#and even though I went through medical abuse and hormonal conversion therapy

[intersex-support]

Hi! I know this might be kind of a weird ask, but I just needed a space to talk about this and your blog appears to be safe.

So I have what has been diagnosed previously as PCOS. I'm seeking genetic testing for various reasons, but the symptoms are relatively consistent. Anyway.

One thing I never see talked about is how people with PCOS can and do face medical abuse and "correction". I was put unwillingly onto puberty blockers - ones not even intended as such, it was a common off-label use that came with potential long term side effects. I'm also trans, but didn't know it at the time. Had I known, I may have chosen puberty blockers, but it was still very much a nonconsensual attempt to "correct" my "precocious puberty".

Then as an adult, due to, well long story, but abuse from my mom, I was convinced to take estrogen-based birth control that in all likelihood contributed to my worsening dysphoria, to "manage" the huperandrogenism I'm now actively encouraging with low dose testosterone. Without constantly being told it's ugly, I love being hyperandrogenous! It makes me euphoric!

Related to this, I also got told I was appropriating intersex experiences for wanting my (already intersex body) to more closely match my being intersex. I admittedly said it poorly, in a way that made it seem like I was generalizing all intersex bodies into a common misconception, but I was trying to say that me being altersex (or another word, I've heard that term can be intersexist but don't have an alternative, if it is I'm happy to change the term I use) is a direct result of me being intergender/intergender (again, don't know which terminology to use, sorry!). I was accused of fetishizing intersex conditions by someone who admitted that PCOS should be considered one.

I don't actually know whether I had any coercive surgery in infancy due to a lot of crap with birthfamily and being removed at nine months and adopted at 14 months. But every other experience I've had has been (mostly perisex and a few bad faith gatekeeping intersex) people coercing me into fitting more neatly into a binary sex, often medically, and often with transphobia on top. I've had people deny that I can experience transness in multiple ways (I use transfem, transmasc, and transneutral/transandrogenous, particularly because I also am plural which just further complicates things.

I just... I wish people understood that I have faced many of the struggles typical to the intersex community. I have never experienced gender like a perisex person. I have always been cautious about speaking to my own experiences because I've tried to be aware of privilege where I have it and to uplift the voices of others with different experiences than mine, even where there are no dynamics of privilege/oppression.

Having people like you say "yes, people with PCOS can use the intersex label, we have shared experiences, you belong" has also been incredibly healing. It's like... I feel like people can often innately recognize when they have shared community in regards to innate identity. I felt drawn to the queer community before my gender/sexuality eggs cracked, for example. I feel like exclusion only hurts people because it- well, essentially is a form of gaslighting. "No, your experiences in this specific aspect are fundamentally so alien to ours that we couldn't possibly talk about commonalities in any meaningful way, and will deny you a belonging that is already yours." Does that make any sense?

I'm not perfect in the way I say things, so I do wanna say that I'm absolutely willing to be corrected if something I have said is harmful.

Just uh,,, thank you for listening to this long vent.

(In case I interact via anon in the future, can I sign off with "starry anon"?)

Hey, anon 💜

I'm so sorry that you've had to put up with so much judgment, abuse, and coercion from so many people and places that you expected to be safe. You did not deserve any of that. You have PCOS and hyperandrogenism, and you are intersex. You belong in intersex spaces and anyone who says you doesn't is being a complete asshole. There's so many reasons like you've listed here, where you have so many commonalities of experiences with other intersex people, and deserve to be able to find compassion and solidarity. I'm so sorry that you've faced medical abuse, and I think you're brave for speaking up about it and talking about the fact that intersex people with PCOS can and do face medical abuse. You are not alone in that, and it absolutely wasn't your fault.

