Now with 50% less metal

In February of last year, I got a microdermal piercing on my sternum. I loved it. Body modification, for me, is kind of a way that I can control my body. I've written about the war I've waged on my body since I went through puberty and for some reason, controlling the way my body looked by sticking some metal into it really helped. I would look down and there would be this little piece of metal, peeking at me from between my breasts, which were already contentious to me. Were they too big, too small? Do the pock marks from the heat rash I get every summer ruin them? But there was this little piece of titanium that made them beautiful accessories.

It made me a little more confident. People I didn't even known would stop and ask me what that was on my chest, and, no matter what the reaction was, I still loved it.
It started to reject over summer break when I was pulling on my swimsuits every morning, then layering a PDF over it for teaching canoeing. By the time I got back to school it was ok, but a little pronounced and over the past 6 months, it has turned purple with scar tissue as my body pushed the little metal feet up to the top layers of skin. It needed to go. I'm working at the same camp this summer, doing the same thing, and I can't imagine what it would be like to have it reject while I'm basically living in a glorified lean-to on the sand dunes of Lake Michigan.

It's been through a lot with me. A mental illness, my last horrible relationship, many hook-ups and a summer back at camp. It's been through coming-out and fights but it has always been there, maybe even lymphing for a day or two or pressing into my sternum when I gave a particularly tight hug to remind me that it was still there.

And now it's not and all I have is a little purple scar and a weird brown scab to remind me of my titanium friend. I guess now carrying my bags across my chest won't be as painful or dangerous and I won't have to explain why I have metal sticking out of my chest. I'll just have to make up a story for how I got this scar.

The Letter

Over the course of my nearly three years at Grinnell, I've gotten a lot of angry letters from my parents. Letters are the sign that something is Wrong. Capital double-u, Wrong.

Today was the absolute worst.

At first it was funny. I try to find ignorance funny because it takes away from the hurt that it's supposed to cause. But then I read a few more times and the bad grammar and incomprehensible subjects faded away to leave a greasy, grimy trail of ignorance and fear.

I never really "came out" to my parents. I let little things slip in and out of conversation over Spring break while I was home with them. The week before when I had my first girl break-up and I cried for twelve hours straight, I had called my dad at 2 or 3 in the morning because I was so lonely. After talking to me for a few minutes, he realized that I was getting over the break-up of a relationship with a woman and just kind of dropped the conversation.

My parents aren't by any means religious, something that they cite in their letter as a possible reason for why I am the way I am. My mother has several lesbian friends, whom she finds flakey and a little ridiculous, but nothing indicates that their personality has anything to do with their sexual preference. My father has never made comments to me or anyone else concerning a fear of homosexuality.

On the other hand, this is not completely out of the blue. My mother, upon learning my first year that I wanted to go on birth control, told me that no man would ever love me if I weren't a virgin and guys in college would think I was easy. Her words, not mine. That's why I didn't want to come out to my parents. I thought we were getting along pretty well over Spring break. I helped my mom in the kitchen and she bought me jelly beans for doing the grocery shopping. Frankly, I don't see my relationship with my parents as having hit "rock bottom" as she says it has.

I'm a good little gay girl, and I sent my parents the book Straight Parents, Gay Children and e-mailed them saying that I got the letter and I didn't want them to contact me until they have both read the book and talked to a family counselor. I feel horrendously guilty.

I keep telling people I'm ok, but I'm really, really not at all. I have a long and shitty history of my parents just not getting it. A few weeks ago while I was at home, my mother brought up how lesbian and gay couples shouldn't have children because the children will just suffer at the hands of bullies. At the time, I thought I talked about the issue calmly with her, arguing that change doesn't happen because people are comfortable all the time and that a lot of lesbian and gay families think about where they live in relation to how well-established support for their children is. She interpreted my having an opinion as somehow insulting to her obviously well-researched conclusions. I will never be successful or smart or skinny or good enough for my parents. Last year, I was diagnosed with a fairly severe mental illness which I have been, for the most part, taking care of in the past year completely by myself. Other than a few doctor's visits that went on my family's insurance, I paid for my medications and used the county mental health services available, despite my parents threatening to take me out of school and keep me at home since I couldn't deal with the "real world".

My life is far from horrible. I live in a warm dorm room. I have wonderful friends that give me love and support when I need it. I go to a good school and I do something that I really love on the side. I'm not an alcoholic or a drug addict. I don't have a child that I didn't intend to have and I'm not in jail. I don't live in a country where I am considered sexual property. I'm not starving or homeless. But this sucks. I guess that for once, I wish my parents would see my point of view before writing something so convoluted and angry at me for something I can't control. I wish that for once they would understand that my life has a lot of stressful elements in it and that having to deal with their bigotry suddenly cranks up the stress on my life. I wish they would understand that they do not exist in a vaccuum and that the things that they say are profoundly hurtful and ignorant.