telegram and see the cripple dance are ending stop

Though I haven’t written a zine for two years, now is the time I’ve decided to retire the Telegram title. I’ve written forty-two issues within fifteen years, devoting half of my lifetime to the project. These last two years, my unexpected early-30’s, are the longest I’ve gone without making a zine since the day I began. I’ve brainstormed multiple issues within that period, but eventually realized that the title and the form are no longer what I want to be creating within (working under? confined to?).

Quitting is hard to explain, especially since I am certainly not considering quitting writing, but the zine just feels over. Writing Telegram no longer challenges me, nor does it bring me pleasure or have much of a positive impact in my life. The topics I’ve covered in my zines don’t feel like they have anywhere else to go right now, at least not in that form. And I feel uncomfortably bound to the identity/ies I claimed through my zines that cannot wholly represent me anymore (not that they ever quite did). I’ve learned multiple times that working within particular labels can feel liberating at first, and then restrictive after all. Also, since becoming too ill for zinefests and the like to be accessible to me, and too ill to maintain correspondence, Telegram no longer connects me to the various friendships, cultures, or conversations that once sustained me. While I’m in remission from some of the worst aspects of fibromyalgia, the spaces I was previously operating within are not spaces I feel a desire (or a welcome) to return to. Such is the rift caused by ableism and inaccessibility.

Telegram #41 is about revelations, expectations, support and artivism, living through my fears, filling out forms, Mercury Retrograde, reminders, resistance, waitlists, crip-feelings, and a green candle.

More specifically, this zine is a text-heavy exploration of what happened with my body & psyche when my disability benefits came up for review and were threatened with being cut off, how it felt to be forced to crowdfund rent & food, casting spells to cope, applying for access to alternative transit for disabled folks when I could no longer use public transit, trying to make myself at least semi-comprehensible to social workers, hysteria, sickness, & haunting spaces while I’m still living.

Telegram #39 is about examining the ways poverty, trauma, and chronic pain shape & alter & distort my perceptions of myself, my body, and my imagination. It’s about being okay with not-belonging; chronic instability of home and health and communication; coping, caring, dreaming. Making connections. This is a zine about sickness, pain, and isolation, the damage poverty does to one’s psyche & body & soul, and surviving under capitalism. It’s a zine about falling & praying & breathing. Cards & candles & the irrational. Affirmations for crazy & sick & disabled weirdos. Magic as coping skills. Story-telling, story-exploring, storying. Asking questions.

Telegram #28 is about about publishing two books, book launches, tour-feelings, crying, changing, sometimes not-relating to my own writing vs. sometimes still relating too much, capital C Crazy identity, What I Really Mean When I Say “I Hate Myself,” friendship, Tarot & witchcraft, hating landlords forever, and leaving town.

Shortly after I decided to end my zine, I received an email from Beth Maiden at Little Red Tarot, letting us, her freelance columnists, know that she’ll be retiring the blog at the end of October, which means the end of See the Cripple Dance, my bi-weekly column exploring Tarot through a lens of disability, madness, and poverty. Somehow, the timing feels right.

Over the last year and a half of working with Beth and Tango as my editors as I wrote See the Cripple Dance, I’ve often struggled with how much of my personal life to share. Although I’m known for writing about vulnerable experiences and emotions, I also have a deeply private interior world, and ways of engaging with other creatures, and with the environment I live within, that aren’t covered in the writing I’ve done thus far. Maintaining privacy has always been important to me, but/and as someone who has documented their life so publicly for such a long time, it’s become an unsolvable struggle.

The personal in my writing is something I’ve intentionally chosen not (only) as a(n often inadequate) coping mechanism and means of survival and meaning-making, but as a way of providing specific examples of how a given individual life can play out within broader systems of societal organization and expectations; not only those of capitalism and ableism (to name the ones most often addressed in my writing) but within multiple more specific lived contexts, too: of writing as a high school dropout; of being psychologically-minded but with both a resistance to and a reclaiming of pathologization; and as a solitary creature who insists on finding the value and magic of my day-to-day life and imaginings, and having the audacity to publish those internal and external wanderings as if they mean(t) anything beyond my own psychebody.

While endings often provoke a form of bitterness and disappointment within me, lately I’ve been feeling sentimental. And relieved. I think I’m more of a sappy and romantic person than I’ve been able to recognize or allow myself to feel – I was gonna say moreso than I’ve been given the opportunity/ies to feel, but maybe I’m the one who has to make space for those kinds of moments. When I talk about undoing my habit of self-deprecation and sarcasm (which I often employ as a way of invalidating myself before somebody else can), I think about ways to invite my sentimentality and sappiness (a form of reverence?) to be unearthed and revealed.

Then, too, I’m approaching my thirty-third birthday, and I know this is the time of year when I want alterations and adjustments to how I live; reorganization, reconfiguration. I’ve been grieving a relationship that ended two months ago, and have spent that time recuperating from a hysterectomy as well. These two experiences would force a kind of reckoning on their own; that they’re happening in tandem seems oddly providential. I’ve felt a shedding of skins happening, or an emergence from a kind of cocoon. Meanwhile, I’m a Libra-baby with a mid-October birthday, so these kinds of endings on the witches’ calendar are synchronized with my own personal New Year.

For the sake of transparency, I will note that, yes, ending See the Cripple Dance will impact my income. When I was initially invited to write the column, I was paid $25 US per entry, and submitted two entries a month, except for when illness hindered my creativity, and for a couple months when I was burned out and took a hiatus. After a while, my payment was raised to $35 US per entry, and then $50 US. While no longer working on the column or the zines frees me up to work on the longer-term projects I’ve always got on the go but often neglect, I’ll no longer have these regular and irregular payments to supplement social assistance.

The best way you can support me and my writing is to buy the zines that remain, and tell yr friends about them; buy my books and review them; and compensate me for my writing via Paypal. Right now, my annual fee of $200 to keep my P.O. Box is due, I haven’t been able to dumpster food as often as I had been while my body recovers from surgery, and I’ve been trying to see my acupuncturist more regularly after not being able to go for several years (mainly seeking treatment to cope with irritable bowel syndrome, chronic pain, and grief). (If you contributed toward the costs of recovering from surgery, thank you! I wasn’t able to respond to each reader individually, but I was able to buy food, return to community acupuncture, (partly) process the un/expected upheaval of this Summer through Chani Nicholas’s astrology courses, and purchase a foldable laptop tray to write in bed, a dreamy tender point / acupressure massager, and a few much-desired and appreciated books.)

Last year, I wrote about art and social assistance, asking, Is there such a thing as art about social assistance? By people on social assistance (whether it’s welfare or disability)? I connected it to my Wishlist, gathering books as part of a longer-term project that’s not exactly an answer to these questions, but a provocation of further thoughts and questions. Since then, the province of Ontario elected a Conservative government that, among other things, has been making cuts to social assistance incomes that will further harm (and honestly, sometimes kill) those of us who are poor, disabled, and/or mentally ill or mad. This, too, deeply affected my mental health this Summer, resulting in a new process of naming my values, what I love about myself, and who I want to share my time, mind, and body with. I keep a note above my desk where I’ve written: “Poverty is not a moral failure. It is a tool of political violence.” Always a necessary reminder.

I’ve still got a boxful of zines in my closet, and I’ve marked them down from $3 to $1 in an attempt to clear space, both physically and psychically. They’ll remain $1 until they’re gone. And I’ll be writing a few more See the Cripple Dance columns, after which they’ll be archived and remain available online. Also, I’ll continue reading Tarot for misfits and outcasts. Thanks so much for supporting my work!

Endingly Yours,

P.S.: If you’ve benefited from my writing in any way – if my words have inspired you, helped you feel less alone, or sparked some weird feeling within you; if you’ve felt encouraged, or curious, or comforted – please consider compensating me by offering a donation of any amount. Whether you’ve been reading my writing for years, or just stumbled into me this afternoon, I invite you to help me sustain the process!

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Surgery As Initiation: A process of experiencing, witnessing, & sharing my hysterectomy

Part One

content notes: surgery, hysterectomy, hospitals, menstruation, suicidality, self-injury, sex and masturbation /// also, images of bruises, scars, stitches, needles, & vials of blood, all mine, not self-inflicted

I began writing this piece after I’d been home from the hospital for a week, and my prescribed bedrest felt (feels?) akin to a retreat. I’m accustomed to pain, to staying in bed, to watching the world happen through my window and my cell phone, those magical rectangular structures acting as portals and barriers at once. But to be given a timeframe, to be given a predictable outcome, is new to me. To feel pain lessen day-to-day is new to me.

Early mornings are when I feel best. I live a quiet, loner life, and I like to be out of bed by 8:30, listening to the birds and feeling the potential of the hours ahead. One of the most satisfying feelings to me is waking before my alarm and being ready to get up. Since surgery, I’m only able to sleep on my back. For most of my life, I haven’t been able to sleep on my back without having nightmares and sleep paralysis. I don’t know what it is about that prone position, but it feels unsafe. I worried that because of this, I wouldn’t be able to sleep at all, and my body would refuse to heal.

Instead, with minor interruptions, I’ve been sleeping through the night. Sometimes I wake up to pee, and I stumble crookedly, medicated and disoriented, to the bathroom and back. It takes longer than usual because sitting up and getting outta bed while refraining from engaging core muscles is difficult, and I’m not awake enough to be mindful of what my body can and cannot do, and how slowly I must navigate these movements. One night, my throat was so dry I woke up choking. Coughing is one of the most painful things post-hysterectomy – it feels like organs and flesh are being torn apart, threatening to rupture. There’s risk of hemorrhage, so I’m being exceptionally delicate with my body.

{image description: My first portrait post-hysterectomy, resting in hospital bed. The head of the bed has been raised, holding me in gentle repose. My eyes are closed but my purple glasses are still on, and the expression on my face is one of rest and relief. I appear to be naked under my blankets, as my loosely-tied pale blue hospital gown has slipped, exposing my bare shoulders. The walls are beige and the bedding is various shades of blue and white. A breathing tube is inserted in my nostrils, and multiple needles are piercing the tops of both of my hands, held down with multiple layers of clear medical tape, with cords trailing along my arms, over the grip-handles at the edges of the bed, and connecting to a portable trolley of multiple machines and IV bags filled with clear fluids. My arms are resting across my chest and stomach, with multiple tattoos visible, including my ‘TAKE CARE’ knuckles. Lilacs peek from the edges of the slipped hospital gown. There are three plastic hospital bracelets affixed to my right wrist. I’m allergic to the laminate, so my wrist will soon be red and itchy. My closed diary, softbound with rounded corners and a lavender elastic holding it shut, the cover of which shows colourful, abstract-ish purple, pink, and red florals, is placed on my lap.}

This post-surgery hospital-bed portrait, taken by my mom at my request, is one of my favourite photos of myself. Altering my body – be it through appearance (hairstyle, tattoos, cosmetics), shape (how my clothes fit, my various postures as I sit or walk), movements (holding onto my cane, practicing yoga asanas, being mindful of facial expressions), or what-have-you, when done with a sense of autonomy, presence, and desire, always brings me closer to feeling more like myself. This is the first form of surgery I’ve experienced that holds considerable meaning for me, that alters the way I experience and interact with my own body, and alters the way I feel inside of and about my own body. I’ve known since the moment I awoke in the middle of the night at age eleven soaked in the surprising, disturbing, copious amount of blood of my first period that this set of organs did not belong within me. That this wasn’t supposed to be happening.

After that, it took me a decade to find the courage to ask my then-doctor for a hysterectomy (though it’s possible I “joked” about it beforehand as a passive way of assessing his reaction), and another decade until a different doctor would refer me to a gynecologist who’d perform the operation I’d dreamed of since childhood. I was a suicidal and self-injurious since single-digit-ages creature, and experiencing menstruation worsened my yet-to-be-verbalized dysphoria, substantially increasing the severity of my yearning to die or disappear. Aside from a six-year gap in which I was prescribed Depo-Provera, a form of hormonal birth control that’s injected every three months, and which exacerbated my chronic pain condition to a degree in which I was no longer able to walk or to experience one second without excruciating pain, the dysphoria of menstruation persisted without alleviation until my final period, when I felt delightfully celebratory, knowing it would be my last.

