The Difference

A woman sang, sad and slow
An older man looked out the window
I felt alone

I Really Wouldn't.

The other day Kelsey said that she wishes there were more names for straight people. We have queer and lesbian and dyke and dyke lesbian and butch and femme and genderqueen and trans and boi and boy, on and on and on. She only has straight.

I don't like the last post. I don't know what to write.

That letter hurt me so much. It was just so mean. So so mean and with no reason. Why? What does she want from me? I tried for so long to give her what she wants and she's insatiable. I'm happy here. Doesn't that count for something? I'm happy. I've never been happy before. I have a fucking tattoo of the state because for the first time in my life I'm happy.

And can I even call it that? At least it's not a lie. At least when I'm sad or depressed or in need I have people to go to and I'm honest about it.

Then the happiness I feel is finally genuine too.

I don't want to talk to her anymore. It's not worth it. I'm tired of this fight. Maybe she only feels 20 years of it, but I feel all 24. She has no idea. She hates everything about me, and takes it as a personal insult that I don't too.

"If I could change it, would I? In a heartbeat." Or, Thanks Mom. Or, I wouldn't.

I guess the problem maybe is that Christmas wasn't that bad this year. I hated the movie (clearly), but every thing else was fine. My chocolate chip pancakes were fucking delicious, I ate a ton at dinner, we played Mario Bros (we haven't beaten it yet, but I got to the castle first, so I feel okay). I made "my" hamburgers...

Let's tangent there. Why not? And let's make it a real tangent. I'll come down here to a new paragraph even, instead of the usual dashes or parentheses in the middle of the sentence. So, during finals week, I decided I was tired of opening my freezer and seeing that same ground meat. For real. I always complain about not having any food, but how long has that been in my freezer? All my meetings were cancelled because of finals, and I didn't have any studying to do...it was perfect. I could make dinner for Jessa since she was busy studying and I'd feel good about not only not spending money and having a good meal, but about cooking it myself and about using that meat that's been in my freezer forever. As we all know however, Jessa really likes to tell me (or anyone) what to do. A lot. I'd never actually taken ground beef before and turned it into patties, but shoot, I could do it. So I pretended that I had a patented method that was how I make hamburgers. She started to tell me what to do at one point (and I really think it has less to do with me, and more to do with her being in charge of what's being done), and I quickly rebutted that "well, that's not how I do it." I owned up to the fact that this was my first time making burgers and that I only said I had a method so that she wouldn't tell me what to do, but only after I was done and I'd gotten amazing compliments on them. So I made them again for Christmas dinner. It was only the second time, but I do make them a certain way with certain ingredients and heavy on that, light on this, etc etc. And the sauteed onions and mushrooms are crucial. So we had that. And we had smoked ribs. Big ones. And the juiciest roasted chicken. And latkes. Because that's how we do Christmas. I was full and it was all good and instead of any sides or salads or desserts, we just had four main dishes and it was delicious.

I was slightly traumatized pre-Christmas by [does it really matter what?] but I dealt with it. I went home even though I was expected out and I took a bath and I had an hour to myself, and then I went out and had fun. Because that's how I do it. The pain never goes away. Ever. But that doesn't mean I can just ignore it. So I feel it and experience it and make time to deal with what's going on and why it hurts and to feel the hurt, and then I let it go. Because every morning I have to wake up and come to work and talk to people and go grocery shopping and see my friends and live my life.

I hate how often this is the point that is missed with the work that I do. Why doesn't that woman leave her abusive husband? Well, because the kids are gonna be home from school in an hour and a half and then one has to get to soccer practice and dinner needs to be ready and there are friends coming over this weekend. Life goes on. Abused kids still have to wake up and go to school five days a week, so they do. Because that's what you have to do. There's not always time to stop and deal with the problem. If a young woman gets raped at a fraternity party on Saturday night, she still has to do her homework on Sunday because there's a quiz on Monday, and she can't miss work, and she'll lose her scholarship if she gets another absence in French class. Life goes on.

