Often, I have tried to figure out the moment I decided I was gay, or I first knew I had a girl crush, or I knew I was attracted to girls, at least sexually because I fantasized about them while I made out with my boyfriends - going back in time to try to understand why I never knew I was gay.
And then I met someone. I stopped asking. It didn't matter anymore why I hadn't known at 13 or 15 or 17, because I met my love and that was all that mattered. Her friends accepted me in a way that I had never known before, because all they saw was my out and comfortable side. Over the past months I've settled into a beautiful serenity with myself that I've never felt before.
And then last night I had this dream. It came out of nowhere, my last thoughts of the night solely focused on British TV show Doctor Who, and somehow answered all the thoughts I'd left alone all those months ago:
We arrived in New Zealand, my lovely boi and I, and were driving to a little vacation spot, eager to see the exotic animals and the rainforest. The water was pouring down and the road was narrow, slicing a thin path between two vast bodies of water, but we were so happy just to be together.
We arrived at the camp to see a few others, a man and his girlfriend or wife, and another girl with them, mingling in the main kitchen. They greeted us and helped us with our bags. Before I knew it I had been dragged off by the separate girl, who was offering dry clothes and towels. She brought me into a bedroom where I gratefully took a towel from her to help with my hair.
And then she started pushing, asking about having sex with men and why shouldn't I just try it? She kept talking about how much she enjoyed it, how much she enjoyed the taste of men and I couldn't handle it. I wanted to find my boi. I stalked into the kitchen where my boi was wrapped in a towel at the table, and clambered to sit at the tabletop where I felt safe.
"Why are you in a towel?" I asked.
"My bag fell in the river and everything is wet," she responded and I laughed, heart relaxing.
"Sorry. I stole a shirt and underwear to sleep in. I'll get them, they're in my bag," I offered with a smile and a kiss. The lighthearted moment faded as I pulled away because the girl was in the doorway again.
"I don't understand why you won't just try it. You'll like it," she promised. I wanted to rip my hair out, I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell her about the time I was almost raped in high school, or when I was molested in college, but I knew I'd only be proving her point by showing her my bad experiences.
"I have tried it," I insisted. "I have had it sweet and nice, I have had normal relationships with men, but it was never right. It was always wrong, so inherently wrong, and no matter if I gave consent to them I wasn't giving consent to myself because it was never what I wanted. It always felt like being molested, and I can't even blame anyone but myself because it was me who allowed it to happen," by now I was shaking and crying, but I could feel their eyes burning me.
"So can we drop the subject now, please?!" I slammed my fist on the table and turned into my lover's side, not wanting to hear what anyone had to say. What I felt mattered, and I had said my piece.
I was worried about my boi's reaction, but I shouldn't have been, as I felt an arm protectively curl around my back and I cried into her shoulder.
When I woke up, I realized that maybe the moment doesn't matter, maybe I don't need to know exactly when I figured it out, or why I didn't realize it earlier. All those years of discomfort still take a toll on me occasionally, still sneak up on me when I don't expect it.
When I think about girls who are coming out later, I can't help but wonder at the sneers they endure from lesbians, at what other pain they must have to face. Do they also have years of giving consent to others without giving self consent burdening their backs? Though I'm now part of the "always been gay" club when I go out, I have to remember never to pass judgement. It wasn't that long ago that I wouldn't have been accepted.
Showing posts with label my past. Show all posts
Showing posts with label my past. Show all posts
Nov 17, 2013
Dec 26, 2012
Heavy
When Christmas gets heavy:
I skyped with my brother's kids late Christmas night. They're cute kids, 15 and 8, but they're a little overemotional. My nephew is funny and biting but can be sensitive, and so can his sister. My niece is a junior in high school, after she skipped a grade in middle school, and she's been dealt some heavy cards lately: her best friend died from cancer last year, and her other best friend went to jail for molesting younger boys after he himself was abused. Her life has sucked the past few years.
She wanted to talk to me about it this summer, but couldn't find the words, and being raised in a family where we don't push to communicate, I held her as she cried and told her she could come to me when she was ready. Last night's call was tense, grumpy, and awkward, and finally she kicked her little brother out of the room and broke down.
She's been anorexic for the last year. She has emotions she can't understand - feeling happy and normal one day, grumpy and depressed and introverted for no reason the next. She feels anxious, paranoid, stressed, and she doesn't want to tell her parents because she doesn't want to be a fuck up.
I'm pretty good at being calm and reasonable and compassionate when people come to me, but after the fact, when I'm writing about this, I can't help but start to cry. Should I have told her about my anorexia years ago? My depression as an early teenager? The year when I'd been lost and confused and tricked into thinking I'd fatally hurt one of my best friends? Should I be talking about these things to my other nieces and nephews who might be feeling the same way?
Luckily, her mom, K, is the sibling I talk to most, and she knows, briefly, about my struggles with anorexia. After ascertaining and making sure that my niece is not suicidal, I convinced her to talk to her mom. She's struggling, she's drowning, and she needs help and understanding. Maybe it's a conversation I will be part of, maybe I will end up flying out there to help, or maybe she'll find the courage to say something and then call me later. And I understand her hesitation, because she can be emotional and now her parents tend to brush her emotions off. But now I'm worried about her. Because this is what leads to drugs and sex and suicide.
I know there's a stigma against getting help, especially in our family - I mean, hell, I never got help or talked to my mom about any of my issues for that very reason. But I'd rather get her help than see her all over the papers. I'd rather she learn that help is okay than to lose her forever. She's my baby girl who is sarcastic and funny, who lights up at Disneyland, and wants to be a singer and has so much talent, who plays the guitar with me and can sing Katy Perry better than Katy Perry can. I refuse to see her light go out because she won't tell her parents or a doctor that something is wrong.
I skyped with my brother's kids late Christmas night. They're cute kids, 15 and 8, but they're a little overemotional. My nephew is funny and biting but can be sensitive, and so can his sister. My niece is a junior in high school, after she skipped a grade in middle school, and she's been dealt some heavy cards lately: her best friend died from cancer last year, and her other best friend went to jail for molesting younger boys after he himself was abused. Her life has sucked the past few years.
She wanted to talk to me about it this summer, but couldn't find the words, and being raised in a family where we don't push to communicate, I held her as she cried and told her she could come to me when she was ready. Last night's call was tense, grumpy, and awkward, and finally she kicked her little brother out of the room and broke down.
She's been anorexic for the last year. She has emotions she can't understand - feeling happy and normal one day, grumpy and depressed and introverted for no reason the next. She feels anxious, paranoid, stressed, and she doesn't want to tell her parents because she doesn't want to be a fuck up.
I'm pretty good at being calm and reasonable and compassionate when people come to me, but after the fact, when I'm writing about this, I can't help but start to cry. Should I have told her about my anorexia years ago? My depression as an early teenager? The year when I'd been lost and confused and tricked into thinking I'd fatally hurt one of my best friends? Should I be talking about these things to my other nieces and nephews who might be feeling the same way?
Luckily, her mom, K, is the sibling I talk to most, and she knows, briefly, about my struggles with anorexia. After ascertaining and making sure that my niece is not suicidal, I convinced her to talk to her mom. She's struggling, she's drowning, and she needs help and understanding. Maybe it's a conversation I will be part of, maybe I will end up flying out there to help, or maybe she'll find the courage to say something and then call me later. And I understand her hesitation, because she can be emotional and now her parents tend to brush her emotions off. But now I'm worried about her. Because this is what leads to drugs and sex and suicide.
I know there's a stigma against getting help, especially in our family - I mean, hell, I never got help or talked to my mom about any of my issues for that very reason. But I'd rather get her help than see her all over the papers. I'd rather she learn that help is okay than to lose her forever. She's my baby girl who is sarcastic and funny, who lights up at Disneyland, and wants to be a singer and has so much talent, who plays the guitar with me and can sing Katy Perry better than Katy Perry can. I refuse to see her light go out because she won't tell her parents or a doctor that something is wrong.
Dec 17, 2012
Tragedies
It's always hard to write about a tragedy. It's easier to keep quiet and not step on anyone's emotional toes. When last Friday hit the news, I was in shock like everyone else. I reached out to my siblings and their children, who felt hurt and confused and scared. I imagined my niece and nephew who only live a few hours away from there, in kindergarten and pre-k, so little, so funny, so ultimately helpless against violence of that force.
But my niece and nephew back east are no strangers to guns. In fact, their father collects guns and is an avid hunter. They never go grocery shopping for meat, and the littlest knows moose meat is her favorite. My whole family are no strangers to guns. We are police officers, sheriffs, military members, war vets. We know the power of a gun and the safety rules of owning one. We know that there are two safes, one for the guns and one for the clips, and the keys aren't kept together.
