Dangerous Compassions

I invite you to love my disabled self also

The other day, I met my friend at the park.  My friend brought their little doggie.  The doggie seemed sweet.

“I don’t have energy this morning,” my friend told me.  They explained they hadn’t taken their testosterone.  They said it was just laziness, that they’d take it when they returned home.

I don’t know how all that works.  I’ve had a lot of trans friends but never asked about some aspects.  I assumed that taking testosterone would be a big deal, but I never knew it was energizing.

I felt “no fair” like I want energy.  I also thought of some offensive ideas my doctor said to me about women’s sex drives and testosterone levels on my blood test results.

I thought how I’m disabled and my energy is low.  I wanna be like “fuck your productivity norms” and that my worth has nothing to do with how much I can do, especially work kind of doings.

But what if I want to get more done?  Energy can feel good.  This morning I cooked breakfast, started some ginger tea simmering with Ming’s help, assembled cold oatmeal to put into the fridge for tomorrow.  Sliced overripe banana, quick oats, cinnamon, nutmeg, chia seeds, milk of my choice…   Doing felt good.

I want to love my disabled self and love me all the ways I am.  But it can be hard to go against a whole world telling me go go go.

I am enough.

I am good.

I’m good how I am, right now, this very moment.

I don’t have to do anything to prove I’m good.

Just sitting there, I’m good.

Lying in bed, doing nothing, I’m good.

Sleeping, I’m good.

Digesting food, pumping blood, thinking a thought, breathing, feeling a feeling, all that amazing work my cells are doing at all times–that’s way, way more than enough.

I don’t need to compare myself to anyone.

I don’t need to measure up to anyone.

I don’t need to look at myself in the context of other persons.  Not Ming, not my mom or dad at my age, not friends, not enemies, not ex-es or the partners of ex-es, not people I went to grad school with, not Mother Theresa, not Santa, not Audre Lorde, not my dearest theory hero Mia Mingus, not the teacher I wanted to be like years ago, not even Sufjan Stevens.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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