I love seeing Timmy and Armie being affectionate towards each other and then seeing Luca watching them with the biggest smile on his face
The more I think about it, the more I can’t help but feel that Mum’s comments with regards my fiction were not just hellish cisheterosexist but also hellish unkind.
I don’t think much of the books she reads–het romances and thrillers–but I’d never tell her that. I don’t dismiss her genre (it’d be deeply misogynistic to do so) even though, as a queer aro, I have feelings about the omnipresence of het romance (but this is more about amatonormativity and representation than feeling that her favourite genres shouldn’t exist). Likewise, she does scrapbooking for all the five million family photos, largely by pasting a photo on a sheet of printed paper; she has no real idea, in my opinion, how to creatively use design elements. But I’d never tell her that and I always compliment her work when she shows me. I’d never dream of telling her that because you don’t drag down people’s creativity and she’s never asked for constructive criticism, just encouragement.
She could have complimented my cover designs or text layout. She could have discussed something about my characters or my sentences or even just my grammar. She could have found something in my queer fiction that she thought worthy of praising me for, to encourage me, to keep me going, because that’s what family should do. Hell, she could have said that she liked the Australianness of my settings! She could have said something, anything, positive unrelated to the queerness of my characters.
I don’t expect her to fully understand or love my fiction. But I don’t think it’s unreasonable to think that someone who claims to accept me should be able to find one nice thing to say about what I’m doing to encourage me in doing it, even if it isn’t her favourite genre.
Instead, she spent months not telling me anything about my work because the only thing she can think to say about it is that it’s “too gay” and it isn’t beautiful to her like my (non-queer) non-fiction articles (which were largely event articles–nothing too deep or confronting). She spent months not telling me anything because she thinks I’m too sensitive, and she said as much during Wednesday’s conversation of hell. Worse, my psychologist backed up every word of it as, somehow, a demonstration of her acceptance of me and something worth taking on board.
(My psychologist said, too, when I related conversations where Mum had been flat-out exorsexist, that I can’t change her opinion and I can just choose not to get upset in response. So Mum knows I’m not a girl, she’s read a whole collection I’ve written about non-binary characters, and yet it’s okay to say things that erase and diminish your child’s identity in hir hearing? And I’m not allowed to be upset or hurt because it’s Mum’s opinion? I just … how is that okay, if you claim to accept and love someone? Never once did we talk about how things like that hurt me; never once did my psychologist treat my pain as something that needs validation. My pain, in having my mother dismiss my identity as a person, was irrelevant.)
My art, when it is most meaningful to me, is something Mum rejects as art. It can’t be appreciated by her in even the slightest way; she has absolutely nothing good to say about it. Not one single, tiny, solitary thing. There is nothing in my work that she can consider worthy of her praise while I tell stories about queer identity, feeling and experiences.
My queerness so taints everything in her eyes that unless I completely deny it, she can’t find anything good in my work.
Yet she said, ten minutes later, that she accepts me completely and utterly, and it’s unfair of me to think that she doesn’t.
I don’t speak well, verbally. Writing is the best way for me to tell people what I feel and who I am. If Mum really wants to understand and accept me, reading my writing is the best way she’ll ever be able to do come to terms with my feelings and experiences as a queer person. If she wants to support me, I’m literally writing stories on what acceptance of queer people looks like. I’ve given her the roadmap in my fiction. I’m telling her who I am and what I need in my stories, what I need the world to look like, and she rejected that kind of acceptance as “too gay” for her to like reading about.
Even if she’d said that my work makes her uncomfortable, or she finds it difficult to parse the pronouns, but she’d like to keep reading and learning because she knows its important to me, that would have been a loving acceptance.
(In a twisted way, by being so unable to find anything in my fiction deserving of her positivity, she’s making me and my fiction all about my queerness, not me. She’s centering the queer as the only relevant thing, not me. She’s stripped my work of artistry in terms of writing ability, design, production, phrasing, rhythm, setting, word choice and art, not me, because she herself can’t move past the idea that I’m writing about being queer.