{image description: Selfie. Visible from my chest upward. I’m wearing a long-sleeved black cardigan over a fuchsia floral dress with a collar and white buttons, top button left undone. My deep violet almost-shoulder-length hair is in pigtails, and one of my barrettes – bright lavender plastic Goody-brand with three flowers – is visible. I’m wearing purple glasses and smiling slightly, with my 30-something well-earned wrinkles and creases showing slightly around my hazel eyes, untweezed brows, and the corners of my mouth. The background shows lavender walls, lavender closet doors slightly ajar, blurred stacks of black and red milkcrates lined with books, and a few small shelves of found scrap wood screwed into the wall. Hanging on each knob of the closet doors are a lavender face-mask that I use for multiple chemical sensitivities on the left, and a black totebag with the classic yellow Nirvana smiley-face on the right.}

{image description: Another selfie. Similar angle and details as described above, but my body has shifted, so the background is different. Lavender closet walls behind me, a glowing washed-out brightness to the left, where the sun is shining through my open window. The top of my dark wood nightstand is visible, with a white reading lamp and various mint plants in purple pots on top, and a lavender handkerchief draped over the edge. Beside that is a small white shelf with more plants, and small wooden crates holding plants and Hello Kitty dolls stacked on top. Fake red, pink, and white roses hang from the end of a matte grey curtain rod. To the right, a black trenchcoat is hanging from a hook beside the closet doors.}

These are the final selfies from before being operated on. I wasn’t doing anything special the day I took them, but wanted to capture a chapter of my life that was finally, thankfully, coming to an end.

Now I have four incisions on my stomach, with little white stitches holding them closed. I have more stitches inside my vagina, keeping my organs from falling out of my body. With my hysterectomy, there was a risk of tearing open the edge of my vagina as my severed uterus, cervix, and fallopian tubes were pulled out, thus requiring more external stitches. Thankfully, no tearing occurred. It’s not just that I didn’t want that to happen for the sake of not having that happen – it’s also that I’ve been diagnosed with vulvodynia, a chronic pain condition of the vulva, with little known cause or treatment, and I don’t want the pain to return. The pain of vulvodynia has been so bad in the past that I’d sometimes fall to the floor, feeling like fists and steel rods were punching and pummelling my labia, perineum, pubic bone, and inner thighs, as though my crotchal region were a punching bag.

Though the process of convincing doctors to allow me (and why do people who don’t know us get to decide whether or not we have permission to alter our bodies???) to have a hysterectomy was as equally invalidating and crazy-making as my history of attempting to access care for mental illnesses and chronic pain and fatigue, the day of the procedure itself was very different. Professionals were kind and considerate. They apologized for the nuisances of me being required to answer the same questions over and over, and they didn’t treat my body like an object on an assembly line when they checked my vitals or inserted needles to draw blood and hook me up to multiple IV’s. They didn’t jab needles into me carelessly, nor shrug off my concerns and questions. They didn’t try to interrupt me or hurry me up when I was answering their questions or offering further questions, thoughts, and observations. They didn’t speak to me condescendingly. When I walked slowly, they didn’t try to rush me.

{image description: My left hand resting on a warmed-up white towel draped over the arm of a chair, fist clenched to reveal my veins. A tattoo along the edge of my hand is visible. Black ink in my own handwriting, which reads do the opposite. The i is dotted with a tiny heart, and there’s a small sprig of forget-me-nots stemming from my wrist under the text. A nurse’s two blue-gloved hands are shown: one is firmly holding onto my wrist as the other grips a needle between thumb and forefinger, inserting the tip into the top of my hand, keeping steady to guide it deeper. Blurred to the left side of the image is a small brown table with two empty, transparent vials with pink lids on top, and some plastic debris from the containers the needles were sealed within.}

My view as this was happening was of the hallway behind the nurse, and other partitioned rooms where blue-gowned patients awaiting various surgical procedures were on beds or chairs, accompanied by a parent or partner. There was very little privacy – it wasn’t difficult to hear one another’s conversations with doctors or loved ones, even without trying. I’d been directed to this small space to take off my boots and all my clothes and change into a gown, tied at the back, and blue elasticized paper slippers, then instructed to pull the curtain closed to change, and open it when I was finished to let the staff know I was ready to be seen. Although I prefer to attend appointments alone, being anaesthetized and operated on requires the patient to bring somebody with us – to drive us there and home again, and to keep us company if wanted/needed. Also, sometimes it’s comforting to know there’s somebody waiting to see you while you’re knocked out and cut up.

I felt safer bringing my mom into each room with me as we wound through the space instead of asking her to stay in the waiting room because hospitals are like mazes to me, and I was afraid of becoming lost, disoriented, stressed, or triggered. She looked down at the floor as I changed, and then we spent a long time waiting for somebody to come back after she opened the curtain for me. We traded stories and advice, and I took more pictures. She told me about her own hysterectomy, revealing information I hadn’t yet known. After the nurse introduced herself and explained what was happening next, my mom exited and hid around a corner as my blood was drawn. She’s squeamish.

{image description:My right hand resting on my lap, with a white plastic sleeve clipped to my fingertip as my heart rate and blood pressure are checked. There’s a grey cord attached, extending out of the frame. I don’t know the name of this device, but it’s become very familiar to me over my years of hospital admittances. My nails are short and bare. It’s rare that my nails are unpolished, but a total lack of cosmetics is required for surgery. While staff told me this was to reduce risk of infection, my mom told me it’s so they can see if I’m turning blue. Morbid, yes! I wondered if this information had been intentionally withheld by staff, and then offered carelessly and without forethought of me freaking out by my mom, but I appreciated knowing. A couple days after returning home, I painted my nails a shade named Late Night Lilac.}

Following are five more photos from this moment, showing the needle at various stages of insertion, and vials being filled with blood. Also shown is the same small side table described above, but with an unwound blue tourniquet draped over the empty vials and torn packaging.

The nurse gave me consent to take these photos, including for her hands to appear in them.

Asking staff for permission to take photos during appointments often opens up a brief, though thoughtful, conversation around chronic pain and illness, art, and autonomy, as well as consent itself. Before I developed the guts to ask, I’d only take pictures when I was the only one in the room, and nobody else was visible through an open door or curtain, behind a desk, etc. I’d rarely use my cell phone in waiting rooms beyond sending texts and scrolling through Twitter, looking down at my lap as I did so, because I didn’t want anybody in the space to feel intruded upon, suspicious, or uncomfortable. I don’t like having my picture taken without consent, and I refuse to put people in the position of even vaguely wondering if somebody is taking their photo or filming them. If I’m alone, I’ll take selfies, but I never do so with others in the room because they can’t know whether or not my phone is on selfie-mode, nor who or what information is being captured in the background or surrounding areas. A medical and/or health care environment is not an okay place to have a camera visible, or to use one without consent. It makes people, myself included, feel anxious and exposed, and it creates the possibility for people to become distressed and triggered (which has happened to me on many occasions, and without providing specific details right now, I can assure you that it’s dangerous). Not to mention the extreme breach of privacy, confidentiality, and autonomy.

That said, I’ve come to take pleasure in these moments of discussion with medical professionals. Not only has the practice of documenting my appointments via photos changed how I experience them, and how my body and psyche cope with repeated instances of frustration, invalidation, and carelessness within institutions, but I get to witness health care workers learning new ideas and perspectives that were likely unexpected when they showed up for their current shift. These moments and shared exchanges might change the way they operate within these spaces, perceive the bodies and inner psychic landscapes of the people they’re providing care for, and conceptualize their own roles and responsibilities, and the ways they interact with patients. But even if all it does is momentarily interrupt the monotony for each of us, that’s something.

{image description:Taken in my bathroom at home. My left hand holding onto a white plastic rectangular package of SoluPrep Antiseptic Skin Cleanser, marked with the 3M logo on the top left corner, and containing black text indicating ingredients and directions for use. Seen in the background is a lavender wall, the edge of a lavender towel hanging from a hook, and an orange sheet of paper from an illustrated Dame Darcy calendar with pansies, roses, and the word ‘FEBRUARY’ in her infamous scrawl. A tattoo of a sprig of lavender growing up my thumb is within the frame, and my short thumbnail is unpainted.}

About two weeks before surgery, I had a pre-admission appointment. Not knowing what to expect, I assumed it’d be similar to the multiple consultations I’d been attending over the previous seven months. Instead, it was an intensive three-hour adventure, with dozens of sheets of paperwork (to be filled out partly by me, partly by nurses), multiple professionals consulted, five vials of blood drawn, and careful and detailed instructions given on how to prepare for surgery. It was also my final chance to ask questions.

Despite knowing for decades that one day I’d be granted this operation, and despite dozens of appointments with medical professionals about the procedure and the recuperation process, as this final appointment approached, more and more questions were coming to me. Some of them seemed so simple and straightforward, but I’d spent most of my life feeling dissociated from my body, so there were a lot of ordinary things I hadn’t even considered. Also, I’ve spent multiple, intermittent periods of my life feeling either asexual or sex-repulsed, so until recently, post-surgery questions about sex and my body either didn’t occur to me or didn’t feel relevant. But by the time the possibility of my hysterectomy started becoming more real, this was no longer true for me.

What kinds of fucking can I do and when?

What about fisting after I’ve healed?

What about clitoral stimulation and orgasms before I’ve healed / as I heal?

Will orgasmic muscle contractions effect the healing process? Will they hurt?

Will I still be able to squirt?

How soon can I have sex before surgery? The night before? The morning of?

One nurse, when I brought up sex and orgasms, said, “Don’t worry about it right now. You’re not gonna feel like it anyway.” I laughed inwardly. Um, you don’t know me. It was an offhand comment, a joke. Maybe she’d had a similar surgical procedure, or witnessed enough recoveries, that based on her own first- and second-hand experiences, my questions seemed absurd. Most people (I think, or I want to think) don’t invalidate one another intentionally, but certain comments can certainly be construed this way. Aside from that line, her answers were helpful, as were those of my gynecologist and my doctor.

Different bodies heal at different rates, and even the recovery timeline I’ve been given feels experimental. Despite the assumptions health care professionals might make about my sexuality, and their guesstimated prognosis for when I’ll wanna fuck, I was still taking nudes at the hospital both before and after surgery.

{image description:A yellow sheet of paper resting on my lap, with my knees in view. I’m wearing grey trousers with purple pinstripes. The paper is labelled ‘Preparing for Surgery’, with dates and locations filled out. My unpainted fingertips hold the sheet on my lap, with my lavender cane resting alongside. I rarely wear pants, but I have a thing for men’s trousers, and was grateful to find this pair at thrift store, with their subtle violet lines. I realized only a few days before my appointment that the tights I usually wear would be not only inappropriate, but pretty much impossible.}

One of my final memories before being anaesthetized was signing one more consent form. Permission for my gynecologist to take pictures of my uterus as the operation was performed! I was lying back as he held out the clipboard and a pen to me, oxygen mask affixed to my face. There’ve been multiple consent forms to sign throughout this process, and plenty more paperwork on top of that – this is the form that took them some time to dig up, since it’s not a request they receive often.

I’ve written about some of the reasons I take photos during medical appointments, and of talking to health care professionals about the medical-themed art I make, of which they are usually curious and sometimes even enthusiastic. Documenting my appointments through photography has changed my experience of these excursions, and has been helpful for my memory, too.

Capturing a photo of the organs being removed from my body is related, but different. Obviously I knew I’d be unconscious and inert, but I’d still been imagining this surgery from my own point-of-view, reclined on a bed/table-like contraption, looking down at my body as others leaned toward it, sharp implements in hand. In this visualization, I could see my exposed and sliced stomach, though I knew it’d likely be hidden behind a curtain, as gynecological exams tend to be. I imagined being numbed to the pain but conscious, holding onto my camera. I wanted this view held within a frame, to be able to recollect, re-visit. The ceiling, the lights, the scrubs, the flesh. I wanted close-ups, too. Scalpels, laparoscope, blood, veins. Steel, skin, latex / vinyl.

A lifetime of being told my body wasn’t/isn’t my own, of wondering what was/is happening beneath my skin, of attempting to reclaim something that shouldn’t have been taken from me, of seeing body parts only in diagrams, x-rays, ultrasounds, and MRI’s, had given me a strong longing to look directly at my own organs, to hold onto tangible evidence of them. There’d come a time when my uterus, cervix, and fallopian tubes would no longer be mine, and while I wanted them excised from my body, as the operation approached, I felt like there’d be a brief bracket of time within their being snipped, detached, and removed, before ending up wherever these things end up, during which they’d continue to exist and continue to belong to me.

This felt impossible to convey. These words still feel inadequate.

{image description:An odd choice for decorative hospital art. This painting was one of many in the long hallway leading to the surgical reception area. Painting shows a man in a red uniform with a staff and metal helmet leading a young, white-gowned girl to I-know-not-where. The girl is holding her hands to her face, crying. In the background, two women look on, appearing stressed and frightened. One woman, clad in black, holds her hand to her chest, while the other, a redhead, hides behind her, hand on her shoulder, lips pressed to the other woman’s collar. Both have worried eyes.}

During my pre-admission appointment, I asked a nurse – the same nurse who told me I wouldn’t want to have sex after surgery – about the possibility of taking a photo of my uterus. She said no before I’d completed my sentence. ‘No, no, no. Absolutely not. No.’ She shook her head vigorously and responded as though it were one of the most bizarre requests she’d heard during her career. Maybe it was. I felt slightly thwarted but undeterred. I knew she wasn’t the only or the last person to ask, that this wasn’t my final chance. There was time to prepare to ask again, to ask somebody else, somebody more involved.

