Vulnerability time again.

So, in the bucket of "semi-innocuous things that can fuck you up for life", I cried this morning after waking from a stupid anxiety dream.

Why? Well strap in...

All my life people have told me I'm attractive (boo-hoo, right?). Which also means, all my life I've had people tell me I'm vain, or shallow, or that I'm using my looks manipulatively. People have also informed me that looks don't last, and that I'd "better have a plan B"¹ for when they inevitably fade.

¹ not that kind of plan B 😑

And, with brains being the lovely little pattern-seeking machines they are, mine condensed this down to "People like/hate you for your looks. If you're not pretty enough, you're worthless; if you're too pretty you're a bad person".

I've written before about my ex-spouse who told me, in a crowded cafe, "people only listen to you because you're fuckable" (this was in response to telling them that two psychologists had favorably reviewed my paper on autism self-diagnostic criteria)

I've also written about how I never really found myself attractive until just recently (thanks therapy, healthy relationships, and Fedi). I recognized that other folx did—or at least said they did, but—with my lifelong history of abuse—I didn't see it. I think it took, at least in part, having a healthy, loving, asexual partner for me to start liking myself in new ways. And, as she said after I told her about the dream this morning, "if I'm using you for your body, I'm doing a really bad job of it" 😋

So what was the dream? It was a pretty basic theater anxiety dream.

I was in a play (playing the male lead, I think), and I'd spent the morning doing my costume and makeup for the part. Someone ran by and let me know I was on in 7 minutes. It was then I realized no one had given me a script, and I didn't know anything about my lines or the play. A perfectly reasonable panic attack ensued, and then I woke up.

Now, I don't usually read into dreams; dreams are my brain's equivalent of DOS6 running defrag. But this one was pretty on the nose.

I had spent all my time trying to look the role, and had completely failed to do the part that matters...and now it was too late—I was the pretty one with no substance.

#Beauty #Dreams #Therapy #MentalHealth #Anxiety #Abuse

Vulnerability time again.

So, in the bucket of "semi-innocuous things that can fuck you up for life", I cried this morning after waking from a stupid anxiety dream.

Why? Well strap in...

All my life people have told me I'm attractive (boo-hoo, right?). Which also means, all my life I've had people tell me I'm vain, or shallow, or that I'm using my looks manipulatively. People have also informed me that looks don't last, and that I'd "better have a plan B"¹ for when they inevitably fade.

¹ not that kind of plan B 😑

And, with brains being the lovely little pattern-seeking machines they are, mine condensed this down to "People like/hate you for your looks. If you're not pretty enough, you're worthless; if you're too pretty you're a bad person".

I've written before about my ex-spouse who told me, in a crowded cafe, "people only listen to you because you're fuckable" (this was in response to telling them that two psychologists had favorably reviewed my paper on autism self-diagnostic criteria)

I've also written about how I never really found myself attractive until just recently (thanks therapy, healthy relationships, and Fedi). I recognized that other folx did—or at least said they did, but—with my lifelong history of abuse—I didn't see it. I think it took, at least in part, having a healthy, loving, asexual partner for me to start liking myself in new ways. And, as she said after I told her about the dream this morning, "if I'm using you for your body, I'm doing a really bad job of it" 😋

So what was the dream? It was a pretty basic theater anxiety dream.

I was in a play (playing the male lead, I think), and I'd spent the morning doing my costume and makeup for the part. Someone ran by and let me know I was on in 7 minutes. It was then I realized no one had given me a script, and I didn't know anything about my lines or the play. A perfectly reasonable panic attack ensued, and then I woke up.

Now, I don't usually read into dreams; dreams are my brain's equivalent of DOS6 running defrag. But this one was pretty on the nose.

I had spent all my time trying to look the role, and had completely failed to do the part that matters...and now it was too late—I was the pretty one with no substance.

#Beauty #Dreams #Therapy #MentalHealth #Anxiety #Abuse

Day 737 (monday)

#MastoArt #Art #DigitalArt #Procreate #Draw #Comic #Dog #Duck #Sausage #Clouds #Dream #Dreams #KleineKunstklasse #DailyArt #DailySketch #KleineKunstklasse

Day 737 (monday)

#MastoArt #Art #DigitalArt #Procreate #Draw #Comic #Dog #Duck #Sausage #Clouds #Dream #Dreams #KleineKunstklasse #DailyArt #DailySketch #KleineKunstklasse