You are intersex, and there is no way that you can appropriate your own experiences. I sort of do think that altersex is a label that's used in an intersexist way a lot of times and I personally tend to be uncomfortable with it, and I tend to stay away from altersex because of my issues with it. I think altersex is really only being used by people who aren't intersex, so I could see why people might have thought you were fetishizing or appropriating intersex experiences, as if you say you are altersex people are going to think you are saying you are dyadic. You can just say that you're intersex and intergender if that's language that makes you feel comfortable, although I'm not going to tell you what language is and isn't right for you to use--that's a personal choice.

I don't know you and your story and I'm also not going to tell you what ways of experiencing your gender and what labels are okay for you to use--I know that it can get very complicated when we're intersex and we're sometimes reassigned gender or sex in childhood, or at puberty, or undergo certain types of transition that's unexpected for our AGAB. I don't think that it's a free-for-all that any intersex person ever can just claim to be transmasc or transfem or both or that every single intersex person has a claim to every label, but my policy is to trust intersex people when they tell me their labels and trust that they know what the most accurate and affirming language is to use based on their own lived experiences. I think this is something that individual intersex people have to really think through and decide what labels are appropriate for them to use, and be thoughtful about what times we need to stay in our lane and when we follow our instincts. It does get complicated and my approach is to just trust that people know what labels are actually accurate to their life, and I only bring things up if it is an issue. If people are appropriating labels, if they don't have a certain type of lived experience but they are claiming that they do, if they are perpetuating oppression, then I will call people out and deal with whatever they are actually doing. I'm not going to tell you that you can't use labels or not when I don't know your life and story, or say whether you should be doing things or not, and just trust that you have thought through what is appropriate and what is right for you and listened to what the communities you are a part of are telling you.

Even though you did use altersex language, or if you were confused and couldn't figure out the best way to phrase things, you still are intersex and have an intersex body. And I completely understand wanting intersex affirming and gender affirming things to feel more comfortable in your body. I think that a lot of intersex people do have dysphoria and I know a lot of us who really have strong feelings about wanting to return to our natural intersex bodies before medical abuse, or returning to a version of ourselves that we were never allowed to be. I think that's something that makes so much sense, and even though I can see why people would react badly if they thought you were dyadic and using confusing language, know that you are not doing anything wrong by being intersex and having these feelings, and you cannot appropriate your own experiences. You belong in intersex community and are allowed to share your own experiences.

This blog is a safe space for you, anon, and feel free to share your story or come and vent if you need it.

💜💜💜

-Mod E

[youtuberswithalex]

Period

Summary: Swallowing his panic, he tried his hardest to take a deep breath. He grabbed a wad of toilet paper and wiped, hoping to scurry to his room and get rid of the evidence of any injury before anyone could find out, but it came back soaked in just as much deep, dark blood as before. Tears sprung to his eyes as he let his hyperventilating take over. 

“Daaaaaad!”

(Trans!Virgil; Adoption AU; Romantic Logicality, Paternal Moxiety, Brotherly Prinxiety, Creativitwins)

Warnings: Blood, periods, crying, explanation of the menstrual cycle, brief mention of sex, implied/referenced past child abuse, brief mention of past character death, Remus Antics (brief, non-graphic mention of a gory scene in an old movie)

Word Count: 2316

A/N: So, this has been a fic I’ve wanted to write for 12+ years, a fic that’s transpired fandom after fandom after fandom: an explanation of what a period is, to help others who won’t get/understand an explanation from other sources. I know this gets a little info-dump-y, but I tried to make it understandable. This fic is for you kids who are nervous about getting yours for the first time, like I was, and I hope seeing characters you love going through it, too, can help!

This is also the first fic I’m posting, I guess, of this Adoption AU I’ve had in my head for a while! I’ve got a couple other ideas in mind, including a part 2 to this focusing more on Roman and Virgil, sooo hit me up for some AU questions, if you have any!

-----

It was true that Virgil hadn’t really been feeling well in the past week.