While I write queer, she can’t discuss the writing itself. And that,
too, hurts. I’ll mention that one of those stories she’s talking about
is Their Courts of Crows, which … well, the narrating protagonist says he’s pansexual once and it’s really about just supporting a trans relative and complications of family, not about depth of queer feeling. If she can’t even find a nice thing to say about the least-queer fiction I’ve ever written, what message is that other than don’t confront me with your queerness?)
I feel stuck. I don’t want anything to do with my psychologist, now; I know she’s not a safe person for me to be around on queer issues. I don’t ever want to see her again, not once; I feel panicked just at the thought. But if I say why, it looks like I’m being an oversensitive person who can’t take criticism. The problem isn’t that I don’t care if Mum doesn’t love my work, because I know what she reads and I know I don’t write the kinds of books she loves. The the problem is that I care about the combination of cisheterosexism and cruelty in her approach in discussing my work.
If it was just that she simply prefers books like The Da Vinci Code, she would have found a way to still say something positive and supportive about my work, in the same way that when she mentions she likes Lee Child, I’ll do my best to discuss what works in his writing while keeping my lips sealed on oh my god the unholy repetition, lack of description and unnecessary sentence fragments.
But she has nothing good to say about my fiction. Not one teensy little thing. Nothing but the comment that only my event articles were beautiful to her.
That’s not a genre preference. That’s outright rejection, that’s heterosexism and cissexism, and that’s a heaping dose of unkindness.
I think that’s what hurts most of all. I spent an hour with two people telling me that rejection, cisheterosexism and unkindness is acceptance and love, that I shouldn’t expect to get anything better, and that I’m sensitive and demanding when I do dare to expect it.
And that’s a kind of insidious, gaslighting cisheterosexism that’s harder to take, for me at least, than being called slurs.
(I’m going to talk with my GP next Friday. Maybe she can help me with the psychologist. I just … I can’t see her again. I can’t.)
Always fun, never serious. Love my nana
Food For The Mind
Photo by Oleksandr Pidvalnyi
“Even if I could go back, I wouldn’t belong there anymore”
When I first heard this quote, it struck a pivotal chord within me. Everything that comes before today, before this exact moment, before right now, belongs to another version of myself. A version I no longer am. To return to anything before this present existing time would put me out of place, because I have transformed since then. My brain has lit up with new information and knowledge, my emotions have expelled feelings no longer in use for the space to occupy new developing ones currently experiencing what is around me, my body has slightly improved and continues to grow and react to new things… and my thoughts, they are ever changing. My reflections on the past and what has come before has only allowed me to metamorphosize further.
All my life, I have been judged inaccurately for my methods of healing and evolving. It’s something I’m quite use to actually and it no longer phases me. People always evaluated the surface of these methods, unable to see into the depths of my mechanism, to understand how incredibly fine-tuned my instruments are. They only saw my looking into the past as problematic, believing I was holding myself back, unable to move forward, all the while forgetting that they were expressing these judgements to a person who considers themself a “creature of rebirth”.
Unlike most people, I never fear reflection. I welcome it. It’s natural. You find balance there when used appropriately. The act of looking back does not hold one there. Yet many people believe it does. These people are the ones who are easily trapped within their own memories and the ghosts of the feelings associated with these events and people. They never really move on from any of it, but convince themselves they have. Not me. I have the courage to dance with my demons and soar with my angels. I have the courage to walk into the past, or the future, and take a closer look at things I might have missed. While there, I collect information… which in turn permits me to grow, to become a better version of myself. I learn my weaknesses, acknowledge my strengths, and better outline what it is I want and do not want. I observe how things could have been different and appreciate what things were. This information becomes the key to unlocking parts within that would have otherwise prevented me from evolving into a more enlightened and transcended self.
