care without control
dispatch 22a
Hello friends,
One year ago tomorrow I sent out my very first dispatch. I had no idea if anyone would read it, and I definitely started before I was ready.
In this moment I want to say thank you, thank you, thank you for all of your support over this last year. Whether you just got here or you’ve been here from the jump, I appreciate you endlessly. This is the first time I’ve ever been paid for writing. With your help, I was able to buy a new laptop to support my work, redistribute funds to a queer youth organization and a local recovery support program, and buy some research materials for my book.
I am grateful. This last year has brought a lot of shifts, questions, and opportunities for me and I know that the confidence and space to explore that I’ve gotten in this little corner of the internet has contributed massively to my well-being. So again, thank you. I know there are a lot of places you could be putting your funds and I never take your support for granted.
care without control
When I was working at a laundromat for $9 an hour, I’d sometimes trade 10 hours of labor to put my body in a cryo-chamber. One hundred dollars for 3 minutes at -100 degrees Celsius. Under the fluorescent lights of some South Florida strip mall, I’d place my folded clothes neatly on the room’s only chair, the way you do when you have to undress in a public place and the fold of your jeans is the only shape you can give to your dignity. I’d pull borrowed wool socks and gloves over extremities to prevent frostbite and step into a metal cylinder pumped full of liquid nitrogen, nails digging into palms in the too-big gloves. Three minutes on the timer, but discomfort can stretch time.
Theoretically, this treatment was aimed at helping my body recover from overuse injuries resulting from overexercising. But, if I can be more honest, the general unpleasantness of the endeavor was a major part of its appeal. This was healing, but it was also punishment for the weakness of injury. This was a warning. My idea of caring for my body was teaching myself to endure and calling it strength. I remembered this recently when I was trying and failing to book myself a massage.
I say failing in that I had a million excuses for why a massage would be frivolous, expensive, and unnecessary. In the moment, my resistance was not to the actual cost of a massage (which I am grateful to be able to occasionally afford), but towards any form of care that could perhaps be construed as kind. What felt frivolous and unnecessary was the act of doing something for my body that made no attempt to make it more palatable, to other people or to me.