He didn’t know what it was, but everything just felt… off. He didn’t want to socialize with anyone; being around people had been making a fire of rage burn in his chest, and the fact that he didn’t know why just made it ten times worse. He was exhausted to the point of nearly falling asleep in class, and would have slept through his alarms twice and been late if it hadn’t have been for Roman waking him up when he didn’t come for breakfast.

Speaking of, he hadn’t had much of an appetite, and he’d hardly been eating because of it. Even the idea of eating anything had made him feel a little gross. And his stomach had been cramping a lot.

Realistically, Virgil knew this was something he should tell Patton or Logan, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. It didn’t matter how many times Roman reassured him that their dads wouldn’t be angry at him for getting sick; until he saw it for himself, he wasn’t going to be able to believe him. So what if Patton was a nurse? So what if Roman and Logan had butted heads dozens of times since Virgil had moved in, and it had never dissolved into a screaming match? That didn’t mean they wouldn’t turn on him, or that he was a good enough kid to avoid getting on their bad side!

Besides, he wasn’t throwing up or running a fever! He was just going to waste their time if he said anything. They had more important things to worry about than him. It’s not like he was dying or anything.

…Or, so he’d thought, until Thursday afternoon when he went to the bathroom and found his underwear covered in blood.

Virgil almost screamed at the sight. As soon as he recovered, he frantically searched his body for any sign of a scrape or scratch that could have left such a mess. There was nothing. Maybe… Maybe it had already healed?

Swallowing his panic, he tried his hardest to take a deep breath. He grabbed a wad of toilet paper and wiped, hoping to scurry to his room and get rid of the evidence of any injury before anyone could find out, but it came back soaked in just as much deep, dark blood as before. Tears sprung to his eyes as he let his hyperventilating take over.

“Daaaaaad!”

Footsteps came rushing to the door faster than he’d ever heard in this household. “Virgil, are you okay?”

He choked back a sob. “I-I’m bleeding…!”

“Okay, it’s going to be okay, kiddo,” Patton soothed. “Can I come in?”

Virgil looked at himself, still on the toilet, and set the wad of toilet paper on the tank. He scrambled to stand and pull his pants up before whimpering out an “Uh-huh”.

Patton calmly came in and shut the door behind him. “Alright, where are you bleeding?”

“I-I don’t know!”

“You don’t know?” he asked with a frown.

“I…” Virgil picked up the toilet paper and showed it to him, lowering his voice to a whisper despite no one else being in there with them. “It was all over my underwear,” he explained. “And when I wiped, I…”

He trailed off as Patton tilted his head to inspect the blood, and then understanding faded onto his face as he looked away in thought. While it was only a few seconds, it felt like an eternity; his stomach started to cramp again, and Virgil found himself trembling.

“I-I haven’t been feeling good this week,” he admitted. “My stomach’s been hurting, and—and all I want to do is sleep, and I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to bother you guys, and I’m sorry, I should’ve said something, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to be sick, I don’t want to have to go to the hospital, please—!”

Patton shushed him and ran his fingers through Virgil’s hair. “Hey, hey, relax, it’s alright! You’re okay, Virgil. You’re not going to die, trust me. Especially not on my watch.”

He leaned over, put the toilet lid down, and gently pushed Virgil to sit on it before kneeling in front of him. He took a few seconds to chew on his lip in thought.

“Virgil,” he started, “At your old school, did your teachers ever take an afternoon to talk to you guys about puberty?”

Virgil shook his head.

Patton let out a breath and nodded. “I guess they probably think it’s a little too early to talk about it, huh?” he muttered. “Am I allowed to touch your stomach, honey?”

Virgil hesitated, but he nodded after a moment. Patton reached up and placed his hands on Virgil’s lower belly. When he flinched, he used his thumb to rub gentle circles into it.

“Okay, so, in your body, right down here, you have this thing called a uterus,” he softly explained. “When people are pregnant, that’s where the babies grow before—”

“Am I PREGNANT?!”

