as a bisexual adult after the response to my bisexuality as a child.

Keiko thought it was funny. My mother took us all shoe shopping, I had not found pretty shoes that fit again but instead old ugly shoes. We were sitting in the parking lot of Wendy’s the Walmart sign giving us light. I was squished in the back seat of the 1970 Dodge Dart, black. The car was cherry. I felt good. I felt happy. I also was dating my first girlfriend. That one was older, she was the Goth girl. She lived out and proud damned the costs.

I told my mother, “I’m gay I think, or at least Bisexual.”

I wasn’t sure what she would do. My mother is a devout Christian and is often rabid about her faith unless that same contradiction applies to herself. I wasn’t sure if this would be enough or if she would hate me forever. I didn’t feel fear of this however, after all I wasn’t sure she would ever love me anyway.

“Stop lying.”

I objected, I lamented, I mourned it. Stop lying? Why would I lie about that? Instead I just said. “But, I’m not!”

“You are, because you wouldn’t be like THEM.”

Now I was confused. Iunderstood my parents hate everyone but I thought maybe because things had been better that that had changed. I had yet to realize that things were better because I was trying my best to conform at the expense of all happiness.

“Bisexuals are worse than lesbians and gays because they want to have sex with everyone in the entire world and they don’t want to share sex with anyone else.”

I knew she was wrong. How does a 13 year old fight this battle with the All Knowing Mother? I did not know. I just stuffed my burger in my mouth and swallowed. My mother really thought that of me. When I was silent she capped this off with a nice:

“See, I knew you were just using negative attention seeking behaviors.”

She used the over medicalization of my childhood to cancel out any idea that I may be dealing with my first love. I started hiding things again, our relationship fell apart. No that is not my fault. That is the fault of the woman who still worships the Patriarchy that may well kill her.

She accepts this about me now, after my sweet sister at the age of three asked so sweetly. “Why are you half gay?” We talked about what gay meant, and she was happy with the knowledge that people love people. You can’t control who you are attracted to, and that’s okay. She accepted me and didn’t know the dangers that I faced if my mother chose anger. The danger she faced for knowing. She had no idea that I was afraid.

I sometimes declare my sexuality is half gay, because that was the first moment of true acceptance I felt. That was when my silence ended and I knew I could actively enjoy other women in ways my mother hates.

Here’s the deal. If anyone could choose to be who they are, none of us would be who we are. No one would choose to live with bigotry, hatred, and murder. No one. Even if we are happy in ourselves, we could sacrifice that for safety in this world. This is my speaking out. This is why I will always partake in the day of silence.

Model Behavior and Me (Trigger warning)

I was once a model. It was super right? Right? Nope. It was horrible. I was deemed a plus sized model yet as I look at a photograph taken at that same time I see that I,  having dyed my hair to be LESS red for this opportunity, was stunning. I actually still am of course in a more mature way. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I have done the modeling, and really existed in that body. Before I knew my body was a betrayer.

Kat Fury, with her hair at her shoulders, a rich chestnut color, square glasses, blue eyes, and reflective make up. The photo was taken on a cellphoneThis was before the giant mole by my nose was removed and turned out to not be a mole. This was before I had learned food was my friend. This was long ago. I look at this picture though and I see more pain emotionally than I face now. Yes I am in pain as I write this but it is purely physical, the emotional pain is sort of numbed tonight. In that picture my jaw is dislocated so that I could escape my double chin. In my post about jaw dislocations Amanda made some comments about her own jaw issues and I realized, I have been unhinging my jaw for years. I didn’t even register it. I  just DO it.

When I was a model, work was horrible. Not only was I exhausted but I was shamed if I ate before work. I couldn’t lie either, they ask and I would say yes. The other models told me at times how AWFUL I was because I had no issue with a donut. I wasn’t aware of my allergies yet, in fact I would eat what I wanted which usually turned out to be meat anyway. I was always hungry however, and started to give in to the shaming, starving my body more and more. I’ll just eat less of this, I’ll just miss this one meal. This was dangerous territory.

