Character or Plot?

So. There are a few things floating around about this now (see end), and honestly, I think the attitude in some of them is just downright counterproductive.

It's a chicken and egg question.

Personally, I go with character. It's just what happens. The idea for a particular character comes to mind, and then the setting forms around that, and then the situation (or several situations) materialise out of that. I have conversations with my characters. I yell at them when things aren't going the way I want. I praise them when they are. I also do all three with computers, printers, cars, phones, and pretty much any other inanimate object that performs a function.

Do I think my characters are real, three-dimensional beings capable of sentient thought? No. (The computers, cars, phones and other inanimate objects I'm not so sure about, though.) I have favourites among my characters. I get fond of them. I get fond of characters I read about, too. That is kind of the point, darlings.

A majority of the things I write are character-driven. Hell, in the shorter things, quite frequently plot only makes the briefest cameo appearance, if it shows up at all. But it works.* I would also say that a good 90% of the time I only have a very loose idea of what is actually going to happen, and those rare cases I start out with a more solid plan, I am usually surprised by where it goes at some point. Flannery O'Connor wrote a whole essay on how she got surprised by what her characters did. 

Example 1 : "Detox"

I had a character (Magpie), the idea of sin eaters (if you don't know what they are, look it up) and 1500 words to play with. I actually started with the idea that Magpie was going to die, and it would have some sort of repercussion on the narrator, blah blah etc. I didn't have any clue the narrator was going to kill Charley until I got to that point in the story. I could just be dense or a little slow, but I didn't. Looking back at everything leading to that point, I realised I'd been setting it up all along, and that, really, it was the only thing that could happen. But I didn't expect it.

Did my characters take over and dictate how the story would go? No. They're little voices in my head; they'd have a rather difficult time forcing me to do anything. Then again, they're little voices in my head, so by extension, they're little versions of my own thought processes, so even if they did stage a revolt, it would be one part of my consciousness rebelling against another. That's another little tangent, though.

Example 2 : The Great Never-Ending Epic Novel

Somewhere along the pile of drafts, I found myself stuck because there wasn't sufficient motivation for the protagonist to do what he needed to do. Gradually after I came to that conclusion, I realised the solution was the kill off the universal favourite character. 

I was not happy about this. In fact, I was quite sickened by the idea of doing it, so much so that I wasted a lot of time scrabbling around for some alternative just so I wouldn't have to kill that one character. In the end, I accepted it. He has to die to get to point X. And yeah, that scene was fucking hard as hell to write. Most emotionally intense things are because I'm a kinesthetic writer, so I have to feel what's happening to write it. Method acting for the wallflower, so to speak. But again, this was not something I planned from the beginning. In fact, the theme of these two examples is that I always think the wrong person is going to die. 

I know there are people out there who plan out every little detail before they start writing. They have an outline and little summaries and everything all figured out before Once upon a time even graces the page. Fantastic. It doesn't work for me. I don't plan a damn thing out. The plans I do make, I never write, and for my long projects, it's only about halfway through that I start making notes about things just so I have a reminder without having to sift through thousands of words to find a particular description or spelling or whatever. I also, generally, don't go through a lot of physical drafts; I do an awful lot of writing in my head. There are certain pieces that I have done entirely in my head and only written down the final product. But I know other writers who go through draft after draft after draft because that's part of their process. 

And that's the thing I find a little disturbing about the things being said around this realness of characters/importance of plot (my word; 'story' is the one being used, but 'story' is character + plot + themes/subtext so I'm going to be more correct). 

Your experience does not entitle you to dictate another writer's process.

Sorry, but it just doesn't. So you start with a plot and build characters around that.  Or you have a setting and work up. Or you do some other combination. Great. Cool. If that works for you, go with it. That doesn't mean every writer has to write the way you do. It doesn't mean that people who choose a different method should be condescended to, or are less valid for whatever reason. It's just different. 

So, come on, grown up writers - start acting like it. You know a lot, but you don't know everything. I don't know everything. We only know what works from our personal experiences, so stop making it sound like there's this big mandate of the One and Only Way. 

Oh, don't going smirking yet, kids, 'cause you're not off the hook, either. One thing that is definitely true: when you talk about your characters the same way you talk about your friends or, y'know, any other corporeal entity, you sound like an idiot. And for every grumpy grown up writer ready to flay you for that, there's a good number who are just too polite to say anything, but do silently roll their eyes and sigh, 'Oh, children...' 

Linksies: How Real Are Your Characters? (SilverInkBlot) | i'm totally convinced (raspil) | Your characters aren't real. (neurotype)

* I'm not saying it works when everyone does it. I'm not even recommending that beginning writers going playing without a net. I took the time to learn the rules before I started breaking them.

Dear Teen Me: Ghost Writing

Written for this contest based around this book, which is an anthology of letters from authors to their younger selves. Check it out. It's a worthwhile read. 

The Title: My two predominant nicknames as a teenager were Spook (don't remember where that came from) and Ghost (because I reminded someone of the Poppy Z Brite character); both are still used occasionally, but not as much, and Ghost has metamorphosed into a verb for a particular state of being I exist in from time to time.

---

Slow down.
You’re going to be an adult for a long, long, long time. There’s no need to rush it. You can be irresponsible. You can make stupid decisions. Trust me, you’re going to do it later, so better get some practice in now.

Don’t listen to what everyone tells you. They have their own dreams and they think you’re the one to realise them. They see you’re intelligent, talented and ambitious and know you can get the hell out of that town if you want to. They’ll encourage you, but to a point. Truth: they don’t want you to leave town. They’ll settle for you not leaving the state, but their encouragement isn’t about you. It’s about keeping something good for a place that has far too little.

Talk to Greg. When you’re nineteen and sitting in a pub on the other side of the world, you’ll wish you left things differently.

Talk to people. Tell them you’re not okay. Tell them who you really are and don’t try to be what you’re not. Amazingly, every one of them will surprise you. You have the chance to reinvent yourself so take it, kiddo, and let yourself be you.

Talk to your father. You don’t know it yet, but you’re already almost out of time. You started running out of time from the very beginning. Ask your questions, and when he won’t answer, ask them again. And again. And again. And don’t care how much he yells or storms off or drip-feeds those half answers, keep asking. Make him tell you who you are and who you come from. Make him tell you why he never chose you. Why he lied. Why you were a secret. Because if you don’t find out now, you’re going to be repeating that pattern over and over for a long, long time. You are always going to let people put you on the back burner for this reason or that reason; you are always going to be someone’s dirty little secret. At eighteen, you’ll promise yourself to never be someone’s secret again, but I can’t even tell you the number of times you'll break that promise to yourself.

Don’t break promises to yourself, even if it means breaking a promise to someone else.

You hate him right now; I don’t blame you. Sometimes I still hate him, too. But you are running out of time, and you need those answers.

When you’re 22 and living on the other side of the country, he will almost die and you will be able to do nothing. You’ll have to go to work twenty minutes after finding this out, and spend the day juggling customers and phone calls to nurses in West Virginia asking questions that you can’t answer about things you should know. You’ll never really find out what happened on that trip, but it will change you.

You’ll learn to swallow your anger, and you’ll learn to smile every time someone says what a good man he is, and you’ll not tell them what a shit father he is. Not for his sake, but for them. You swallow a lot of things for the sake of other people. It’s not healthy, kiddo.