“No, no, no—!” Patton had to hold back a laugh, taking his hands away to cover his face for just a second before returning them to their original position. “You’re not pregnant, Virgil, don’t—don’t worry about that!”

Virgil snapped his mouth shut, lower lip still trembling. Patton offered him a reassuring smile as he continued.

“Your uterus has these two things connected to it called ovaries.” He used his two index fingers to draw out where they would be. “They hold a bunch of tiny little eggs inside of them that eventually would turn into people—but only under certain circumstances, at certain times, usually involving another person. If you were to get pregnant, you’d know, understand? It’s not going to happen randomly.”

Patton didn’t move on until Virgil nodded.

“Okay. Now, about once a month, one of these two little guys is going to let one of their eggs go,” he said, “and it sticks to the wall of your uterus. And your body goes…”

Patton threw his hands into the air and waved them around. “’Yay! We’re gonna have a baby!’” he cheered in a cartoony voice. Virgil let out a weak snicker. Patton counted it as a win.

“It starts to get ready for this potential baby by building up this lining around the walls, so that it’ll be extra protected from harm. And for a little while, if you… Ah…” Patton’s face turned red. “Do… certain things, with certain people, that egg might get fertilized, and that’s how pregnancy starts.”

“Like… kissing?”

Patton hummed. “No, you’d have to do a little more than that. More, uh… adult stuff.”

Virgil nodded, looking at the floor very seriously. “Taxes.”

It was a fight to keep his laugh in. “R-Right. Taxes.” He cleared his throat and continued. “Um, anyway, if that egg doesn’t get fertilized, your body says, ‘Oh, darn! Well, maybe next time!’, and it gets rid of the egg, and then it gets rid of that lining so it can make a fresh one for the next egg.” He pointed to the bloody toilet paper still gripped tightly in Virgil’s hands. “That’s what that blood is. It’s not a cut, and it’s certainly not an omen of death. It’s just a sign that you’re growing up.”

Virgil stared at the toilet paper for a long moment. “…Am I going to have to do this every month?”

“Well, not at first,” Patton replied, putting his hands on his knees. “This is a brand new feature in your body right now, so it’ll take a bit for it to fall into a real cycle. For a little bit, you might have a couple within a month, or you might not have it for another three after this. But, eventually, yeah, the body will balance itself out.”

“How long is that gonna take?”

“It depends on your body. If it takes a while, or it doesn’t seem like it’s going to balance at all, we can look into some options to help, like birth control or hormone therapy. Modern medicine is a great thing,” he said with a wink. “How about we save that conversation for a little later, though? See how this pans out for now?”

There was a beat, and then Virgil slowly nodded. He shifted and tipped his head away. “What do I do about my underwear?” he whispered.

Patton hummed and sat back, looking up at the ceiling. “Well… I’ll be honest, kiddo, I can talk your ear off about anatomy and the medical side of things, but I don’t have a clue about the products and stuff. How would you feel if I called Remus’s mom and asked her to come explain that stuff to us?”

Virgil wiped at his eyes. “Okay.”

Offering a gentle smile, Patton held his arms open; there was a moment of hesitation, and then Virgil leaned forward and wrapped his smaller arms around him. Patton held him tight and rubbed his back.

“Thank you,” he whimpered.

“Of course, sweetie. That’s what your Pop and I are here for,” he reassured. “And don’t you ever worry about bothering us if you’re not feeling well, okay? We care about you more than whatever silly things we might be working on. We want to take care of you, okay?”

Virgil shuddered in a manner that was suspiciously similar to that of a repressed sob; when he spoke next, his voice was tight and high-pitched. “Okay.”

They sat like this for a moment, with Patton holding his son close, rubbing a hand over his lower back, until he pressed a kiss into his hair and pulled back.

“Alright, Virge, I need to go call Mrs. Drake,” he said. “Is your stomach still hurting? Or anything else, for that matter? I can get you some medicine to help, if you want.”