It seems odd to be that people DREAM of having this job. The clothing, if it does not fit is forced to, even if it hurts. You are always warped out of shape. My breasts were almost always shopped to look less like real breasts. The shape of a real breast is forbidden in modelling. I also was told more than once at a call in that it was a shame my bosom was real and that it was the fault of my breasts that my belly was not perfectly flat. No one’s is before photoshop, a six pack is not flat unless you paint it on after all.

I was told too that my red hair was just wrong for me. I prefer it. Even in pictures where I am not looking my best I prefer that hair to dyed. Right now I am mourning it. I realize it may be three years or more before all traces of this black dye are gone.

Here is a bit of a time stream, and yes one of these pictures has a lot of cleavage. You can also watch my jaw line and you can see when I am and am not dislocating my jaw. (For those of you wondering, the headband is my fangirlism for Naruto).

Kat Fury at the age of 21. her hair is red, long and was nearly to her waist. Her shirt is pulled up really high to cover her chest.

Kat fury at the ate of 21 wearing a leaf village headband. The shirt button has popped and her very ample chest is not hidden at all. Her long red hair is nearly to her waist

Right here you can see the jaw issue, It’s exhausting to hold it in a specific place and it slipped back some on the bottom.

Kat Fury and Sprite at her wedding in December 2008. Kat's hair is a little dirty and is darker. it's only shoulder length.

In all of the above pictures my hair is red. It changes how I feel. I feel good in all of those pictures. I do not feel good in others where my hair was stripped of color. The red hair for me is a flag of identity. I am a redhead, I am gorgeous, I have glowing skin. It doesn’t glow with darker hair nearly as much. I should mention this is my favorite wedding picture and it’s candid. The photographer was supposed to be taking pictures of my niece (she of course did but she snapped this too).

I find it interesting in some ways that when modelling I was told my skin wasn’t clear enough, wasn’t good enough. My skin is actually WORSE now but it looks fine to me. I  have a surgical scar that is rarely visible but there splitting my face in half. It’s like Two Face but without the cliche and inaccurate portrayal of mental health disorders. The wedding photograph is actually of the side where the surgery was done and my face was peeled off due to a tumor. I felt so gorgeous. Sprite was a bit cranky but she always is when I am upright too long.

I was a sex symbol even if in a small way. Modelling by default means you must be sexy and gorgeous unless the ad campaign focuses on the ugly or weird. I never did any of those, though that was what I applied for. I was deemed too pretty to be ugly and weird. I remember feeling so out of place because this notion contrasted with my previous experience of being deemed too ugly and weird for society, love, food, or any semblance of an education. It shook me to my core, and I began to wonder, what if being a model meant I was about to be raped again. I was so afraid during that time.

I do not have any pictures of me modelling now, they were lost via illness, homelessness, and abuse. In some of the pictures I wore a bathing suit, and frolicked with other girls. I remember asking a model about being the only asian around and she commented that was how she got work. Being the only one around. She had to be the palest, the prettiest and the most non Asian looking in the group. I noticed too in every ad we were in even I was photoshopped to be whiter. I expected thinner but, I am so very white. There are times when I had to have reshoots done because my skin reflected the light too much. Most of my home photos have elements of this. My own photosensitivity likely plays a part.

I remember some of the lies about food we were told, I remember girls crying. I remember always feeling in a daze from pain and working extra hard to not be lazy because pain was laziness. I remember when I was caught eating a hamburger walking in to a shoot and the photographer screamed, “We can see the burger in your stomach.” I remember too, a sense of relief when I didn’t have to model anymore. When I was done with it.

I didn’t model for long, about a year. I did model clothing for free first, and then there were ads for more clothing. I was always reminded that in every photo I must be an object, I must not be a person. A model is a hanger for the clothing and must do nothing to distract from it. Another reason my hair was de-redded was this claim. Red hair makes it harder to match clothing. Since I dislike pink, and never actually had to wear colors that would’ve clashed with my hair this seems bogus to me.