(By the way, somewhere around this time there will be a boy who can talk the stars out of the sky. You’ll want to save him. He’ll think he wants you to save him. But you can’t, and he doesn’t know what he wants, and that is far too heavy for you to handle.)

Avoid strays.

He’ll finally be put into a home when you’ve migrated even further south, and you’ll feel guilty about not being there to take care of him. You’ll feel obligated to do that. The dutiful son. Don’t. You’ve got a lot of life to live yet, kid, and you are still a kid, and all of this is well beyond your years. Remember when I said to slow down? This is going to be when you wish you had.

(There will be another boy here, more charming than the first, and more appealing because he’s just so normal. Listen to your instincts here. They’ll tell you how it’ll all play out well in advance.)

By the time it’s over, you’re going to want those answers I told you to ask for. You’re going to need them. A few months after the funeral, you’re going to realise all the questions you still have and that the only person who can answer them is gone.

(The boy in this era will break your heart over and over and over and over with a graceful ease that almost, almost disguises what is happening. In the beginning, you’ll dismiss him and deem him unimportant, but he’ll do something to you. This one, you’re better off not knowing at all.)

Forget about responsibility. Forget about money. Forget about settling down. You’ve already got twitchy feet, I know, and they will get so tired your soul feels like it’s thin-to-breaking. But you’re always going to be that square peg, kid, and it’s never going to be easy for you. So don’t bother trying to please them; you can’t, you won’t, and you’ll only hurt yourself.

Just do it your way. Because even after you’ve tried all the things they wanted you to do, that’s what you do anyway.

The anger will go away. Mostly. You’ll spend a week sitting by a bed with too much to say and not enough words and the thing you’ll regret most is not speaking enough. At the funeral, you will provide comfort to others because it’s in there. Beneath the mental problems, the quirks, the bad habits, you are stronger than everyone you know. Allow yourself to be selfish because they will take every last piece of you they can get.

Do not hide your heart in other people. They lose it far too easily.

Do not be embarrassed by your faith. Yours is stronger probably than his ever was, even if he did wear the uniform. Don’t let it go just because the kids you’re running with don’t think it’s cool. Churches (but only the big, proper old ones with arches and painted windows and candles everywhere) will always be your sanctuary (but only when there’s no one else in them) even though you stop going to them so much.

Something will get broken in you the year he dies. You won’t expect it, because even then you think that you hate him too much to care. You don’t realise that bearing witness is just as important for you as it is for him. You don’t think about any of this until it happens. Something will break in you. I can’t tell you when it’ll be fixed because it still isn’t yet. Maybe it never will be. But that’s okay. There’s no shame in being a little broken now and then.

The night it happens you’ll know, and you’ll have a choice. You’ll choose to leave, and you’ll feel guilty afterwards. You won’t tell anyone this. Because you feel guilty. Because it sounds crazy. Because you don’t think they’ll believe you. But you’ll know. Staring at his face in his bed, and the nurse assuring you that it’s safe to go home and sleep for the night. You’ll know it isn’t and you’ll leave anyway. You’ll carry that with you for a long, long time, kiddo.

So slow down.
There’s no rush to see and do and experience everything. Go to parties. Skip class. Allow yourself to do less than perfect work. Talk to strangers and dance with bubbles on the street.
Enjoy the moment. 

PS You have to be brave.

"One has to have a complicated kind of optimism. You can't refuse to look at how horrible things are."

Many, many things have happened since last we spoke, but I'm not going to talk about them. Enough has been said and said and said about them that adding anything more at this point would just be rehashing things already done and sometimes, sometimes we all need a little space to breathe.

"Sometimes it's like watching a delicate flower surrounded in snow, and it tries to stand up, but the snow just keeps crushing it."

There is a certain weariness that attaches itself to life. We're taught and told that adversity breeds strength, that the injuries we suffer build character and enable us to move forward. Persevere. There's a lot of importance attached to that. The ability to persevere. It's noble. It's honorable. Whatever happens, we shall hold our heads up and comport ourselves with dignity. We will conceal all wounds and smile blithely even while blood soaks through layers and layers...

"Don't be afraid; people are so afraid; don't be afraid to live in the raw wind, naked, alone... Learn at least this: What you are capable of. Let nothing stand in your way."

I wonder about that. Is our strength founded in the pain we feel, or do we only discover it at the bottom of the box when everything has already been taken out? Is it just that thing we are left holding in the end, pushing us to move breathe sleep eat because ultimately, whatever we would like to say or believe about ourselves, we are programmed to survive and even when our cognitive identity crumbles, that innate, unignorable programming kicks in and demands you will carry on. Is that noble?

"I'm just tired of it. I'm tired of feeling like shit when I didn't do anything wrong, and being angry when there isn't anything I can do to fix it, having to be the one responsible for knowing how to fix it - like I have any idea - and just. All of it. I wish it would just stop and go away."

There are those who don't, I suppose. Those who get so much piled around them that all they can do is collapse beneath it. Are they less noble for their inability to persevere? Are they damaged, flawed, unsaveable, deserving of pity because obviously they must not be imbued with this strength that is so vital, so admirable, so indicative of someone worthy of respect?

"Respect the ecology of your delusions."

There is a comfort and a danger in spending too much time in a nonexistent world. In the things we create, the stories and lives and events we manufacture, there is an order and logic to the messiest of situations. Every line of speech has significance. Every action is meaningful. Nothing is arbitrary, and you can be assured of that. But if you linger too long on that side of the glass, you start interpreting life itself with the same codebook, when the truth is there are no layers of metaphor to unwind. A mess is a mess and nothing more. The virtues - the ideals, the beliefs - you try to hold on to break down, wear down, are stolen from you. Sometimes without you even realising. You think you still have them and one day you find yourself in need of one, so you reach into the box and pull out something that looks vaguely like honesty or integrity or whatever else it is you might be seeking, but it's not quite what you expected. It's not quite what you remember it being.

"I'm not suited for this. I'm not designed for it. I don't like it. I can't even remember to breathe regularly without thinking about it, and that's supposed to be automatic. I'm trapped in the teeniest of cages without even any door that I might try for an escape. And maybe I could bear it if there were more room to move around, but I am pressed and squeezed into this limited space until so often I feel like I'm just going to burst out of it but it never yields. I don't think I am a creature that was ever meant to be forced into corporeal form. I find it awkward and unwieldy. And maybe that's why I have such difficulty trying to place myself amongst tangible things - I don't spend much time in the physical realm, and the things that exist there don't hold any importance to me." 

And maybe it's better that what you pull out isn't quite that thing you thought it was, because the world has no use for them. They're a little like fairy stories; things we tell ourselves at night to make the dreams easier to catch. Take honesty. We are, generally speaking, expected to be honest, but not too honest. If you are too honest, you're mean. You're heartless. So we develop a practice of speaking in half-truths, reading between the lines, accepting the little lies we give each other to spare someone's feelings. This is more acceptable than true honesty, but no one knows why. I've asked.

"You have a good heart and you think the good thing is to be guilty an kind but it's not always kind to be gentle and soft, there's a genuine violence softness and kindness visit on people. Sometimes self-interested is the most generous thing you can be."