Virgil nodded, scrubbing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

Patton nodded and climbed to his feet. “Okay. I’ll be back as soon as I can, promise.”

He stepped out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him and leaving Virgil alone with his thoughts again. He was still shaking, yes, but the terror of thinking he was going to die was settling into the more manageable fear of learning a new routine…

And maybe, a little, the risk of starting to put his trust into someone.

But maybe there wasn’t so much to fear in that one.

Virgil leaned forward and finally dropped the bloody toilet paper into the trash.

----------

The front door slammed open; Logan and Roman both nearly jumped out of their skin from where they sat at the dining room table.

“Virgil, we got your little butt-diapers!”

There was the sound of a light swat, and then the snatching of a plastic bag.

“Stahp, Remus, he’s already having a hard time with it!”

Snickering echoed through the entryway as the two climbed the half-flight of stairs leading to the main floor. As Remus made a beeline to tackle Roman out of his chair, Logan adjusted his posture to be more formal and nodded at Mrs. Drake.

“Good afternoon, Alya,” he called.

“Hi, boys,” she quickly responded. “Are they still in the bathroom?”

“I believe so, yes.”

Mrs. Drake nodded and hurried off just as Roman wrestled Remus off of him. He glanced at the hallway, and then between his twin and his father.

“Wait, what’s going on?”

“Your baby bro’s anus is bleeding for the first time!”

“No, Remus,” Logan scolded. He turned to Roman. “He’s experiencing his first menstrual period. Your father called Mrs. Drake to help teach him the technical aspects of how to best handle it.”

Roman blinked and sat up straight. “Oh! Is he going to be alright?”

“Yeah, Mom brought a bunch of stuff to help,” Remus replied, waving his hand as he plopped into the open seat next to Roman. “Pads, painkillers, heating rice bag sock things, the whole shebang. And a bunch of chocolate and candy and stuff!”

“Ah, good. I’ve seen studies that dark chocolate helps with cramps,” Logan stated.

Remus sighed. “A shame. I was hoping we’d get to see Virgie’s tiny baby rip out of his stomach. Like that scene in Aliens!”

Roman let out a whine and swatted him. “Dude, that’s my little brother!”

“Oh, come on! Your other dad’s a nurse! He could stitch him back up in no time!”

“That is not how nurses work!”

Logan hummed and adjusted his glasses, turning back to the papers he was grading. “Astounding. In less than two minutes, you’ve expressed your ignorance in both anatomy and the careers of the medical field. I suggest you brush up on them both if you truly wish to study in the field of dentistry.”

“Haa, brush up,” Roman laughed.

Logan shot him a glare over the rim of his glasses; Roman and Remus high-fived.

“Do your homework, Roman.”

Roman grinned and turned back to face his homework, but his mind instead floated back to Virgil’s condition. He bit down on his lip and shifted before looking up and tapping his pencil end against the table.

“Seriously… Virgil is going to be okay, right?” he asked.

Logan let out a soft breath. “Your brother is going to be just fine,” he gently reassured. “This is a natural thing for many people who possess uteri. He might be in pain for a little while, but ultimately, he will be alright.”

“My mom deals with it every month, and she’s not dead yet,” Remus pointed out. Then, with his grin fading a bit, he added, “Our mom probably had them, too. She must’ve, if she had us.”

Roman watched him for a long moment, and then he nodded, swallowing the lump that had snuck into his throat.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”

---------

Second A/N:

Hey, folks-- So, as it turned out, I made a bit of a mistake in explaining this. So sorry about this! Thank you so much to @romanslunchbox​ for pointing this out and correcting me:

“ It isn’t a huge mistake. However, in your fic you stated that the egg gets stuck in the lining of the uterus. But that is only possible with a fertilized egg. An non-fertilized egg dies in the oviducts before it can even reach the uterus. After the egg dies certain hormones are released to start the menstruation about 2 weeks later (how that works is an entire shit show of hormones and stuff). It takes a while for these hormones to be released, so the uterus keeps producing more lining for the egg to get stuck in. When the uterus finally gets the signale that there is no pregnancy, that is when the menstruation starts. “

[angryschnauzer]

You'll have to excuse me whilst i don't applaud the NHS, whilst i don't celebrate its birthday, whilst i don't worship it like a false idol.