I am left to wonder, was I ever so much the ugly duckling? I have as I have aged eschewed more and more of society and it’s lies and pain. I seek outsider groups. I seek outsiders. I seek my people. I no longer feel the urge for fame just fortune, and really fortune for me is more having enough to eat, and not having to be afraid of losing my tiny income should a glitch happen in a computer. I hold my breath at times and pray.

Modeling did help me to realize that any rape I endured at the hands of the four “men” who did rape me was not because of looks, and that rape is not about sex. In fact when I was raped each time I was never near my finest appearance. I was a minor child, I was the fat kid who was in so much pain and so angry she was cutting her body apart, and I was a prisoner in my home being starved in the hopes that I would start looking like a minor child. None of this had to do with appearance. It had to do with my being vulnerable, it had to do with my being “out of control”, it had to do with my bisexuality, it had to do with my not conforming to the actions a “wife should” and instead seeking things that satisfied me, effected society and would open doors for other people with disabilities.

Modeling challenged my supposed bulimia. I am still not positive this was a misdiagnosis or was a correct one as a child. I think it was both. I do know that I have not lost a battle with it except during attacks of PTSD since I was 17.  The urge to purge is almost non existant and when it comes, it is again with PTSD. Even then I can usually stop myself from obeying the ghosts of fathers and failures past.

Modeling is not something I would ever expose a minor child to. I think with the societal body dysmorphia that is considered normal we need to be hyperactive about who models, and we need to protect our children from the dangers of photoshop and unrealistic beauty. I rememebr not even recognizing myself in a few ads. Most of them I couldn’t quite spot the Kat.

Modeling helped me find who I am, in the worst possible ways. I denied for years that I was beautiful during that time. I was not the token fat chick in so much as I was not fat. I was actually amid the thinner girls there. I was deemed a plus size model because I thought I was fat. I denied my own wants for my body. In the next few years I will obtain contacts, I will reclaim the red to my hair even if the follicles no longer add it, and I will do a sexy photoshoot for me. No photoshopping, just my body as it is. I don’t plan to shave my legs for this photoshoot either. I will model my inside with my outside.

Now you have it, my dirty little secret. I took part in mass media!

UPDATE: Forgot something, yes I got paler over time. The pictures in the middle have me with what passes for a “tan” in the summer. I haven’t let myself get that much sun in years. The only pictures with make up beyond lipstick are the wedding photo and the first model age photo.

Dear Companies with Computers that Call me…

I’ve been getting calls for that other person on my number since day 1. Now HER creditors are calling and refuse to believe I don’t even know her. I am tired of answering the phone and a COMPUTER tells me I need to sit on hold to make this stop. It’s not efficient. I will let you waste your resources calling. I may even prank you sometimes by leaving the phone on, then once your representative answers saying “The person you are trying to reach has better things to do than speak to a computer, this is an automated message. Go (censored) yourselves and waste some company time instead of calling again. Have a nice day!” I do this in a voice that works for automated machines.

I really should link to my voice acting stuff soon, though I am in a bit of a bind. My jaw really hurts since it popped out and keeps popping out. The pinching of soft tissues is making it hard to talk much less to alter my voice significantly. This worries me. I don’t want to lose my acting roles, I don’t want to be recast. The more I talk the worse it is. I can’t get to a doctor much less a specialist because I am sitting here waiting on a chair. It’s been a month and a half since my wheels went down for good, and it feels like a year.

I am trying to not waste away but my lack of freedom and the sensation of being imprisoned in my own home is getting to me. Sprite may be enjoying this but, how can I? I can barely sleep because I have nothing to do. I finally gave in and have spent my extra time playing video games, but that is mind numbing and my brain gets overloaded and I lose function. These calls are also painful, the bad music, the squeaky voices. I don’t understand why they don’t believe me either.

