When I talk about my experiences with growing up in low income rural America, it’s not a flex. I spent YEARS being the weird girl gold digger any time I interacted with someone whose parents had more money than mine (everyone had more). The more **** people spewed when they assumed I wasn’t listening, the more I’d react by performing a circus of self violence. Even at my most addicted, I never sought out a particular substance, the act of hate brought me the most comfort. Drugs and alcohol were merely an excuse to amplify what was already there, and when street drugs weren’t an option, I started huffing. When I was finally detached enough, I’d return to cutting. The only secret I kept wasn’t a secret at all, everyone knew I was an open wound yet continued throwing rocks aimed directly at my heart almost as if to say “we see your purpose, thank you for volunteering as tribute for our insecurities” And I did, I took on everyone else’s anger and wore it as a badge of honor. And I still do, only now, I pity them because they refuse to see the ways in which their obsession with nice things made them so mean. I’m typing this smack dab in the middle of suburbia, observing the stream of superiority that will eventually trickle down to my childhood trailer park to convince some other queer kid that they should just give up. Whoever they are, I hope they fight harder than I did. It’s not a flex, it’s an opportunity to own my shame without harming myself.