Years of systemic underfunding is absolutely the route cause for 90% of the issues with the NHS, that people have willingly voted for parties that have continued to defund the people that are there from birth to death for the country, but within that there is a 10% of people that abuse their positions within their roles. It has gotten to the point where i will only seek medical assistance from the NHS if i cannot find an alternative whether it be a service i have to pay for privately, or an alternative therapy. Over the years i have faced bigotry and prejudice, and i can't even imagine what minorities face.

>To the NHS dentist that when i visited them for a pain in my jaw, levered a wisdom tooth out with a screwdriver and without anesthetic, and then when i almost passed out from the pain, gave me a shot of morphine without telling me what it was, made me pay £500 for the treatment whilst i was high as a kite, and let me drive home.

>To the doctor that when i went to see him about concerns over my inability to lose weight, refused to do any tests for hormone imbalances, and instead called me lazy to my face.

>To the Nurses on the ward when i had my miscarriage that said to me 'your baby is dead, what do you want to do?', and i was in too much emotional distress to understand that she meant 'did i want a evac proceedure' and so i simply wanted to go home and cry, but ended up passing the fetus at home without painkillers, on my own, screaming and in so much pain i ripped the fittings off of the bathroom wall.

>To the maternity nurse who when i was pregnant 13 months later asked me if it was my first pregnancy, and i said no, she told me the first one 'didn't count'. >To the A&E doctor that when i was rushed to hospital at 3 months pregnant because i found a huge lump in my breast told me if it was cancer i would have to hope it didn’t kill me before i had the baby as i would go to hell for terminating the child if chose to have an abortion so i could go through treatment. A tiny biopsy found that it was simply water build up due to being pregnant.

>To the nurse that tore my vagina when she broke my waters after being in labour for 40 hours, even when my notes said i should be having a c-section and it was ignored, only to spend another 10 hours in labour before being taken for an emergency c-section.

>To the midwives on the ward after i had my son, where i was paralysed from the shoulders down due to the amount of anesthetic i had during my operation, and let my child cry for me for 3 hours before the night cleaner finally heard my parched cries for help that i couldn't reach my child because my arms were powerless. >To the Health Visitor that told me i would raise a ‘stupid child’ because i couldn’t breastfeed.

>To the Doctor i went to see 4 months after birth because i realised i had post natal depression, for him to sit there and tell me to 'snap out of it'.

>To the Doctor that when i had a car accident and slipped a disk, told me i was imagining the pain and i slipped the disk because i was overweight.

>To the Practice Manager that when i commented on a facebook post on a closed group that bias due to being overweight was rife in the NHS, phoned me the next day to yell at me even though i hadn't named the GP practice in my comment, surely violating patient privacy laws.

>To the Doctor that refuses to entertain a conversation about having a hysterectomy because ‘i’m not 40 yet and may want another child’, even though i have PTSD from what i have already been through and categorically do not want any more children, have a giant fibroid across my womb that means i could not carry a child full term and that my womb would rupture if i carried a pregnancy beyond 4 or 5 months, have periods so heavy and painful that i can’t work for a week each month, can barely leave the house without flooding through wearing dual sanitary wear, and have cysts covering my ovaries that inhibit my hormones from being released correctly, but ‘might want another child’.

 So when i didn't clap for the carers, its because i haven't been cared for, but what i will do is campaign that the 90% in the NHS that do work unbiased, that do everything they can to help patients, to ensure they are properly funded, that they are properly staffed, and that they can have the support of me when they try to report the rogue staff members that i seem to attract.