So for me, and the things that still plague me, I've found a way to deal. I make time to deal with the pain, because otherwise, if I hide from it for too long, I can't get up and go to work the next day and I can't be present with my friends and I can't make it to any of my commitments because I've become too busy trying to hide. So I carve out time for myself to feel it and remember it's real, and built into that time is time at the end to remember that I get to change it. I don't go hang out with my friends and then come home to be sad. I go home to be sad and really experience the emotion that's jumped up inside of me, and then I go out with my friends. Because actually facing those scary emotions and admitting that the world's not fair and there is injustice and I hurt is fucking terrifying, so it's better to remember at the end of all of that, that there's more to life than just the bad. There's the good too. There's the friend's who are waiting for me to come out and are expecting me and who want to hug me and who love me despite all the bullshit.

The problem with the holiday season is that it's triggering trauma overload. All the stuff that hurts is not only brought up over and over and over and over and over and over, but everyone else seems to go crazy too, so there's even more new crazy to deal with and be hurt by. (I know, I know, preposition ending, but "by which to be hurt" sounds stupid.)

So Christmas day itself--not too bad. Passive aggressive bullshit on the phone, and me getting in trouble for things so far out of my control (the mail, for example), but that's the standard and I was planning on it.

Turns out it was the 26th that really got me. That hurt me for real this year. I was headed out of work last night when I remembered about the "late" packages, so I went back in. The package sent to work had arrived, the much-talked-about card had arrived in my mailbox, and the other lost package was in front of my door. Perfect. Packages I've figured out how to deal with--mostly--and they're usually really great if I just open them with others around. We either laugh at the crazy together so I’m not hurt by it, or, in the great grab-bag of what I might receive from these people, we’ll rejoice in finally getting something worthwhile. So I wanted to wait for Jessa. We've been together for over a year and she hasn't opened a package with me yet. I thought it was time to take that step. So I waited. The card though, I opened. I opened it and I got confused why there was another smaller card inside the larger musical card. Yes. Musical card. They (my biological parents) sent me a musical card that on the outside read "Family and Christmas..."

*****let's pause at this point to point out the important point that anyone who knows me at all knows both of those things/words/events/people/etc I hate*****

and on the inside it said something about how those are two of the most important things, or two things to be thankful for, or two things to rejoice in, or any other such message that has nothing to do with me or the way I feel.

Then there was the inner card. The inner card with the single spaced, typed, four pages from my mom. I've been referring to it as a letter, because what else would I call it, but it's not really that either. At least not the way I think about a letter.

I'm really big on intention these days. I'm really big on making sure what my intention is behind my actions. Why would I say that? Is it to get my point across? Is it because I'm angry and I just want to lash out? Is it to feel understanding with whomever I'm talking to, or is it to get out of the conversation or is it to change the subject or what, and why? What's the intention?

Why am I trying to buy my food from the Root Cellar; and supporting local businesses; and driving my car so much less; and only buying vintage, second-hand, or sweatshop-free/union-made? Because the personal is political and I care about the local farmers, and big corporations aren't good for the country or the people living in it, and I care about the environment, and I'll pay a little extra and have a little less if it means people are getting fair pay for their labor. I care about that stuff and I'm intentional with what I do with my money and how I live my life. At least I try to be.

But what was the intent behind this letter? Was there one? Can it be a letter if it doesn't have any of the intent of a letter? If it doesn't really feel like any form of communication? I mean, any questions that may have been in there weren't really questions because they were rhetorical, hypothetical, and/or passive aggressive.

Well, Webster says a letter is nothing more than a message on paper usually sent in an envelope. Random House agrees, but it's a communication usually sent through the mail. I don't know what the message is (except maybe how fucked up she thinks I am) or what it was supposed to communicate (that I'm a big fucked up disappointment and I should feel bad about it, maybe?), but I did receive a letter.

There was the nit picky stuff, about how I was the one who started that conversation: something with haircuts, I don't remember (see posts pre-Thanksgiving); so I can't be mad about what she said in it: I have bad, ugly hair.

There was the passive-aggressiveness-through-repetition: everyone was there but you; you were the only one not there; everyone asked about you because you weren't there; I wish you could have been there; it's too bad you didn't come; and so much more.

There was downright nonsense: polish your shoes.

There were factual inaccuracies, which were, let's say, hurtful: she thinks I'm 20, which is four years off.

There were insulting instructions: brush your teeth, wear clean clothes, iron, shower.

There were accusations about inappropriateness, but actually, I wore black to the funeral and that's about as appropriate as it gets.