What we don't own are semi-automatics. What we don't need are guns that belong in war and action movies. No one needs to be able to shoot off thirty rounds at at time. These are people guns. These are massacre guns. GB has rules about what kinds of guns civilians can own. Hunting rifles are fine, but any pistol/handgun is prohibited. Anything that can shoot six bullets without reloading is prohibited. Can I stress that more? SIX bullets.
Wake up, America. We're not waiting on a zombie apocalypse. We don't need guns based off AK-47s in the hands of citizens. We don't need to buy bulk ammo at the nearest supercenter. Why can I only buy two boxes of cold medicine but can buy 400 rounds at a time? What on earth are we doing?
My mom brought up a sad point. Those parents probably already bought Christmas presents for their children. Maybe people will think me callous, but I hope those toys are donated to Toys for Tots or another organization. Those kids aren't coming home to open them, and they were never really "their toys" in the first place. I'm sure all their favorites and most played with will hold a special place, but for these unopened presents it will just be a haunting reminder. Something decent/noble can bud from this tragedy. I hope it will.
But my niece and nephew back east are no strangers to guns. In fact, their father collects guns and is an avid hunter. They never go grocery shopping for meat, and the littlest knows moose meat is her favorite. My whole family are no strangers to guns. We are police officers, sheriffs, military members, war vets. We know the power of a gun and the safety rules of owning one. We know that there are two safes, one for the guns and one for the clips, and the keys aren't kept together.
What we don't own are semi-automatics. What we don't need are guns that belong in war and action movies. No one needs to be able to shoot off thirty rounds at at time. These are people guns. These are massacre guns. GB has rules about what kinds of guns civilians can own. Hunting rifles are fine, but any pistol/handgun is prohibited. Anything that can shoot six bullets without reloading is prohibited. Can I stress that more? SIX bullets.
Wake up, America. We're not waiting on a zombie apocalypse. We don't need guns based off AK-47s in the hands of citizens. We don't need to buy bulk ammo at the nearest supercenter. Why can I only buy two boxes of cold medicine but can buy 400 rounds at a time? What on earth are we doing?
My mom brought up a sad point. Those parents probably already bought Christmas presents for their children. Maybe people will think me callous, but I hope those toys are donated to Toys for Tots or another organization. Those kids aren't coming home to open them, and they were never really "their toys" in the first place. I'm sure all their favorites and most played with will hold a special place, but for these unopened presents it will just be a haunting reminder. Something decent/noble can bud from this tragedy. I hope it will.
Dec 12, 2012
Screaming
I want to talk honestly. On four different websites this past week, the topic of anorexia has come up, and I've tried to throw my two cents in because hey, I've been there for a good part of my life. Instead of opening any sort of dialogue, I feel like I've been ignored, condescended to, and viewed as a fuck up all because of my anorexia. Now I just feel like I'm screaming at the top of my lungs and no one is listening. Good thing I have a blog :/
Let's start with the myths: 1. I'm fat-phobic. My anorexia didn't start because I wanted to be thin, and that's true of more than half of people with eating disorders. 2. I wasn't raised with loving parents. My family always told me I was pretty. In fact, they built up my self-confidence and independence so much that I consider myself to be a fairly vain person. I've mentioned this before. I love how I look. I love my eyes and my nose and my smile and my laugh and how smart and funny I am. Not an issue. 3. I need attention. No one in my personal life ever found out about my anorexia except for my drama teacher, so I think the attention thing is out. 4. It's a phase. I started food refusal in high school and I've been out for years. My life has stabilized, I'm more comfortable with myself and my paradigms and my world, but I still struggle with my anorexia.
One of the reasons I stopped eating was because my dad has a neurological disease. He regressed and started behaving like a raging alcoholic by the time I was seven (sweet one minute and would smack you the next) and morphed into a toddler by the time I was 19, and he actively pushed to instill in me this phobia that I was going to inherit his disease. My mother tried to keep me away from him as much as possible, and it's because of her and my other family members that I am so self-assured. But, this fear ate at me, and I felt helpless, powerless against my fate. I began failing out of school, falling into depression, writing poems about death and perfect suicides.
Then, I started restricting and refusing food and everything changed. Not eating gave me something else to think about, because hunger was always on my mind, and all my other worries went out the window. I finally had absolute control over something - over myself and my body and my fate. I finally felt free. I finally felt amazing. The depression stopped, my grades picked up, I was more social and exercising all the time.
It only takes a few days of me not eating to have a positive effect on my emotional climate, which is why it's so hard for me not to go back. It allows me to not worry about anything. It allows me to be in control. It's not that way for everyone with an eating disorder, but it's not just about looking thin. There's always something under the surface, so please don't brush it off like someone needs to be told they're pretty twice a day and their anorexia will clear up. It's hurtful and offensive, and eating disorders are about so much more than that.
Let's start with the myths: 1. I'm fat-phobic. My anorexia didn't start because I wanted to be thin, and that's true of more than half of people with eating disorders. 2. I wasn't raised with loving parents. My family always told me I was pretty. In fact, they built up my self-confidence and independence so much that I consider myself to be a fairly vain person. I've mentioned this before. I love how I look. I love my eyes and my nose and my smile and my laugh and how smart and funny I am. Not an issue. 3. I need attention. No one in my personal life ever found out about my anorexia except for my drama teacher, so I think the attention thing is out. 4. It's a phase. I started food refusal in high school and I've been out for years. My life has stabilized, I'm more comfortable with myself and my paradigms and my world, but I still struggle with my anorexia.
One of the reasons I stopped eating was because my dad has a neurological disease. He regressed and started behaving like a raging alcoholic by the time I was seven (sweet one minute and would smack you the next) and morphed into a toddler by the time I was 19, and he actively pushed to instill in me this phobia that I was going to inherit his disease. My mother tried to keep me away from him as much as possible, and it's because of her and my other family members that I am so self-assured. But, this fear ate at me, and I felt helpless, powerless against my fate. I began failing out of school, falling into depression, writing poems about death and perfect suicides.
Then, I started restricting and refusing food and everything changed. Not eating gave me something else to think about, because hunger was always on my mind, and all my other worries went out the window. I finally had absolute control over something - over myself and my body and my fate. I finally felt free. I finally felt amazing. The depression stopped, my grades picked up, I was more social and exercising all the time.
It only takes a few days of me not eating to have a positive effect on my emotional climate, which is why it's so hard for me not to go back. It allows me to not worry about anything. It allows me to be in control. It's not that way for everyone with an eating disorder, but it's not just about looking thin. There's always something under the surface, so please don't brush it off like someone needs to be told they're pretty twice a day and their anorexia will clear up. It's hurtful and offensive, and eating disorders are about so much more than that.
Dec 10, 2012
Traditions-тучкаs
The holiday season brings with it some very specific memories.Apple cider from scratch in my grandparents' flower shop. The smell of fresh pine and poinsettias (which are not poisonous unless eaten massive quantities, and it tastes awful, so your kids and pets are fine). A string of electronic carousel horses which pranced and played Christmas music. A two foot angel waving a lit candle in the bay window. My brother's gingerbread Star Wars creations. The shoebox of ornaments with my name on it, from baby's first Christmas through ten years old. The stocking my mother made for me, with my likeness cross-stitched on the front under my name.
In my family, we get tuchkas, a small, brown bag filled with nuts, candy, and an orange. It's a tradition that we brought over from Russia (although тучка - little cloud is not a word anyone else uses for it. It's a region in Russia and a native tribe, so I'm not sure what the connection is...) The orange is a special treat because fruit in Russia was very expensive and very hard to come by in the harsh winters. Now, with importing, exporting, and genetic engineering, it's not as hard, but for my family in the 19th and early 20th centuries, it was a big deal.
So, everyone in my family gets a тучка, and the orange is always my favorite part. I'm not really crazy about candy, though I do like chocolate, and after all the sweets present on Christmas day, an orange the next morning is a perfect antidote. It's one of my favorite holiday traditions, and the link to my past is an added bonus.
Happy Holiday Season, you guys. I hope you enjoy old traditions and create new ones :)
Dec 6, 2012
Bra Strap Thing
I can always tell when it's December because of the bra strap thing. You know, when your body is changing and your boobs are shrinking and all of the sudden you have to tighten all of your bra straps because they keep falling off your shoulders and it's really annoying? October-January is the time of year when I start losing weight automatically. I don't get much sleep, there's not much time to eat, and I'm running around working overtime at two jobs and stressing out. Packing on the pounds during the holidays has never been an issue for me.
It's also the time of year that people take lots of pictures. I'm going to admit, I take lots of pictures of myself and like having my picture taken. I think I'm pretty. I got complimented a lot as a kid and now I'm vain. Sorry, it's a flaw :)
When I was going through my serious bouts of anorexia, I used to keep picture logs (from what I've learned after-the-fact this seems to be fairly common). Instead of weighing myself obsessively, I would take pictures, measuring how small I could whittle my waistline. I have hundreds of these pictures I can't seem to trash.