Had I asked earlier, I might’ve signed the consent form before I was on the operating table. Still, it was another victory to celebrate.

Entering the operation room was the moment my hysterectomy began to feel real. A very brightly lit room with machines and screens everywhere. Since I couldn’t bring my cane into the operating room with me (objects are a contamination / infection risk, as are cosmetics), my gynecologist and my anaesthesiologist let me hold onto their forearms to guide me there. I felt vulnerable without my cane, dressed in a hospital gown, housecoat, and paper slippers. I also felt like this was an initiation.

I was directed toward the operating table in the centre of the room, and shown how to position myself and slowly lean back and lay down. I’d been introduced to each person involved in performing my hysterectomy, and now there were a handful of us gathered: the anaesthesiologist, multiple nurses all gowned and gloved, my gynecologist, and me. They let me wear my glasses until I was sinking into unconsciousness so I could see and understand everything that was going on around me.

I didn’t take any meds beforehand, yet I felt a distinct lack of anxiety. Before medical appointments, I usually take Tylenol 3 and Xanax. But this was one of very few times I’ve been in a hospital because I wanted to be, and since I’d wanted my hysterectomy for so long, I felt totally okay with being so exposed, with being examined, poked at, knocked out, cut up, sewn back. It was a joy.

My appointment was booked for 7:45AM, with a requirement to check in before 6. That meant my mom picked me up at 5, after I’d set my alarm and gotten outta bed at 3:30. Thankfully, although unable to consume food after midnight, I was allowed to drink water-based fluids up until a few hours before surgery, so I drank my usual black coffee. Heavy rain began to fall while I slept, and persisted most of the day. My mom had come from out of town to accompany me, and spent the night with a nearby friend. She brought me extra pillows, as I’d be required to hold them against my tummy during recovery.

It grossed people out when I told them that post-surgery, I’d have to hold onto my stomach each time I got out of bed to prevent my organs from rearranging themselves or rupturing. I thought it was pretty cool, even though I’m sure I winced the first time a nurse brought it up (and subsequently, as it came to be). And it’s true. I’ve been holding onto my belly not only when getting outta bed, but at most waking moments, and through my sleep as well.

I’ve noticed my organs shifting, an odd feeling. I can’t bend at the waist or engage any of my abdominal muscles. When I accidentally do, it feels like I’ll be torn up and bled out. So I hold onto my tummy when I shift my body, when I stand up or sit down, and I do not twist or turn to the side. When I’m sitting, standing, or laying down, I gently rub my belly, comforting the surface and hoping to heal my innards. My mind is constantly focused on the most infinitesimal feelings happening within my stomach. The way things roll, ripple, shift. What breathing feels like. Noticing when I’m tense, and slowly releasing.

My gynecologist, after the initial period of confirming my name, birth date, location, reason for my hospital visit, etc., required to be repeated once more before the patient has lost consciousness, and as the anaesthesiologist began to inject me with what he referred to as “happy juice,” asked me about my tattoos and encouraged the nurses and assistants to take a look as they prepared the room, my body, and themselves for surgery. Maintaining a conversation in the final phase of set-up is, I think, mandatory in these situations. I’m not sure why, and I’m sure it serves multiple purposes for each person involved, but I wonder if it has to do with reassuring the patient in case they’re feeling anxious, or assuring one another that no damage is being done as the anaesthesia is being administered. I wasn’t asked to count down from ten or anything like that. I remember feeling talkative and kinda giddy, telling stories about some of my tattoos, thanking each person around me for their work, signing one more form, and then blank.

Actually, one more moment before blank. I was asked if I had anymore questions. I thought for a moment, as responded. “Um, nope. Have fun!” They laughed at my suggestion/wish, and then I was gone.

{image description:Close-up of a handle on the side of the hospital bed. The label on the handle reads ‘Care Grip’ in white letters on a blue background. Unfocused backdrop of the photo shows my purple backpack atop a hospital table on wheels, and blurry aqua-tinted skyscrapers through the window.}

The initial stages of my recuperation were tremendously painful. There was searing pain throughout my abdomen, inside and out, and I was unable to move my body beyond wiggling my toes and turning my ankles. Though I could move/bend (but not lift) my arms, and I could use my hands to write, to hold utensils, and to press buttons to adjust the electronic bed, these actions were hampered by the multiple needles and tubes piercing my hands and connecting my body to the contraptions holding the drugs and other substances being injected into me, and the monitors announcing my vitals and calculating how many self-injected doses of morphine I’d administered. For most of my day/night/day at the hospital, I was unable to adjust my body. I couldn’t even adjust my pillow.

When I awoke, I remember the sounds of multiple voices around me, but not much of what was said. I was aware of having survived, and of having felt nothing during the process. I hadn’t had any dreams. It didn’t feel like I’d slept or like time had passed. Just like I’d blanked and then come to. The multiple voices turned into bodies, wheeling my bed out of the operating room, through corridors, into an elevator, around another hallway or two, and then into another room, this one much more bare than the operating room. I remember thinking this bed was so much more comfortable than other hospital beds I’d been in, that this bed felt much more sturdy and supportive than the stretchers I’d been wheeled on in the past. Where stretchers felt bumpy, wobbly, and weak as they were pushed and pulled over bumps, stairs, and the ridges of automatic elevator doors, this bed held firm. And it was a new experience to me to be laying in a bed in motion, returning to consciousness rather than losing it.

{image description:Close-up of a part of the IV caddy beside my hospital bed. Thick black plastic, round with four spokes around the metal base of the contraption-on-wheels, and labeled ‘Patient Pal’ in white letters. I thought it was a cute name and turn of phrase, something silly and memorable.}

To my surprise, I was assigned to a private room. I thought it must be either temporary, a mistake, or both. As I realized they were bringing me to where I was meant to be, I momentarily wondered if I had a secret wealthy benefactor or patron, covering a coveted, private respite that I couldn’t pay for on my own. I also wondered if the wards were full because they were covered, and private rooms remained empty because they were not, and if that led to overcrowding, thus moving uninsured patients to rooms they would not see otherwise.

My mom came into the room with me, sitting in a chair in the corner by the window. I’d told her to please join me as soon as possible after surgery, to dig around in my backpack and make sure I had pen and paper at hand the first moment it was permitted. I wanted to capture everything.

Hysterically Yours,

P.S.: If you’d like to know how to support me through my hysterectomy recuperation, please read this.

P.P.S.: If you’ve benefited from my writing in any way – if my words have inspired you, helped you feel less alone, or sparked some weird feeling within you; if you’ve felt encouraged, or curious, or comforted – please consider compensating me by offering a donation of any amount. Whether you’ve been reading my writing for years, or just stumbled into me this afternoon, I invite you to help me sustain the process!

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Hysterectomy Party: How to Support Me While I Prepare For & Recuperate From

I’m finally having the hysterectomy I’ve desired since the day I got my first period twenty-one fucking years ago at age 11! I’ve known since then that this uterus-cervix-blood-pain-mess does not belong inside my body, and I’m so grateful to be given a date to have it removed. It’s booked for Wednesday, June 27th, during the Full Moon in Capricorn.


{image description: Headless selfie wearing a tight black sleeveless dress with a skeletal frame printed on it, showing collarbone, ribcage, pelvis, and spine. Background is lavender walls and green, leafy plants.}

I’ll need the support of my friends and readers to get through. This is gender-affirming and pain-reducing medical care. My mobility will be, once again, reduced through the season as I recuperate. While my surgery is covered, pre- and post-care are not. Social assistance is not enough for rent and food, let alone health services, and the supplementary income I make through writing does not cover my mad-crip-needs. There are myriad practical and tangible ways you can help me out whether you’re local or long-distance.


{image description: Three books stacked together on a dark wood table, with a few zines on top. The spines of my three books are showing, as well as a small ceramic squirrel and a ceramic acorn. Lavender wall in the background.}

1. Buy my zines and books. I’m not sure how soon I’ll be able to make trips to the post office after surgery, so I’m sending as much mail as I can beforehand, and then I’ll be on bedrest. I have two novels, an anthology of the first decade of my non-fiction, and a bunch of zines. I’ll be sending mail on Monday the 25th and Tuesday the 26th. Although my shop will remain open, I’ll be unlikely to go to the post office again until the end of July.

2. A) Gift me with money for food and unexpected expenses. Most of my food is dumpstered, but I’ve been unable to continue this practice as I prepare my body for surgery, and I’ll be unable to continue until after Summer. I’m on social assistance, which isn’t enough money for food, let alone other necessities or pleasures. Dumpstering takes a lot of time and physical labour, and I will not have the strength to endure. Even raccoons need to rest and be cared for. A few friends have offered to carry groceries to my home, and/or cook for me – now I need the money to pay for that food.

B) A few years ago, I was able to access community acupuncture on a sliding-scale of $30-$60 per session. Besides my Oxy-Codone prescription, it was the most useful, healing, and transformative treatment for my fibromyalgia, migraines, anxiety, and insomnia/nightmares. I had to stop going when I could no longer afford it, and I’ve wanted to return for a long time. Ideally, I could have a session weekly or bi-weekly throughout Summer and Fall, with an especial focus on recovering from my hysterectomy and continuing to treat my chronic pain and depression.

Also: I recently renewed my Y membership, but the price has been raised to $40/month. I won’t be able to attend yoga classes or otherwise utilize their space directly after my surgery, but I intend to return when I’m ready. It’s the most affordable and accessible option I’ve been able to find for yoga and fitness in the city.

C) Other unexpected expenses include: Cab rides when public transit is inaccessible, foods and herbs that heal, comfortable clothes for my changing body, books on queer & trans health care, food/meal delivery. As an example, the first unexpected expense I’ve had in this process was the need to purchase a breakfast-in-bed / laptop tray so that I’ll be able to write, eat, and stay in touch with friends while I’m bedbound. It cost $40.


{image description: Selfie taken at a crooked angle. I’m in a hospital room, sitting on the doctor’s exam table. I’m wearing a tight fuchsia dress with my skin showing through lace on my side, near my ribs, a lilac cardigan, and black- & grey-striped footless tights. My hair is deep violet with pigtails, and I am unsmiling in deep purple lipstick. My lavender cane is resting against the exam table, with a clipboard of paperwork nearby. In the background is a hospital curtain, a small sink, a paper towel dispenser, and small garbage and recycling bins. Everything is white or beige.}


{image description: I am sitting in the same spot, with the camera pointing down at my lap. The short skirt of my dress is visible, the same tights described above, plus my hairy legs and black maryjane shoes on my feet. My purple backpack is on the beige-tiled floor, and my lavender cane is resting by my side. To the right, a cabinet drawer is open, revealing a blue hospital gown folded inside.}

3. Think about me as you make magic under the Full Moon. Light a candle for me, anoint a special object, write my name on a piece of paper, send me a postcard. Celebrate with me wherever you are.

4. Get in touch with your chronically ill / disabled / crip friends. Take a look at How to Support Your Disabled Friends in Winter and Beyond, and take note of what you’re capable of providing. Offer apologies to those who you weren’t able to show up for in the past.

5. As well as making sure I can access good food, a few friends have offered to help do chores around my home, like washing dishes, vacuuming, or cleaning the litterbox and taking out garbage and recycling. If you’re willing to do something similar for your local disabled pals, let them know. They’re likely burned out on asking.

6. Consider buying me a book from my wishlist. In What Is Art About Social Assistance?, I outline the reasons I made my Wishlist, including not only lack of funds, but lack of access to education and academia, resulting in being left out of art, theory, and scholarship on my own experiences. In the long-term, I intend to write about the books I’ve been gifted, with reviews, personal stories, how the work has helped my own life, sense of self, and writing, etc.


{image description: Another selfie with a lavender background. I look tired, but I’m smiling. I’m visible from the chest up, wearing a purple floral dress edged across the chest with white lace, a lilac cardigan, and purple pigtails and purple glasses. Lemon balm and rue plants are visible on a shelf in the background, as well as a purple Hello Kitty doll.}

7. And okay, maybe it’s dorky, but I’d really like to take Chani Nicholas’ courses on the New Moon in Gemini and Full Moon in Capricorn, and A Journey Through Mars Retrograde, since the Full Moon and Mars Retro both occur the day of my surgery. My email is schoolformapsATgmailDOTcom. Witches understand.

Hysterically Yours,

P.S.: If you’ve benefited from my writing in any way – if my words have inspired you, helped you feel less alone, or sparked some weird feeling within you; if you’ve felt encouraged, or curious, or comforted – please consider compensating me by offering a donation of any amount. Whether you’ve been reading my writing for years, or just stumbled into me this afternoon, I invite you to help me sustain the process!