There was further proof that she lives in a reality entirely different than my own, and she pays no attention to me whatsoever, and she never has: She said I picked out the black dress that she actually forced me to buy along with the green one I chose because it was at least better than all the others. She said I liked going to proms, when Junior Prom was what I would call the worst night of my life if it wasn’t followed up with about 6 months of not knowing if I was gonna make it to morning. She said I liked getting dressed up, and wearing make up, and having her put make up on me, when I was actually always ashamed and embarrassed and it hurt less to just let her do it that to have her tell me what I felt was wrong, and that I was wrong, and then do it anyway.

There were so many painful assumptions trying to explain my inherent wrong-ness: maybe a gene that's supposed to be turned off is turned on, or that's supposed to be off is on; or my DNA is missing something.

There were misguided Freudian theories: she tried to blame her nutrition and exercise routine for my turning out to be a big homo.

There were unnecessary and wrongly placed apologies: "I'm sorry you're a lesbian".

There was the most painful sentence, directly following the apology--a half-assed apology for the wrong fucking thing--"If I could change it, would I? In a heartbeat."

Thanks Mom.

I wouldn’t.

Merry Fucking Christmas, Or, Don't Read Into It Too Much

I guess the difference would be, when I didn't believe in Autumn's Jesus, she respected me for it. She explained it to her follower of the time (another boy at her feet) as something I was almost above, I just didn't need it. Why would I believe that something(one) else is in charge when that'll do nothing but hurt me? I can't put faith in anyone but myself, less it leads to pain, great deals of pain.

When I didn't believe in Jessa and Diane's The Secret (I'm not being cryptic, we had to watch a DVD quite literally called "The Secret") last night, they thought I just wasn't far enough along in my spiritual journey; and when The Secret said that some people will be resistant to the message, The Secret said those people aren't just far enough along in their spiritual journey.

(I also wouldn't believe you if you said 2 + 2 is 3, but I guess with enough rhetoric and fancy fonts, you can convince my friend and girlfriend I'm just not far enough along in my Antimath journey.)

I countered with the fact that Jessa (I wouldn't hold Diane to as high of an argument, because I hate arguing and hardly ever see a point, but I think this was important) wasn't far enough along in her feminist journey. How could she not see that all these white men, coming from their places of privilege, have the ability to say that believing good things will happen (that's The big Secret) is not enough for everyone in the world. I've thought good things my whole life, and they didn't do a ton. I had to work my ass off to get here, and I'm here because I do have privilege that helped me get here. They kept arguing that I was putting people in boxes, but they couldn't see the necessary logic that if the white men got the good stuff by thinking positively, then the oppressed must just not be thinking positively enough. They agreed. I mean, they argued around it so it didn't sound quite so--oh, I don't know--wrong, oppressive, bad, but they agreed that anyone can get out of the circumstances they're put into simply by thinking positively.

Here's an idea. It's the responsibility of the rapist not to rape, not the survivor to not get raped. I've said it before. It still rings true. And it's true for a lot of things i.e. it's the responsibility of the privileged to not oppress, not the responsibility of the oppressed to not get oppressed. Or, not the responsibility of the oppressed to start thinking positively enough to not get oppressed any more.

Maybe those white men did get all that their hearts desired (there was a very long segment on visualizing the car that you want. We were even supposed to close our eyes and put our hands on the (imaginary) steering wheel.), but how did they get it? How?

You wanna know how? They got it by believing that thinking positive is all they have to do and they therefore have no accountability for their actions and BOOM they get all their hearts' desires (material bullshit) by being oppressive. Whose body was compromised so that they could have that car? Whose labor went under- and unpaid so nothing more than positive thoughts could get them their "riches"?

The Secret's answer? The people who aren't thinking positively themselves. Those people getting under- and unpaid are simply getting that because they're not thinking positively enough.

I whole heartedly disagree and am trying not to judge these two too harshly for getting caught up in the rhetoric. How did Jessa not notice that all the "dreams" of the men were things, and all the "dreams" of women were to find men? It was even sexist in it's oppression.

