Not all the time, but sometimes i find it really hard to feel hot (as in foxy, sexy, DAMN! y’know, however you describe such a thing, if you do) as someone living with chronic pain and other ongoing, lifelong health stuff that’s permanent, disabling, inconvenient, sometimes embarrassing, that’s still considered shameful or sad or “a waste” by lots of folks.
i’ve had a lot of years of practice at it –and i’m not a self-hating gimp (but really, what is “self-hatred” when you’re living in a society that more often than not would prefer you die off?), i’ve got access to different communities and to many friends and loves who experience some similar and some dissimilar things around those feelings; i’m not alone in it– and yet it’s still not easy, it doesn’t just come. And there’s pressure –even and sometimes especially within disability communities– to spin some sort of golden sexy shit out of it all the fucking time. Sometimes that’s just fine for me, and i do that too. But when that’s not possible, it so often feels like a personal failing, something just inherently not good enough about me and this body [and there are multiple sources all around perfectly happy to reinforce that message].
It’s actually really hard to be constantly fighting those fucked up messages, from inside me, inside communities, and from the general public, and to continue to practice some sort of self-love even when those fucked up messages get inside.
And there’s this too:
i’m grateful for every gimp i’ve ever known, whether or not you feel hot, or desirable, or wanted every moment; whether or not you live up to the expectations we so often put on one another; whether or not someone has ever met you and been fortunate to feel the pull of wanting to know more of your brilliance. You and i are a blanket of stars, covering, warming, hiding, holding secrets and joy and heat for days and days on fucking end…
and sometimes when i cover myself, even just my toes, with you, with us, i feel that burn.