Inevitably, because we're trying so hard to be careful and respectful, to follow these proscribed standards of behaviour that allow us acceptance as members of the whole, there are misunderstandings, complications, confrontations, those injuries that foster that much-sought-after attribute of strength. It's part of life, they say. Everyone experiences it. Just keep your chin up, kid, and remember that smile. Maybe, even if we weren't expected to perform two contradictory actions simultaneously, these things would happen anyway. Maybe they wouldn't.

"But failing in love isn't the same as not loving. It doesn't let you off the hook, it doesn't mean... you're free to not love."

So we misunderstand each other. We hurt each other. We hide from each other and we scream at each other. We allow moments of great silence to fill the cracks that had been made. We try to replace those silences with words that mean nothing in the hopes that over time they'll start to mean something again. We tell ourselves to be strong. That the strength we've discovered or developed or however we came by it will see us through every moment of shaky ground. We try to put our faith back together. Perhaps that is the most difficult thing of all. Once the yelling is done. Once the silence has lasted too long. Once all parties sit humbled and hurt, there is still the matter of faith, and whether or not it has been truly lost. If there is still even a hint of faith left, or maybe even just the desire for faith... Maybe, in the end, that is all strength really is.

"It isn't easy, it doesn't count if it's easy, it's the hardest thing. Forgiveness. Which is maybe where love and justice finally meet." 

xy - x - y + y +1 = (x - 1)(y - 1) = 1

I've spent the past two days playing with an emotional abacus. Does A equate B? Do C and F outweigh D (or at least even out)? Does E even exist? This is what I do when presented with a decision that lacks anything even remotely resembling fact, logic or definition. I make my own. We're still tallying in the counting house, though, and I have a feeling that process is going to take awhile.

But while I've been doing that, I started thinking in other directions. As I do when my mental hard drive has been set a very long and tedious task. Mostly about people and change and how things happen over time and accumulate and we never really pay attention to that accumulation.

Everyone changes. That's an established fact. It happens in small increments over time as we experience new things, learn new lessons, meet new people and places. These little changes can be good. They help us become who we are, if we let them change us in the right way.

This past year I've watched a lot of friends go through some pretty big changes, and I find myself thinking about the person I met, and the qualities I respected and admired in them then. Some of them haven't changed much since then. Maybe a little more grown up, maybe a little more experienced, but when I look at them now I can see that person I was first drawn to and appreciated. Others - and this is the real focus at the moment - I find myself searching and searching for any trace of those good qualities and the person I'd known. And that is upsetting.

I believe that loyalty given should never be taken away. It's one of those promises you make forever, and if you start breaking the forever promises, than nothing can be counted on. At the same time, what if you find yourself standing at a point where you realise you just might have outgrown that person you pledged your loyalty to? To put a little less callously, what if you look at the way they've changed and realise that they are no longer at all the person you knew and loved, and that the person they've become is something... negative and destructive? And how do you tell when that point has been reached, or if it's just a momentary period of difficulty?

I think, at a certain point in your life - and if you're under 25 or so, you can wander off at this point - you have to stop and question how you're spending your time. Especially if you feel like you're not going anywhere with your life. If every "good night out" is spent getting high, getting drunk, or tripping, and the most you do about changing your situation is whine about having to make a few compromises to fit into the corporate machine and pay the bills, maybe you need to think a little bit about growing up. And this is coming from Peter Pan, so you know it's srs bsns.

I've taken some time to get to where I wanted to go, and I'm still not where I actually want to be, yet, but I'm getting there. Part of the delay had to do with sorting out medical and psychological stuff. Part of it had to do with trying (and failing) to fit into an educational system that just didn't work for me. And not really having a clear concept of what I wanted to do. For the longest time I had this battle between getting a degree that would land me a nice, respectable, stable job and getting a degree that I was actually passionate about (but much less likely to support me). And, yes, my lovelies, I went through various phases of excess along the way, and even now I'm not disinclined to the occasional indulgence, but.

And really. This is the thought I always have when people tell me about the various methods of intoxication: You're missing life. There is a massive world of brilliance (and some not so brilliant bits) out there that you never actually see because you're not sober enough to see it. Because you're too stuck in your ways to venture into something different and unknown because gasp! It might be a little bit scary.

I'm wandering a bit, I realise. These thoughts can be ever so difficult to tame at times.

I know a lot of people who fall into that ever-ambiguous "alternative" label (and you know how I feel about labels), but they like it, cling to it, flaunt it around as something close to a badge of superiority over the rest of the world. They are so liberal and so controversial, raging against societal conventions at every turn mostly just because they're societal conventions. None of those things are necessarily bad, but I find myself looking at them and wondering what exactly is your contribution in life?

More specifically: why should I respect you?

For the most part, I'm a fairly liberal person. I have a set of rules on how to live, but they only apply to me, and those rules have been formed over some very serious and careful examination of myself and what I'm capable of. Everyone else, I can look at and said: Well, that's not for me, but whatever works for you. And I'm pretty damn accepting of a lot of things that aren't for me, conventional and otherwise.

So very early this morning, when I found myself being derided for not living a life of partying every night, loose-to-the-point-of-nonexistent definitions on love and relationships, dropping everything that doesn't have "good vibes" (including someone who's having a very bad day) because it doesn't feel good, the most I was capable of thinking was: what. the. fuck.

The contradiction of the statements with the person they were coming from were enough to short-circuit my brain, and the only thing I was really able to think was: what. the. fuck.

Which leads us right back to the beginning and the way people change, and whether it's something that can be lived with, or it's better to just walk away.

The Power in Meaning

I have this thing about words. I'm very specific about them, and what they mean, and very picky about any sort of ambiguity in their usage. Now, I know, we all have slightly different interpretations of what individual words mean, or what they mean to us in our own perceptions.

For example, I use the word "silly" as a term of endearment, as in 'yeah, that was kinda dumb, but I love you so it's okay'. Or if I say I'm feeling anxious that means I'm about two seconds away from finding the nearest corner to camp out in for a couple hours until the twitchiness passes, whereas someone else might say they're feeling anxious to indicate a small amount of nervousness. ("Twitchiness" is another word that I've adopted to mean "panic attack" because I don't like saying 'I'm having a panic attack'.)

Everyone has those things, and as you get to know them, you learn their individual language and adapt to it. Adopt it, in some cases.

Maybe it's because of this that very often we forget the actual meaning behind those words, and the power that meaning has. So we say things indiscriminately without thinking about the wider ramifications that meaning is going to carry with it to the person receiving them. Think about how many disagreements you've been in with someone where it eventually comes out 'I didn't mean it like that.' I'm sure you've said it yourself. I know I have.

But to come back to me (because, well, it's my blog so why not), my thing about words focuses in on those things. I do account for a slight amount of variation in meaning from person to person, but there are also universal meanings that a majority of people have come to accept - X means Y. And when it comes to the more fuzzily defined words - any emotion springs to mind - those universally accepted definitions are vital for accurately (or as accurately as possible) conveying a singular, individual experience to someone else without really having a common ground to stand on.

An example from a conversation a very long time ago:

He said he was very angry.

Recounting the same incident a day or so later:

He said he was very upset.

Hearing those two phrases, I'll stop you and say, well, which is it? Yes, "angry" is a form of "upset", but "upset" isn't always "angry". So it changes the interpretation. And I will completely halt the conversation with an interrogation about what is actually meant by a particular word until it's explained to my satisfaction. I like specifics. They prevent misunderstandings.