The individuals that fear looking back, or looking forward, are the very same individuals that rarely evolve or take tremendous time to. It takes them much longer to learn something that they could have learned more quickly had they been more brave and opened to it before. These same individuals are the ones who mishandle breakups. They pretend to be over somebody, not realizing that they have never truly processed their grief, conflicts, contradictions, thoughts, feelings, or convictions about the breakup. They have simply divert their attention to other things whenever their feelings come up. They avoid the situation or thinking of it and replace it with work, friends, or even new people and new relationships. They think to reflect means to hold on, but this is not the case. There is and never will be a specific “time” a person should take to heal, to let go. There is only this present moment. It is human to take as long as you need, because the reality is much more bigger than you can comprehend. Somedays you won’t look back, but other days you might, and that’s okay. It doesn’t mean you’re stuck. It doesn’t mean you’re not moving forward.
What has come before you is and will forever be part of your story, your history, your brain. That is unchanged. For thoughts to appear is normal. When they visit, welcome them, after you’ve chatted, send them on their way, and get back to the present moment. The only time this becomes an issue is when you forget you’re entertaining ghosts. When you forget that these are memories not realities. These are ghosts not real people. An illusion not a real circumstance.
Another place most people get this wrong as well is that they believe “moving on” is this black and white concept. They think that one day they will suddenly not care about something anymore and that this day is when they have finally “moved on”. They believe that there’s a certain amount of time that should be given to heal from something, and that continuing to think or care after this point, is an issue. But that’s not how it works. It will never work that way. That’s just not reality. The human brain is much more complex than that and what everybody needs is different from the next, and also different from day to day, hour to hour. However, people rarely process things. They rather avoid them completely or pretend. They’re too misinformed that there’s a certain way to do so, that there’s a right way and wrong way, and that there’s a certain time for it and a certain amount of that time. But there isn’t. One day you may find yourself not thinking about it, then suddenly the next you are. One day it hits you intensely, the other day it’s just a passing thought. There’s really no such thing as “moving on” and that’s the bigger truth that many people are just too afraid to accept. There is only “processing”. These people, places, things, experiences are ingrained in you. You will never forget them. They will always be there in your brain, so you are bound to always find yourself thinking of it at one point or another. Does that mean you haven’t moved on? No. It just means that you lived things, you knew people, and the memory of those things pop up from time to time, because they are forever part of your history, your past, your story, your brain. It’s completely natural. All we can do is learn to process these memories, so we can continue on with our day to day existing. You just need to know yourself and find what method or approach works best for you. How do you process? Not avoidance. Not misdirection. But actually processing, which entails facing and accepting. True balance can only be reached this way.
Perhaps if you are so consumed with the inability to accept that your reality does not reflect these old memories, take it as a sign. A sign that you should look into something again. Revisit a person, a place, or a thing. Some people revisit chapters that are written back into their stories and become part of it forever. Not all reflection is bad. Sometimes it helps us understand our feelings better, feelings we fought or ignored before. And sometimes reflecting hurts. Sometimes the past has dark parts that tear us up from the inside out. But you must be a crusader for mastering the self. And everything to help you do that lives within your brain. You cannot be afraid to explore, to ask questions, to reflect, reminisce, revisit, weigh things, analyze, observe… it is what helps you find true balance within and thus true balance without.
I have always proclaimed that I am the phoenix and it is through my observations and analysis that I make peace with what came before me, that I am able to truly change from it, to need it less, to disconnect, to grow, and still have the power to reminisce whenever I need or want to, and not lose myself there or forget the present. When I truly move on, I never look back again with the same uncertainty I had when first stepping foot to move on, but I get there because I never disallow myself whatever it is I need to do, to heal. I welcome all my emotions. I welcome all my memories. I do not place limits on them. There are no rules to interfere with the natural flow of things. I do not buy into man-made philosophies of “how to move on”, “how to heal”, ‘how to let go”, “do this, don’t do that”. I simply know myself. I know who I am. I am guided by no one but myself. What makes me powerful and exponentially transform day to day from all experiences, is that I never dwell there for too long but I don’t refuse myself the company either; equally, I always know the difference between a ghost and a real person so my conversations are never confusing. I always know the difference between an illusion and a real place so my body never feels misled. I always know the difference between a nightmare and the reality so my observations are helpful and applicable. This is what makes me balanced within, able to face anything, come what may.