[bridgetbites]

On Celebrity 'Nutritionists'

After years of “struggling” with keeping my weight down in the underweight BMI range, I decided to enlist the help of a celebrity nutritionist. This person is not actually a trained nutritionist – they are a type of alternate health practitioner. They do not have a medical degree. But they claim themselves to be a “guru nutritionist”. We worked together on and off from 2014 to 2017 and to this person I attribute in large part my shot digestive system and a smattering of choir voices in my head that work to pull me out of my self and my power, and into my reflection. It absolutely kills me that they work with a huge amount of young women, models and non models alike. This person and many like them are not empowering. They are the epitome of diminishing. And the fact that they are getting paid stupid amounts of money for their ‘work’ makes me furious.

This person took my fat measurements, and claimed me to be “a mess”. My BMI was in the underweight range. To be honest, I’m not really sure what a mess even means. Any trained dietician would probably recommend me putting on a few pounds. But, this person thought I needed ‘all the help I could get’ to lose that pesky extra weight that was regulating my hormones and keeping me healthy. The plan was simple. Shakes and steamed vegetables that brought me to well below 800 calories a day, and fistfuls of supplements – all that they sell to you. Every single one of their clients gets put on the same plan (maybe a couple pieces of protein added here and there). Never mind any individual conditions. With my first year nutritionist degree training, even I know that every person has different nutritional requirements. This person is making a killing off the sales of their shakes and supplements alone, never mind the cost of the actual sessions, off of a starvation diet plan.

I happily went along with their plan for a few months, lost loads of weight, along with my period, my digestion and nearly my relationship. But you know, you win some you lose some. This was my first experience of extreme weight loss. And when I decided to start eating well again, (not a lot, but three meals a day, mostly vegetables, no “carbs” – it would take me four years to eat them again, including fruit - and no liquid nutrition) I gained back all the weight and then some in the space of a week. The maintenance plan that was given to me consisted of eating eggs and chicken instead of the protein shakes, and I was met with a shrug when I told them I was vegan.

And along with the weight gain came the most horrifying stomach problems I have ever experienced. I assumed that they would go away, that living off of chocolate flavored medical food for three months had just changed my gut, and I needed to readjust. But this first experience changed my digestion for good. And each successive starvation cycle only made my gut problems worse. It has now been nearly four years since I first stepped into their office, and it has been four years of agony. I have managed to get it under control mostly through a low fodmap diet, exercise and meditation, but I get terrible flare ups every couple of months (through accidently eating foods like cauliflower or mushrooms, or stress). It is truly debilitating.

I should have learned my lesson after round one. But. ‘nothing tastes as good as skinny feels’ right? (Bad. This is bad.). And I had pressure on me from all sides telling me to lose weight. So I went back. This time a little heavier. My BMI had been moved from underweight to healthy for the first time since I was 14. In that sense this pseudo-nutritionist had done their job, albeit through an extremely unnecessary, roundabout way. I walked in, measurements were taken, they looked me in the eye and said “you are fat”.

I was astounded! Never in all my years of modeling had someone come straight out and said I was fat. Agents and clients at least had the decency to dance around the subject, telling me to “tone up”, “lose an inch”, “work out a little more” or “try limiting desert!” (who eats desert these days anyway?! I sure as hell wasn’t then). I wish I had told this fake doctor to get fucked. I guess I am doing that now. But instead, I got back on the plan, hating myself even more, and lost the weight that my body was so desperate to keep on. This time I lost a lot more weight. This time I was on it for longer. This time my boyfriend was ready. This time my period went away for a year.