Here's what I saw when I watched that DVD last night: rhetoric for those of us a little bit lost and searching for some answers, convincing "us" that individualistic hyper-capitalism is good, and it all starts with postive thinking. They used quotes from the White Man's MLK , Henry Ford (not actually someone I'm trying to model my life after), Einstein, Shakespeare, Mother Theresa, Churchill, Buddha--y'know, all those people who had great quotes that anyone whose written a high school essay can take out of context and use to further her/his own point. There was no accountability for how all of these materialistic things would come, because--like other cults, religions, faiths, political parties, etc--there was the one Idea--Jesus, Allah, God, goddesses, capitalism, The Secret--that made it all come true. Our actions don't matter, we just have to think and feel (oh yes, feeling was a large part of it) our way to success. Bullshit. We have to work our way to success--and, along the way, not once we've achieved our goals--we have to work towards the world's success. It is our responsibility to stop oppression, not the oppressed's responsibility to keep us from oppressing them. Also, it is the oppressor's responsibility to stop oppressing me, not my responsibility to stop them from oppressing me.
We all fit into both sentences at least a little bit. And My Fellow Americans, those of us with the ability to come to this website and read along, most of our lives fit into that first sentence.

Now there's an idea that's met with resistance. Even from me.

best. nintendo. game. ever.

I made an ass out of myself at the local video game store downtown last weekend after girlfriend got me high in a tree and I didn't want to be in public, but she was all about looking for games for her old school nintendo. While in stoner mode was able to remember an AMAZING game whose name could not have been tortured out of the recesses of my memory. So I was that guy in the store. That stoned guy: "ohhhh, man, there was this game, with, like, a ninja, and his little suit changed colors, and he could, like, fly, man. It was so awesome dude. Do you have that game?!" The video store clerks--who'd probably just come in from taking a few hits themselves out back--finally appeased me by giving me the name of a video game and letting me know it probably wouldn't be back in stock until after the holidays. But I searched online, and that wasn't it. I forced new office friendships with the men all around to ask about their nintendo playing days and if they knew of the game of which I spoke. This morning one of the computer/tech guys came down to help me install some upgrades, and I asked him. Again, nothing, but he left me with a site to look through.

I found it! My quest is finally complete. The Legend of Kage. I already called the video store place, and they don't have it, but their sister store about a half hour south has two copies in stock and they're only $3!!!!!! Who's ready for the nerdiest mini road trip I've ever been on? Why are all of my friends fucking out of town for the holidays? Damnit. I now finally have a response for December's version of 'the weather comment': "What are your holiday plans?" Fucking Legend of Kage. And it'll be the best December 25th yet.

Oh, itunes, quit playing games with my heart

Some days, my job is about as radical as they come. I work from the inside out and get to Fuck Shit Up. On other days however, it's all the same as any other office job. Which is not something I expected. But everyone in the University-Industrial-Complex isn't trying to bring down the capitalistic, racist, sexist patriarchy that runs this place, they're just trying to make it to the weekend with a little spending cash. So on a day like today my current situation is testing my loyalties within the department. I'm still learning the system, but I do a lot of different work for a lot of different people and I have been here for over a year and a half, and believe it or not, that and a genuine smile and hello really have gotten me pretty far. So do I undermine The Big Boss White Man and wait for the sexist-in-her-own-way, above-me-in-the-pecking-order-but-in-a-different-chicken-coup-and-'below'-TBBWM to return from vacation, or do I just do as I'm told and stiff her out of 20 bucks? Am I willing to piss off TBBWM and lose some of the favor I've worked so hard to earn for the sake of fairness? For the sake that this woman not getting her full amount reimbursed due to his own judgements and maybe greed is in charge of the bonus I may be getting any time now? Does my loyalty lie in the future with TBBWM and my continued employment and intense need for a raise eventually (fuck.), or does it lie with knowing he's wielding his power unfairly and wanting this woman to give me at least as much as I deserve for all the extra work I'm doing for her without being compensated? (How feminist is it of me to do unpaid labor? Well, it felt a little more feminist to me once she said she'd "take care of me" and get me a "big bonus".)

So there's the fairness argument. Technically TBBWM has jurisdiction and can choose reimburse how much he chooses. But according to The Business Policy and Procedure Manual (sec 2:090, I kid you not) she's eligible for all of that $42 and if he doesn't want to give it all to her, he needed to let her know ahead of time. So there's that. And the fact that on my own reimbursement from this summer, I did exactly what she did--except I remembered to put the "E" in the correct box on the form--and got reimbursed for my full amounts. She left out the E and he happens to think she just spent too much, but that's his opinion isn't it. And if he wanted to interject his own opinion, he needed to let her know ahead of time.

On the fairness argument, I side with her.

But is it enough? Especially if this is a fight I might lose? I think he does have the power to make this call. I'm not going to rock the boat for her, but should I wait until she's back from vacation and let her rock the boat for all of us? I'm not sure it's worth it.