I find myself in a very enlightening time in my life. The events of the passed 3 years have led me to this, and for that, I am so grateful. I finally understand that these challenges and struggles were meant to be. They sculpted me into the enormously well-rounded, emotionally intelligent, courageous creature that I am today. There’s a light inside that is ELECTRIC now!! In fact, I feel like I could shoot electricity from every pore on my body. The power is raging inside to get out, and one day it will, and the beauty of it will be magnanimous. This year I walk a new path towards wonderful fruit. And I can’t wait to take a bite!!
Literally took me forever to finish this, but here it is!
My brother is getting a dog. A german shepherd. Tonight.
A direct quote: “Her name is Xena. They spell it Z-E-N-A, but I’m gonna spell it X-E-N-A cause that’s how you spell that name.”
My dad tried to teach me how to cook today.
I blew up the oven. (Not that bad but the internal fan needs to be replaced)
So now im banned from the kitchen with mom. Now him and Henri are trying to finish dinner with one of those travel grills.
(She broke 6 coffe makers/tea pots, caught half the kitchen on fire, and nearly poisoned her roomates by accident)
I love seeing Timmy and Armie being affectionate towards each other and then seeing Luca watching them with the biggest smile on his face
You are so right, anon. Luca is the Charmie shipper par excellence! He is the Captain, our spirit guide. Basically, he created them and knows the very deepest part of them.
Conversations with my dad
Me: (rambling) “….And I was just kind of weird yesterday.”
Dad: (avoiding eye contact)
Me: “Let me guess, I’m weird everyday!~”
Dad: (stunned) “I didn’t say that?!?! And how did you read my mind?!?”
"My family and I will always move forward" Thank you.
***SIGIL REQUESTS ARE CLOSED***
@tilinfinitydoc :::: @hieroaplus shares childhood memories #SOM25 #soulsofmischief #aplus #tajai #r&e #family (at East Oakland, CA)
I genuinely don’t understand how between the coursework, placement, family life and taking care of yourself how anyone has time or can be arsed having drama. It took me to get to college to realize, “yeah I don’t like you but I’m not going to constantly go on about it. Im going to just shut up because no one cares.” I don’t understand how some people haven’t gotten to that stage yet like… How? I have genuine worry for you if thats all you have to worry about. I’d suggest getting a hobby. I personally like coloring and sewing, you’re obviously bored or missing out on something.
I was able to get out of my family visit last year, but I’m not sure I’ll be so lucky this year. I’ve still got a number of months before this year’s trip.
As such, I’m already composing in my head how to talk about certain topics if they come up. Like, I can just hear my family using the word “transgendered” and not simply accepting it if I tell them not to put that -ed on the end without demanding an explanation. (Even then they still may not care or change their language. But, like, I have to do something.)
Just like last time, I have my mind made up about certain hard boundaries where I plan on leaving if they’re not respected after I make them clear, even if it’s literally 2 seconds after I arrive.
My dad to the army recruiters that keep calling to see if my little sister wants to join: I don’t want her to be in the army. I would be so worried. I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night, knowing she was the one supposed to be protecting me.
Sou a Ianely, cês lembram de mim? A gordinha, a filha da luciani, a malinha sem alça, a pirralha de novo, a que sempre fica calada, a quem sempre quis fazer parte dessa família e foi excluida fortemente. Tá, um pouco de drama, eu sei mas é exatamente assim como me sinto, com 24 anos e sendo tratada do mesmo modo. Sempre fui excluida por super proteção e é tão fácil não lembrarem de mim, pra mim não é fácil ver que vocês conseguem ser família sem mim, tranquilamente.
Queria ter tido qualquer tipo de apoio, ajuda, um abraço, um “ta ia, mas como TU está?” tive iss de familiar que é sempre renegado também. Hoje, não sabemos nada um do outro, acostumamos a não nos fazer presente.
Tento…tentei por muito permanecer ai nesse roda, nunca pegaram minha mão pra entrar na mesma dança.
Hoje sou adulta e não lembram disso, se não for pra me cobrar, óbvio.
Minhas dores são imensas que parecem nunca se curar quando estão a amostra.