How do you feel about medication?

1.
GOAL: Talk to strangers.

2.
It's sad knowing a friendship has ended and there's no one to acknowledge it.

So I acknowledge you.
Maybe you were never real to begin with.
But I acknowledge you anyway.

3.
I need a notebook.

4.
GOAL: Give others what they earn, not what you think they deserve, or what will make up for what someone else hasn't given to/has taken away from them, or what you think will motivate them to achieve more. Sort out your own oxygen mask first.

5.
I always need a notebook. Why do I ever listen when Brain says: You have enough notebooks. That's not a necessity.
(Brain is usually right but we won't let it know that. Sh.)

6.
I hate being sick.

7.
Most honest, real advice from any teacher (also same teacher who made 17 year old me miserable): Square peg, round hole, kiddo. You always will be. Just keep them from turning you into a round peg.

8.
Through it all is the worry. Worry that I've made all the wrong decisions. That I keep making them. That I've boxed myself into a corner with no way out. That I've gone too far to turn back and there is nothing ahead of here. How long have I waited to start my life? Have I ever lived it? Is waiting living?

9.
There is too much.

Too much in my head, on the street. Too much to see. Too many sounds, noises, people talking. I think of every person who has walked right here, seen this very thing in front of me, touched that right where my hand is. I feel the weight of every person ever to exist in this space and it suffocates me.

I try to speak but the words can't escape. They trip over each other in a rush to convey the nonverbal experience and so convey nothing but stuttering syllables and choked off meaning. Awkward smiles because the smile is the default position.

10.
FOUND NOTE TO SELF:
I will forever carry the guilt of you.

(I don't know what it means.)

Sometimes the Only Way Forward is to Step Back into Who You Were

There is a tricky thing to being an itinerant magpie. On the one hand you fall in love with people quickly. You have to; you won't see them for very long. On the other hand, you have to keep this distance. You know from the moment you meet that you'll be saying goodbye. Your past and your future are constantly at war with your present, which has to be the most it can be always because its existence is so fleeting.

I started my undergrad under the worst possible circumstances, or maybe just the worst possible mindset. My life as I knew it had been eradicated, not for the first time and undoubtedly not for the last, but it had been a face I'd gotten very comfortable in. So. New place. New people. New name (it helps, in a way).

Once, for someone I used to know, I wrote out all the names I've had. Quite a few were nicknames, some are only used by a select few, some no one uses anymore. There's something very sad about a name you know no one will ever use for you again.

That first year or so of building a new face, I went through several looking for the one that fit best. There's a lot of importance in names, but we never think about that. But words, and especially names, have a power all their own. They shape the thing they're put on without that thing(person) realising it's even happening.

When I came back to the States, god, ages ago now, Zane very quickly got replaced with Aleks. Zane was too soft, pliable, unprotected. Zane was for safe places, and given that, I suppose it's no surprise that now he only exists in family arenas.

Aleks I got very comfortable in. He knew who he was, knew what he wanted. He could be fearless. But starting the undergrad, Aleks had gotten far too battered to be useful. I needed a face that could bite, and hard. I found that with Aksel (see how clever that is?) but he was a little too much. Maybe I needed that then. For a moment, anyway. Somehow, through this three year evolution of names and nicknames, Saschk came into being. And that's alright. It's comfortable in a way, but there is equally something not real about Saschk. Wearing him always feels a little like walking around with a Venetian mask.

Maybe because no one knows how to say it.

This past week, though, I've got a few glimpses of that Aleks-creature peeking out from behind the Sash-mask. And it's strange, looking at this person I used to be with the (sort of) person I am now, because that's the thing about putting the two of them side by side. Aleks evolved naturally into his existence; Saschk is a construct devised solely as a means of defence. The purpose of Saschk is to keep that little bit of distance always present. On its own, without anything for comparison, I can convince myself it is a full identity. I can say with full certainty: Yes! I am Saschk! I am totally and completely authentic!

Because, being an itinerant magpie, you fall in love with your various selves as easily as you fall in love with the people around you. You have to; you never know how long you'll have to wear them.

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.

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.