#i get impostor syndrome because i dont know my own history

[thorne1435]

How did you all learn queer history??

I was raised by lesbians but they never talked about it. They didn't even acknowledge to me that they were lesbians, I had to piece that together on my own (which sounds way easier in retrospect than it was in reality when they've both been there for as long as you can remember).

I learned about Stonewall within the past two or three years, after I had switched political alignments and seen queer leftists talking about it like it was a thing I was supposed to know.

I learned about Leelah Alcorn today. Like, 10 minutes ago.

I need some kind of educational digital queer calendar that I can add to my phone's holiday calendar so I can start googling a significant queer event every morning.

[scarlett-carson]

Its funny, but not in a HA HA HA kind of way

things have been...all over the godsdamn place of late ive been busy ive been broken ive been, a bit under construction of late. there was a bit of a phoenixing going on behind the scenes and maybe not everyone knew it. or maybe they did and i am not as lowkey as i fancy myself to be sometimes. there was a bit of a semi-public accidental crash recently, so... it doesnt matter. no, i mean it totally matters but thats...not the point of this recently, i went on vacation. there was a road trip with my sister and it was all kinds of things. it was, above all....FUCKING NECESSARY but. to the point of this post:: we were driving back from a week in daytona and it was the middle of the night and we were talking about things and stuff and nonsense and serious stuff and bullshit and like...everything...because that is kind of this thing that we do sometimes and shes had kind of a rough go in her own way and i think we both sort of needed a quality 3am talk about what one wants to do when they realize they dont have to camp out at rock bottom anymore and that there are options beyond "idk, just not die i guess" and in all of the talk about all of the things, she asked me why i stopped writing. (because she is a cunt and kind of a sadist) i dont have an answer for that i have a list of like...bullshit excuses for why i dont write depression lack of focus nothing to say impostor syndrome "i cant i have rehearsal" etc etc etc but i didnt have an ANSWER in that moment but i did tell her that recently, id been thinking a whole lot about how i miss doing slam and spoken word. that even if i dont have the stamina to write longform anything, doesnt mean i dont have things to say and that maybe it would be a way to get my legs back under me but i dont know because its been a really REALLY long time and what if i dont know how anymore and the rules have changed and like nothing i have to say is interesting to anyone else or like what if there is something i feel deep all the way into my marrow, but like someone else can say it better? this bitch has the audacity to pull over to the side of the road. like in the middle of fucking NOWHERE mountainsville, kentucky or wherever the fuck we were...and goes "so, its funny you should mention THAT. its funny, but not in a HA HA HA kind of way. i have to show you this thing. but its going to kick you in the face. long dramatic pause, because she knows just a little bit too much about my life possibly twice" ...and then shows me the following spoken word piece on her spotify playlist: ~~~~~~~ **We never promised each other much, we were always just kind of touch and go. as if we knew we'd know that somehow we'd grow differently. so we did and we do and none of this is to say that it wasn't worth going through or that i care any less about you. shoulders to lean on are hard to come by. I know because there were times I would have broken my own neck just so that I'd have one of my own to cry on. And I remember when each finger was a pawn moving slowly across the chessboard of your body and we made each game last. Passed up each avenue of attack because neither one of us were trying to win So how do we begin again when that feels like now and this feels like then? When all I can do is tell you "if you've got something that needs saying, tonight I'm paying dues." I've got a pocket full of blues and two pennies to rub together Which means I'm wealthy enough that I can finally afford to pay attention. I'm listening. And I know right now I'm somehow like that kid sitting in math class, terribly aware of his first boner. It's hard. But difficulty has never been a good enough reason to describe the effort it takes to make the good times and the memories worth having. And they were and they are and I wouldn't have come this far if you weren't worth the sleepless nights where abandoned appetites of a heart, now rail-thin, because of the constant hunger strikes. In your absence, I'm finding value, because what starves you carves you, and I'm chipping away the rough edges of a statue built to memorialize everything we've been through. And when