justmelookingbackatme

[justmelookingbackatme]

you don't know how to feel about it, that you've celebrated six more birthdays than you thought you would. you can't shake the feeling that you might be a ghost, that maybe you were meant to die all those years ago. you're not entirely sure how you even got here. it seemed so inevitable, like it was only a matter of time before you ended it. you thought there was no chance in hell you'd survive this long.

and then you did.

you lived longer than you ever thought you would, grew into a person you never would have dreamed of. that version of you, that little kid you used to be, had no idea your name would be what it is now. he had yet to meet your best friends. he had no idea what it felt like to be at ease with yourself, even if just for a moment.

you don't know how to feel about it, that you came so close to missing all that.

you're so different from that child who wanted to die, but sometimes, you are still the same. there are days when your chest is hollow, when the world is black and white. there are times when you want nothing more than to set yourself on fire. there are moments when you're driving down the highway and it's pouring rain, and some part of you hopes you end up in a fatal car crash.

you think about those six birthdays you thought you'd never live to, and all the moments in between each one that you could have missed out on. and you think, i have no idea what will happen in the next six years. no idea who I'll become.

you should stick around long enough to find out.

[justmelookingbackatme]

they tell you

that you need a partner

that you need your "other half"

to complete you

and you know they are wrong

you have no "other half"

you are complete

all on your own

you don't want a partner

you don't need a partner

you have yourself

and your friends

and they are all you need

but your friends have partners

who are the most important thing

in their lives

you need your friends

and they need their partners

but they don't

need

you

you are complete,

but you are still

lonely

[justmelookingbackatme]

My old name has never felt right. It describes someone who is not me, someone who is not real. I hate it, but it's a familiar discomfort, the ache of pretending to be someone I'm not. Someone I never have been.

When I'm pretending to be her, the world is dull, the colors muted. I feel like I'm a ghost, like I'm fading away. It's horrible, and I am suffocating, but maybe that's not the worst thing.

I can finally breathe, when I am called my new name. My real name. The world unfolds before me, bright and vibrant in a way I have never seen before. It's nearly blinding. My eyes sting.

My name feels like me, in a way my old name never did. It makes me feel horribly, painfully alive, and real. And I am not so sure I want to be alive. Maybe it's better to be a ghost. Maybe it's better to let myself fade.

[justmelookingbackatme]

I am a straight man, and I am a dyke, and I won't change myself to make others less confused, to make them more comfortable. I have always been confusing, always been uncomfortable, always been a dyke, and I will be forever.

Some might think I should have handed in my dyke card when I handed in my lesbian card, when I handed in my woman card, when I gave it all up to become a man. But being a dyke isn't something you can give up. I tried, a million times, when I was younger, but it's not something that goes away, and I've come to love the fact that I will be a dyke as long as I live. Dykery is in my blood, in my bones.

Some wonder how can I be a dyke, when I'm not a lesbian? And I wonder, how could I not be a dyke? I have been a dyke since before I knew the word, before I fully understood the ways in which I was different. I grew up a dyke, grew up ashamed, grew up trying and failing to hide the obvious, grew up suffering for it. I grew up a dyke and that's a formative experience, something that stays with you for a lifetime.

Being a dyke is a battle scar, a badge of honor, a weapon I stole from the enemy. It's mine, and it always will be.

[justmelookingbackatme]

I don't like being able to feel my heartbeat.

I'm not bothered by the reminder of how fragile life is, the possibility of my heart stopping; it's the solid, steady, undeniable reminder that I am here, that I am alive and real and human that scares me the most.

It's a rare feeling, truly believing that I'm real. It never lasts more than a few fleeting moments, and those fleeting moments don't quite make me a person. I'm more of a ghost than a person. I feel distant, muted, half there and half not. A half forgotten dream, drifting in and out of existence. I'm a messy sketch of a person, not the solid lines and vibrant colors I should have.

I haven't been a person in a very long time. Before I was a ghost, I was nothing at all. That was worse. At least a ghost is something.

But my heartbeat makes me feel like I'm more than a ghost, and I think I should take comfort in that, but I don't. Being truly alive, being real, fucking terrifies me.

I'm not sure I know how to be a person again.

Maybe I do know. Maybe the real problem is I'm not sure I want to.

[justmelookingbackatme]

I have spent as long as I can remember feeling like it's only a matter of time before something breaks. Not necessarily until I can't keep living, though sometimes that is the feeling; sometimes my imminent destruction is more along the lines of an explosion. A confession I can't take back, a fight that can't be fixed, a pain so all-consuming I can no longer hide it. A fire that doesn't end my life, but burns it all down so that nothing will ever be the same.