How do you disprove you are someone when they ask questions the person would know, and if you don’t know they accuse you of lying? Because it is a creditor I am unable to take any actions I know of, and I am not able to find any information. I feel on that edge. Maybe it would be insanity if I didn’t have a ton of causes but I find myself doing things I learned to hide when I was younger. The rocking is back, the hand twisting. I never flapped, because flapping meant dislocations. I twisted myself into a ball however and would fiddle with my hands, tying my hands together with my noodley fingers. Over and over again. I have to stay aware of where my hands are at all times.

On a better note, the change in diet back to meat and cheese heavy has really changed some things in my body. When I can eat (the jaw) my pain meds work better. I no longer feel I need an increase OR an extra pill. The medicine works within ten minutes not one to two hours if at all, and the pain diminishes for a longer period. I am no longer scrounging through my day trying to escape pain. I am also less agitated at the start of the day. It takes the pent up feeling first now. I am no longer looking like death warmed over, my face has color and I feel physically good. I also am less suicidal.

The suicidal issue surprises me but it shouldn’t. My body was too hungry. Still, I do want to give up my phone and hide from the world right now, I just want to go out. I don’t care what I do I just need out!

Jaw Dislocation and Lockdown

I feel a bit like I did the times I had survived a life attempt that was single use, the pain is everywhere. It started last night with a yaw, and when I closed my jaw I heard a deafening snap. My ears STILL hurt. One side of my jaw had dislocated. I tried to just reopen and adjust, as I’ve had minor versions of this before, it got worse. I cried. I panicked. Sprite couldn’t fix it and she made me take an anti inflammitory for swelling. She then tucked me into bed, well after I panicked and played LEGO Batman for five hours trying to not think so I would sleep. (That adds grogginess in there to my morning blah.)

My pill supply isn’t that diverse. I have my morphine, I have an older anti inflammatory that is a lot like Ibuprofen but more potent for my system, an allergy pill that was supposed to make me sleep but does make me breathe better, and periodically antibiotics for me to use if an infection is too big for my body. I try to never ever take the last one.

The morphine is for my constant pain. I did find a way to take it last night despite my jaw being unable to move. The anti inflammitory is explicitly NOT for daily use, because it can make me really sick, not where I feel it but where my liver and heart go and try and take a vacation. One pill as needed however has proven to avoid the palpitations and increase in liver function test worry.

That pill was a challenge to take. I had to find a way to get a pill that under normal circumstances my teeth scrape over into a nonexistant space. For anyone with Ehlers-Danlos or for some reason you DO dislocate your jaw (it really hurts, most of my dislocations just feel numb) the gap behind your molars is where you need to shove the pills. You work your fingers under the flap of skim between your lips (inside of your cheek) and feel along until you find the space. Yes, this hurts, and yes it’s okay to cry. In doing so you can also feel your jaw joint, and that can tell you how the dislocation is working. I also felt along the outside. My left jaw flange had snapped onto the inside instead of the outside of where it should be.

You can probably feel the difference through your cheeks as well. This morning, well nearly 1 o clock, Sprite woke me up and pushed on my face my jaw snapped down and went where it goes. It hurt. She then clung to me for a while and I made the effort to get up. I didn’t get to eat last night because I am not filtering liquids through my teeth if this can be fixed. I slept rather well, but my dreams were of circuses and pain. I was the cat woman, a feline human hybrid who’se sensuality and flexibility would tantalize your senses.

My entire body feels the effects of the jaw dislocation. My back hurts more because I couldn’t get food, I think that is the root cause. What is funny is, the change in diet until today has already been clearly a good one. I feel so good, and my pain meds are already starting to work instead of fighting through the crap in my system. Yay fat!

I realized something however as I am taking a bite of strawberry, my jaw clicking away. It always does that. When I go to the dentist (long over due) they always dislocate my jaw to fit their tools in. My mouth is small, my jaw is abnormal. I have to use the kid sized x ray sheets or they just don’t fit. Though my muscles are sore, this tiny opening really IS it.