However, no matter how much weight I lost, the bra strap thing would happen, but my hips never seemed to shrink in proportion.
This is me at 108 pounds, a size one, still with some serious hips compared to the rest of me. I don't know what it is about my body, but that's just how it works for me. For an anorexic, it was seriously frustrating.
So, despite all the pictures being taken this holiday season, I have to make the conscious decision to not begin this unhealthy behavior again. It's one thing to lose a little weight because there's hardly time to eat and I'm so active, but it's another to actively seek out anorexic behavior. This is the time of year when my battle gets harder. I will fight.
But man, I still miss fitting into size zero jeans.
It's also the time of year that people take lots of pictures. I'm going to admit, I take lots of pictures of myself and like having my picture taken. I think I'm pretty. I got complimented a lot as a kid and now I'm vain. Sorry, it's a flaw :)
When I was going through my serious bouts of anorexia, I used to keep picture logs (from what I've learned after-the-fact this seems to be fairly common). Instead of weighing myself obsessively, I would take pictures, measuring how small I could whittle my waistline. I have hundreds of these pictures I can't seem to trash.
 |
| Size 1/3, unhealthily. Eating less than 300 calories a day. Hips are still huge. |
 |
| Hips down to size small/x-small. Unhealthy. X-small pants are loose, sweater falling off shoulders. Arms too thin. |
This is me at 108 pounds, a size one, still with some serious hips compared to the rest of me. I don't know what it is about my body, but that's just how it works for me. For an anorexic, it was seriously frustrating.
 |
| One year later. Less than 90 lbs. Pile of clothes are because nothing fits. Boobs are nonexistent. Pants are children's size. Sweatshirt is x-small and is far too big. A few months after this, I began eating again. |
But man, I still miss fitting into size zero jeans.
Dec 1, 2012
Excerpt from Starlight
As some of you know, I've been writing my first:girl series over at tabbyqt.wordpress.com and I wanted to give you guys a little snippet of the latest post. For the juicy part you'll have to go to wordpress. No password needed for this one. Some pieces of the story are under password (which is very easy to get through comment, twitter, or email by saying please!)
Starlight
My throat felt tight and my eyes were hot. I gulped for air and turned my head to rest my cheek on Gwen’s breast. I couldn’t keep it in and my chest heaved against hers as a quiet sob ripped through my throat.
“What are you- Oh my god, are you crying?” Gwen asked incredulously, stroking my shoulder. I sat up, shoving her arm away from where it had been wrapped around me and wiped a tear from my cheek.
“I’m not crying!” I protested, but my voice broke. “It’s just-” Gwen was laughing at me! “Come on, do you have no heart? Bette and Tina are supposed to be together forever!” I sobbed at her. “You knew this was going to happen and you made me watch it anyway, you bitch!"
She cracked up, doubled over laughing at my heartbroken state. “It’s a TV show. Tabby, you’re crying over L Word. They’re not real!” she managed in between chuckles.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s – They’re – Jesus, Gwen, she was her first!” I wasn’t crying anymore, mad at her instead.
“So she can go out and experience something new,” she shrugged. “That’s a good thing. You never know what’s going to happen, who’s going to stay together or get together or get back together or what’s going to fall apart. That’s all part of the fun.” She got up to get herself a glass of water.
“It’s not fun,” I grumbled, clutching a pillow to my chest. I wiped the stray tears from my face and the ache behind my eyes dimmed and took up residence faintly behind my heart. She brought a glass of water for me without asking and I gulped it down gratefully. I hadn’t realized how thirsty I’d gotten. Wordlessly, she handed me the other glass and I drank the whole thing as well, but slower. I handed it back to her with a raised brow and then flushed. Right, I’d been crying, of course I was thirsty. “Can we watch something happy now?” I begged.
“Happy? With lesbians?” she joked wryly. “Pick out whatever,” she gestured to the shelf. I looked through the titles she’d already made me watch: My Summer of Love, Itty Bitty Titty Committee, But I’m a Cheerleader, Lost and Delirious, Better than Chocolate, and Boys Don’t Cry. I guess happiness was a mixed bag.
I shrugged, still thinking about the fictional break up I'd just witnessed. "Can we just...I don't know."
"You want to go for a walk?" she asked, and I lit up. How could she know me better than I knew myself? We pulled on our coats and I slipped on my flats as she took a cigarette from a pack in the back of a kitchen drawer. It was odd that she wanted to smoke, since usually it was a social thing for her, but we had both been stressed out at work. She lit it and we quickly made our way out the front door, locking it behind us.
The night was cold and crisp, the stars overhead were glowing, crystal clear points in a dark lake. Our breath fanned out in front of us and frost was already gathering on the grass. The tops of my feet chilled between my flats and the hem of my jeans.
"Gwen," I took her hand in mine, velvet-soft, warm, slightly larger than mine. We fell into synchronized step immediately, I'm not sure whether it was a conscious effort on her part or not. It didn't seem like it.
"What's up, girl?" she asked, blowing smoke from the corner of her mouth. I loved when she did that. I loved the Christmas smell of her vanilla and clove cigarettes and wondered what she must taste like.
"What's it like to live in the city, where you can't see the milky way, or the teaspoon?"
"The teaspoon?" she laughed questioningly, pulling another drag off her cigarette.
I nudged her playfully. "Pleiades. The Seven Sisters. It looks like the Big Dipper but really, really tiny so I always called it the teaspoon. It's right there," I pointed it out to her and she readjusted her glasses.
"Wow, I don't think I ever even realized there was a constellation there," she confessed, cigarette pressed against the frame of her glasses. She still hadn't let go of my hand. I let my head drop to her shoulder and looked up at the stars, breathing her in.
"There's a thousand of them. Cassiopeia is that big 'W' shape, and her daughter Andromeda and Perseus are both up there with her. Perseus is carrying Medusa's head - that red star right there is her eye, and it's a malicious star in every culture."
"Weird," she craned her head back to look at the constellations I'd pointed out. The cold bit into my skin and I was shivering, but my nose brushed against the skin of her neck. I leaned in and kissed the warm, soft skin below her ear, begging silently for her not to pull away.
Continued at tabbyqt.wordpress.com
Starlight
My throat felt tight and my eyes were hot. I gulped for air and turned my head to rest my cheek on Gwen’s breast. I couldn’t keep it in and my chest heaved against hers as a quiet sob ripped through my throat.
“What are you- Oh my god, are you crying?” Gwen asked incredulously, stroking my shoulder. I sat up, shoving her arm away from where it had been wrapped around me and wiped a tear from my cheek.
“I’m not crying!” I protested, but my voice broke. “It’s just-” Gwen was laughing at me! “Come on, do you have no heart? Bette and Tina are supposed to be together forever!” I sobbed at her. “You knew this was going to happen and you made me watch it anyway, you bitch!"
She cracked up, doubled over laughing at my heartbroken state. “It’s a TV show. Tabby, you’re crying over L Word. They’re not real!” she managed in between chuckles.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s – They’re – Jesus, Gwen, she was her first!” I wasn’t crying anymore, mad at her instead.
“So she can go out and experience something new,” she shrugged. “That’s a good thing. You never know what’s going to happen, who’s going to stay together or get together or get back together or what’s going to fall apart. That’s all part of the fun.” She got up to get herself a glass of water.
“It’s not fun,” I grumbled, clutching a pillow to my chest. I wiped the stray tears from my face and the ache behind my eyes dimmed and took up residence faintly behind my heart. She brought a glass of water for me without asking and I gulped it down gratefully. I hadn’t realized how thirsty I’d gotten. Wordlessly, she handed me the other glass and I drank the whole thing as well, but slower. I handed it back to her with a raised brow and then flushed. Right, I’d been crying, of course I was thirsty. “Can we watch something happy now?” I begged.
“Happy? With lesbians?” she joked wryly. “Pick out whatever,” she gestured to the shelf. I looked through the titles she’d already made me watch: My Summer of Love, Itty Bitty Titty Committee, But I’m a Cheerleader, Lost and Delirious, Better than Chocolate, and Boys Don’t Cry. I guess happiness was a mixed bag.
I shrugged, still thinking about the fictional break up I'd just witnessed. "Can we just...I don't know."
"You want to go for a walk?" she asked, and I lit up. How could she know me better than I knew myself? We pulled on our coats and I slipped on my flats as she took a cigarette from a pack in the back of a kitchen drawer. It was odd that she wanted to smoke, since usually it was a social thing for her, but we had both been stressed out at work. She lit it and we quickly made our way out the front door, locking it behind us.
The night was cold and crisp, the stars overhead were glowing, crystal clear points in a dark lake. Our breath fanned out in front of us and frost was already gathering on the grass. The tops of my feet chilled between my flats and the hem of my jeans.