I am on the last stretch of a run with my legs burning and my lungs caving in, unsure how much farther I can push. I am standing near a cliff, and the edge is drawing steadily closer. I am a rubber band, being pulled tighter and tighter and tighter, seconds from snapping. I am holding my breath, waiting for the inevitable. I know I am running out of time. It can't be long now before I collapse, before I fall, before I break.

But I have lived like this a long, long time, thinking any moment now, and that moment has yet to come. Maybe that means it will never come. Maybe I will keep going like this forever; this screaming exhaustion, this unsteady footing over a long drop, this pressure building and building and building with no release.

Or maybe I'm right, and I'm moments away from my explosion.

I don't know which I would prefer.

[justmelookingbackatme]

you are her daughter & she wants you to be her daughter & you want to be her son

but you know that as a son you will only hurt her so you try even harder to be her daughter but you're not very good at being a daughter

you're too much of a daughter to be a good son & you're too much of a son to be a good daughter & you've failed her in every possible way

[justmelookingbackatme]

Some days, I think about the future. Some days, I can’t see past next week, because I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. I’m trying– please believe me, I’m trying– but I don’t know how many more times I can make it through the day. I don’t know how many days I have left in me.

Some days, I close my eyes and I try to picture myself growing old. My hair is greying and the lines on my face are deepening and I’m not whole, exactly– I will never be whole– but I have grown into myself and built a life, and I’ve survived. Some days, I can see it clearly. Some days, I have hope that I will make it.

Those days don’t come often enough.

How can I believe I’ll live decades longer, when there’s a version of me that died three years ago? Some days, I think I was supposed to die that day, as though the moments I missed death by were a fluke. Some days, I think I should have been gone a long time ago, and I’m just running from the inevitable. I don’t know how much longer I can run.

Some days, I can see the future, the destination I might reach if I just keep running. But my lungs are collapsing and my legs might give out, and some days I can’t think about the finish line, just the next mile, and I don’t know if I can even manage that.

Some days I just try to make it to the next day, and the next, and the next, and some days I can see myself doing this for decades, but some days I think I’m running out of time.

[justmelookingbackatme]

I want to write about grief, but I don't know what to say. It always comes out sounding flat. What can I say about grief that hasn't been said a million times over? Every person who has ever lived has lost someone. Nothing I'm feeling is unique. I'm not alone in this feeling.

I think that's supposed to be comforting.

It's not.

[justmelookingbackatme]

It's been a year, somehow, and it's time to light a yartzeit candle.

It's been a year since the month I spent my life in a haze of obsessively reading about cancer, and visiting hospitals, and trying to figure out how to say goodbye. I don't remember most of that month, except for the worrying and the anticipation, and then the awful moment when I didn't have to anticipate any longer. A lot has changed, and I know I've changed, but it also feels like I haven't changed at all. Like I'm still where I was this time last year, dreading the inevitable, except the inevitable already happened, so long ago.

The year has been long. Heavy with grief that, even after it lessened, never quite stopped hanging over me like a cloud. Some of the days flew by, and most of the days dragged on, but it's finally been a year. This year has felt like a lifetime, but her death feels like it was seconds ago.

Does it matter how long ago it felt? Whether it seemed like a lifetime or a second, it's been a year, and we're lighting a candle.

[justmelookingbackatme]

Why are you so afraid to let people know you? They will still love you; you know they will. So why are you afraid?

Even at the best of times, even when you know you are safe, you are afraid to shed your armor. And this isn't armor; this is your own skin. You're normally so happy to peel off your skin, but you always want to patch yourself up instantly. You can't stand to let people see what's underneath.

They won't hate you, if they see. They will love you, and you can stop hiding. Everyone will be happier if you just let yourself be seen.

But you can't. You can't speak, you can't show them, you can barely let yourself exist. Sometimes you want to erase yourself from the world. You don't want to be known. You don't want to be a part of anyone's life. You don't want to be a part of your own life, not really.

Why are you so afraid to let people know you?

Why are you so afraid to live?

[justmelookingbackatme]

Listening

I wrote some horror because it's Halloween and I'm mentally ill. Content warning for body horror and paranoia.

They can hear you. Everything you do. They are always listening. There are no secrets, not from Them. There is nothing you can do to not be heard.

Well. There is one thing.

