I hope this message finds you well. My name is Aziz, and I’m reaching out with a heartfelt plea to help my family find safety and reunite with our mother. 😞

The ongoing war in Gaza has torn my family apart. My mother and newborn sister are stranded in Egypt, while I, along with the rest of my sex family members, am trapped in the midst of the genocide in Gaza. We have not only been separated but have also lost our home and are enduring unimaginable hardships. 💔

Your support can make a difference. Whether by reading our story, donating, or sharing our campaign with others, you can help us reunite, find safety, and start anew. 🙏🕊

Thank you, from the depths of my heart, for your kindness, compassion, and solidarity during this difficult time. ❤🍉

https://gofund.me/58268669 🔗

"Nobody noticed. Nobody cared. In fact, no one had ever cared to begin with. I was free from the illusion of control."

I was an early adopter of the digital self-improvement success story. Nothing delights quite like a well informed Before and After. I’ve alternated classifying myself as both sides of the equation depending on the year, day of the week, and phase of the moon. I’ve been a beguiling After while preparing my morning green juice and gone to bed a failed Before. Dragging selfies into a dual frame on the screen before drifting off.

A cautionary tale to all ye who seek to better. A proof of concept for water fasting, raw vegetables, and the power of positive thought.

I have a recurring wet dream. I’m trapped in an episode of The Biggest Loser in which I play every role.

The well-intentioned dietician.

(”Have you tried...swapping a cookie for an apple?”)

The screaming personal trainer.

(And my protruding neck veins in close up.)

The mother of three who vomits on the treadmill.

(Serves me right.)

I am each and every member of the studio audience, horny for progress. Rock hard at the mention of a negative number. Buck wild for a split screen and a power pose.

I am the judge, jury, and executive producer of my own ascendence. I wake in a puddle every time.

There are those who stand apart from the indiscretions of their many former selves. They thrive in their ongoing truth. Evolution is an inevitability, not a certificate of completion. I admire them each in turn.

I possess a seemingly endless supply of songs to cry to

I dole them out in small batches

Tragedy, joy, heartache, and horniness

A well-dwelling tune for every occasion

Shameless in their ardor and their soft acoustic sentiments

Let others take up the mantle of vulnerability today

I am feeling ill-equipped

I rediscovered the word “baby” at a ripe 23

And unearthed a little softness again in the same breath

Wasted years avoiding verbal affection

Anything within the orbit of gooey and defenseless

For a friend, a lover, the tail end of a quip over text

There was never a right time for a pulpy pet name

I feared it would tug at a thread of unrequited frailty

Unravel me until laid bare

A prickly tangle of facts and reason

On my laundry list of personal improvement to-do’s

“Learn how to make eye contact” is always perched atop

To see and be seen through are courageous acts

I’m still acquiring the tools to engage

In the kind of transparency I cannot choose to opt out of

If I give you my full attention

Extend the simplest olive branch

He pins me up against a thin dormitory wall. Slurring, drunk on his own ego. Panting, breathless from his own execution of masculinity.

“Tell me how you like to be touched.”

18 years in this body and it has never felt less like mine. I’ve had ample time to prepare an answer that resembles enthusiastic consent and some modicum of truth wrapped in the neat package of femininity, wish fulfillment, and pornographic performance art.

My mind throws only abstract shapes and colors. “Gently, slowly, carefully” flee in place of a timid, “I’m not sure.” 

I return home with unsought bruises blooming along my pelvis. I ice them with a low sodium Lean Cuisine.

---

The walls of my childhood home once answered my cry for help with a resounding pacifier.

“Run your mouth to anyone about this and you won’t live here anymore.”

I licked my wounds and reserved my lexicon for worthier matters before the age of 10.

---

iPad in hand, I race through the digital intake survey at a therapist’s office. If there was an award for fastest completion of the yes/no page, I'd be a shoo-in. The receptionist has never seen someone so well adjusted. I exude stability.

“Please describe one characteristic of yourself that you like.”

My smug fingers waste no time.

“Heightened language facility.”

I stop winning soon after. I spend 20 minutes of my first session in floods of tears struggling to phrase a coherent answer to my therapist’s question. My mind is padlocked box, full to bursting with lush descriptors for lives that are not mine. I haven’t seen the key for many years.

(The question was, “How are you?”)

---

Trauma looks sexiest cloaked in a Mamet monologue, riddled with Fuck Yous and validated with the high praise of a passing grade.

Grief seeks a spotlight, and she loves the kaleidoscope lens of palatability, clap-on-clap-off tears, and job offers.