i know of sorrow in torrents.
my heart is bending, learning
how to be with a trickle that may or may not become a stream
weaving between and through
the crocuses and wildflowers.
it picks up some sticks along the way
leaves behind some mud,
and sometimes, joined by all the other
ends in that warm and wide pool
my young body once slid down a moss slide
and pierced the still surface of,
before languishing on large rocks
baking like pie crust in the gift of the sun.
Scared. Confused. Feeling really frightened by the lack of mental health in the QPOC community. Feeling challenged by how to interact with people when we have two wildly different accounts of how interactions have gone down. Feeling like my mind is being messed with, intentionally. And feeling shut off to any & all new people . . . wanting to just nestle in to the people I already know and love and trust.
Relating to other humans is by far the hardest work we have to do.
I've created an imaginary awards show that happens in my brain and that is hosted by Rick Moranis (I just decided that last part right now.) It takes place during my shifts at work.
It's called "The Custys" and throughout the duration of the show (roughly eight hours. You know. Kind of like the Grammys) I present customers with different imaginary awards. This all started when one day, I realized that I was muttering the phrase "Least Favorite" under my breath a good 7-8 times a day. If one of my coworkers happened to be around, I would say it loud enough for them to hear. When they stopped responding to my mutterings, I realized I should probably come up with something more creative. Even if just to get their attention, get a response, and keep myself entertained. Also, it was unlikely that my least favorite person was actually changing all that often.
Oh. Well, you know. I've been thinking some things.
Like, hey, being genderqueer & genderfluid is hard. Not only is it hard in most of the world, but it is also hard, and maybe even more excruciatingly so, in so-called queer spaces.
As much as I love you, I don't want to participate in your bro-out. Not that it matters, because you never invite me anyway. And I don't want to femme-bond with you. Your hair looks fine, I don't have any lipgloss, and I'll never understand why you put those shoes on to go out and dance in the first place.
A die-hard & favorite homie reminded me today of one of my most epic freakouts of all time. We had a good chuckle about it, as we always do when this particular instance comes up in conversation. I won't get into details here, but let's just say it involved me waving my hands over my head wildly and screaming at the top of my lungs, "SHUT THE FUCK UP! WILL YOU PLEASE JUST SHUT RIGHT THE FUCK UP!!" at some neighbors.
Ahem. So. I am not perfect. I've certainly learned a lot since then and tend to communicate in a way more calm and polite manner, even when triggered or when things have gotten really bad. But, you know. It's a path. I'm still learning, and still practicing, and I will be the first to tell you that I am not perfect by any means. I say that a lot. Shit, I just said it twice in this paragraph.
That's Mia, me, and my finger, pointing to my lime-green, butch-lite drill. . . that Mia still needs to get a new bit for. Because somehow (SOMEHOW) she managed to strip the most-used bit on the fiercest little gay drill that ever was.
Mia is currently sitting next to me, accusing me of lying, because she claims that the bit is "gnarled" rather than "stripped." I remain steadfast.
Today? Oh, am I ever struggling with notions of masculinity and femininity and the in-between and the outside-of.
Over the past couple of days at work I have been subjected to the highest concentration of the toxic combination of male gaze and male boundary-pushing aggression passed off as sincerity and compliments and why won't I just engage? he's just trying to be nice! since I began working in this particular place. Since this kind of thing has been increasing steadily and slowly, I can't help but to associate it at least partly with the growth of my hair, the femininity and sexual orientation it implies, and the ways it makes invisible to dominant and mainstream culture my queerness and my ever-evolving gender identity.