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Disability, Freaking Out, & Marilyn Manson

{content notes: abuse, assault}

Shortly before Marilyn Manson’s so-called “meltdown,” publicized through multiple music blogs in short pieces that lacked much insight at all (not gonna link them, fuck it), and seemed to be written by music journalists who were not familiar with the last fifteen or so years of his career, I saw him perform in Toronto, on an evening spent with my twin, who had come here from Montréal to be at the show with me. Attending shows as a sick and disabled person makes me nervous – accessibility varies, and I never know what to expect. I prepare notes on access in my head, hoping for clarity, brevity, and assertiveness. I try to be patient. I often have to guide staff through various accessibility requirements (and laws) because they tend to be unfamiliar with them.

Seeing Marilyn Manson onstage using a wheelchair, his leg in a cast, was akin to a spiritual experience for me. I’ve written about concerts as spiritual experiences before, and the meanings I assign to live performances as someone who was unable to see the bands I love live when I was (and they were) younger, and how I do this while resisting nostalgia and the commodification of nostalgia.

{image description: Marilyn Manson sitting in the wheelchair described throughout this entry. Pink and purple spotlights are glowing. He’s holding his microphone with one hand, and controlling the electric wheelchair with the other.}

At some point within the last year or two, I started referring to various mobility aids colloquially as crip contraptions. That’s what I thought of when I saw Marilyn Manson’s wheelchair, a personalized electric model with a tall back, black and silver, of course, the most goth wheelchair I’ve witnessed thus far. Chrome footrests, one holding his right leg in a stiff grey plastic cast, with his left foot in the usual black heavy boot, laced tight. The term “crip contraptions” came to me when I was in a silly mood, getting excited about the way us disabled folks modify our mobility aids to give them more personality, let them become more a part of us, our bodies, than a separate object.

A few of Marilyn Manson’s roadies were dressed in hospital-green scrubs and surgical masks, helping him to and from his mic. It was a beautifully theatrical way of coping with pain and disability while performing. I admired his creativity in turning disability into a kind of performance art, the way his pain and sickness, rather than being hidden, something to be ashamed of, were instead integrated into the show, made more visible. Although he might not be familiar with this word/concept, he and his roadies seemed to have been practicing access intimacy. He had one gowned-&-gloved person on each side, guiding him to and from the stage and the mic by holding onto each arm, another hand placed on the small of his back. I imagined a sense of love and care passing between each of them, imagined boundaries being negotiated, Marilyn Manson, that strange creature, asking for help.

I was supposed to see him in October – Amber and I were celebrating our 32nd birthday, and I was celebrating the publication of my latest novel, told from the point-of-view of a genderless teenager obsessed with Marilyn Manson – but the show was postponed after he was injured while onstage, crushed by prop guns towering over him as part of the stage set for the Heaven Upside Down tour. At this show, the one I attended with my twin, as he stood at the microphone, his wheelchair was parked below the crossed guns. I have often imagined my cane as a weapon, so this configuration brought me a particular disabled-glee.

The accessible seating had changed since the last time I’d been to that venue, which was for another Marilyn Manson concert a couple years ago. The first time I saw him there, which was the first time I saw him at all, I called ahead about accessible seating, and when I arrived, security led me to the foot of the stage, the right side, where I sat on a white plastic lawn chair, absurdly close to Marilyn and Twiggy’s feet, my cane by my side, my body protected from the crowd by black steel barriers. And I felt immense joy and magic, such intense aliveness, sitting at their feet, embracing the noise, the presence, screaming along with my favourite songs. In the past, I’ve talked about concerts and karaoke being some of the very few socially acceptable spaces within which to scream. It’s still true.

This was the view I was looking forward to experiencing again, the view I’d gushed to Amber about. Close enough to see the stitches on the ruffles of Twiggy’s black tights, close enough to see the snot dripping from Marilyn Manson’s nose when he had a cold. Almost close enough to touch.

{image description: A classic photo / TV screenshot of Marilyn Manson and Twiggy Ramirez sitting beside one another as they’re being interviewed on MTV’s Headbanger’s Ball. They both have long, black hair and a slumped posture. Marilyn Manson is on the left, wearing a buttoned-up peacoat, and Twiggy is on the right, wearing the classic Twiggy-the-model style mod dress that became so infamous and beloved.}

Shortly after the injury that resulted in postponing the tour, Marilyn Manson announced that when the tour resumed, Twiggy Ramirez would no longer be joining him. His status makes it unclear whether Twiggy was kicked out of the band entirely, only for the length of the tour, or some other undetermined amount of time. He was kicked out after Jessicka of Jack Off Jill and Scarling fame told her story of being in a relationship with Twiggy twenty years ago, and of being abused and raped by him. It surprised me that Marilyn Manson responded so soon, and that he responded by kicking Twiggy out of the band (because I’ve come to expect men not to give a shit about the realities of victims and survivors). But it came to feel disingenuous when he began to talk about the possibility of bringing Johnny Depp, somebody he’s collaborated with multiple times, and who’s become known publicly as abusive, on tour.

I’m a survivor of rape, too. For a long time, I wouldn’t use that word, survivor, because I didn’t think I was gonna survive. Jessicka’s story wasn’t surprising to me in any way – there are tiny snippets of her time with the Manson Family contained within the pages of Marilyn Manson’s autobiography, The Long Hard Road Out of Hell, published after Jessicka and Twiggy had broken up, but before Jack Off Jill had been pressured into touring with Marilyn Manson in 1999. There’s also a story about stalking an ex and planning to murder her. As a teenager, I romanticized and venerated their relationship (and that of Marilyn and Rose, too, and then Marilyn and Dita…), even if only through images and a few lyrics, the actuality of their experiences with one another totally unknown to me. A goth girl with scars in love with a goth boy in a dress, both making strange, angry, uncategorizeable music, was enough to capture the attention of my young, lonely self, and to project whatever meanings I wanted to onto them from my own safe distance. Since then, I’ve come to believe that just about any man is capable of abuse, and that includes the gorgeous, talented weirdos I grew up in admiration of (and with my first celebrity crushes on).

Visibly sick, medicated, and in pain, I was hyper-aware that Marilyn Manson was performing without his usual support system, without his best friend. I wondered what that felt like for him, and how different the show (and the rest of the tour) would be had Twiggy remained. I wondered if Marilyn Manson genuinely wanted Twiggy out of the band at this time, and whose interests were in mind – I wondered if it was for some form of good publicity, of making himself appear to be a ~good ally~, or if he was pressured by management, or whatever. I wondered if it was a form of punishment for Twiggy and solidarity with Jessicka, or maybe a way of apologizing for having been on estranged terms during Daisy Berkowitz’s / Scott Putesky’s illness and subsequent death. I lamented the probable impossibility of finding a replacement for Twiggy who wasn’t also just ask likely to have been abusive of a so-called lover in the past or present (or future).

As an isolated teenager who left school very young, I had a lot of time to develop total obsessions with celebrities, to feel a pretty crazy special connection with them, and as an adult, some of those obsessions remain close to me, and I find myself contemplating the personal lives of strangers more than I care to admit. While it can feel absurd and embarrassing at times, it’s also been a fun, useful exercise for my imagination, for my writing, and for developing a sense of compassion (and sometimes empathy). And this situation has given me a way of theorizing friendship and support through celebrities, in ways that might help myself and my readers apply these questions and ideas to our own lives.

The friendship between Marilyn Manson and Twiggy Ramirez has also been a friendship that has fascinated me, a friendship that I’ve romanticized and admired. From watching them make-out in the video for Dope Hat circa 1994, to watching their playful onstage interactions as an adult, and reading interviews with them discussing friendship and sobriety, their images and personas were among the first visions of some of kind of queerness that I had access to when I was young and isolated in a small town, days before the internet and before I could explore my own sexuality beyond watching Velvet Goldmine on repeat and writing fanfiction about Brian Molko and Jarvis Cocker making out (yep!). They served almost as a kind of avatar of who I could become, of what my possibilities were (I both identified with and was strongly attracted to girlish, feminine men as a teen, while struggling with my own gender and sexuality, with very few outlets for expression and almost no adequate language at all).

When he had a cold at the first concert of his I went to, I remember feeling charmed by Marilyn Manson’s human fallibility – he is such a larger-than-life performer and character, a rock star haunted by all kinds of strange myths, and it felt oddly wonderful to see him not only as that, but also as an ordinary human being – somebody who could be sick, somebody fallible and flawed. Toward the end of the show, he danced and thrashed until he injured his leg. But he continued the performance. This Winter, I watched him perform using his gothed-up wheelchair, an electric model rolling him across the stage. Each time he looked in my direction, I wanted to raise my cane in solidarity with him (I had a similar feeling when I saw Slipknot on tour with Marilyn Manson recently, and at least one member was using a cane). Sometimes, as he was singing, he would amble to the back of the stage, and from there, he’d continue screaming into his personalized microphone, the one with brass knuckles clutched in his hand. And while he screamed, he had his other hand, the other side of his body, leaning into the wall – he was obviously in pain and having difficulty standing. I wanted to tell him he wasn’t the only one. I really, really had this strong urge to hug him.

I haven’t watched the videos of the so-called “meltdown.” I don’t want to. If I freaked out in public (and I have many times), I wouldn’t want it broadcast without my consent. It’s not difficult to imagine myself on a stage, demanding the crowd tell me they love me. When I read headlines about him doing this, I felt another kind of affinity with him – the artist in pain, the artist who wants to feel loved, the artist who is witnessing themself lose control of their body, feeling helpless.

{image description: A mid-1990’s promo shot of the full band, with Marilyn Manson sitting in a wheelchair, and other band members gathered around a hospital stretcher. Twiggy’s white dress is reminiscent of a retro nurse’s uniform.}

When my twin and I arrived at the venue, our bags were searched and our bodies were patted down. I’d called the venue multiple times that day, and reached out to them via Twitter, attempting to get in touch with somebody about accessibility as I always do before attending a show, but I hadn’t received any response, any acknowledgement. So I was plucked from the line-up and asked to step aside and wait for security. The person at the door seemed unaware of accommodations for disabled folks, and suspicious of the meds in my backpack. I’d brought two apples with me to eat after the show, but they were confiscated.

It’s awkward and uncomfortable to be searched while using a cane. It can be awkward and uncomfortable to do anything one-handed, stressed, and in pain, but I find line-ups and searches particularly distressing because the guards always seem unaccustomed to interacting with disabled people or understanding that our bodies move differently, and then there’s an impatient, often pushy, crowd behind me, who just wanna get their tickets scanned and go get a drink. I can’t unzip and unpack my backpack with my cane in my hand, nor can I empty my pockets.

Another security guard arrived and asked me to show him my meds, and to tell him why I needed an accessible seat. “I have fibromyalgia,” I said. “And I’ve got a backpack full of painkillers.” No, I’m not gonna get drunk and OD, I assured him. I’m a recovering alcoholic. No, I’m not gonna sell ‘em, I assured him. I need them. (I’m not opposed to sharing my meds and selling my meds, we do what we can to get by, but that wasn’t my intention that night, and I wasn’t gonna get into a conversation about harm reduction and survival at just that moment.) I know I don’t owe anybody any answers as to what my disability is, or why I need to sit down, but I don’t mind doing so. I usually hope it’ll help them ‘get’ that young people can be disabled, and that they’ll ask less intrusive questions to the next disabled person they encounter. Also, yes please to making non-disabled people uncomfortable.

He didn’t know anything about accessible seating, so I told him about my previous experiences at the same venue under a different name and different management, and I directed him to the same corner security had guided me to in the past. The place had been redecorated, rebranded. After the guard led us through the crowd (and only one person tripped on my cane, and another simply stood on it so that I had to ask them to step aside so I could keep walking), we reached my familiar corner, but he was told by staff that there wasn’t accessible seating there anymore. Instead, it had been moved upstairs (yes, there’s an elevator, but we took the stairs when he asked if we were able) to the balcony at the opposite side of the stage.

I kinda like when accessible seating is cordoned off from the crowd in some way – it makes me feel like I’m part of a secret club. And I get to see other disabled people so that I’m not the only one at the show. At yet another Marilyn Manson concert a couple years ago, I met other disabled folks who didn’t know there was more accessible seating until they heard me demanding security lead me there, and they came with me, having a much better experience of the concert than they would have otherwise.

On the balcony, we had black leather couches instead of white plastic lawn chairs, and low coffee tables for drinks, with storage underneath for our backpacks and cardigans. There was an elbow-height glass barrier with a view of the stage and soundboard, and we were just as close to the band as we had been in the past, but higher up. We were no longer on Twiggy’s side of the stage, but obviously Twiggy wasn’t there anyway. None of the original members were.