"Gwen," I took her hand in mine, velvet-soft, warm, slightly larger than mine. We fell into synchronized step immediately, I'm not sure whether it was a conscious effort on her part or not. It didn't seem like it.
"What's up, girl?" she asked, blowing smoke from the corner of her mouth. I loved when she did that. I loved the Christmas smell of her vanilla and clove cigarettes and wondered what she must taste like.
"What's it like to live in the city, where you can't see the milky way, or the teaspoon?"
"The teaspoon?" she laughed questioningly, pulling another drag off her cigarette.
I nudged her playfully. "Pleiades. The Seven Sisters. It looks like the Big Dipper but really, really tiny so I always called it the teaspoon. It's right there," I pointed it out to her and she readjusted her glasses.
"Wow, I don't think I ever even realized there was a constellation there," she confessed, cigarette pressed against the frame of her glasses. She still hadn't let go of my hand. I let my head drop to her shoulder and looked up at the stars, breathing her in.
"There's a thousand of them. Cassiopeia is that big 'W' shape, and her daughter Andromeda and Perseus are both up there with her. Perseus is carrying Medusa's head - that red star right there is her eye, and it's a malicious star in every culture."
"Weird," she craned her head back to look at the constellations I'd pointed out. The cold bit into my skin and I was shivering, but my nose brushed against the skin of her neck. I leaned in and kissed the warm, soft skin below her ear, begging silently for her not to pull away.
Continued at tabbyqt.wordpress.com
Nov 29, 2012
Hot Mess/Comfortable
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Even looking back on my first posts here, not nearly as far back as my love story, I was all over the place. I was a big, hot, lesbian mess, trying to fit myself into any box I could find. I'm so glad I found these beautiful safe spaces which helped me grow. Places like Sugarbutch, CCL, Dorothy Surrenders, and Alphafemme, with real authors, honest people who shared their experiences and their lives with me so that I might grow and learn. I can't thank them enough, especially Sinclair over at Sugarbutch, for the impact they've had on making me feel safe and like I wasn't alone on this journey.
But I have become someone extraordinarily different from who I was back then. I am confident, self-assured. I know what I need from a relationship and how to get it. I know how to give love, how to accept it, and how to walk away when I'm not going to get it. I am a sane, competent individual who understands different types of relationships, differing needs and wants and paradigms. I am someone who can stand my ground and hold my own beliefs without needing to blind myself to the opinions of those around me. I am no longer spectrum banging, but comfortable in the person I've settled into. That's not to say I don't shake things up occasionally, but everything is essentially me. I can also still be a hot mess when I'm running late for work and haven't done laundry or gone to the market and forget to comb my hair when I get out of the shower and look like Jane Porter (this is a chance for you to show me that you read).
I hope that you, wherever you are on your journey, in the closet or out for years, can come upon this feeling. That someday, you can stop chasing down and looking for who you really are, because you are comfortable in yourself. All that running is exhausting, and knowing the basics of who you are and what you want is really enjoyable.
Nov 15, 2012
Day 24 Memories
Day 24 — The person that gave you your favorite memory
 |
| This Taco Bell cup is half the size of my little body |
The first time I remember going to Disneyland I was nine (the first time I was 4) and we went to dinner at Goofy's Kitchen. It's a character dining experience where they come around and say hi, sign autographs and take pictures. Nowadays it's kind of lame, but back then it was just starting out and they didn't push the characters so fast. My favorite Disney movie was Aladdin at that time, and Aladdin came out and sat next to me for 25 minutes! We talked about everything. If he and Jasmine ever fought over the blankets, what the stars are like in Agrabah, what Abu would say if he could talk, if Genie ever gets annoying, if Jafar is scary in real life, if being a Sultan is hard work, if he and Jasmine would stay in love forever. He was so patient with me, never getting exasperated, telling me I would make a wonderful princess because I was beautiful, kind, and thoughtful, taking pictures with me, singing me happy birthday. No other character experience has ever lived up to the magic of that moment.
There's all the hilarious memories of my sister thinking she won the lotto (she didn't), my niece "cussing" at two teenage boys jaywalking (stupid apples!), my other niece at 4 years old, naked and walking around with her hands under her ribcage saying "Ribs! Ribs for dinner!" my brother's "oops, I forgot to tell you I have a kid," text several hours after first son was born. There's the crying memories of Ladybug becoming a Marine, of the Disneyland proposal on Christmas under fake snow and fireworks, of Ellie's wedding and seeing that huge, redneck side of the family again. Then we're back to hilarious, because there were four kegs at that wedding and they ran out of beer. Granted, his side of the family is Italian, but I'm sure our family took care of a huge portion. (Yes, kegs, at a wedding. It was also in a barn.)
Anyway, I've got lots of memories. I'd like to hear one of your favorite memories :)
Nov 8, 2012
Day 17 Childhood
Day 17 — Someone from your childhood
I feel like all I do is talk about my childhood. You've heard about my childhood friends, about Ladybug, even briefly about the giant, mean kid down the street who used to beat me up. I spent a fair amount of my formative years crying before I learned that if he chucked a hammer at me I could throw it back and it would hurt him just as bad.
 |
| Cul-de-sac |
When the days grew long, we ate dinner outside in the street and told ghost stories in the twilight. We played Kick the Can and Ghost in the Graveyard in the darkness. And then, when we got exhausted, we would pull out our sleeping bags and lawn chairs and set up camp in the road and watch for shooting stars in the clear, crisp sky and awake with dew on our faces. Or we'd awake in our beds, if it got particularly cold and our parents came to get us.
Once in a while the coyotes or mountain lions would come around out of curiosity, and we would all freak out. Coyotes are better, louder from further away, so we could scream and run into the nearest person's house and they get more scared of us than we are of them. No one ever got bit by either animal.
 |
| Milky Way from Mount Pinos - not my small mountain, but a similar view. |
I think that's what I miss most.
Nov 5, 2012
Day 14 Drifting
30 Day Letter Challenge
Day 14 — Someone you’ve drifted away from
When I was two years old, my best friend moved into the house next door. She was the coolest kid around. She would beat up the mean boy down the street for me. We would sled down the muddy hill, watch Xena and Hercules after school (you know, with Lucy Lawless and Kevin Sorbo), spend all day in the back room with jolly ranchers and a Tremors marathon (so many Kevin Bacon jokes), or start up our own Jedi training academy.
She had a little sister too, and she's who I would play barbies or dress up with, but most of the time I was outside rock climbing with my best friend. We lived right next to the river, and would swim for miles up or down stream.
Anyway, she was a badass. But two weeks after she graduated from high school, she eloped and moved away. Not that I really minded, I mean, it sucked that she never told me what was going on or included me in the whole shebang, but she was always a private person when it came to feelings, so I wasn't really that hurt. Even so, I still had two more years of high school to go, so while she moved on and away, I was stuck doing the same old thing, except without her.
We talk online sometimes, send each other cards. I see pictures of her kids occasionally, but I've never met them. I thought I was going to be more involved in her life, but now I hardly know anything about the person she's become. If she ever needs me, I'm there. Until then, we're just drifting.
Day 14 — Someone you’ve drifted away from
When I was two years old, my best friend moved into the house next door. She was the coolest kid around. She would beat up the mean boy down the street for me. We would sled down the muddy hill, watch Xena and Hercules after school (you know, with Lucy Lawless and Kevin Sorbo), spend all day in the back room with jolly ranchers and a Tremors marathon (so many Kevin Bacon jokes), or start up our own Jedi training academy.
She had a little sister too, and she's who I would play barbies or dress up with, but most of the time I was outside rock climbing with my best friend. We lived right next to the river, and would swim for miles up or down stream.
Anyway, she was a badass. But two weeks after she graduated from high school, she eloped and moved away. Not that I really minded, I mean, it sucked that she never told me what was going on or included me in the whole shebang, but she was always a private person when it came to feelings, so I wasn't really that hurt. Even so, I still had two more years of high school to go, so while she moved on and away, I was stuck doing the same old thing, except without her.
We talk online sometimes, send each other cards. I see pictures of her kids occasionally, but I've never met them. I thought I was going to be more involved in her life, but now I hardly know anything about the person she's become. If she ever needs me, I'm there. Until then, we're just drifting.
Nov 2, 2012
Day 11 Grief
30 Day Letter Challenge
Day 11 — A Deceased person you wish you could talk to
I'm not going to write a letter. This is about remembering, connecting, and seeing the world as something bigger than yourself or myself. When you’re born into a large family, like I was, death is not uncommon. I’ve attended more funerals than I can count. But two hit me particularly hard – my brother-in-law when I was 14, and my grandfather when I was 18. Both were accidents.