But boy I looked GREAT! (please note the sarcasm here. When I look back at photos of me from this period, I get so sad. My eyes look lost, and remember so strongly the pain and anxiety behind them.) Some clients were happy, and weirdly enough, some were not. The clients who were worried, I owe my career and health to. They are the ones who like me “curvier”. They aren’t into selling clothes on severely underweight bodies, housing a human who has lost her power. They celebrate women in all her strength, not ask her to diminish in size until she is lost. I love these people. Today these amazing people I get to work with are my closest friends, and they have been with me every step of the way in this journey. I want to see the industry ruled by these sorts of clients – brands who champion women in all shapes and sizes. Even those ‘out of shape’ size 4’s.

However, in spite of these fantastic humans and clients, it was required of me to lose weight again. So the last time I went on this plan, I decided I would just stay on it. I would not get off the plan, even when my work did not require me to be tiny. As fake doctor’s maintenance plans didn’t work, I would just stay on the shakes and vegetables until I retired from modeling.

… When one is malnourished, the brain does not exactly work properly.

Mentally I was completely shot. All my experiences (I won’t bore you with my tales of three years worth of extreme dieting followed by extreme weight gain) of gaining so much weight so quickly had opened a flood gate of self hate in my head. My perceived failure in keeping myself sick had vastly increased my mental demons to the point of lethargy, mild depression and anxiety. This time I really was a mess. Long story short, this all culminated in a series of massive panic attacks, which finally got me into therapy. Weirdly enough, it took me three months of mental work to finally let go of this fake doctor’s protein shakes, even though I was experiencing some mild agoraphobia along with the anxiety and self hate. The nutritionist had more supplements to sell me to help with my mental struggles. I would sit there in therapy, and justify why I couldn’t let go of this fake doctors ‘plan’. I was convinced that I wasn’t as unhealthy as I actually was, and that it was actually ok for me to be dizzy all the time, be scared of the dark and a raging insomniac.

But all things must end eventually. One day I woke up, and realized I would never survive losing that much weight again. Feeling myself completely lose my grip on reality, and the slow recovery was sobering. Plus I was gaining weight. Thanks in part to my wonderful loving husband I was slowly coming back to life. When I finally got my period again, it was like greeting a long lost friend. Who kind of hated me, but that’s ok, I was an abuser. I had let my body become so deprived that my endocrine system had shut down. I vowed to never lose my period again (this did not happen, but that’s another story) and so I realized, why am I holding onto this expensive, fear based diet that isn’t serving me anymore? I definitely did not come onto this decision empowered. I got rid of the shakes and suddenly felt the floor drop from beneath me. I had completely lost any idea of what to eat – I had no idea when I was hungry or what I even liked. But slowly, one step at a time (that’s also another story) I found myself where I am today.

Because I am free. It took a very long time, and a huge amount of work with the occasional relapse. But I can honestly say, that I am in a place where I am ok being honest about my past. I am angry. I hate the fact that there is a person out there who calls themselves ‘doctor’ without a doctors degree. They call themselves a ‘guru nutritionist’ without a nutritionists degree. They make a killing selling young girls too many products they do not need, to make them extremely underweight. But what makes me most angry, is that there is a place for this in our society. I want women to be able to be the size that works for them. We should not be being told to diminish. I am coming from an extreme world, where it is all about the way you look, but I feel this changing. People want to know our stories, and clients want to know us as people. The fashion industry is not a terrible place. In spite of my recent stories – I truly love and value my job and the people I meet. I have felt a huge shift that has made it ok for me to tell my stories, and not be alienated. Unfortunately, with any change, it can take time for all the players to catch up. And it is these players who we must treat with respect and love. Change comes about through peaceful conversation. Never attack and defense.

At the end of the day, I just want our bodies to not be these instruments of control anymore. I want us to demand freedom. Because we will get there. Let’s keep talking about this. Let's destroy the place in the fashion industry that keeps this fake doctor in business. I believe the fashion industry is powerful, and should be a positive place. So let's employ healthy, and positive people in it. Let's be the change we want to see.

These are my stories. And I dictate my road.

 Peace and love

Bridget

Photograph | Jason Lee Parry

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