As Amber and I sat down on a couch and took off our coats, a few people gathered in front of us at the glass barrier, drinking and talking. Before I had a chance (thankfully, because I am not always so patient about this stuff), somebody using crutches approached them and pointed out to them that they were standing and blocking the entire view of the stage from a bunch of disabled people who couldn’t stand up for the concert and they should move out of the way. They apologized and left, and we thanked this wonderful stranger for having the confidence that we don’t always have.

But when Marilyn Manson entered the stage, I had the ability to stand. I’d taken a painkiller and a Xanax on the way to the show, hoping maybe this’d be the first Marilyn Manson show where I could actually dance along with my favourite songs. One of the things I’ve missed the most while coping with fibromyalgia is dancing – especially with my sister, because we used to dance together at shows all the time, always the first ones out on the floor to encourage everybody else. Whenever I went to a show or a bar and didn’t dance, I’d regret it (same with karaoke – now I know to sign up early and sing as much as possible). So Amber and I went to the glass barrier, and I held one hand on the railing, one hand on my cane, and danced through the entire show. It hurt, and I knew I’d be sore for a week, but it was worth it.

In We Are the Weirdos, Indigo steals a Mechanical Animals t-shirt, wishing they could have Marilyn Manson’s genderless, sexless body as their own. In real life, I fought with my mom about that t-shirt when I was 13, but I didn’t steal it, nor did she buy it for me. Instead, I never saw it again until I was 31, when I searched for it on Etsy and found it for sale as “vintage” (ha). I paid a silly amount for it, and wore it while finishing my book. And I wore it to the concert, imagining the sequel, imagining bringing Indigo to the show with me.

Before the tour was rescheduled and before Twiggy was kicked out of the band, Alice Glass was the opening act. At that time, she’d gone public about how her bandmate in Crystal Castles, Ethan Kath, had been abusing her for their entire career. Once upon a time, I was familiar with him as Ethan Cawke, the name he used in his band Cheerleader, also known as Kill Cheerleader and Cheerleader 666. I went to their shows when I was underage, I taped their videos and interviews and danced in the living room, and I joined their street team / fan club, receiving stickers and fliers and stuff in the mail to decorate my small town with. Reading Alice Glass’s story, and those of other girls and women who found themselves in similar situations with the same man, it wasn’t difficult to imagine myself experiencing something akin to what they were going through. Like Alice, like Jessicka, and like so many other women whose names are or are not public or well-known, I could’ve been there, too. Alice Glass quit the tour when Jessicka’s story of being raped and abused by Twiggy became public.

Though they may seem unrelated at first glance, this piece is to be read in tandem with my previous blog entry, Poverty and Isolation Are Killing Us: More (Unending) Thoughts and Conversations on Suicide, Criticism, Responsibility, Purpose, Care, and, Love. Although there’s much I could criticize about Marilyn Manson, I’m choosing not to do so here. Instead, I’m examining him through my crip-sick lens, as somebody else who, on a much smaller scale, exists as someone who has something like a public persona, and has experienced loss of support through living with pain and sickness.

Being booed on staged while demanding love is an experience Marilyn Manson has survived, and a pertinent metaphor for my own crip-sick creative work and need for care. In some accounts, he was described as “incoherent.” This was likely was a result of prescription meds and/or self-medication. I’ve been incoherent on meds, too. And I’ve been self-conscious of using particular painkillers around pals because of a) how I might act, and b) how they might judge me for how I appear when I’m medicated. Even though those moments are often when I’m at my best.

Imagine how it must feel to do the best to take care of yourself, to perform, to stay alive and stay working, and listen to your fans boo you and heckle you. Imagine how it must feel to have this happen when your long-term, trusted friends are no longer alongside you onstage. Imagine how it must feel to age, to change, to suffer, and watch as the people who claimed to love you – or at least love your art/work – leave. Imagine the shame of these incidents happening in public space, and being discussed publicly by people who refuse to consider the complexities of the situation or the experience of becoming disabled. Imagine feeling internalized ableism throughout this process, and not necessarily knowing those words. Imagine how you’d want a crowd – or an individual – to respond if you were in excruciating pain and desperately trying not to give up.

“Long-term” has been on my mind in various ways. I think about how musicians become no longer ‘cool’ or ‘relevant’ after a certain age, or a certain brief spotlight, and how, once I become interested in an artist, I tend to follow their work long-term. So that often, when I talk about my favourite bands, people respond with things like, “Oh, I didn’t know so-&-so was still around, still recording, still touring.” Marilyn Manson has never stopped recording or touring, never taken a hiatus. He tours all over the world and seems never to rest. Placebo, another one of my favourite bands, a band who I love seeing live, are another who’ve never stopped, but people are often surprised they’re “still around” when I bring them up. Similar to asking “Where do you think we go?” when you abandon sick and disabled friends and peers, I ask of musicians who are no longer consider popular, cool, or relevant: Where would they go? Why are you surprised when they’re still making creative work?

I’ve noticed that if I stick with a band long enough, they’ll start writing songs about recovery. By then, they’re no longer ‘cool’, but their work resonates with me on a new level. (Courtney Love is among these artists, too.)

As I’ve worked on this piece, the visions of three concerts have become melded together in my mind – the one I attended, observing his experience of crip-time; the next one, at which he was booed and heckled and left the stage; and the following one, in which he returns triumphant and his performance impresses the crowd. For the shows I wasn’t at, I imagine how I’d respond – how I’d feel separate from the crowd while I’m in accessible seating, and how I’d feel closer to Marilyn Manson for the same reason.

Between songs, as Marilyn Manson often exited the stage, the speakers were silent, and the crowd seemed mildly confused. I thought it was clear what was going on – he was hiding backstage, taking meds, catching his breath (hell, maybe he was doing yoga, I don’t know). But unless one has been or currently is sick and disabled, the pattern might not have been recognizable. I might’ve been one of very people in the crowd who was glad he was disappearing from the stage for longer and longer periods between songs. It was a sign that he was taking care of himself. The rest of the crowd probably thought he was old, tired, drunk, high, fucked up.

Occasionally, he’d return with a lit joint, the stage blacked out and only the burning tip of the joint visible, slowly floating toward the mic. I imagined him smoking backstage and finally admitting it wasn’t enough – he needed to have his medicine onstage, too. And I thought about which forms of meds are seen as acceptable, or even cool – drinking onstage is common, weed is applauded (as it was at this, and other shows of his I’ve been to), but what if an artist uncapped a prescription bottle while bantering with the crowd? How would the crowd respond? How would the show be reviewed?

I wanted to give Marilyn Manson a copy of We Are the Weirdos. I’d brought one in an envelope, imagining gifting it to him by placing it on the edge of the stage between songs, or handing it directly to him – it seems like a dorky, childlike thing to do, but I am into dorky, childlike things. Instead, I hung around after the show, not interested in getting trampled by TAB’s rushing the exit, and I watched all the roadies pack up. Since I’m someone who regrets not dancing when I can, not singing when I can, not approaching somebody when I can, I knew I’d regret not getting my book onstage if I left without trying. So I got up the guts to call a polite hello to the one of the roadies below, who looked up and listened. I handed him m envelope, Marilyn Manson’s name written with a violet Sharpie. The man took the book, thanked me, and packed it away in a tour case. I turned back toward my twin, but then I heard him calling me back. He’d delicately crumpled up a setlist and tossed it up to the balcony. I’m clumsy – it bounced off my glasses first and then into my hands. I felt like that squealing girl who Christian Bale gives his used press pass to in Velvet Goldmine. This useless, but tangible souvenir.

{image description: Me from the waist up, standing at the edge of the balcony, overlooking the stage, which is being packed up by roadies. On the left, I’m holding my cane. On the right, I’m holding my crumpled up setlist. I’m wearing a large black t-shirt with the cover of Marilyn Manson’s Mechanical Animals and a grey wool miniskirt. I’m not wearing lipstick because it fell out of my coat pocket and got temporarily lost in the the cushions of the black leather couch, ugh, fuck.}

A few nights after the concert, I karaoked Marilyn Manson’s Disposable Teens at a local bar. Karaoke was one of the many social activities I lost access to when I was too sick to go out, to stay up late, when I was too sick to trust my pals to care for me in such a space. For a while, I wouldn’t let my friends talk to me about karaoke because I was angry about being left out and didn’t want to know anymore about what I was missing out on. It felt like an appropriate song to choose when I’d been doing so much writing on disposability. It felt fucking amazing to scream.

Mansoningly Yours,

P.S.: If you’ve benefited from my writing in any way – if my words have inspired you, helped you feel less alone, or sparked some weird feeling within you; if you’ve felt encouraged, or curious, or comforted – please consider compensating me by offering a donation of any amount. Whether you’ve been reading my writing for years, or just stumbled into me this afternoon, I invite you to help me sustain the process!

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Poverty and Isolation are Killing Us: (More, Unending) Thoughts and Conversations on Suicide, Criticism, Responsibility, Purpose, Care, and Love

content notes: suicide (thoughts, attempts, prevention, etc), youth incarceration (mine)

An accomplice of mine recently asked me if I had any advice to give or ideas to pass along as he was preparing to facilitate a discussion on suicide and support for queers, activists, and weirdos. He was feeling stressed by expectations placed upon him to “fix” things, and was trying to decide where to focus his attention. Criticism and self-blame were mentioned first, as crucial issues suicidal friends were dealing with – I’m among those who’ve attempted suicide while feeling both overly-criticized by others and hyper-critical of myself, so I recognize some of the ways in which criticism without care and constructive support can make one feel hopeless and disposed of, ineffectual and alone. It’s a dangerous place to be, and unfortunately, it’s pretty much inevitable that we’ll find ourselves, our friends, and our peers there again and again.

Now that a few years have passed since my most recent suicide attempt, I feel like I can re-examine it with a form of detachment, or at least a shifted/shifting perspective – although the issues that led me to overdose into a coma are still not issues I’ve resolved or reconciled, it does help to have some distance from the actual calendar-date (not to say that time heals, because no, time doesn’t always heal; sometimes it compounds and infects the wounds, but you know). I’ve taken one more overdose since then, and although there’ve still been times afterward when I’ve considered killing myself, I’ve become more skilled at resisting impulsive actions in despair, and I’ve come to understand that I do want to be alive, even if I sometimes feel neglected and worthless.

Poverty and isolation have been constant triggers for me. My immediate response to my accomplice’s questions about suicide and support: “Poverty and isolation are killing us.” When I read his email, I had this instant reflex, this anguished rage at being used, abandoned, broke, doing so much work in sickness and not being able to access what I really need to thrive, to create, to feel loved, and to be able to love. I wrote back that isolation almost killed me and I haven’t recovered. (In my late-20’s and early-30’s, my suicidal feelings were often triggered by chronic pain, but that might’ve been mitigated had I had more solid friendships.)

I was reminded that after moving to Toronto only five years ago, most of the friends who were there when I arrived have since left, and many of the friends who are present today are people I’ve only met within the last six months to a year. I don’t have any friends who aren’t talking about leaving, who aren’t being pushed out.

I told my accomplice that the first things we need are stable and accessible housing for very-low-incomes, a desire and an ability to commit to long-term friendships and relationships, and to do daily work against disposability. I was having this conversation with someone who’s also attempted suicide, so I knew my words would not be revelatory to him, but hopefully – at least – a reminder of what we need to keep dreaming of and fighting for.

And he said, “I’m afraid people aren’t being helped and loved the way they could be.”

Me too.

{image description: Lavender walls in the corner of a room. A string of three hearts made of bright purple foil are hanging on one wall. On the other wall, there are two strips of bright pink light, created by a sunset in a nearby window that is not captured in the photo. The effect is hazy and ethereal.}

I think about what it would mean to have a real, felt, deep sense of care for each other. I imagine what it would be like to be able to commit to long-term friendships & relationships. “Long-term” anything felt absurd to my chronically suicidal & crip-self until recently, but it’s been on my mind more and more often. I think of what it would mean to STAY.

And I think of barriers to staying. To staying in the body, and to staying in one location, one place. I don’t know what the solution to ending poverty is except for robbing rich people, robbing banks, forcing them into a radical redistribution of wealth.

In the meantime, how do we cope?

One thing I learned at my sickest was that I don’t want anybody to feel the way I felt when fibromyalgia, complex-(p)TSD, and inaccessibility were killing me. When I went into remission last Spring/Summer, I started meeting new people and making new friends. With new friends, and with those few who had stuck around, I was excited to do what I couldn’t before – take transit to their homes and bring them food. Being able to wait at a streetcar stop or bus stop, being able to breathe once I stepped onto the vehicle, and being able to walk from each stop to my friends’ homes, felt – and still feels – entirely novel. Being able to carry my own backpack, to carry dumpstered food, feels novel, and I wanted to share as much as possible.