Day 11 — A Deceased person you wish you could talk to
I'm not going to write a letter. This is about remembering, connecting, and seeing the world as something bigger than yourself or myself. When you’re born into a large family, like I was, death is not uncommon. I’ve attended more funerals than I can count. But two hit me particularly hard – my brother-in-law when I was 14, and my grandfather when I was 18. Both were accidents.
I wasn’t allowed to go to T’s
funeral. We didn’t have enough money for me to fly back east, since both of my
parents were going to support my sister. I understand the fiscal reasons, but
as a fourteen year old girl my feelings were bruised. They left for 12 days and I stayed with my grandparents on a
very cold air mattress wondering what his body looked like. He used to let me
braid his rat-tail. He wasn’t exactly the greatest person in the world, but for
some reason he had a sweet spot for me.
When my grandpa died it was sudden, unexpected and harsh.
We had been very close, had a very good relationship, and he was practically
a dad to Ladybug. So, when Ladybug and I were dragged into the court case
surrounding his death it was a little too much for both of us to handle. Luckily,
neither of us spiraled into drugs, but it took me more than a year before I
visited his grave. It was shortly after this that I came out and as for Ladybug, he joined the Marines. To each their own therapy, I suppose.
Grief is a funny thing; sometimes you think you’re done and
then it sneaks up on you out of nowhere and slams you in the gut. Or sometimes
you can be in the middle of it, and suddenly be blessed with an ordinary day
where you don’t think about any of it and don’t realize it until later. Grieving
is a journey, and when you can finally mention that person again without crying, you start to understand that life moves forward.
Since my grandfather died, my brothers and sisters have
given birth to four children with one more on the way. I can’t stop my whole life to
grieve for one person, or I would fail to interact with and love all these new people. And I wouldn’t miss out on them for anything.
Oct 15, 2012
Consequences
Okay- so back to that part where I was dead. Want a recap? Go here.
After the nothing, I remember something around my waist, dragging me down, choking me. I couldn't breathe. I threw back by head and a sharp pain lanced through me, but the thing let go and I propelled myself to the surface. I broke through, gasping, coughing, crying. Oh, god, my head hurt.
My best friend came up behind me, clutching her cheek. I had launched my head straight back into her face. I wanted to say I was sorry, but I still couldn't breath, couldn't think. My vision was blurry and I felt like I was going to vomit.
The two pulled me out of the water and I tucked into a ball and tried to breathe. Crying made it hurt worse, so I tried to stop. I think they were talking about calling 911. "No," I objected, "my mom will be so mad," because getting in trouble was so important right now. But we were trespassing, and they were good kids, so we all tossed out the idea of emergency services.
"Did you hit your head? What happened? We didn't hear you come up for like ever but you can hold your breath so long that we didn't know anything was wrong for sure..." I could tell she felt guilty under her valley girl accent.
"I can't remember," and at that point in time, I couldn't. I remembered diving in and then waking up, floating above the floor of the pool with her arms wrapped around me.
"My mom's a nurse. She'll know what to do," so they half carried me to her car and I curled wetly into the back seat, sobbing quietly like Harry Potter clutching at his scar.
I'm sure we didn't tell her mom the whole story. If we had, there is no way she would have put a bag of frozen peas on my head and told me not to fall asleep. I had been underwater for more than a few minutes. There could have been serious brain damage.
I had hit the bottom of the pool hard enough that there was no bruise. When the blood vessels broke, all the blood had been squeezed out of the area into my scalp (yeah, found that out later) and left the area of impact bone white. Luckily, that made it easy to cover with make up. I never told anyone about that night, not even Ladybug, because I was pretty sure he couldn't be trusted not to tell anyone.
A few weeks later, my friends decided I should get over it. I had gained an aversion to the pool (I almost drowned, you guys) and they wanted to see the old me restored. They brought our boards to a special section of the beach where the waves crest higher because of the rocky shoreline. It's a secluded area, and it requires scaling down the side of a small, shale cliff to get into the cove. I shimmied down the rope and we made our way out into the water. The waves were maybe three or four feet. I made my way out cautiously, smacking a huge piece of bubblicious to keep the extreme taste of salt out of my mouth.
I took one wave and started to relax. The sets got closer together, making it hard to get past them into open water. I made my way back out and grabbed another wave. I lost control and was pinned against a huge rock near the cove.
The waves battered me as I tried to keep coming up for air. I panicked. I started to remember hitting my head in the pool. I remembered hands around my waist, fire in my lungs-in my panic I couldn't remember what to do or how to get away from the rock, the waves, the current. One of the guys grabbed me, pulled me behind the rock, and towed me to shore. I gagged on saltwater and fear. I lost my board somewhere in the undertow but I didn't even care. I never wanted to go in the water again.
A scan later showed that I had fractured my skull in two places during my shallow dive. Twice since, I've felt the blow of hitting the bottom of the pool. I've gone to the ER both times. Now I can pay attention to the signs and take the right medication to hopefully prevent it from happening again. The doctor says that it's my nerves reliving the moment of impact-I say it's dying, over and over and over again.
This summer I was comfortable with spending a lot of my time swimming in the ocean. I was able to remember why I love it so much, but I still can't bring myself to dive. The sound of bubbles rushing near my head is the most terrifying sound in the world. The thing I most loved is the thing I now fear most.
These are the consequences of my arrogance.
It would make a great story. Too bad I'm not Greek.
After the nothing, I remember something around my waist, dragging me down, choking me. I couldn't breathe. I threw back by head and a sharp pain lanced through me, but the thing let go and I propelled myself to the surface. I broke through, gasping, coughing, crying. Oh, god, my head hurt.
My best friend came up behind me, clutching her cheek. I had launched my head straight back into her face. I wanted to say I was sorry, but I still couldn't breath, couldn't think. My vision was blurry and I felt like I was going to vomit.
The two pulled me out of the water and I tucked into a ball and tried to breathe. Crying made it hurt worse, so I tried to stop. I think they were talking about calling 911. "No," I objected, "my mom will be so mad," because getting in trouble was so important right now. But we were trespassing, and they were good kids, so we all tossed out the idea of emergency services.
"Did you hit your head? What happened? We didn't hear you come up for like ever but you can hold your breath so long that we didn't know anything was wrong for sure..." I could tell she felt guilty under her valley girl accent.
"I can't remember," and at that point in time, I couldn't. I remembered diving in and then waking up, floating above the floor of the pool with her arms wrapped around me.
"My mom's a nurse. She'll know what to do," so they half carried me to her car and I curled wetly into the back seat, sobbing quietly like Harry Potter clutching at his scar.
I'm sure we didn't tell her mom the whole story. If we had, there is no way she would have put a bag of frozen peas on my head and told me not to fall asleep. I had been underwater for more than a few minutes. There could have been serious brain damage.
I had hit the bottom of the pool hard enough that there was no bruise. When the blood vessels broke, all the blood had been squeezed out of the area into my scalp (yeah, found that out later) and left the area of impact bone white. Luckily, that made it easy to cover with make up. I never told anyone about that night, not even Ladybug, because I was pretty sure he couldn't be trusted not to tell anyone.
A few weeks later, my friends decided I should get over it. I had gained an aversion to the pool (I almost drowned, you guys) and they wanted to see the old me restored. They brought our boards to a special section of the beach where the waves crest higher because of the rocky shoreline. It's a secluded area, and it requires scaling down the side of a small, shale cliff to get into the cove. I shimmied down the rope and we made our way out into the water. The waves were maybe three or four feet. I made my way out cautiously, smacking a huge piece of bubblicious to keep the extreme taste of salt out of my mouth.
I took one wave and started to relax. The sets got closer together, making it hard to get past them into open water. I made my way back out and grabbed another wave. I lost control and was pinned against a huge rock near the cove.
The waves battered me as I tried to keep coming up for air. I panicked. I started to remember hitting my head in the pool. I remembered hands around my waist, fire in my lungs-in my panic I couldn't remember what to do or how to get away from the rock, the waves, the current. One of the guys grabbed me, pulled me behind the rock, and towed me to shore. I gagged on saltwater and fear. I lost my board somewhere in the undertow but I didn't even care. I never wanted to go in the water again.
A scan later showed that I had fractured my skull in two places during my shallow dive. Twice since, I've felt the blow of hitting the bottom of the pool. I've gone to the ER both times. Now I can pay attention to the signs and take the right medication to hopefully prevent it from happening again. The doctor says that it's my nerves reliving the moment of impact-I say it's dying, over and over and over again.
This summer I was comfortable with spending a lot of my time swimming in the ocean. I was able to remember why I love it so much, but I still can't bring myself to dive. The sound of bubbles rushing near my head is the most terrifying sound in the world. The thing I most loved is the thing I now fear most.
These are the consequences of my arrogance.
It would make a great story. Too bad I'm not Greek.