Do I have a responsibility through my work, through my feminist values and ethics, or through my co-worker friendship to let her know he's forcing her to pay for her own dinner because he doesn't argue with what she got on the menu?

This sounds like a question for Awesome Feminist Boss who should be back this afternoon. IN the meantime, I guess I'll post long philosophical thought processes and maybe send some overdue personal emails. While being paid through TBBWM...

I Always Forget the Streams

Well. Here I am. 23 minutes which now seems an eternity, but will in no time turn to dust.

Just as it all turns to dust. I made a new friend. A good one. A really good one. Yesterday we lay on her bed, with her best friend, and we all three leaned on one another and it wasn't scary and it didn't hurt me and maybe the people I want to be friends with aren't the ones I know how to connect to.

I reread some of Mar's words, and my words to her, and the words of poets we've shared back and forth over and over.

Maybe I can't sleep at night because my body's smarter than I am and it knows that now I have the excuse to feel like this, to feel quiet and embarassed for no reason. To show off my grandparents house (or I guess just my gramma's now) because it's something I've done before and maybe it's a way to relate to these people, or at least to keep them confused and distracted from looking at me. Yes, I asked for their help, but they were too good and I just don't know what to do with it all.

How come when someone else dissapoints me I just feel dissapointed in myself? I guess because it's always been easier that way. It's always made more sense to blame me because I have control over that and punishment can be as easy as a set of pushups and as hard as... I get dissapointed not in the person I was counting on, but in myself for getting tricked into counting on yet again.

They asked me to describe my ideal date and the whole table ahhed as I simply went with what came to me, but the person I date can't seem to give up enough control to let me be in charge for a day. I saw them. Two of them that I'm growing to love more and more on my date today. I genuinely smiled and I feel good that I'm that smart and real, but I want to go on the date, but the woman with her foot teetering over my heart not only wouldn't take me on it, but probably wouldn't come along.

I know you're out there reading, all four or five of you, but I'm not going to defend my choice of relationships here despite how drastic this situation may sound, because this is the place I come to write the stuff that usually needs defending.

I looked at The Ex's facebook page and she changed the picture from the one I took of her in our kitchen in Spain when I made her pumpkin pie from scratch and she had her grin she only used with me on her face, to one where she's wearing my shirt. To a picture from the time when we didn't live together, and still only one person knew, and she was far away too, so I was depressed, but no one knew, and I gave The Ex that favorite shirt of mine to have while we were apart, and I wrote her books, because a letter a night seemed silly, and she took that picture, in the shirt she stretched out so I no longer wear, and made it her new facebook profile picture.

Why does she still hurt me? How was I able to show another, even more painful and indescribable picture to the two of them--whom I don't know--without a break down, and without hurting more than I know how to express, how could I even say who was in it, to all of these people that I don't know, without vomiting or running out or hiding it or bursting into tears?

It's only been twelve minutes, but I think I'll leave a little early today. I want to go home to cry and take a nap, but I'm sure I'm expected--and I like that. The tears are always just below, so today I'll meet the out of town friend, and I'll celebrate the dater's birthday, and I'll convince the needy that I was happy to help, and I'll forget about myself. Because that's the easiest way. It's always the easiest way.

It's easier than this.

They Kinda Did, or At Least One of Them Will Be Gone by Friday

I started to think of a post, and it said, "there are few things I hate more than..." but then I stopped. Because there are so many different versions of hate. There's the kind we all understand like, "there are few things I hate more than spam comments on my blog", but there's also all the types of hate that we can't describe, or we can't let go of, or we love so much and hold on to maybe it's not even hate anymore. Maybe it's just that little bit of us inside that's not the watercolor, but the art that's made out of jagged metal and blood.

I don't know how to explain the hate I have for him, or how it's any more than the hate I have for the two of them--both together and each one of them apart--or the hate I have for those other two. Along with hate there seems to be a sense of sympathy because at least in my life I'm trying to make things make sense, and makes things have a reason so that maybe they don't hurt so much anymore.

Then there's the hate that's so beyond hatred I can't imagine how anyone would be able to express in a simple one-syllable word.

---------

Then we talked about cleaning, and knitting, and her friend being sad, and I worked against that man I dislike so strongly by being kind, and by offering help, and by giving a chance, so I feel better.

I think when I go home to cry, the tears will feel like relief, which is always better than fear.