Food and presence are what I needed the most, and what I could not have.

Stability and reliability are deep cravings of mine. I’ve always wanted a home that feels permanent and unendangered, and friendships and relationships that feel constant and consistent. I operate on crip-time, and that gives me patience, but still. Crip-time, even with the sense of understanding engendered in that word and concept, even with the art that comes from it, can be a lonely timeline within which to build a life.

{image description: Three items on the corner of a white wicker writing desk by a lavender wall. In the middle is a white ceramic planter with a face painted on it. The eyes are closed and the expression is serene. There is a moon cactus plant, which looks like it’s growing out of a head. It’s green with a deep, deep purple spiky ball growing on top. To the left is a transparent deep violet planter with a small succulent plant inside. To the right is a deep violet candle holder with a white candle inside. The wick is white, unlit.}

Another love of mine and I have been discussing our concepts of love. For me, love is a verb, not a noun. It’s a feeling, yes, but it’s a feeling that requires action, attention, communication, and curiosity.

I’m fascinated by words in other languages that don’t fully translate to English. There’s a Swedish word I learned recently: trygghet. It translates to security in English, but with a broader meaning in Swedish: Trust, a sense of belonging, and freedom from danger, anxiety, and fear. But even those words are probably not enough to describe it.

When I wrote about what love is, or what I want love to be, the first words I wrote were: responsible, nurturing, and complex. (Okay, I also wrote lust, but that was within the context of our current relationship, and not totally relevant to what I’m writing today.) I wrote, “I want us to be able to discuss what love means and what love entails.” (Some of these conversations were happening in-person, others through emails – things are scribbled down through various notebooks and my diary because that’s how I try to make sense of my brain and my worlds.) Sex and lust aside, I then wrote a list of my desires within our relationship, including some I’d also like to transfer into my friendships:

– to challenge one another
– to grow with one another
– to have complex & vulnerable conversations
– to have a felt sense of reciprocity & exchange
– to learn each other’s psyches
– to trade books with one another

And I wrote: “I’m sure there are a thousand more things I could add to the list, or that’ll come up in the future. I need a word that means a deep sense of care and connection, but I’m not sure what that word is yet. Maybe I’ll find it in another language.”

Other words I’d add to my definition of love are: listening, vulnerability, encouragement of creativity, trust, curiosity, and exploration. And those can bubble out into a thousand other words and ideas and feelings, too.

{image description: A plastic clay-coloured planter with a bunch of succulents growing. The planter is sitting on a white ceramic plate with little pink flowers along the edges. Beside the plants is a brown paperbag folded closed, with “self heal” written in black Sharpie. It contains dried self-heal plants. These items are on top of a black milkcrate filled with books. The wall behind them is lavender. There is one book cover visible through the top of the milkcrate: Revolutionary Suicide by Huey P. Newton.}

Every time I write about suicide, I hope it’ll be the last time. I’ve written about suicide many, many times over the last more-than-a-decade, and it feels redundant, but it feels necessary, too. Sometimes I wonder what I’ve got left to say. Not only that, I wonder what I can do – to prevent suicide, to help friends and readers navigate suicidal feelings, to reverse and undo the possibility of more queer suicides.

What is the best thing to do when life feels unmanageable and unsustainable? What does daily work against disposability and ostracization look like? Where can we seek solace and comfort? What does suicide prevention look like not only in times of crises, but day-to-day? What does it mean to be responsible to and for one another, to devote time and attention to one another regardless of mood or in/convenience, to stay present, patient, and committed?

Sometimes I worry that queers treat one another as if we are products, as if we can be discarded, replaced with an upgrade, left behind after being consumed. I worry that we treat one another like literal shit, taking what we need and discarding what’s leftover as if a human being can be flushed away, as if a human being can be toxic.

My experience with mental illnesses and a chronic pain condition that often renders me immobile, was that queers left. Not everyone disappeared, but enough disappeared that it felt as if there’d been a mass exodus. Queers stopped talking to me, stopped inviting me to attend events or participate in readings or performances, never offered to share my work when I couldn’t be present or to table my zines and books for me when I could no longer go to zinefests; they very rarely offered basic help, and aside from my partner at the time, nobody committed to making sure I could access food by picking it up for me and carrying it to my home (admittedly, I was ragingly resentful of anyone who could walk without a mobility aid, and wasn’t sure if I could cope with having them in my home anyway). Aside from my partner, the only friend who helped with food more than once left the city as my condition deteriorated. They were evicted from their home so it could be torn down and replaced with condos. It was the last place they could afford in Toronto, a city that had been their home for their entire adult life.

While gentrification and poverty contributed to my friends’ inability to show up for me – average rent in Toronto is about double my monthly income – there was much that was within their control that they chose not to do.

This is how we get left behind.

And where do we go? Where do you think we go?

I’m 32. I’ve been isolated and incarcerated, medicalized and pathologized, in various ways from childhood onward, and I’ve been chronically suicidal since childhood. I never thought I’d become an adult, never thought I’d reach my 30’s. Now I imagine what it’d be like to become both an elder, and an elderly eccentric.

{image description: A big, open grey sky which inhabits most of the frame. At the bottom of the photo are the tops of fir and cedar trees, and the bare branches of a maple tree. The bare branches are coated with ice, and the firs and cedars are weighed down with ice, drooping.}

I recently read the novel As We Are Now by May Sarton. May Sarton was a lesbian feminist poet and novelist who felt unappreciated and unrecognized throughout most of her career. In May Sarton: A Biography, author Margot Peters suggests in the footnotes that May Sarton may have had borderline personality disorder. While I question the ethics of a posthumous diagnosis, I do feel a kinship with all borderline artists, including those whose mental health is further speculated upon in death, as well as in life. In As We Are Now, an elderly lesbian is abandoned to an abusive nursing home. She keeps a diary, documenting her boredom, resentment, and deteriorating memory (as well as small moments of beauty). Before she sets fire to the nursing home, killing herself and everybody inside, she encloses her diary in the refrigerator so her story will be found, told, known.

When I read As We Are Now, I was reminded of the times I’ve spent incarcerated in my early-teens and throughout my twenties – and I know that if I live into old age, I don’t want to be forced to experience that kind of confinement again. But if we don’t build alternatives, and hold onto one another as if we are the weird, wonderful, precious, complex, mysteries-worth-keeping-alive that we are, that’s the most likely outcome.

If we don’t work together and love (or like, or accept) one another as if we have futures, if we don’t act as if “long-term” anything is possible I worry that myself and so many others will become like Caroline Spencer, the main character in the novel – abandoned, alone, frightened, vengeful. It’s imperative that we re-develop our imaginations; that we learn to take care of one another, with all our flaws and mistakes and discomforts, with all our fears and traumas and pains, and with all our care and reverence and awe, too.

As a messy, imperfect anti-capitalist and prison abolitionist, I think a lot about how to practice my politics in everyday life. From an abolitionist perspective, and from my own mad-queer-poor-crip perspective, shame, punishment, and ostracization are among the most crucial issues – along with poverty, racism, ableism, and colonialism – that we need to be dismantle and eradicate if we want to keep one another alive.

To continue disposing of one another – in small, ordinary ways like not bringing food to our pals when they’re hungry, and in larger, more vindictive ways, like telling friends and acquaintances who they are and are not allowed to talk to if they want to remain in our lives – feels like tacit participation in carcerality, in carceral feminism.

A few nights ago, as I was lying in bed thinking about this piece but feeling unable to write it, I had what felt like a revelation to me: after the first time I was arrested when I was thirteen, the judge who sentenced me to a few months in a detention centre and a year on probation, gave my mom the opportunity to add the names of my friends to my probation order, making it an illegal offense for me to interact with them. I have a memory of standing in the courtroom, on the bench behind bulletproof glass, a security guard to my left, my greasy hair hiding my eyes, as my mom told the judge which name(s?) to add. I don’t know if that’s what happened, if that’s how the information was passed on to me during sentencing, or if perhaps duty counsel told me later, from a cell in the basement, but anyway, the image and the feeling are there.

When I was caught on a concrete stoop downtown, sitting beside the person I was no longer permitted to interact with, I was arrested, charged, and incarcerated again.

As an adult, I’ve both cut certain people out of my life, and had others do the same to me. And each time this happened, it wasn’t just one person – I’d notice that when I lost one friend, three or four would go with them. The situations in which this happened weren’t abusive; they were situations in which I was feeling either used, unappreciated, or unlistened to. It felt like we were punishing one another, cutting off the oxygen. Many more queers have lived through this (and sometimes died). I know queers who are so afraid of this happening, so afraid of this happening again, that they can barely form friendships at all, let alone long-term, dependable, reliable, supportive friendships, because they can’t count on anybody sticking around. Maybe they can network when they need to, maybe not, but it lacks the sincerity and trust that so many of us need. I know so many queers and trans folks who’ve lived through this, are living through this, and are slowly being killed through this.

We punish each other for being imperfect.

If the way queers often treat one another reminds me of the ways cops, judges, and inadequate parents have treated me, what does that mean? If it reminds me of literal shit, what does that mean?

When I’ve felt suicidal, or otherwise despairing and alone, it’s also been influenced by my complicated relationship with the psychological concept of object constancy. My potential for a sense of object constancy got skewed in babyhood, so that not only did I not understand that if people (my parents) were gone (or not directly in front of me), they would return, I also didn’t understand that if I were not directly within someone’s view, they would still remember that I exist, they would still think of me and wonder about me. This feeling has followed me throughout adulthood. Logically, I know I don’t cease to exist when we’re not in the same room, but it doesn’t always feel that way. And logically, I know I’m a pretty unforgettable creature, but! My psyche, my nervous system, and my crazy brain do not always operate on logic. My lack of object constancy (which I’ve been working on re-developing in recovery) has deeply impacted my health and my creativity. While it’s more than I can get into within this piece, I mention it as a reminder that many of us with mental illnesses and suicidal despondency are dealing with this or something similar, and one way to help mitigate the fear or actuality of being forgotten is to remember to stay in touch and be present with one another.

{image description: A close-up of a lavender plant, all green leaves with no floral buds or petals. It’s a large plant, and all the sprigs are growing upward and crooked, turning toward the sun. The plant is on the top of a white wicker desk, and the edge of a white windowsill is visible in the background.}

I read a lot of books about queer and trans history and AIDS activism, and I think about knowledges, stories, ideas, and wisdom lost. Not just grief and death, not just art and friendship, but: accessibility and care. I think about what queers and trans folks might’ve learned about sickness, pain, disability, ableism, and accessibility, and where that information is now that so many are gone. I think about things like adapting to chronic illness, visiting sick friends in their homes, and fighting for tenants’ rights. I think about queer men pushing their lovers’ wheelchairs in pride parades. I think about their unknown, hidden archives.

The only writing I’ve found that accurately describes the rage and loss I felt/feel as fibromyalgia, a chronic biopsychosocial condition, devastated my body and my life has been queers writing about AIDS, and queers writing about cancer. Although they’re not the same, fibromyalgia is political, and suicide is a leading cause of death for people with fibromyalgia.

I wonder what all the lost people, bodies, psyches, could have told us – could still tell us – about art, about resistance, about pain. What could they have taught us about support, interdependence, and indispensability? About commitment and presence? About friendships and relationships, housing, grief, sickness, and despair? What information would you ask for if you could? What would our queer worlds look like today if all those knowledges, skills, and revolutionary ideas had been implemented? If hundreds of thousands of people hadn’t died? If we had multiple generations of elders and we knew where to find them while we’re young? If we, as queer individuals and communities, had a sense of continuity and connection, rather than starting from scratch again and again?

I imagine more accessible worlds: physically, financially, emotionally. I imagine worlds where we don’t have to consider networking, branding, productivity, etc. to feel like we’re good, valuable, creative humans who are deserving of care.

Another word I learned recently is maieutic. From Merriam-Webster:

“definition: relating to or resembling the Socratic method of eliciting new ideas from another.”

“Maieutic comes from “maieutikos,” the Greek word for “of midwifery.” In one of Plato’s Dialogues, Socrates applies “maieutikos” to his method of bringing forth new ideas by reasoning and dialogue; he thought the technique analogous to those a midwife uses in delivering a baby (Socrates’ mother was a midwife). A teacher who uses maieutic methods can be thought of as an intellectual midwife who assists students in bringing forth ideas and conceptions previously latent in their minds.”

And:

“Other philosophers had specific uses of the term dialectic, including Aristotelianism, Stoicism, Kantianism, Hegelianism, and Marxism. Asking a series of questions was considered by Socrates a method of “giving birth” to the truth, and a related word, maieutic, defined as “relating to or resembling the Socratic method of eliciting new ideas from another,” comes from the Greek word meaning “of midwifery.”