So today I'm thinking about words, and what they mean universally, and what they mean individually. It's fine to have your own set of definitions for words. It's also fine to appropriate words or clusters of words to attempt to describe something that doesn't have its own word. At the same time, though, you need to be aware of the universal definition when you're interacting with other people, especially when your definition isn't the same. You can't just spout off something and expect someone to immediately grab the usage that is particular to you. No. More than likely they will automatically fall into what the collective has decided that word or phrase means. So there's a responsibility there, in the language you use and the words you choose. Every single thing you say leaves an impact, and you need to be aware of what that impact will be. It's not enough to hide behind I didn't mean it that way or That's not the definition I use if it's the definition the majority uses. If you want to be understood, sometimes you have to go with convention a little bit. You have to think about the person you're speaking to and how they're going to interpret what you're saying, how that interpretation is going to affect them, and if they're actually going to understand what you're trying to convey. You may prefer your definition over all others, but if you can't get across what you mean, then what purpose does it serve?

I could use a better example, and you've probably gotten the sense I'm talking around something very specific, but I'm not that much of an attention junkie to slice myself open just now, and not quite so vindictive as to call up the flaming torches. I much prefer setting my own fires, anyway.

Along the same lines comes the topic of not saying things for the seemingly noble reason of protecting someone else's feelings. I will tell you right now: that's bullshit. The only reason for not saying something is because you're afraid to, and that has nothing to do with the other person. The more you don't say something, the more you lie, and lying doesn't protect anyone.

The point is: before you open your mouth, think about what you want to say. Think about the best words to say it. And if you know it isn't taken the right way, try again. At the very least, say that. 

The Unremarkable Confessions of a Drunken Lover

Give me another -
one part Jack, six parts truth.
Make mine a double,
'cause I'm still standing.

I measure my day in moments of you.
Clutching talismans of unacknowledged import.
My skin nags its ache for you -
nothing quite so sordid, I promise -
just your hand in mine.
Your Self occupying that
so conspicuously empty space
next to mine.
Oh, it's such a cliche...

I cast us as Romantic period lovers
forbidden ever to touch -
Romeo and Romeo,
sans suicide.
I'll use words to immortalise you-me-us
so Someday When
university students can pour over my lines
with apathetic glances
and giggle-whisper over hidden references
I never meant to put.
How many adjectives will it take to contain you
in rhyme and meter?
Vespertilian.
Ethereal.
Magnetic.
Addictive.
(My personal favourite.)

I'll pen epics in your honour.
Become that quintessential knight
questing for his lady's -
sorry. lord's
affection.
Will I ever win his hand?
This poor Pinocchio with naught but dreams and hope on offer.
And his heart.
His heart not once wholly given to any other.
Is that sacred enough to sway your favour?
They've killed all the dragons, love,
but there are monsters still to find.
Just name your price, I'll pay it.

I admit:
all those soppy sentiments and angst-ridden poets
waxing on love lost and not quite grasped,
I looked on with contempt and derision because
how could I -
that ever changing and unchained creature that is me -
how could I ever need another for completion?

But you.
With your quiet looks and unassuming ways.
You with your strength, your honesty,
your untamed muchness bucking to be free.
Have captivated every part of me
and pushed me toward the ranks of all those desperate
to personify and dignify and legitimise their love's desire.

So drown me.
Consume me.
Absorb me.
Transform me into that thing I crave.
Let me join the queue
of tricked out boys all saying:
oh, baby
let me fuck u hard
let me make u cum
let me swallow u
possess u
but just for tonite
but just if u can get me off

Okay.
I'd say those things, too,
given half a chance.
But it wouldn't sound right;
I'm working with higher ideals.
And proper grammar.
Usually.

So let's give this a whirl:
Oh, baby,
let me slip inside your soul,
that tricksy, shining thing you are.
Let me have all those dreams
you're too afraid to wish for,
and hold them still for you to see.
Sink sink sink into me.
But just if it's forever.
But just if you get off on that.
Let me keep you safe every tonight.

But damn, boy.
It's hard work trying to differentiate
from all those faceless names
spouting off all those selfsame words
until I love you is just code for
Hey, babe, I wanna fuck you.
And I won't deny - I can't compete.
But what I lack I make up in sincerity.

And damn, boy.
I spend so much time
trying to be pure and true,
for fear of you just hit-and-running
while denying all the ways
I want you
until all my atoms are just chanting your name.

Okay. Okay.
Just one more round,
and then we'll go.
I promise.
Same again?
I know the shape size weight of your fear
and all it's holding back.
But I'm wondering how many more times
I'm going to make jack o'lanterns in my chest
before you believe
I won't leave you damaged and lost.
I'm in it for the long haul,
and I'll carve up yet another toothy smile
if that's what you need.
Because the shape size weight of my heart -
as ever -

is you.

Mine Was A Penguin

Since my last sermon, a lot of people have commented with regret or admiration for what I've been through or that I've gotten through it. I never really know how to respond to that because... I don't see it that way. Yeah. I've come up against some difficult things. I've had to deal with some extremely difficult people. But it's not something I carry around with me. Jinks said once: You just have to say these things, and once it's out of your head, you're done with it. It's gone.

I don't give up on things, that's true. Just about everyone who knows me has had to persuade me to not clamber over, on, or around a No Entry sign at least once (both metaphorically and literally...). But I don't see that as necessarily something to be admired or praised. It's gotten me into trouble a few times. It can be quite alienating at others. But mostly it's just the only way I know how to be. It's not like I made a conscious decision one day that I was going to leap mountains to achieve my ambitions or some other lofty ideal that actually is worthy of admiration. No.

Think more along the lines of that bee that keeps running into the kitchen window because it can't figure out there's a pane of glass between it and the outside world. Yeah. That's me. And every so often I bash around long enough that I find some other opening, or someone gets sick of hearing me and shoves me themselves.

Either way, the admiration makes me uncomfortable. As does the sympathy. They're both impractical reactions. There's no reason for you to apologise for something that some person you've never and more than likely never will ever encounter did too many years ago to count. And my life isn't so bad that I deserve to be admired for getting myself out of bed each day and just getting on with it. So let's talk about more worthwhile things.

Like this quote from <a href="http://azizriandaoxrak.deviantart.com">Jes</a>, who always has awesome quotes:

I gotta say. One of the worst and scariest things about the world for me is that anyone, absolutely ANYONE can be a "bully" to me. It's knowing that people will take the opportunity to "bully" me because my body lets them know that I am available to be "bullied" by them.

And not knowing whether the violence is going to come from people I already know or complete strangers just makes it worse, and there are days when I am terrified of PEOPLE because I don't know which people are dangerous. And there are plenty of times when I think I HAVE to be weird for thinking like this.

I am a feminist because I believe that NO ONE has a right to "bully" others because they were born with the right color skin, the right set of genitals, the right income bracket, the right version of love. And I HATEHATEHATEHATE that bullying is divorced from the systemic factors that feed into it. And I HATE that there's so much heart-warming-church-charity-two-week-program-that-will-drop-it-and-never-pick-it-up-again BULLSHIT.