Oct 9, 2012
Hubris
When I was a kid, my cousin/ basically my brother (from this
point on be under codename: Ladybug-don’t worry, it’s a loving nickname) and I were enrolled in swimming lessons. I began when I was four or five and he started a few years after when
he reached that same age. I would take
the earlier, advanced class and he would take the younger class right after mine, so we were around to watch each other.
The classes were held in our outdoor community pool, which was
absolutely freezing so early in the morning. For
whatever reason I can't feel the cold. By the time the car pulled into the parking lot I always had my jacket
off, shoes in hand, ready to jump in the pool, and when my lesson was over I refused to come out.
Ladybug, like most other kids, had a much more difficult time. He would shiver and shake and most days he would beg to climb out early, wrapped in a thick towel as his teeth chattered, while I would eagerly ask if I could
take his spot and jump back in.
I
excelled in swimming, could hold my breath for two pool lengths or dive off
the diving board and forget to come up until a worried instructor feared I was drowning and pull me
out. (That tended to make them mad) I thought diving was the most wonderful feeling in
the world and I practiced all the time.
Since I grew up right next to the ocean, when I wasn’t in the pool I was at this crap strip of beach
ten minutes from my house. The waves were never very big unless there was a
storm coming in, and each crest was filled with kelp and/or seaweed that tangled its slimy way across every inch of skin. I didn’t enjoy the shore much, but once I got past the breakers I loved the freedom of being able to swim in the (very cold) water
when the pool wasn't open for summer.
I swam all year round, and because I can't feel the cold, one stormy January day I stayed in for more than 3 1/2 hours without a wetsuit and almost came out with hypothermia. It took several piping hot showers on the beach before my skin turned pink and I could uncurl my hands. But I was fine, a teenager, invincible. I didn't let it bother me.
I swam all year round, and because I can't feel the cold, one stormy January day I stayed in for more than 3 1/2 hours without a wetsuit and almost came out with hypothermia. It took several piping hot showers on the beach before my skin turned pink and I could uncurl my hands. But I was fine, a teenager, invincible. I didn't let it bother me.
It was this excellence, this confidence, this arrogance, which would be my undoing.
I was 16 and "pool hopping" with two of my friends. They were both 17 and enjoying the freedom of legally being able to drive friends after dark. We were in the spa of a very fancy hotel for only a few minutes before I left them. I could never take the heat for long, and preferred the cold water of the pool a few yards away.
The deepest section was only five feet, but I was 5'1" at the time and had been in this pool many times before. Shallow diving was my specialty. I dove in off the side- once, twice, six times. The rush of bubbles along my cheeks was thrilling, the ice water refreshing against my skin. It was a cold night and the stars were especially bright overhead. My breath puffed into the air as I climbed up the ladder.
I dove again, casually, carelessly, no longer thinking or making an effort. I'd done it a thousand times before. I cut through the water, too quickly, too steep, and couldn't stop myself. The bubbles rushed by my ears and I tried to arch my back. I couldn't pull up. The angle was all wrong. A tremendous pain lanced through my head, my neck, my spine-a pain so intense I could never have imagined anything like it.
I dove again, casually, carelessly, no longer thinking or making an effort. I'd done it a thousand times before. I cut through the water, too quickly, too steep, and couldn't stop myself. The bubbles rushed by my ears and I tried to arch my back. I couldn't pull up. The angle was all wrong. A tremendous pain lanced through my head, my neck, my spine-a pain so intense I could never have imagined anything like it.
And then there was nothing.
Sep 24, 2012
Awakening
I dated boys for many years. It started when I was 12. When I was 13 I was dating a 16 year old, but he was my best friend, and very gay. He was the best boyfriend I've ever had. When I was 14, I had a "friend with benefits" open my eyes to the underbelly of the internet that the school had blocked. Oh my God, girls could do that? To each other? Obviously, he found it hot, but I don't think he expected it to turn me on so much. Whatever got me in the mood, though, so he soothed me, convinced me it was absolutely normal for straight girls to feel aroused by it as he palmed his way under my shirt.
I will be forever grateful to him for showing me the true use of computers.
However, it was with this way of thinking that I spent my high school years. I was in unsatisfactory relationships, seeking adrenaline rushes, boyfriends, affairs, and taboos to feed this sexual void in me. I couldn't figure out what was missing. And then I slowly began to wake up.
m:2, we'll call her Mary, was my first girl crush that had me thinking sexual thoughts. I was in year 12, so ready to be done with high school, and she was a grade below myself. She had curly black hair (do you see a trend?) that was always in a ponytail, and a huge silver guitar for a belt buckle. She rocked out on it with headphones over her ears like she was practicing for a garage band. She wore jeans and pullovers and the skater sneakers that make your feet look huge.
She was funny. She had a dry humor, a sarcastic wit, and her responses were lightning fast. Her brown eyes could swallow you. She never really smiled -it was always more of a half smirk, but that fit her perfectly.
At the time, I was convinced that I did not have a crush on her. Me? Gay? No way. I went to school with lesbians, I was friends with lesbians, I was part of the GSA. I'd heard them all talk, when you're gay you know it all the way from when you're a kid.
I remember the first time Mary hugged me. There was skin to skin contact and it was a long time before I let her go. No boy had ever made me want to hug him like that. She smelled wonderful and her body fit along mine like we were two halves of the same whole. I fantasized about hugging her, kissing her, seeing her without her sweatshirt. We went on this school trip and stayed at a hotel, and when we all went swimming she had the most amazing body. Her arms were like woah. But of course that didn't mean that I was gay. As my feelings grew I passed them off as a fluke, a one time thing with just one girl. It helped that Mary wasn't gay, so what was the point of trying to talk to her about it?
I graduated, and found out two months later that she came out and was identifying strongly as a butch lesbian. Way to go, me.
I started college that fall. Again, I found myself crushing on a girl. Luckily, m:3 (I'm realizing that I like a lot of girls whose names start with M) was not the girl I was sharing a room with. My roommate and I got along well enough. m:3 had the room next to ours, and she was something else. She was slightly taller than me and much curvier. She was gorgeous. We traded clothes, dresses, makeup. We hugged all the time or snuggled on the couch together under a blanket watching TV. She would curl into my arms and beg me to play with her hair and it was so long and beautiful and felt like silk between my fingers. We sometimes cuddled and fell asleep in the same bed or on the couch, but she was firmly straight, so I couldn't possibly think of her that way at all.
We started having crushes on the same guy, and I realized that I was jealous. I didn't want them to date because then she wouldn't be spending time with me or cuddling with me. I never had dreams about kissing her, never thought of having sex with her, but I craved skin to skin contact. She was so soft, so smooth, so warm that I snuggled up to her like a cat. I was happy just being next to her, sleeping beside her.
I went nine months in silence, not thinking that I liked her in a lesbian way, but I knew something about my feelings for her was different. She graduated and moved away after I let my jealousy get the better of me. She refused to speak to me and I was crushed. Soon after, the summer of my life stormed in like a hurricane.
It began with Patty: she was a very short, curvy thing with gorgeous black hair and dark eyes. She had an attitude that was so strong, confident, sexy. I couldn't take my eyes off her. After m:3, I was a little wary about all of my wonky feelings around girls and I wasn't about to get heartbroken again. I befriended Patty quickly during our shifts together at work, and her laugh was extraordinary. She taunted boys and girls both with her bountiful assets, but I couldn't get a read on her. Would she be offended if I asked her out?
She was constantly teasing the lesbian girl who worked with us. I knew her vaguely- she had been infatuated with m:3 and made her extremely uncomfortable, but Patty didn't seem so uncomfortable, so maybe she'd be open to the idea. I remembered that m:3 was no longer talking to me and I decided I'd be damned if I let another girl slip away.
We were joking one day at work and I tried to be casual about it. "So, Patty, you want to go out on a date sometime?"
"Tabby, you're such a charmer!" she laughed. "Ran out of cute guys to ask?"
"You're prettier than they are," I threw out the compliment unabashedly, but she laughed and took a sip of her water. "God, I wish more people were as sweet as you," she said and walked out.
I sighed and leaned my head back against the wall. She thought I was joking. She thought I was super sweet, which was great, but also that I was straight and joking.
That night I went out to a party, got drunk, and made out with a boy. It was wholly unsatisfying. The next week, Patty began dating the lesbian girl from work. Shit.
I will be forever grateful to him for showing me the true use of computers.
However, it was with this way of thinking that I spent my high school years. I was in unsatisfactory relationships, seeking adrenaline rushes, boyfriends, affairs, and taboos to feed this sexual void in me. I couldn't figure out what was missing. And then I slowly began to wake up.
m:2, we'll call her Mary, was my first girl crush that had me thinking sexual thoughts. I was in year 12, so ready to be done with high school, and she was a grade below myself. She had curly black hair (do you see a trend?) that was always in a ponytail, and a huge silver guitar for a belt buckle. She rocked out on it with headphones over her ears like she was practicing for a garage band. She wore jeans and pullovers and the skater sneakers that make your feet look huge.