I want my work to provoke more questions, more imaginings, more possibilities. I want my work on suicide, poverty, illness, support, and friendship to be maieutic.

Learning about the past makes me wanna live. Studying my own queer, mad, poor, cripple lineages makes me wanna live. Knowing that there’s so much I don’t know makes me wanna live. It helps me find my place in the world within particular contexts, and that encourages me to find my purpose, my multiple purposes. Becoming and remaining curious about how people lived, what they thought and felt, what they decided was worth documenting, learning about their creative practices and processes, gives my life meaning and purpose. Finding people, living or dead, who I feel a sense of affinity with, gives me purpose. Learning political and creative (psst: they’re indisputably interconnected) histories, especially those of women writers, queer and trans outlaws and weirdos, crazy people, disabled people, Black liberation movements, anarchist and anti-capitalist struggles, abolitionist perspectives and organizing, AIDS histories and ongoing criminalization of HIV/AIDS, etc etc etc, gives my life meaning and purpose. Sometimes learning is my purpose, and passing on what I’m learning is my purpose.

{image description: The same frozen trees shown / described earlier, but taking up much more of the frame now. The trees are icy, and there’s a series of ice-covered hydro wires draped in front of them, with a snow-covered winding road curving around and behind the trees.}

I’m a borderline witch. Harm none is an essential mantra for me. While recognizing there are no ethical decisions under capitalism, I try to do the least damage to people and to the planet as I can, on a daily basis. I’ve been afraid to talk about the hurt, pain, and grief I’ve survived though chronic illness, afraid that bringing it up again would be too devastating, would spoil the contentment and positivity I’ve been feeling lately. But I know it’s worthwhile to do so, I know it’s part of my purpose.

There are times when I’ve felt attacked, and times I’ve looked back on and realized I was the attacker, acting from an angry and triggered place, prioritizing my own feelings over those of others, and feeling it was radical to do so. I didn’t have practical skills for tolerating emotional discomfort or existential distress. I’m still learning those skills.

What would it look like to seriously develop the ability to apologize and make amends within queer and trans communities and cultures, in ongoing, vulnerable, constructive ways? What would it look like to be able to offer apologies and accept apologies? What would it look like to create reparative and repairitive amends? How do we carry on knowing that so many of us will likely not be offered the apologies and the accountability we need for the serious harm that has been caused to us? What if we criticized or analyzed for the sake of personal, political, cultural, and creative improvement and encouragement, rather than to reinforce our own sense of personal superiority?

What would it look like to remember ourselves when we were at our most fragile, and interact with our peers as if they have been to that place, too? As if they might be there right now?

Another word I learned recently is compersion. It does not yet have a dictionary definition, but there are several on Urban Dictionary, and when I searched for its origins, I found it was coined by a commune in the 1960’s called The Kerista Commune (communes have always fascinated me, as much as I am aware that so many of them, including this one, are not places where I’d belong). They’ve defined compersion as: “the opposite of jealousy; positive feelings about your partner’s other intimacies.”

I stumbled into it while navigating boundaries within my current relationship. While neither of us have perfected a mutual sense of compersion, it’s become a useful concept for me not only in terms of relationships, but with friendships and creative circles as well.

I’ve noticed that many of us have suicidal thoughts not only when we are triggered, not only when we are criticized, and not only when we’ve been abandoned or forgotten, but also when our peers appear to be succeeding in some way that we are not. Whether it’s through publishing a new work, or some other form of recognition, watching others experience success and joy (or appear to be experiencing success and joy) can feel like being left behind. Under capitalism, it feels like there isn’t enough room for all of us, and when one person is recognized above or before another, it can feel like a little more of that space is being taken away, rather than being opened and stretched to invite us in. ‘Vicarious joy’ is a phrase I’ve sometimes used with subjects like this; developing compersion feels like a relevant tactic here.

As well, we need to remember – and remind ourselves and our friends and peers again and again – that poverty is not a personal failure; it is a systemic, intentional, political tool of oppression and suppression. Staying alive is resistance. Taking care of one another is resistance.

Alivingly Yours,

P.S.: If you’ve benefited from my writing in any way – if my words have inspired you, helped you feel less alone, or sparked some weird feeling within you; if you’ve felt encouraged, or curious, or comforted – please consider compensating me by offering a donation of any amount. Whether you’ve been reading my writing for years, or just stumbled into me this afternoon, I invite you to help me sustain the process!

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We Are the Weirdos, my new novel, is now available everywhere!

I’m so glad to be able to say that my new novel, We Are the Weirdos, is now available everywhere. Following are a series of links where you can buy my new book, and otherwise support my art and my existence.

The best place to purchase my novel (i.e. the best place to ensure that most of your cash goes directly to me, and that I’m paid as soon as possible) is through my Etsy shop at schoolformaps.etsy.com. Along with We Are the Weirdos, I have my first non-fiction book, Telegram: A Collection of 27 Issues, my first novel, Ragdoll House, and a whole bunch of zines. While I usually offer Tarot readings as well, I’m currently taking a much-needed hiatus for the rest of the year.

If you can’t afford shipping right now, or otherwise wish to purchase my book elsewhere, We Are the Weirdos is available on Amazon.ca and Amazon.com in paperback and ebook formats. If you buy my book through Amazon, I would very much appreciate it if you wrote a review! Reviews are crucial for making sure the readers who need this book can find it, and are especially important in self-publishing, where our words are significantly less likely to receive the attention, consideration, and support they deserve.

You can also add We Are the Weirdos to your shelf on GoodReads – and again, I encourage you to write a review!

If you’d like to read an excerpt of my novel, I’ve shared the first two chapters here. And if you’d like to read more about its themes, and the process of making the book tangible, Cee Lavery & I interview each other here: Extra Dimensions & Misplaced Shadows.

I wrote this in a previous entry, but I’d like to reiterate it here:

“Speaking of that [the lifelong repercussions of youth incarceration], it’s also not common to find novels about incarceration, and juvenile detention centres and group homes more specifically, so I had very few points of reference for creating this story, aside from my own experiences as a teenager. Being a high school dropout as well as someone who accumulated multiple charges and sentences as a teenager is still, at the age of thirty-one [and thirty-two, and…], something that often makes me feel quite separate from potential queer community/ies and literary community/ies… I wonder where folks like us end up. I know it’s a cliché to say that we write the books we wanna read, we write the books our younger selves were looking for, but that really is what We Are the Weirdos is. Back then, and even now, I found very, very few stories that felt even vaguely representational of what I went through – the way(s) I struggle(d) with alienation, not-belonging, bodies, gender, loneliness, and isolation. I’m still searching for them. I’m still writing them. There were many times when I thought I would die writing this novel, but I didn’t wanna leave an unfinished draft behind.”

Novellingly Yours,
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P.S.: If you’ve benefited from my writing in any way – if my words have inspired you, helped you feel less alone, or sparked some weird feeling within you; if you’ve felt encouraged, or curious, or comforted – please consider compensating me by offering a donation of any amount. Whether you’ve been reading my writing for years, or just stumbled into me this afternoon, I invite you to help me sustain the process!

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Extra Dimensions & Misplaced Shadows: Maranda & Cee Interview One Another on Creating We Are the Weirdos

When was the last time you read a book by a queer non-binary mad disabled high school dropout and survivor of incarceration on social assistance? Well, We Are the Weirdos might be the first one?!

Although Cee and I both have unreliable internet connections right now, we managed to get together today to interview one another about our work on We Are the Weirdos. We’ve got just a couple days left to reach our goal on IndieGoGo, which you can contribute to here. We’ve intentionally kept the “stuffness” of the rewards minimal – totebags and merchandise are boring, and we live in tiny apartments anyway. Instead, all you get are books! Books for you, books for your local library, books for your friends. You can also have Tarot readings with me, and custom Tarot illustrations with Cee. And! You can read more about the novel here, including details on which Tarot cards I used to help me write the damned thing.


{image description: A photocopy of my Grade Nine school picture, age 13, and my Grade Two school picture, age 7. I’m frowning in both photos. In the Grade Nine photo, I have long, black hair and I’m wearing a Kurt Cobain t-shirt. In my Grade Two photo, I have long dirty blonde hair, wide eyes, and I’m wearing paisley overalls with a purple turtleneck. I’ve written M.E. + M.E. in black ink.}

♥ CEE INTERVIEWS MARANDA ♥

Cee: This book is about magic – the personal magic that Indigo and Grey (and their mothers) are able to wield and shape, as well as the unexpected and external forces that bend and mold the characters’ lives in wholly unpredictable ways. What role did magic play in the process of writing this novel?

Maranda: Magic is such a daily, moment-to-moment experience for me that it can be tough to suss out which roles magic didn’t play for me. I spent a lot of time reading Tarot cards while I was writing this novel, and using them for making decisions around the process of writing. The cards I drew didn’t interact with the characters or storylines as much as they guided me through making my own personal, creative decisions. For example, two years ago, I took an online writing course with one of my favourite authors, Francesca Lia Block, where I worked on a very messy draft of this novel. It was a big investment for me, not only cash-wise (I scraped the fee together by not-quite-legally AirBnBing my apartment and staying with my then-partner, something I could write an entire novel about on its own) but emotionally and psychically as well… And I waffled on my decision for a bit, reading my cards to see what to do. I didn’t feel I had anyone around who I could ask for advice in that particular situation, but I had my cards.

It was a dream come true to work on fiction with one of my favourite writers, to receive guidance and feedback and care from her, and it was vulnerable to send out drafts of my writing to others in the class, and to provide feedback for their work as well. As I dealt with those feelings (vulnerability that is a good kind of scary), I noticed that sometimes somebody would comment on something in my story not being “believable” when it was something that actually happened to me, and would then note something else in the draft as being “more believable” when it was something I’d just made up. Since believability is a major theme of the novel, and something I struggle with in day-to-day life as an undereducated crazy disabled high school dropout with chronic illness/pain, I thought that was an interesting parallel.

A lot of little coincidences happened to me while I was writing We Are the Weirdos as well. Birchwood Centre for Youth, aka Bitchface, is based on a juvenile detention centre where I was incarcerated multiple times in my early teens. I’ve never named the actual place out loud, though I’m sure many who were or are incarcerated at the ages of sixteen or under in or around the GTA (Greater Toronto Area) would be familiar with it, whether by experience or stories. I remember one day last year, I was walking to the Parkdale Library (where I’m writing this interview from!) to work on the book, and there were two teenage girls walking behind me, discussing the very same detention centre. It felt really eerie, as it’s a place that resides in my mind almost as if not-quite-real. It was the first time in my adult life that I’d heard the place named out loud. They were talking about some friends who were there. This afternoon, while walking to the library, I saw a lone black pointy witch hat sitting on the ground, and nobody was claiming it. A lot of the magic in my life comes in these small moments of just moving through the world, being quiet and observant, noticing these odd symbols and coincidences that arrive, and making my own meanings with them.


{image description: One of Cee’s illustrations! From a chapter called “PUKE.” Black ink on white background. Vomit on a cop’s boots! To the left are a few freezies and a pair of scissors to cut the plastic packages open. To the right are a few roses.}

Although Milthorpe, aka Milcorpse, is a fictional place, it’s obviously based on my hometown of Lindsay, Ontario, which I re-visited several times while writing We Are the Weirdos. Like listening to the music of our youth to return to a particular emotional space, to conjure memories and feelings, I spent a lot of time in Lindsay doing the same. When I write of tangible objects having auras and stories, this is how I feel about physical space, buildings, and land as well. In We Are the Weirdos, there’s a corner downtown where the misfits gather, sometimes misfits among misfits, sitting alongside one another on the same benches but rarely speaking to one another. And I write about these shy, angry queer and trans teens hanging out at the same corner as older teens and twenty-something men who were nazi punks, because that’s how it was in my hometown. I remember stitching an embroidered patch of a crossed-out swastika to my backpack to differentiate myself from them, and I remember the tiny hippie store I bought it from, with my group home allowance, dropped off for the afternoon to keep myself amused and get some fresh air. Well, I went back to that corner this Spring, shortly after the snow melted, and I sat on one of the benches, allowing myself to feel. I took selfies, I took pictures of my feet and the tip of my lavender cane against the cobblestone, I got stared at by passersby the same way I did back then. The red bricks were crumbling. I took a piece for myself and a piece for my twin, who was often by my side at the corner, when we had nowhere else to go, when we walked each other around on heavy metal chains hooked to pet-store dog-collars. Those are the kinds of found objects I like to keep in my pocket for the day and then add to an altar.