But knowing that there are other people out there who GET IT, who I CAN reach and I CAN talk to - that helps, and it's something that I didn't have in high school, and it makes it, for me, about 500000000X better. And since I can't change THE ENTIRE SET OF SYSTEMS OF DISCRIMINATION right this very minute, I like to be able to turn to people who are trying to work through "bullying" in its many forms and let them know: it is possible to take what has happened to you and use it to make you stronger, and there are and will be people out there who can help you, so just HOLD ON.

A Few Brief Lines

Originally posted on deviantART.


So everyone's talking about Spirit Day... I might as well do it, too.

I wrote something on it a few days ago. Not specifically Spirit Day, but the concept behind the month in general.

Here's the deal:

I think it's nothing but good that time and energy is devoted to making the masses aware of a problem. I really do. All the people who offer support and crawl out of the woodwork to wave their flags, absolutely fantastic. Pat yourselves on the back. But this isn't a one day thing. It's not a one month thing. This is an all the time thing.

Wearing a button or a colour or reposting memes to your Facebook page doesn't do anything but give you a warm, fuzzy feeling because you've performed some socially appropriate action.

I know, I know. I should be grateful that the social norm is deigning to recognise that I deserve to be treated like a real, live human being. I should be extolling the virtues of every one of you who shouts to the world: my best friend is gay and s/he is such a good person. I should get all choked up about all the people who wear the buttons and repost and squeeze onto the wagon. Otherwise I'm just bitter, right?

Well, no. And this is why I don't do those things: because - and, yes, I'm aware, this doesn't apply to all of you, but it applies to enough to merit being said - how many people will repost anti-bullying slogans or attend some rally and then turn around - and without even thinking about it - sneer at something for being "gay" (as in the apparently accepted definition synonymous with "stupid", "lame", etc.)? Or shun that girl at work because she's a little weird? Roll your eyes at the overweight guy in the restaurant?

There are a million little things that people do and say all the time without bothering to consider the impact it has on the people experiencing it (and this applies to a lot of different areas; not just this). There are a lot of ways to bully someone besides the obvious.

Which leads me to my next point.

There is a massive focus on the gay and lesbian portion of the community. Fair enough. A majority of my friends are part of that community. They don't have it particularly easy. That said. They're just the ones that show above the water (iceberg reference out of nowhere; I'm aware. Moving on...).

The queer community is vast and diverse, and encompasses a lot of things that each have their own unique issues and difficulties. I, for one, don't fit into any particular category. I prefer that; I shy away from labels whenever possible. I can take on various ones in certain situations, and I do, because I have to function in a world where I am anything but the norm and I get tired of explaining the intricacies of my identity and personal life to every random person that happens along. I don't fit into the binary gender system. My concept of sexuality is riddled with shades of grey. I'm involved in a relationship that defies all sorts of convention and description to the point that we'll both readily admit we have no idea what we're doing or how it's all going to play out.

From that standpoint, trying to find my footing within the queer community, let alone society as a whole, has been precarious at best. I've come up against a lot of hostility, a lot of ignorance, and a whole lot of pre-judgement. And some of the most hurtful, dehumanising and derogatory things that have been said to me have come right out of that same community. The straight people I've encountered (and this is just my experience; I'm aware that others have very different ones) tend to be a little too curious and occasionally thoughtless and uninformed, but generally not malicious. The queer community - particularly the gay/lesbian portion - has not been so nice.

This, I think, is even worse than whatever ridicule is thrown at me from the heterosexual vantage point. These people, after all, claim to be safe and understanding. They claim to include my interests with their own (and time and again the advocacy groups have flat out refused to argue for protection for the BTQ portion in order to secure something the GL segment wants). But these things get overlooked and unspoken for various reasons. The community needs to show solidarity, or whatever. A lot of times, though, the end result is the feeling that no one is actually on your side because you're not [adjective of your choice] enough, or maybe just because you're a little too [adjective of your choice].

The point that I have taken a very long time to get to is this: straight people are not the only ones who can be bullies. Gay people are not the only ones who get picked on. And this is not something that should only be thought about once a year.

Related
A Comment about LGBT Rights and Spirit Day by AzizrianDaoXrak
Spirit Day is Coming by NicSwaner
LGBT Spirit Day by GrimFace242

Esse Est Percipi.

A year ago today, my father died.

In reality, he was gone a long time ago. Sometimes I'm not entirely sure he was really ever there to begin with. For a majority of my life, he showed symptoms of dementia. It made things difficult. Really difficult. For most of my life we didn't know what it was. A lot of the time, I just thought my dad was a massive asshole.

What teenager doesn't?

After he died, I found journals he'd written to me when I was a kid, which is the only reason I know he showed symptoms that early. I spent a long time trying to puzzle over whether knowing that changed anything. I still don't know. Because not all of it can be attributed to the disease. There were choices he made that impacted other people. There were secrets he kept that we'll probably never know, and the scary thing about that is I was one of those secrets and it wasn't until the end he was able to come clean about it, so what secrets didn't he ever tell?

The problem with grieving for my father is that I saw him as he was, which gets in the way of being the dutiful son. Around his family, around those who loved and respected him, I feel like a fraud because I don't foster the belief that he was some sort of saint.

My father was a deeply flawed individual who never learned from his mistakes and never seemed to make the right decision, regardless of his intentions. I've been told he had good intentions, and maybe he did, but I'm equally aware that there was a good amount of selfishness directing those good intentions, too.

I remember sitting beside his bed day after day and the only thing I could think of to say to him - no, it was more insistent than that. I had to make sure he knew Jinks.

A year later I still can't reconcile how I feel about my father or his death. I still can't wrap my head around it. And just like a year ago, I don't say much about it. But it's there. Something broke in me last October and it hasn't been put right yet. I know that much.

But life doesn't stop. So you pack it up and keep it in its box and you go like nothing touches you.

---

FREEDOM
[Not exactly true, but not entirely a lie.]
I watch your mouth move in silent incantation.

          I want you to know about Sam. I need you to know about Sam. Out of everyone, you would probably understand our relationship. You would probably be able to explain it to me.

          You’d like him.

          He’s just like me. But good at all the things you wanted me to be good at. We’re even the same age, so you could pretend.

          Do you know that this is it, this is your last chance to say all the things you never did? Are your secrets finally coming out? All those things you planned to tell me. One day.

          They left me alone to talk to you, but alone is relative. The room hums and beeps with machines whose functions I can’t even guess. Beyond our curtain of privacy, George watches Antique Roadshow. An orderly puts Ralph back in bed. The son of the man (whose name I don’t know because he wasn’t here last time) next to you talks about his wife and their plans for the weekend.

          I look at your unfocused eyes.

          I watch your lips move.

          I don’t know what to do.

          The words stumble and jerk from my mouth, trying to be normal. Like this is any other conversation we might have. Except you don’t talk back. Except I don’t know if you’re listening. I feel raw and exposed inside our curtain of privacy.

          I talk about school and my friends.

          I talk about the things I’ve read.

          I talk about Sam.

          I’m supposed to tell you it’s okay. I’m supposed to tell you I’ll be fine. I’m supposed to tell you that you can go. That’s the phrase they keep using. Like you’re just going on a trip somewhere.

          It’s not true. There are truths you haven’t told and things I haven’t learned. There are questions.

          You always hated my questions.