They hear every word on your tongue. If your tongue was gone, They would leave.

It works, for those brave enough to try.

It's far from ideal, you think. But any pain you could possibly endure is better than the knowledge that They are listening.

You open your mouth wide and put your hand in. Your tongue is wet and fleshy and your fingers recoil at the sensation, but you think about Them and pull until your tongue comes loose with a snap.

It disintegrates in your hand, and you are safe.

Until you realize: Words aren't all that They can hear. Removing your tongue won't save you. They can hear every sound you make, every cry and every scream. And how could you not scream, when They are always there, listening?

You place your fingers against your throat and let them sink inside. Your skin isn't as difficult to pass through as you'd expected; more liquid than solid. Your fingers wander until they find your larynx, and they pull.

You hold your voice box in front of you. Vocal cords are dangling down like streamers. The sight makes you nauseous for just a moment before it turns to ash, and you are safe.

Until you realize: You are still breathing. They can still hear your breath rattling in your chest, the shallow inhales and rapid exhales. They are listening. They have not stopped listening.

They will never stop listening.

You put your hand to your chest, and your skin opens to let it through. You hear (and They hear it too, because They hear everything) the snap of your ribs as you make your way past them. Finally, you can take a lung in each hand, and your chest opens again as you rip them out. For good measure, you remove your heart too, so They can't hear it beating. The bloody mess falls to the floor beside your lungs. Your heart spasms, and then it and the lungs are both dust. The blood is gone. You have no pulse, no breath. You are safe.

But are you? Are you really? Your body is destroyed; that much is clear. They will never hear your body make a sound again.

But you still have a head. A brain. You still have thoughts, and They can hear your thoughts. Every last one.

You will never be free of Them.

You hold your head in your hands, nails digging through skin and scalp and skull until they reach your brain. You tear it to shreds, littering the floor with its matter, until finally, it is ash. You are ash.

You are gone.

But so are They, and that makes it worth it.

[justmelookingbackatme]

I have a strange relationship with my deadname. It's not even dead, really, not when I'm furiously trying to keep this name alive. I don't know why I won't just let it die. I hate that name, but I can't bring myself to get rid of it.

I hate getting rid of things.

My deadname has never felt like me. As far back as I can remember, it felt like a name for a stranger. I never quite knew how to feel about this stranger. I've never been sure whether this disguise felt more like a prison or a shelter.

It's always been uncomfortable that the people around me saw her, and no one saw me, but maybe that's for the best. Maybe the me hiding underneath my deadname, the me that's actually me, is something that should stay hidden. Something dark, something ugly, some kind of monster.

I know that's a horrible way to think about myself.

That doesn't mean I stop thinking about myself this way.

My deadname is dying, and I'm the one killing her, but I need to keep her alive so the monster doesn't get free.

[justmelookingbackatme]

When I was a kid, I kept a journal, and I was terrified someone would read it. I found the best hiding spaces in my room. Then I rotated the journal through these spots, just in case someone figured out one of them, to throw that person off. I'm not sure who "that person" even was. There was no one in particular I thought might sneak into my room and read my journal. I was just afraid of a Someone.

And that Someone has followed me around ever since. That Someone eavesdrops on my phone calls and conversations and therapy sessions. That Someone peers over my shoulder when I'm on my phone in public and monitors every text I send, everything I scribble down in my notes app, everything I read. That Someone sees every emotion on my face and hears every thought in my head.

I don't know if Someone is supposed to be a family member, or a friend, or a classmate, or a stranger. I'm not sure if They're supposed to be everyone at once.

I don't know anything about Them, but I can't shake the feeling that They know everything about me.

[justmelookingbackatme]

Yeah, a little bit. Like any queer identity, it kind of involves a lot of loneliness and hardship at first. But I think I'm on my way towards self acceptance :)

After so many years wishing I could be straight, one would think it might come as a relief to identify that way now. But it’s not. Heterosexuality is more isolating than I ever imagined it could be.

Being trans, I’m not straight enough for the general population. Most of them still think of me as a lesbian. But I’m too straight for most queers. It would be funny if it wasn’t so lonely; I’m an outsider among outsiders.

Sometimes they try to exclude me, or sometimes they make comments that aren’t intended to hurt but hurt nonetheless. And sometimes they do make an active effort to include me, which is wonderful, but… I still feel alone.

I don’t fit in with my cisgender sapphic friends anymore. I was one of them, but then I left. I know what I’ve lost with them; the community, the sense of belonging. And I’ve gained a lot too, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling like an alien.