This contributes to how little I eat. I don’t eat much, just a wad of meat and cheese, and some fruit every day. Each meal is about the size of my fist. I’d hazard a guess and say I eat about 1300 calories. I should do the math sometime. The reason the number is so low is because my body won’t move. It doesn’t need more fuel, and if it does then I eat more. In between meals I do graze on fruits, like right now to amp my system up while I consider the meat portion of my day I am eating strawberries. The packing is worth a laugh, it says limited edition. These are the last strawberries in the entire world.

I know another reason why vegetables aren’t compatible with my system. A lot of the foods I am allergic to require chewing rather than tearing. I am a carnivore with a fruit addiction. Cats eat grass, I eat berries. I tear the berries and swallow the chunks whole. I know from watching other people this is not how most eat. This is how my jaw works, I adapted. I don’t chew gum, I don’t eat chewy food. If it’s chewy for my entire life I have spat it back out. If in public I do so as discretely as I can (hello Napkin) but I won’t eat chewy food.

Some of my family may say I have chewed gum and I chew a bit, but I don’t do a hundred bites of mush, I do bite, if it’s too big, bite, and usually then swallow. I chewed gum as a kid and my entire face would swell up from the effort of holding my jaw up. I also don’t ever have my teeth perfectly closed, my jaw hangs more or less. I never noticed it before.

I admit, for a few moments I wondered if I was wrong about being up to date on my Tetanus shot, what with the cut and the fire and the exposure? This is my normal. I just regret that Sprite was upset and afraid after she fixed my jaw. I did consider going to the ER, but, I couldn’t get there without an ambulence nor could I get home after. I decided if I couldn’t eat this morning then I would go. Hurrah for spectacularly talented kitties with magic paws.

Someday I shall do a list of the many times Sprite has saved my life, It is long and every day pretty much there is something that could qualify. I don’t know what I would do without her. My ears are giving her a ringing endorsement.

Liar (Trigger Warning)

I learned long ago that telling anyone about my life merited being dubbed a liar. As a child, if I mentioned the abuse at home, my way of thinking, pain, or my conversations with the neighborhood cats and how much I wished I could get down on my paws but I had no paws then I was told I was lying. I do think that had I been diagnosed with Autism it would have been a death sentence, but a part of me wonders what wasn’t? Even people I trust like M at times have trouble with how much I know and have done.

Recently my doctor broached the topic of savant with me, but I think I am normal with in the Autism spectrum and I said no. I am not sure what all that would mean, I just replied with No. That was the end of it. I may eventually look into what Savant means because to me it only brings up a still shot of a silent horror film called the “Sleeping Savant”. I look back down the room of memory where the picture frames of moments sit, it’s a bit like the pictures in Hogwarts but the images cannot talk back. In every moment of lost friendship, there is the word Liar. In every moment of psychological experience, there is the word liar. My mother? Liar. My siblings? Liar. It haunts me.

Yes, I did manage to lie as a child, most often to preserve my life. I also learned to take the blame for others because it was my duty. If we were caught I would be punished for lying. It’s always there. Lately a lot of Nuerotypical folk, or even people who have never even had a bad date have accused me of lying about my Autism, and about my ex husband. I am told because I willingly gave up careers that I could ostensibly make a “bucket of money” under my old name, that I am a liar.

It bothers me. Why would anyone LIE about the things I share here? Why would I lie? Someone can come quiz me about what I know and even when I get the answers right, I am a liar. I stopped trying to prove myself a few years ago when the know it all geek came head to head with me and lost, and that was just not enough because “Girls can’t know about batman!” Cause girls can’t read comic books? They magically fall apart if we touch them?

The term Liar also was used in institutions. “I made my bed.” To their eyes it was substandard, “For lying you get the quiet room.”  “But my mommy is coming.” “Well that’s just too bad. Until you apologize for lying you can sit in there, and no lights for you.” I told my mother, or someone. Someone outside the walls. I cannot recall a face or shape just outside. They said I was lying, such things never happen.