          Why do you always have to ask why, you’d say after the tenth or twentieth round. Why can’t you just accept things the way they are?

          Because I want to know why, I’d say.

          You could be speaking a language we’ve all forgotten. You could be reciting the secrets of the universe. You could be describing the face of every angel and we’d never know.

                   The last time we talked about faith I was nineteen and it was raining so thick the wipers couldn’t keep up. You kept picking at every thing I did, but you couldn’t drive in the dark by then and it was my car. For God’s sake, put that out, you said about my cigarette. God can fuck himself, I said back.

          Do you still believe in those things?

          I’m not sure I do, but sitting here, I need to.

          Two days before I landed, you still squeezed the nurse’s hand when she asked. I’m afraid to touch your hand because it might break. Every vein shows through the translucent skin and swollen knuckles spasming against your chest. I place my hand beside yours and for once yours look smaller. Cold. Dry. No matter how many times I ask, it never moves.

          I get the irony, but I need to know you know I’m here.

          Beyond the curtain, a priest asks the orderly if someone’s in with you. The orderly tells him he thinks it’s a nurse. I know I should tell him it’s okay to come in, but I’ve run out of words.

          I hold your hand.

          I will you to squeeze it.

          I watch your lips move.

          It could be complete gibberish. You’ve been off the feeding tube for four days. You haven’t spoken for six. God knows where you are because you’re not behind your eyes and no one knows why you’re still alive.

          I can’t remember the last conversation we had.

          The priest talks to George about the show. They talk about sports and how the Steelers are doing this season. The priest asks how long ‘the nurse’ has been with Father Anthony. George doesn’t know.

          I still can’t speak.

          I’m desperate for someone to break our silence.

          I’m terrified someone will.

          Your body jerks. Your mouth moves.

          It could just be muscle spasms. The neural paths in your brain finally broken down after twenty years’ decay.

          I wish you could’ve met Sam.

          I stand over you so I can look into your eyes. My eyes. My nose. Even the hands pinned to your chest are mine.

          This is what I’ll look like.

          Evelyn is beyond the curtain, talking to the priest.

We won’t be alone much longer.

You move your lips. I search your eyes.

I don’t know why I never told you about Sam. I didn’t tell anyone for a long time. Maybe because all I know is secrets and holding them tight. Maybe because it always took too much explaining, like I knew it would. Maybe because they all want to put us in a box, and I knew that would happen, too.

We are what we are. That’s what Sam says, and that sums it ups. Tied but not bound.

What would you say?

What would you say…

You should love your friends, you’d tell me. There are many types of love.

I wish you would speak. More than anything. I just want you to speak.

In three weeks when it’s all sinking in and I’m lying on his floor, Sam will ask: What do you want to talk to him about?

I don’t know. I don’t know, I’ll say. Anything. Everything. Stupid shit that doesn’t mean anything. I just want one more conversation.

I put my hand on your forehead. It’s hot against my palm. You close your eyes and your mouth stops moving. There’s just the heave of your chest and the twitch of Parkinson’s in your arms. The machine keeping oxygen in your lungs.

Do you have a boyfriend? you asked, last time I was here. I didn’t tell you I’d already answered it the day before.

No, I don’t have a boyfriend. The question made me feel tired. Like the effort of strapping myself to a person, a place was a physical undertaking beyond my means. Like the effort of explaining that to you again was even worse.

A girlfriend then?

No. No girlfriend, either.

What about that Charlie fellow?

He was my roommate.

He’s a good friend?

Yes.

That’s important. As long as you have good friends, you’ll be all right.

Evelyn peeks around the curtain and smiles. Her cheerfulness is a force I feel guilty for clinging to. ‘Father Tim is here,’ she says. ‘Is that all right?’

I nod, but my mouth is empty. You keep stealing my words with your silent incantation.

That was the day you forgot my name. The look on your face as you looked at me like I was anyone and no one. That’s the look I can’t forget.

I cleaned you up and left you in the living room of your sister’s house and dodged past relatives I barely knew and questions in a language I no longer grasped. Cousins chasing after me in childish fascination to giggle at my strangeness.

I inhaled an entire cigarette in one breath.

I called Sam.

He told me stories until I laughed. Until they called me back to the frontlines because in that house full of good intentions no one ever did a damn thing.

You kept apologising and the look on your face was even worse than the one that didn’t remember. I smiled and said okay. I told you it was okay to forget me.

Fr. Tim clutches a smile that says he doesn’t know what to make of the tattooed and pierced man with purple nails to match the purple hair having a private audience at Fr. Anthony‘s deathbed.

The last time I visited, my hair was blue and you told the nurse we were going to dye yours, too.

None of them know what to make of me.

‘Tim, this is Zee,’ she tells him. ‘Tim visits all the TORs.’

I just nod and take his hand. I don’t know where to look.

‘That’s an unusual name,’ he says. ‘Are you named after that actor? What was his first name…?’

‘The author.’ I lose some of the syllables, but at least I make a sound.

He looks confused, but the smile stays. He reminds me of a bulldog.

‘He wrote westerns.’

‘That’s right. So are you a fan of westerns, then?’ Like he’s the first person to ever ask it.

‘No.’ I hate that question. I’ve never told you that. ‘I just watched them with him.’ I give you a half-nod.

‘It’s really good to meet you, Zee. Obviously, not under the circumstances, but I’m sure Fr. Anthony appreciates you being here.’ He still hasn’t let go of my hand. ‘Have you known him long?’

You lie between us.

Your mouth moving.

Your arms twitching.

‘Yeah. Awhile.’

‘Oh?’ The smile warms, like this will explain everything. How many kids did you mentor in my lifetime? How many in your career? ‘You’re from the parish?’

‘No.’

The handshake is no longer a handshake, but a tether holding me still. ‘My mistake. How do you know Fr. Anthony?’

I’ve been your secret for so long I don’t know how to answer. This should be your job. Your confession. Not mine.

Evelyn nods. ‘Go on.’

‘He’s my dad.’

‘Ah.’

We hang there while he tries to decide what to do with that. I wonder how many times I’m going to have to do this.

‘It’s good you’re here. Shall we pray?’

He anoints your forehead and we all join hands. A priest on either side of me. I can’t get over the way your hands feel. Tissue paper. Plastic. Something not human.

They close their eyes and bow their heads.

God of power and mercy, you have made death itself the gateway to eternal life.

          I watch your mouth move in silent incantation.

Look with love on our dying brother, and make him one with your Son

          If I could decipher what it means, I would have all the answers.

in his suffering and death, that, sealed with the blood of Christ,

But even after a lifetime of reading other people’s lips, I can’t read yours when it really counts.

he may come before you free from sin.

I murmur my way through the Sign of the Cross without hearing the words. Two decades out of the church and I can still recite every prayer in my sleep. 

Amen.

          Fr. Tim shakes my hand again. He leans over and clasps your hand with more bravery than I’ve managed. ‘I’ve got to go now, Tony. I’m off to see Richard. Do you want me to deliver a message for you?’ He looks at me with that standard-issue smile. ‘Your dad and Richard are old friends from the TOR. I always stop and ask if he wants me to give Richard a message.’

          I nod. I’ve heard this story. Last time I was here, you told me every day I was in town. It ended every phone call.

          You kept saying you were going to visit me when you got out.