I don’t fit in with my nonbinary friends. They’re the ones who are Queer, with a capital Q. They have short, dyed hair, and interesting names, and pronoun pins on their backpacks, lesbian earrings or bisexual phone cases. They’re unapologetically queer, and although heterosexuality is queer when I do it, it’s not quite queer enough to seem like one of them.

I don’t fit in with my transmasculine friends. Most of them are gay, and the few who aren’t gay are bi. It’s become almost an inside joke between them, their path from a cis lesbian to a gay trans man. It’s not their intention, but sometimes the way they talk about that pipeline makes it seem like it’s a universal transmasculine experience. Sometimes I wonder when I’ll finish moving through my pipeline, when I would start liking men. This wasn’t where my path ended, was it? With me as a straight man? That was an outlier.

It was always like this growing up. Me, surrounded by a group of people who shared my gender, but they all talked about being attracted to boys, and I was the only one who didn’t feel that way. The odd one out. It’s a different gender now, but the same old story. My friends of the same gender liked men, and I didn’t, and I would start to wonder what was wrong with me. Wish and wish and wish I could find something, the hint of feelings for men, and never find anything.

I’ve followed this “lesbian to gay trans man” pipeline far enough that I’m no longer a lesbian, but I haven’t reached the “gay” part of “gay trans man.” I never will.

I’m not a woman who loves women, I’m not a man who loves men, and my gender doesn’t fit with the other queers who said “none of the above.” I’m just me. Not straight enough to be truly straight, too straight to be truly queer. An outsider among outsiders.

[justmelookingbackatme]

It's kind of incredible, to look at photos of me throughout the years. I'm not necessarily unhappy in all the photos of me from two, three years ago, but I'm missing the spark of joy I have now. I look the same in all of them. Tired, slightly uncomfortable. Smiling with dead eyes.

In the pictures where I start to look happy, I don't exactly look camera ready. There's one taken after I fasted for twenty four hours, so I'm not at my best. I'm exhausted, my hair a mess and my tie crooked, but I'm beaming. Another where I'm sunburnt and covered in acne, but I can still tell I was having fun in that moment, long after I've forgotten what exactly I was doing.

I look the happiest in photos I took this past year. I look relaxed, an easy smile on my face. In some of them, my chest is flat, and I'm glowing. In others, I'm with my friends, and there's clear delight written all over my face. I take more selfies, now, because I like the way I look. I look at home in myself and my appearance.

Some of the joy I've gained recently comes from being trans. Coming out, changing my name, expressing myself as masculine. And some of it comes from finding the right people to surround myself with. Some of it has no clear explanation, but it doesn't matter. I can scroll through photos and see myself becoming happier, and I'm so glad I could go on this journey.

[justmelookingbackatme]

I can't help feeling like you've stolen something from me. You haven't, of course. Your identity is your own, but my identity is so fragile that it feels like one wrong step will make it shatter. I'm careful, to the point of never quite living, but you're alive. You dance around with identity, and I hold my breath, because what if you crash into me and everything falls apart?

It won't. You're not doing anything wrong. I light myself on fire, over and over, because I don't know how not to burn. But you don't deserve to get burned by my problems.

I don't know how to explain it, the way your joy makes it feel like my sadness is strangling me. I want to be free like you are, but I'm so tangled up in doubt and shame and self hatred that I don't think I can.

I want to protect you. I've always wanted that, especially since our parents split up, when I became half mother and half father to you. And this is the way I protect myself. Hiding. Suffocating. It's how I learned to keep myself safe, how I learned to survive.

But you're not hiding, and you're still surviving. It's safer now. I can't escape my programming, but you were never programmed this way in the first place. You don't have to hide.

My protective instincts haven't learned that yet. I want to grab you, hide you away, bury you deep alongside me so you don't get hurt.

Doing that would hurt you.

It's hurting me too, but I can't make myself stop.

I'm jealous. How could I not be? I'm drowning, and you're doing a backflip off the diving board. It's not that I want you to drown. I just feel so achingly alone, and I don't know how to swim, and I don't know how to ask you to teach me.

You're like what I could be, if I hated myself a little less. If I was braver, prouder. If I hadn't grown up internalizing the idea that I had to shove these feelings far away, where no one could see them. If it had been safe for me to wear the feelings on my sleeve, like you do.

I'm glad you're proud. I'm proud of you too, even if I can't be proud of myself.