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This essay was published in Malocclusion: A Post-Bimaxillary Osteotomy Nonfiction Journal, which can be found here
In my mind, there are two distinct versions of myself separated by mind and body. As far as the mind is concerned we have Victor II, the current rendition that exists today, and then the Victor that looked into the mirror nine years ago: Victor I. Victor I, birthed of shame and anxiety, exists as a foil to the pride and perfectionism of Victor II. They represent themselves with fear and insecurity, dysmorphia and dysphoria. I’ve lost many years of my life to them, passed over many opportunities. My memories of living as Victor I are hazy unclear, and suppressed. In some ways, parts of Victor I remain inside of me. Upon looking into a mirror, I sometimes see the body of Victor II through the mind of Victor I, not recognizing my form.
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This essay was originally published February 19th, 2018 and was re-published in Malocclusion: A Post-Bimaxillary Osteotomy Nonfiction Journal, which can be found here
Running from friends. Running from life. Running from family. No matter where I go, I can’t escape. Running from anxiety. Running from reality. Running from my future career. I’ve never been much of an athlete. My legs and my lungs are always in competition of what will give first. Running from my desires, because I felt like I was never worth them. Running from my needs, because other peoples’ were more important. Running is pointless and exhausting. Trying to justify why you’re running is almost as bad as the act of running itself.
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This essay was published in Malocclusion: A Post-Bimaxillary Osteotomy Nonfiction Journal, which can be found here
“ My mouth was sewn up ” Upon waking up from my surgery, The first thing I noticed was how much I didn’t feel. Everything was numb and bloated. Uncomfortable, but not painful. The second thing I noticed was that I could not open my jaw. Strong elastic bands were attached to the surgical hooks on my braces. The only thing that could force my teeth apart was the strong convulsions that came with me vomiting blood all over myself while resting on my hospital bed. My lips were swollen as if my surgeon bundled in a botox injection with my double jaw surgery.
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This essay was published in Malocclusion: A Post-Bimaxillary Osteotomy Nonfiction Journal, which can be found here
Body Memory I remember looking through the cold, empty room. Posters plastered the walls, and stickers lined the desks. I scanned through documents and browsed through files, looking for anything of interest on the events that transpired before my arrival. Amongst the mess, I found packets of macaroni and cheese, a pair of panties, and signs of a herculean effort to keep a college radio station running to the best of its ability. There was a constant effort to keep the dying art of radio alive, and eventually it all came crashing down.
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This essay was published in Malocclusion: A Post-Bimaxillary Osteotomy Nonfiction Journal, which can be found here
To write creative nonfiction is to let yourself be vulnerable. You lay bare scars that are otherwise invisible, bring out painful memories that would rather be forgotten. Fashion, conversely, focuses on exclusivity and subtly. Fashion exists to hide and act while communicating silently, if at all. As such, finding creative nonfiction on the topic of fashion is nontrivial, and I spent a lot of time searching until I found myself on the homepage of Vestoj.com. The design stood out to me from traditional fashion related websites: it had a simple, ad-free layout. There was a large focus on the text with sparse yet impactful photography, and every article had a diverse set of sources.
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This essay was published in Malocclusion: A Post-Bimaxillary Osteotomy Nonfiction Journal, which can be found here
In a moment I was awake, stomach-churning and head drooping. Knowing what was coming, I frantically felt around for the phone remote in the half-lit intensive care unit. Then it came: blood. So much blood. Leaking through the gaps in my bound together teeth, filling the cold room with a vaguely metallic stench. I could do nothing but lurch and heave as it fell onto my hospital blanket. There was no chance to reach for the suction tube on my left; I gripped tightly to the rails of the hospital bed every time my jaw convulsed and ejected blood.
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