          We’ll see, I’d say, knowing you never would but lacking the ability to actually say no. Not when you called it a prison. Not when the nurses were guards divided into Good Guys and Bad Guys.

          ‘He always gives me the same message, don’t you, Tony?’ He pats your shoulder and your gown slips down over painfully articulated clavicle. ‘Freedom, that’s the message, isn’t it? ‘Tell Richard ‘freedom’! Is that what you want me to tell him, Tony?’

          I never was sure how much of that was a joke and how much you really believed. It’s always been like that. We just have a name for it now.

He pats your shoulder again.

          Your mouth makes it shapes.

          She walks him out and I’m left standing over you again. I pull up your gown and straighten your blanket until it’s a perfect line across your chest.

          I try to find you in your eyes.

          I think about the last time you visited. Your eyes were going then, and your balance. I held your hand every time we crossed the street.

          I can do it myself, you said as we made our way down Oglethorpe. You used to say that all the time. Just a little thing. I’d try to help, but you’d just stamp your foot and cross your arms. I can do it myself, you’d say. I feel like that sometimes.

          I know, and I feel sorry that you can’t. Help me cross the street.

          I think about your night terrors and wonder if that’s what traps you now.

          The idea terrifies me.

          I smooth the last of your hair into some sort of order. It never really stays, though. I got that from you, too.

          I’d pray if it didn’t feel like a lie.

          ‘I’m okay, old man,’ barely louder than the mysteries on your tongue, but my skin wills it into yours. ‘Just go.’

It Gets Better?

As per usual, I'm going to throw a series of loosely related topics at you with the expectation that you can keep up.

A few years ago, the It Gets Better Project was started as a way to inspire young LGBT people faced with bullying. I respect the intention. I do, but every time I've watched one of the videos I've had this sneaky little thought in the back of my mind: Liar.

As Anti-Bullying month rolls around yet again, I watch the various memes and images flying up on Facebook about ways to deal with bullying and yet again I find myself with a vague distrust of the propaganda. Yes, bullying has become and increasingly serious problem for a lot of teenagers, though I find the term 'bullying' too light for those situations. The thing I find lacking from all these messages of hope and inspiration is anything practical or useful. It's all well and good to say, now, children, we need to all place nice and respect each other.

Anyone who's ever been to high school - hell, anyone who's ever been a teenager - knows that's just not going to fly.

And this is the problem I have with It Gets Better.

It doesn't. It just gets different.

Yes, you graduate high school and move out into a wider pool. It's a little easier to find people like yourself, people who will be positive and supportive influences on you, and who accept you who you are. But those other people - the ones that want to tear you down because you're not masculine enough, not feminine enough, not traditional enough, not smart enough, too smart, too skinny, too fat, etc. - all of those people will still be there.

There is always going to be someone who wants to tear you down just because they can. Maybe they're afraid of you. Maybe they're afraid of what you represent. Maybe they're just downright nasty, mean-spirited people. Who knows. But they aren't going to go away just because you go to college or move out of your little town or any other change you might make.

I've lived in three different countries, and six different states, and every place I've been, those people have been there. Some places have been better than others. Savannah was refreshingly odd; Galway delightfully artsy. But even in those places, there were insults yelled out of windows, having to fight for a job I was more than qualified for because of my sexuality, being refused service at a bar for the same. One benign and silly night a friend and I were followed down the street from Supermac's by two very large and very drunk men who cornered us against a shop front until I spouted out the Our Father with perfect accuracy.

Thank God they burn that shit into your brain in Catechism.

I've been mocked by cops, banned from my partner's family functions, belittled, degraded, threatened, intimidated, just about the whole gamut and let me tell you - the stuff after high school was way scarier than anything they did to me during.

So instead of telling kids who are bullied that everything will magically resolve itself once they escape adolescence and just reinforcing how beautiful, amazing, wonderful, special, etc. they are, what we need to do is tell them the truth. We need to teach them how to handle it, when to ignore it and when to fight back. Soft and fluffy will only get you so far; if you're going to be different in this world and survive, you need to be strong. You need to be fearless. You need to be prepared for what's going to come at you.

Along the same vein, I've been prowling various LGBT forums for information and I have to say it's been one of the most disheartening experiences I've had lately. I'd forgotten why I started keeping my distance in the first place.

Because, sweetheart, and this is the really important part: straight people aren't the only ones you need to be wary of. You think there's this big, loving community waiting to welcome you with cookies and open arms? Try walking into a gay club as a bi, femmey transboy and you might as well just stamp PARIAH on your forehead.

The amount of ignorance and pure hatefulness coming from the L and G directed at the B and T (particularly the T) is astounding. It's one thing to just not understand the specifics (again, particularly with transgendered issues; it's complicated, confusing and varied. Unless you're somehow personally associated with those issues, you're going to be lost), but the number of posts in response to legitimate questions and concerns that ran from the benign I don't think it's right to the much more hurtful You shouldn't exist is something else entirely, and no less damaging than the drunk redneck screaming fag out the car window. In fact, potentially more damaging because these places are promoted as safe environments to ask questions, get advice and information and develop a sense of identity.

Then there were the more well-intentioned, but equally misguided, responses. One stuck out to me in particular, and if it hadn't been from three years ago, I would have added in my two cents. The poster was in a relationship with a transman, accepted and supported the transition, but felt guilty because she occasionally wished he had been born biologically male. That it would be easier. All the responses basically made it out like if she really loved him, she would be okay with it. 'Love will solve everything.'

Yeah. Right. But that's another topic. Probably for another time.

The fact is, what that girl needed to know, is that her boyfriend probably felt exactly the same way sometimes. It's normal. Being transgendered is hard work, and the truth is, it would be easier to be born the correct gender.

And that brings us back around to giving people seeking advice the soft and fluffy answer. It might make the person feel better temporarily. It might give them a little ego boost and a momentary sense of empowerment, but what good is it going to do when they find themselves back out in the real world with all it's unyielding hardness?

Not a damn thing.

If you want to help someone, give them facts. Give them truth. It's the only thing that lasts.

The Wonderful Thing About Tiggers

More and more as I go through life, I find the fellow members of my species alienating. Rather, I feel more like an alien than one of them. The list of things they do that I don’t understand grows exponentially nearly every day, and I’m not sure if it’s because I forgot the reason, or forgot how to pretend I know the reason, or if it’s a case of the pretending getting harder and harder the longer I do it.

I don’t understand the things they value and seek out, or the vast array of little rituals they have for themselves and each other for every situation. I don’t understand their morality, their ability to bend that morality to always be in their favour, or their ability to do that same thing with honesty, integrity and loyalty.

I feel ridiculous for casting those things – morality, honesty, integrity, loyalty – as my principle deities most of the time, but only when I’m with other people. In Sashiland, those four things are unbreakable. Yet I find myself constantly compromising every part of myself – even the most essential and sacred parts of myself – for the sake of interacting with these creatures who are supposed to, somehow, be the same as me.

The loneliness is difficult to carry. I don’t even mean loneliness the way most people do. You tell people you’re lonely and they automatically presume you’re looking for someone to fuck, short term or long term. Someone to settle down with, etc. No, it’s not that. I don’t think that’s really very important, but there isn’t a word for the thing I’m looking for and people give you judging looks when you say a romantic relationship isn’t on your list of priorities. <i>(And why should it be when the furthest ahead you can plan your life – at best – is 7 months?)</i>

‘Loneliness’ to me is the loneliness of Tigger. The unicorn. Whatever other Only Ones there are out there. I’ve never liked unicorns, though, and Tigger is bouncy, flouncy, trouncy, pouncy fun.