She was funny. She had a dry humor, a sarcastic wit, and her responses were lightning fast. Her brown eyes could swallow you. She never really smiled -it was always more of a half smirk, but that fit her perfectly.
At the time, I was convinced that I did not have a crush on her. Me? Gay? No way. I went to school with lesbians, I was friends with lesbians, I was part of the GSA. I'd heard them all talk, when you're gay you know it all the way from when you're a kid.
I remember the first time Mary hugged me. There was skin to skin contact and it was a long time before I let her go. No boy had ever made me want to hug him like that. She smelled wonderful and her body fit along mine like we were two halves of the same whole. I fantasized about hugging her, kissing her, seeing her without her sweatshirt. We went on this school trip and stayed at a hotel, and when we all went swimming she had the most amazing body. Her arms were like woah. But of course that didn't mean that I was gay. As my feelings grew I passed them off as a fluke, a one time thing with just one girl. It helped that Mary wasn't gay, so what was the point of trying to talk to her about it?
I graduated, and found out two months later that she came out and was identifying strongly as a butch lesbian. Way to go, me.
I started college that fall. Again, I found myself crushing on a girl. Luckily, m:3 (I'm realizing that I like a lot of girls whose names start with M) was not the girl I was sharing a room with. My roommate and I got along well enough. m:3 had the room next to ours, and she was something else. She was slightly taller than me and much curvier. She was gorgeous. We traded clothes, dresses, makeup. We hugged all the time or snuggled on the couch together under a blanket watching TV. She would curl into my arms and beg me to play with her hair and it was so long and beautiful and felt like silk between my fingers. We sometimes cuddled and fell asleep in the same bed or on the couch, but she was firmly straight, so I couldn't possibly think of her that way at all.
We started having crushes on the same guy, and I realized that I was jealous. I didn't want them to date because then she wouldn't be spending time with me or cuddling with me. I never had dreams about kissing her, never thought of having sex with her, but I craved skin to skin contact. She was so soft, so smooth, so warm that I snuggled up to her like a cat. I was happy just being next to her, sleeping beside her.
I went nine months in silence, not thinking that I liked her in a lesbian way, but I knew something about my feelings for her was different. She graduated and moved away after I let my jealousy get the better of me. She refused to speak to me and I was crushed. Soon after, the summer of my life stormed in like a hurricane.
It began with Patty: she was a very short, curvy thing with gorgeous black hair and dark eyes. She had an attitude that was so strong, confident, sexy. I couldn't take my eyes off her. After m:3, I was a little wary about all of my wonky feelings around girls and I wasn't about to get heartbroken again. I befriended Patty quickly during our shifts together at work, and her laugh was extraordinary. She taunted boys and girls both with her bountiful assets, but I couldn't get a read on her. Would she be offended if I asked her out?
She was constantly teasing the lesbian girl who worked with us. I knew her vaguely- she had been infatuated with m:3 and made her extremely uncomfortable, but Patty didn't seem so uncomfortable, so maybe she'd be open to the idea. I remembered that m:3 was no longer talking to me and I decided I'd be damned if I let another girl slip away.
We were joking one day at work and I tried to be casual about it. "So, Patty, you want to go out on a date sometime?"
"Tabby, you're such a charmer!" she laughed. "Ran out of cute guys to ask?"
"You're prettier than they are," I threw out the compliment unabashedly, but she laughed and took a sip of her water. "God, I wish more people were as sweet as you," she said and walked out.
I sighed and leaned my head back against the wall. She thought I was joking. She thought I was super sweet, which was great, but also that I was straight and joking.
That night I went out to a party, got drunk, and made out with a boy. It was wholly unsatisfying. The next week, Patty began dating the lesbian girl from work. Shit.
Sep 21, 2012
Stopgaps
Crap. I went away for two years- just stopped writing. I'm so sorry. I don't think that I can do anything or say anything that would make you understand. When I started this blog *gulp* three long years ago, I was still so broken. Every time I tried to write about what was truly eating at me, I couldn't. I put it off and put it off because I was still in love with, still heartbroken over, the first girl to bring down all my barriers.
By starting this blog, I tried to give myself a space to explore all the other things that were going on inside me. All of my daily gender struggles, my issues with my sexuality- I turned to you as a community for strength, guidance and compassion, and I'm thankful for all you've given me.
When I left, I had just had surgery. It was hard for me to eat, physically, and I could feel the old habits of my anorexia creeping back up on me. While I've never been diagnosed or hospitalized, anorexia is never very far from my mind. The opportunity handed to me on a silver platter, to relapse with a perfectly good and unquestionable excuse, was too hard to pass up. I lost forty pounds. I felt amazing. As with all things, it was a cycle. I had to eat eventually and am now back up to my former weight. It's been an interesting two years. I've dated, I've learned, I've grown, I've started to heal, and I think I've become more comfortable with myself.
All those thoughts that were constantly plaguing me about who I was, about labeling myself, have faded into the background. I am who I am and I enjoy the person I've become, for the most part. There are always things I'm going to want to change about myself, but for now I'm not so focused on how I want to be labeled in a relationship or should be labeled. I just act, and let things go from there.
When I started the blog I said I was going to write about being gay, because it was so new and overwhelming that I felt obsessed with it. I feel like it overshadowed all else that I was, and sometimes it still does, but more and more sides of me are stepping into the spotlight, and that's the way I want it to be.
If you'd read my initial post from last night, you know that I had a relationship end. She was a sweet, charming, raunchy girl that made me laugh constantly. I don't know why I let her go, but I think that part of it was that I'm not quite healed. So I've started something that I ached to do a long time ago, but never had the courage or conviction.
I've started writing about first:girl. I feel like I've referred to her enough that I owe you my story, and maybe I owe it to myself to tell it. It doesn't hurt me anymore to think about it. I still occasionally get shivers when I think about her, or feel a warm glow when I remember her smile, but it was four years ago- long enough to feel like it happened to another person. I'm so different now than I was then.
I hope, in telling it, the remnant of longing will disappear, and I can finally shut that door. And perhaps all of you will finally feel like you know me as more than just words on a backlit screen, because every part of who I used to be was wrapped up in her. I want you to know me. I'm so sorry I disappeared, but I'm back and baring my soul for the world.
By starting this blog, I tried to give myself a space to explore all the other things that were going on inside me. All of my daily gender struggles, my issues with my sexuality- I turned to you as a community for strength, guidance and compassion, and I'm thankful for all you've given me.
When I left, I had just had surgery. It was hard for me to eat, physically, and I could feel the old habits of my anorexia creeping back up on me. While I've never been diagnosed or hospitalized, anorexia is never very far from my mind. The opportunity handed to me on a silver platter, to relapse with a perfectly good and unquestionable excuse, was too hard to pass up. I lost forty pounds. I felt amazing. As with all things, it was a cycle. I had to eat eventually and am now back up to my former weight. It's been an interesting two years. I've dated, I've learned, I've grown, I've started to heal, and I think I've become more comfortable with myself.
All those thoughts that were constantly plaguing me about who I was, about labeling myself, have faded into the background. I am who I am and I enjoy the person I've become, for the most part. There are always things I'm going to want to change about myself, but for now I'm not so focused on how I want to be labeled in a relationship or should be labeled. I just act, and let things go from there.
When I started the blog I said I was going to write about being gay, because it was so new and overwhelming that I felt obsessed with it. I feel like it overshadowed all else that I was, and sometimes it still does, but more and more sides of me are stepping into the spotlight, and that's the way I want it to be.
If you'd read my initial post from last night, you know that I had a relationship end. She was a sweet, charming, raunchy girl that made me laugh constantly. I don't know why I let her go, but I think that part of it was that I'm not quite healed. So I've started something that I ached to do a long time ago, but never had the courage or conviction.
I've started writing about first:girl. I feel like I've referred to her enough that I owe you my story, and maybe I owe it to myself to tell it. It doesn't hurt me anymore to think about it. I still occasionally get shivers when I think about her, or feel a warm glow when I remember her smile, but it was four years ago- long enough to feel like it happened to another person. I'm so different now than I was then.
I hope, in telling it, the remnant of longing will disappear, and I can finally shut that door. And perhaps all of you will finally feel like you know me as more than just words on a backlit screen, because every part of who I used to be was wrapped up in her. I want you to know me. I'm so sorry I disappeared, but I'm back and baring my soul for the world.
Dec 20, 2009
PIP/Confused
PIP is Post in Progress, in my own personal language.
It's because I ran into first:girl last night, and it threw off my whole balance of being. I rushed home and scribbled out everything I was feeling and going through, but I don't want to, in haste, write something that I will regret. Maybe that particular post needs to wait until I can write about how first:girl and I met, how my relationship with her began.