The cost of being called a Liar all my life, from my ability to understand animals on to being beaten has had a heavy toll. Not only did it take a long time for me to learn to trust people, but, I would lie and say everything was fine when I just wanted to rest. I gave up some ability and health. I also have hidden from mental health professionals since my escape from the last one. Yes it was a legal release but the sensation of escape has never left me. I feel like any moment the staff will find me, this life will all be a dream, and I will be tied up.

My imagination was called pathological. I was lying if I said that it was better there, in the world of fantasy. It was. No one there called me a liar, no one there laughed at me for being too fat too thin too white too me. There, I could be a princess, a super hero, and have a magical unicorncat pony. The land of imagination was one thing I have always had in spades, it became my escape. I do this still, and lied about stopping even to my mother. When I can, usually at bed time, I close my eyes and immerse myself in a visual landscape. It’s dimensional, I can explore it. People talk to me. I fight crime mostly now, or if I am extremely horny it melts into some interesting masterbation material (Wolverine is super hairy). My imagination comes with a tactile and sensory awareness. I feel texture, I feel light. It’s like walking into a movie. Yet even so there is always conflict in my personal bed time stories, there is grit and drama. There always has been. I was told that this is a bad thing. It is inherently bad, to seek escape from endless suffering. By not wanting to “face the real world” I was failing myself and my mother.

I look back now, knowing that others have had experiences like mine, or far worse at the institutions and I know that I was not bad. I don’t know that others have their own video games cum movies in their minds, but, I think this may be frequent with in Autism. As we think in pictures, why would we not imagine in them as well? A still shot is a memory, my thoughts as I try and interpret a stream of words are a bunch of little silent flickers and swirls of color and light, but thinking in my language I can fluently grasp things, I can feel the weight of clothing, the warmth of a fictitious sun.

I was told this is impossible. This is also what made my fiction writing “pop” for an editor. I can paint the words so that you are there, and you can perhaps sense filtered light from my fictional sun. I wonder at times, if even one person had believed me before the magic age of not a liar aka 18? You see the moment I turned 18 doctors didn’t tell me I couldn’t KNOW I hurt, instead it was “This is serious, why didn’t you say something before.” This makes them liars of course, I said something over and over until I was shamed into stopping out of fear of being thrown away.

When I talk about my abuse, I am always afraid someone is going to say I am crazy, a liar, and making it up. I always have this gaping wound that can bring me to my knees or used to. I am not sure it can anymore. I am no longer a blind fish swimming in a poison river, I can see and I found clean water where there are other fish with my sort of scales and needs. I am not bordering on extinction but instead my people are in the process of proliferation.

There are people who never once called me a liar. Each one is Autistic. This is in face to face conversations. There are more people who haven’t via the route of our current communication. Most of them are Autistic. When I hear how a child with any disability suddenly can’t, and see how they are medicalized, psychiatrized or somehow othered even in their home, I wait for them to find the school, I flash as brightly as I can, hoping that some day their labels wash off and they see that they are wonderful. Autistics need each other. We may not be super social in the ways of the normals, but we have our own culture to build. Our culture may need a symbiotic grasp with the culture of the normals but we DO have things to offer each other, and when we damned feel like it the world.

No child should ever be told their pain is fiction. No child should ever be told they can’t. No child should ever be devalued. When these fish swim to us, I hope that they can I dream they will and I am waiting. I believe you. I want you. I love you.

Galaxies (A Poem with a dedication)


Thousands of stars

Bright and shining in my darkness

I see them all spiraling

Not out of control but dancing to their own rhythm

I am a galaxy, I am stars. Cells in stars.

Twinkle brightly

The words are stars

We cluster together, we spiral apart

We are Galaxies

About this Poem:

This poem is dedicated to the Autism community, we are each our own galaxy. In reading the Here Be Dragons page I saw each writer as a galaxy connected by intangible space but sharing our bright stars. Thank you, it is one of the most beautiful thoughts I have ever had. I wish I could plop it out of my head and hand a copy of it to each of you.

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