Because that’s the thing – those creatures who are supposed to be the same as me, they live in either/or. They have packs and groups, identifiers that mark them as part of a collective. Things they can hold up and say: Yes, I fit here. And I live in the shades of grey. I don’t fit into any single religion, sexuality, gender, nationality, culture, subculture or even interest group. There isn’t any part of me that isn’t at least a duality, if not multiplicity. The only thing that can be pinned down as set and immovable (aside from having to check the door at least three times to make sure it’s locked and the certainty that <i>everything</i> in my apartment will be arranged by size and parallel alignment) is the Holy Quartet.

I do come across the occasional soul who comes… close. They say all the right things, and probably even manage to keep it up for awhile, but ultimately, something always slips. There’s always that disappointment over one of them.

Honesty. Loyalty. Morality. Integrity.

I don’t know a single person who hasn’t let me down on at least one of those principles,  and it’s very, very hard to slip on just one once you’ve gotten started. The ones that take the longest to disappoint me hurt the most. I expect the disappointment. I can deal with that. Losing the brief illusion that I do indeed have a tribe – even a tribe of two – gets harder every time. Harder to get up and keep going. Harder to hold onto myself. Harder to keep what’s sacred sacred. After all, if there are no believers left, how long do you hold the temple doors?

No, that’s not a metaphor. ;)

There isn’t a word for what I’m looking for, but I would like to find someone who says what they believe, and means what they say. Who has the self-awareness to acknowledge the lies they tell themselves, the lies they tell others, and the courage to admit to both. Who knows that without the Holy Quartet, everything is nothing.

Just one person, so I don’t have to be the only one. 

Bending Spoons

I had a mini breakdown this morning on the phone with Jinks. I don't remember what he was saying, but it was something that required Cheerleader Sashi and I remember thinking I am too fucking tired for this, which I felt guilty about, but then it all came out in a pretty rambly, disjointed manner. Jinks, though, is a star, and probably the one person who seeks out Cheerleader Sashi who's equally willing to do the same.

It's something I've been realising more and more lately. The lesson of the year, I guess. I put a lot of myself out there for other people. There are a number of people (I'm hesitant to actually call them friends because the situation resembles unpaid therapy more than friendship) who seek me out every time the shit hits the fan, or they're having a bad day, or something's wonky in their relationship with whomever. For the most part, I don't mind. Everyone needs someone to listen to them, and, generally speaking, I'm pretty good at disregarding the emotional parts of a situation and breaking it down so it doesn't seem like an impossible feat. I like helping people. I don't, however, like feeling like the sole food supply for a pack of ravenous vampires, which is how it's been the past few months.

Someone I considered one of my best friends just sort of dropped out of contact at the beginning of the year. I'd get the occasional message here and there, or a like on a status update, but no real attempt to interact with me. Every so often I'd make an overture, and might be rewarded with a few minutes of IMing, but more and more it seemed like if we were going to talk, I had to make the effort. Every time. I know life gets in the way a lot, especially when you're dealing with time differences and different schedules and things like that, but after awhile I just thought why bother?

Why should I be the one always seeking all these people out?

I'm there when they're sobbing at 3 AM. I stay up all night listening to whatever problem they're having and regularly screw up my own sleep schedule (or just go without) for the sake of being a good, supportive friend. Pretty often I'll drop whatever I'm doing (within reason) to make time for them if they need me to. I come up with random and thoughtful gestures when I think they might need cheering up. How many of them do the same thing for me? How many of them call me up just to see how I'm doing, or because we haven't talked in awhile? How many even ask how I'm doing, or what I'm doing?

None. I am the person who pastes on Band-Aids, wipes away tears and then sends them on their way again. I'm their free therapy session.

I think this all really hit home on my birthday a few weeks ago. Now, I'm not one of those people who expects some big thing made out of his birthday. In fact, most years, I'd be happy if the entire day could pass by completely without notice. My birthday, traditionally, attracts disaster. Literally. A few years ago, Hurricane Hanna hit land where I was living at the time on my birthday. So I like to ignore it. A few very persistent people never let me do that, so I suffer through it. Anyway. This year, every single one of my (local) friends - at least one of whom I have definitely gone above and beyond in terms of friend duty - totally ignored it. Not a text. Not an email. Not a single acknowledgement.

I guess the real question is: what is it that compels me to over-extend myself for people who, pretty much, are content to take and not give back a single bit? I honestly don't have an answer to that, because the fact is, I don't have unlimited resources. Spoon Theory sums it up pretty well, except I very rarely take the time to budget my spoons, or even count to see how many I have. I give them out to anyone who asks for one. Additionally, I take a lot on, and I'm pretty much always under some sort of pressure - whether it's related to school, family, work, etc. Well-meaning people keep trying to add more on - I know they're just trying to be helpful but it really is the exact opposite - with mentioning workshops, seminars, classes, competitions and various other things I could add to the pile and I really get tired of saying I can't. I can't. I can't.

Neko said he deals with that by ignoring his obligations and doing something he enjoys just to stay sane. Which is a good solution, except I'm at the point where even the things I enjoy feel like obligations, so I ignore everything and disappear from view for a week or so until the build up of all my neglected responsibilities forces me out in the world to scramble to put it back together again.

Or someone calls and really needs a friend to pump up their ego.

I know a few people have commented on my perseverance and tenacity, admired how I just keep going no matter what. I think a few others interpret that trait as a form of indestructibility - because you don't see what a mess I am that must mean I have everything under control. I would like to pass it off by saying I'm just a very private person, but I think the truth is a little more pathological. I genuinely believe that someone else's - anyone else's - problems, wants and needs have more weight and importance than my own. I don't want to bother them with my issues. Whether it's something trivial like being nervous about yet another doctor's appointment (why I still get nervous about them, who knows) or something bigger like when my father died or my cat was almost killed by a dog (yes, I did just put those two things on the same level), I feel like mentioning it to anyone is tantamount to attention-seeking. But there shouldn't be anything wrong with that. If something goes wrong in your life, you should be able to tell your friends about it and have someone at least try to make you feel better. Or at least make you feel not alone. It's similar to how I feel about letting anyone know about the panic attacks or OCD. I don't view those as valid reasons for the behaviours they cause - no, I know they're valid reasons; I don't think other people do. I worry that people will think I'm using them as an excuse to do A, B or C.

I wouldn't mind actually being as indestructible as everyone thinks I am, though. Most of that resiliency is just because I don't know what to do besides keep going. My attention span is too short to curl up in a ball and give up.

Maybe that's where it all comes from in the end. I don't feel like I can talk about the issues I'm having because very frequently they're caused by one of a set of mood disorders and the general response to that is "get over it". The reaction isn't much more sympathetic from the medical community, either. They either don't listen to a word I say, or, unable to find some dark traumatic cause to this things, throw their hands up and proclaim me cured. And maybe that's why I drop spoons until I've run out and then start writing IOUs for them. Sometimes the hardest thing to find is someone who will hear what you have to say, even if you aren't sure how to say it.