I thought about invalidation a lot, especially self-invalidation. All the jokes I’ve made about being a teenage goth, being a cutter, being obsessed with Marilyn Manson, practicing witchcraft. I’m pretty sure I have a zine where I tell a story about my teens and say, “back when I thought I was a witch.” I think I said that as a way of distancing myself from some of the embarrassing and painful memories of my early-teens, but that that’s no longer the kind of distance I need, and I’ve been a witch all along. But anyway, I sat on that corner and had a conversation with my teenage self, showed them that we were still alive. Indigo and Grey are 13 in We Are the Weirdos, and I’m intentionally publishing it at age 31 because the reversed, symmetrical numbers feel meaningful to me.

Also, some of the crystals I got when I was 13, I still have. I have this tiny, pointy clear quartz that was probably the smallest, thus cheapest, one available at the time, and I use it to connect with who I was back then, to remember what it felt like to find witchcraft, which was the only thing I felt could give me any sort of power – it’s so interesting to me that witchcraft is so often considered irrational, fake, immature, embarrassing, when so many of us found it because everything and everywhere else made us feel hopeless and helpless. So I hold onto that object as a 31-year old now, and marvel at the fact of my survival, and of so many of my spells and wishes and dreams coming true despite everything I’ve endured and continue to endure. I keep it with silver sequins that fluttered over the crowd at a Marilyn Manson concert I attended as a grown-up, which was a gift to teenage and adult selves, and other such junk. It feels like time-travel. And I did/do the usual things, working with the Moon, working with Mercury, doing my own inner recovery stuff while working on the novel, much of which led to little revelations in my own life that impacted the way I wrote the novel, and the choices I made, such as finding books whose pages change and warp and fade, letters with no responses to fill in the blanks, a multitude of loose ends, etc…


{image description: Illustrations from my diary last Summer. Black ink on white paper. Multiple renditions of my adult self hanging out with my teenage self, holding onto their metal leash. There are some notes about the joy of being a loner in public, eating messy food, panic, meds, and sensitivity.}

Cee: One thing I really love about this novel is that the characters feel intensely familiar and lifelike yet are always kept an emotional arms’ length from the reader – we rarely know what Grey is thinking, for example, or the breadth of the experiences that have led Caroline to make the parenting decisions she does. How do you balance intimacy and mystery in the development and portrayal of your characters? Did any initial drafts of this book do this differently?

Maranda: It’s interesting that you bring up intimacy, because that’s always been a tough one for me, in reality and fiction alike. I’m reading more self-help about it right now, ha. It’s a word that used to make me cringe, but it doesn’t anymore. It wasn’t until a few days after I finished the final final final draft of We Are the Weirdos that it occurred to me that nowhere in this book do any characters hug one another. Friendship and family are major themes of the novel, yet nobody hugs anybody else. Once this dawned on me, I tried to remember if I had hugged anybody at that age, and what it felt like (I did, but somehow these moments never came back to me while I was creating Indigo). Then, like now, having a flesh-body felt alien and bizarre to me, and if I could have retained consciousness to think and dream and read books, but not have a body, that’s what I would have done. Those kinds of alien-body feelings and lack of physical intimacy are part of why Indigo and Grey connect so deeply to the Mechanical Animals incarnation of Marilyn Manson. At a time when I had almost no language for my feelings of discomfort and disconnection from my physical body and from my gender, that album, and Marilyn Manson’s transformation to the character of the androgynous alien fallen to earth in a strange drug-fuelled Hollywood, heavily influenced by David Bowie, totally captivated me.

To have created characters who feel familiar and real, yet are kept at a distance, was partly my intention (actually, I wasn’t sure about familiarity all along – I was worried about the characters seeming petulant and whiny, which was one reason I began trying to unlearn self-deprecation, so they could move beyond that tone), but partly something else… I think my own experiences with lack of intimacy, and with not feeling embodied with where or who I am a lot of the time, are what led to that kind of distance between my characters, whether it’s in their own friendships, or their distance from the reader. I wonder how much of that was intentional, and how much was inevitable. Intimacy is something I want to write more about (and am actually feeling in real life sometimes!), but with their age and circumstances, it didn’t feel quite possible for Indigo. Mystery, also, was both intentional and inevitable. For a long time, I wanted to know more about Caroline and Madelaine, Indigo’s and Grey’s mothers, and I did have previous drafts that contained more of their pasts, but something about it just didn’t jive, so I scrapped it. I was thinking about how long it took me to even fathom that my mom had a life before I was born, and I wonder how much of this would have occurred to Indigo at 13. There are moments when Indigo wonders about their mom’s past, but they’re not able to learn much, and almost never ask questions directly.


{image description: Another of Cee’s illustrations! From a chapter called “STEAL.” Black ink on white background. In the centre is an unzipped backpack. On the left is a debit machine and on the right is a cash register.}

Another theme in this novel is the incomprehensible scope of what we can’t know about the people around us. We can’t fully grasp their thoughts, their pasts, their internal worlds, or their concepts and perceptions of who we are. With that in mind, I also tried to capture one of the ways trauma impacts memory – to jumble it all up and scatter it, move things out of order, delete entire conversations, for memories to contradict themselves. I’m not sure how much of that comes across the way I want it to in the novel, and how much looks like me, the author, fucking it up a little, but that was one of my intentions. And while doing so, I also chose to refrain almost entirely from using diagnostic language.

Cee: In our process of developing the illustrations for We Are the Weirdos, it was important to you that there be no depictions of the characters (save for one glimpse we get of Indigo’s middle finger!). Instead, the visual emphasis is placed on a multitude of objects. Why did you make this choice? What significance does allowing readers to visualize the characters on their own hold for you? And what called you to make the decisions you did for the chapter headings?

Maranda: Cynically, for a while, I had a tough time imagining something that wouldn’t look cliché. Sometimes the popularity of witchcraft and magical symbols, etc., in recent times felt like a barrier to making the kind of work I’m trying to do, because I was having a tough time watching my traumatic teenagehood be rebranded as cool. I didn’t want to participate in the odd, but understandable, witchcraft nostalgia machine, or for my work to be misconstrued as being related to nostalgia. I questioned whether or not complete the project in its current forms many times, and even considered ridding the story of references to The Craft altogether, because I was actually just getting sick of seeing all those .gifs. Ha. There were all kinds of directions the novel could’ve gone. Obviously I chose to keep The Craft, and keep the title, but I think my readers will be smart and thoughtful enough to ascertain what the novel is really about.

The characters struggle so much with their bodies in this book that the idea of trying to make them visible seemed almost disrespectful. I’ve written a lot about feeling like I am being looked at but not seen – whether that’s through my body or through my work – and the idea of creating images of my characters made me worry that they would somehow feel the same way. Instead, I wanted to capture the world around them, to place emphasis on the importance of what was around them. I also wanted the reader to visualize the story in a multitude of ways. While all the flowers and plants in the novel have magical meanings known for centuries, I rarely elaborate on them. For the chapter headings, I read and re-read the novel and observed what stuck with me the most, what felt important. Sometimes these images were beautiful – I was seeing flowers and swirls and vines and stars – and other times they were what one might consider ugly – vomit on a cop’s boots, a speculum, a windowless van. I want the reader to have their own associations with these objects, their own memories, and to imagine them from Indigo’s point-of-view, too. Which objects feel protective or useful, which objects feel frightening? How come?

♥ MARANDA INTERVIEWS CEE ♥

Maranda: When I began working on We Are the Weirdos, I wasn’t initially imagining illustrations, but as time went on, I realized that the novel felt very visual to me. I was writing about emotions and powerlessness, the confusions and restrictions upon small town misfits in early adolescence, but it was often objects and tangibility that became important to the characters. Poverty was one reason for this, and magic was another. Back then, and today still, objects have felt to me like they have their own auras, their own stories, and they’ve also served as safety objects, something to keep me grounded and present during uncomfortable times. In your bio, you describe yourself as a scamp and a big kid, and your art as containing curiosity, delight in details, and a disregard for rules. You use words like amateur and play. How would you connect these particular words to your process of creating illustrations for We Are the Weirdos, an experimental novel that also shows that same delight in details and disregard for rules, albeit through text rather than image? Your illustrated work is often non-fiction, depicting meaningful moments in your adult life. How did it feel to use your artistic gifts and skills toward imagining and rendering the lives of fictional teenagers?

Cee: One of the chief joys, and also pains, of working on the illustrations for We Are the Weirdos, was allowing myself to retreat deep into my adolescent consciousness while I worked. I had a very different experience of childhood and teenagerhood than Indigo or Grey, but I felt it necessary to approach getting to know these two characters from the closest place of reference I had. These characters immediately felt very dear to me, and I wanted to be closer to them before I tried to illustrate their world. And I wanted to do that as a kid, not as another adult who claimed to understand them while really not actually getting it. So, I listened to the music I listened to in high school while I began the sketches – a way to warm up and get back into that headspace; really to feel in my body the sensations and emotions that permeated it about 16 years ago. I thought and reflected a lot about what 13 felt like to me while I worked. Once I was inking, I was listening to Grey + Indigo’s (and your!) adolescent favourites – Hole, Marilyn Manson, Garbage, Nirvana, etc. That helped me feel like I was hanging out with them and conspiring with them. So, really, I was playing in my brain, letting myself be a kid again, sometimes a different kind of kid than I really was.


{image description: Another of Cee’s illustrations! From a chapter called “RITUALS.” An open spiral-bound sketchbook with a cassette of Marilyn Manson’s Mechanical Animals atop the pages, and a scribbly circle-A anarchy symbol. There are pens and Sharpie scattered across the pages, and lit tealight candles surrounding the notebook. There are also multiple crystals and a Ouija planchette pointing in multiple directions.}

When I first read the novel, I immediately felt a very deep affection and protectiveness towards Grey. Part of it is that she is a very lovable character in her own right, and part of it is that Indigo’s love and admiration of her is so palpable in your writing. The way Indigo is so astonished by Grey’s drawings, how they’re so impressed with her skill, is so sweet and perfectly conjured for the reader. That way we who had few friends or connections had so much reverence and awe for the love we did get to have, and so much respect and pride for our beloveds. I really wanted to honour the everyday magic of amateur art, of the miracle that a teenage girl’s scribbles in her sketchbook can perform for her best friend. So I tried to draw with the same principles, or lack thereof, that shape a teenager’s art. What was important was creating stuff that was recognizable, that had details that maybe were extraneous and silly and “not realistic” but that showed a love of the tiny hidden things and small magic of the mundane, of the everyday. I think that’s how Grey would draw. Everything having an extra dimension, or a misplaced shadow – because that is how Grey and Indigo’s lives are.

How did this feel? Like an honour. An honour to connect to these two beautiful fictional humans, and an honour to bridge and build something with you. It felt like a collaboration between your and my childhood selves, too, who had never met before this book.

Maranda: You and I have been friends for a long time. Each of us have been witnessing the other as we become more skilled at what we do. We often have conversations about things like imposter syndrome, feeling like our work is misunderstood, having dreams and ambitions that we feel like we’ve earned but are somehow still beyond our reach, etc. You’ve made zines for a long time, you’ve designed tattoos and typography, you keep an illustrated diary that is a wonder to behold, and you’re currently working in graphic memoir. In your wildest dreams, where would you like to see your art? Who do you make art for? What are some further skills you’d like to develop in your practice (be they technical or emotional)?

Cee: Like you, I think, I’d really love to see my work in libraries. I want my art to be free and easily accessed. I make my art as a way to manage feeling so thin-skinned in this very scary world, as a way of arming myself for the battle we are all called to every day. I want people who feel like they are too much, feel too much, want and need too much, to feel contained and held by my work. I want the stories I tell to be felt deeply, and I want the people who read and identify with my writing and drawing to say, ok, I can do this too. They did it and I can do it. I don’t have any formal art training and I really try to talk about that as much as possible. I loved to draw as a kid and as a teen, but I didn’t think I could draw until I was 19 I think. I wasn’t exceptional at art growing up, or if I was, so were lots of people. I want to destroy the narrative of talent. I want the idea that you can only be an artist if you were committed to drawing in the fifth grade to be laughable. Or that you need to study anything institutionally in order to do it well. Fuck that! I’m so bad at photoshop. I’m constantly learning how to do stuff as my paid work has skewed towards the design end of thing (posters, book covers, logos, etc), and I can’t tell you how many hours I’ve spent asking friends to walk me through something or watching tutorials online or frantically googling how to do a specific thing. My friend, the incredible artist Morgan Sea, was once watching me design a poster in photoshop and had to leave the room because she was so stressed by how few shortcuts I took! She was like, “you’re doing everything the long, hard way!”. So I guess I’d love to learn how to do things the best way and get way better on the technical side of things.

Interviewingly Yours,

P.S.: If you’ve benefited from my writing in any way – if my words have inspired you, helped you feel less alone, or sparked some weird feeling within you; if you’ve felt encouraged, or curious, or comforted – please consider compensating me by offering a donation of any amount. Whether you’ve been reading my writing for years, or just stumbled into me this afternoon, I invite you to help me sustain the process!

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