I feel like if I write about her with how I feel right now, she'll be placed as the bad guy, but she's not at all, and I love her enough that I want you to view her from the good and bad. From the beginning. I just can't bring myself to go back to that point in time.
It's because I ran into first:girl last night, and it threw off my whole balance of being. I rushed home and scribbled out everything I was feeling and going through, but I don't want to, in haste, write something that I will regret. Maybe that particular post needs to wait until I can write about how first:girl and I met, how my relationship with her began.
I feel like if I write about her with how I feel right now, she'll be placed as the bad guy, but she's not at all, and I love her enough that I want you to view her from the good and bad. From the beginning. I just can't bring myself to go back to that point in time.
Dec 7, 2009
Storytime/parallel lives
Meredith Baxter just came out and pretty much summed up my high school years in just a few sentences.
'But in an interview with Today show host Matt Lauer, she revealed that she had had a "later-in-life recognition" of her sexuality and has been in a relationship with her girlfriend for four years.
"Some people were saying, 'Were you living a lie?' You know, the truth is, not at all," Baxter told Lauer, saying she'd only been out for the last seven years.
Baxter said she'd always had a great deal of difficulty connecting with men in relationships, but she was also involved with people who made her think they were the problem.
"It never occurred with me to think, 'Oh, it's me."'
See the rest of the article here.
It's such a relief to know that some people never felt queer growing up. Most people I talk to say something along the lines of "by the time I was 15 I was experimenting and knew I was attracted to girls." That's just not the way it went for me. I was 17 before I even looked at girls with the possibility that I found them sexually attractive. I was almost 19 before I had a thought that there was a possibility that I would consider having sex with a woman. Gay? I didn't consider that possibility until I was the same age as most of my friends had already come out of the closet. Granted, I was never really in the closet. Once I realized "hey! I want to have sex with women!" my friends already knew and my mother and my sister were the first people I told. (Granted, my grandparents don't know, but they are old and fragile and I don't want to cause unnecessary heart attacks unless I'm bringing a girl home to them.)
I also found this quote from Teh Portly Dyke today
"And I think that's a big part of what's kept me from blogging. Part of what marks me as the "New Improved Portly Dyke -- Now More Functional!!" (in my mind, at least), is that...is no longer the central issue of my life every single day -- and I think that when peeling time comes around again, I get scared that it will subsume my life as it did 18 years ago."
This feels a lot like what is happening now. I don't expect to write about much more than my sexuality at the moment because it is still so new. It's also why my friends and family won't be reading this. This is a safe place for me to explore, to to bare myself without fear that the people who have predispositions about who I am or should be will contaminate this experimental area.
I'm obsessed right now with being gay. Obsessed because I don't understand it. Obsessed because I was introduced to it and then left out in the cold. Obsessed because I thought I would never enjoy being in a relationship, or loving, or having sex. Now I have the capacity and the urge to do all those things without having anyone to do them with. I think it's only reasonable that I am obsessed. So this is what I write about.
'But in an interview with Today show host Matt Lauer, she revealed that she had had a "later-in-life recognition" of her sexuality and has been in a relationship with her girlfriend for four years.
"Some people were saying, 'Were you living a lie?' You know, the truth is, not at all," Baxter told Lauer, saying she'd only been out for the last seven years.
Baxter said she'd always had a great deal of difficulty connecting with men in relationships, but she was also involved with people who made her think they were the problem.
"It never occurred with me to think, 'Oh, it's me."'
See the rest of the article here.
It's such a relief to know that some people never felt queer growing up. Most people I talk to say something along the lines of "by the time I was 15 I was experimenting and knew I was attracted to girls." That's just not the way it went for me. I was 17 before I even looked at girls with the possibility that I found them sexually attractive. I was almost 19 before I had a thought that there was a possibility that I would consider having sex with a woman. Gay? I didn't consider that possibility until I was the same age as most of my friends had already come out of the closet. Granted, I was never really in the closet. Once I realized "hey! I want to have sex with women!" my friends already knew and my mother and my sister were the first people I told. (Granted, my grandparents don't know, but they are old and fragile and I don't want to cause unnecessary heart attacks unless I'm bringing a girl home to them.)
I also found this quote from Teh Portly Dyke today
"And I think that's a big part of what's kept me from blogging. Part of what marks me as the "New Improved Portly Dyke -- Now More Functional!!" (in my mind, at least), is that...is no longer the central issue of my life every single day -- and I think that when peeling time comes around again, I get scared that it will subsume my life as it did 18 years ago."
This feels a lot like what is happening now. I don't expect to write about much more than my sexuality at the moment because it is still so new. It's also why my friends and family won't be reading this. This is a safe place for me to explore, to to bare myself without fear that the people who have predispositions about who I am or should be will contaminate this experimental area.
I'm obsessed right now with being gay. Obsessed because I don't understand it. Obsessed because I was introduced to it and then left out in the cold. Obsessed because I thought I would never enjoy being in a relationship, or loving, or having sex. Now I have the capacity and the urge to do all those things without having anyone to do them with. I think it's only reasonable that I am obsessed. So this is what I write about.
Activism/Compassion
I made a better activist for LGBT issues as a straight high school student than I do now as a gay, capable, intelligent adult.
I had this moment today where I realized that I had stopped caring. I had stopped caring about marriage equality and social equality and everything else. I went to the rallys, sure, but not for the right reasons. I went because I was gay, because these are my people, because I owe it to this community to be there.
When I was in high school, I never even thought about liking girls. It just didn't even register that I could. "The small valley I grew up in didn't really have any gay people, so how could I be gay?"
But even as a heterosexual teenager, I followed gay marriage every moment of every day. I organized campaigns, I got kicked out of classes for protesting, demonstrating, arguing against my Mormon teachers.
I followed it because my heart broke for every couple who loved each other and couldn't get married. My heart broke for the lesbian couples where one person had to legally adopt the child that was rightfully their own. It broke for the gay couples who weren't allowed to adopt. For the couples that were ridiculed and discriminated against. For partners who weren't allowed to stay together when the other was dying in a hospital.
My heart broke for them. And now I know for us, for me. So why is it that when I became a part of the LGBT community my heart stopped breaking? I lost all compassion. I was so caught up in the fact that there were cute girls at the rallys, and so fed up with organizations asking me for money, so fed up that we were losing in every part of the country, that I think I just shut down. I stopped thinking about it all so that I could ignore it all and not feel the disappointment and the heartbreak.
I realized today that I didn't care anymore, and that made me feel awful. I felt cold, callous, and completely detached. I don't want to be detached. I don't want to forget that this isn't just about marriage equality. That term sounds so detached from the issue it is representing. Like it's all about wanting to be married. That's scratching the surface, to say the least. It's about the struggle that LGBT couples go through every day that straight people don't. About the injustice that we receive. About all the places that won't rent to gay couples, and the adoption agencies who refuse to trust us with children.
I remembered today, why I cared. Why this was so important to me. Even though my heart is breaking all over again, I'm glad that I'm not detached and jaded anymore.
I had this moment today where I realized that I had stopped caring. I had stopped caring about marriage equality and social equality and everything else. I went to the rallys, sure, but not for the right reasons. I went because I was gay, because these are my people, because I owe it to this community to be there.
When I was in high school, I never even thought about liking girls. It just didn't even register that I could. "The small valley I grew up in didn't really have any gay people, so how could I be gay?"
But even as a heterosexual teenager, I followed gay marriage every moment of every day. I organized campaigns, I got kicked out of classes for protesting, demonstrating, arguing against my Mormon teachers.
I followed it because my heart broke for every couple who loved each other and couldn't get married. My heart broke for the lesbian couples where one person had to legally adopt the child that was rightfully their own. It broke for the gay couples who weren't allowed to adopt. For the couples that were ridiculed and discriminated against. For partners who weren't allowed to stay together when the other was dying in a hospital.
My heart broke for them. And now I know for us, for me. So why is it that when I became a part of the LGBT community my heart stopped breaking? I lost all compassion. I was so caught up in the fact that there were cute girls at the rallys, and so fed up with organizations asking me for money, so fed up that we were losing in every part of the country, that I think I just shut down. I stopped thinking about it all so that I could ignore it all and not feel the disappointment and the heartbreak.
I realized today that I didn't care anymore, and that made me feel awful. I felt cold, callous, and completely detached. I don't want to be detached. I don't want to forget that this isn't just about marriage equality. That term sounds so detached from the issue it is representing. Like it's all about wanting to be married. That's scratching the surface, to say the least. It's about the struggle that LGBT couples go through every day that straight people don't. About the injustice that we receive. About all the places that won't rent to gay couples, and the adoption agencies who refuse to trust us with children.
I remembered today, why I cared. Why this was so important to me. Even though my heart is breaking all over again, I'm glad that I'm not detached and jaded anymore.
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