I'm done, I'm gonna set it against the backdrop of the sun and stare just no matter where I go, it'll always be etched into the back of my mind, stenciled in behind whatever future I have left to find. Maybe we were never meant to last. Maybe we're only meant to reflect fondly upon a past where we cast ourselves in the lead role of a one-year sitcom. One that had the critics standing, while putting hand to palm, in an ovation we're still getting curtain calls for. And the stage floor was a graveyard for the freshly cut roses that we waded through to take our bows and say thank you. It was beautiful. And it was and it is and none of it was ever show-biz. But we were waiting for lights to dim on a stage where we set ourselves to music. As if the swelling violins could ever mimic the hidden moments found in the theatre where we kept audiences stapled to their seats. And they watched us, looking for vacancies they could occupy in the spaces between our heartbeats, as if silence was a room for rent, and we both went "shh." But the beats themselves: they were loud enough to drown out the applause. And we laughed at the ushers left looking in the aisles for the dropped jaws of patrons who still can't believe we took time to find beauty in the flaws we possess. That there's only something better to be found in allowing our collective damage to coalesce. And all we confess of ourselves forever is that we will make it through this. We're gonna make it through this, like a big-ass jug of kool-aid with legs and arms busting through a brick wall to quench the thirst of our loneliness and say "fuck yeah." Yes, I miss you. When I'm not looking, the softest parts of me will issue restraining orders. Not the kind that define borders or boundaries; these are the kind that will keep me in place when I ask "please, call me when you get there." Because every somewhere I go to, is just another place that reminds me I miss you. And my broken heart is where I keep the scar-tissue that I used to dry my eyes when a tear tries to make a break for it. I've built my eyelids into an Alcatraz, where every prisoner has a parole board meeting scheduled for yesterday. And they played dominoes until time comes full circle, like a sunrise, and today tries to set them free because they'll be locked up here until I let them go, until it's safe to let you know you're my best friend. And that some things end so that other things can begin. Sometimes an ending can be an origin. That history is a resin that can keep two people stuck together, that change can be a tether if you let it. I'll always want to kiss you. Or touch you. Or do that thing that drives you crazy. And by that, I mean you literally go crazy when I call you "cranky pants." Sorry, but it makes me laugh. And that's important to someone who's given more than half of their life to tragedy. I keep your side of the bed empty with a just-in-case mentality of that hope's middle name is maybe and maybe you miss me too. One day, you and I are going to make it through this. And we'll look back and we'll realize that we have, and we did, promise. PROMISE--shane koyczan** ~~~~~ go ahead and take a minute take all the time you need because i needed fucking 20 minutes and i am pretty sure i stopped breathing we sat there in dead silence at almost 4 am on a dark as mountain road and she just held my hand while silent tears fell out of my stupid fucking face. because, like she knew she would be... she was not wrong. she was so very very not wrong. i got back to chicago on monday i have spent the last few days (still not writing) debating like...what to do with this. do i post it on Other Social Media? do i text a youtube link? do i tag everyone who crossed my mind as i listened to it the first time? (for the record, it is probably exactly who you expect, AND...other people you wouldnt so, there's been some unpacking too like "why them, though") do i sit in the corner of my shower and just cry about it for a while until it shifts from "pathetic" to "cathardic" and do i even remember where that line IS anymore? and like...sure i could direct send it but would they even read it? would they get it? would they understand? ...does it fucking matter what they think? and in all of the debating and unpacking i realized one thing: not really, no. things that resonate with ME, wont always register with Person X--certainly not always in the same way--and like...that is kind of okay, actually they dont have to get it its not for them its my thing other people will think its pretty cool, though and i can show them and those people will get excited...it only becomes problematic when Person X disregards that it resonates at all that is a dick move and like...if i, as a person. as a fucking force with which to be reckoned...resonate with so many people WHY should i keep trying to share that resonance with people who just kind of "meh" about it when i could just show it to the other people who think its pretty cool. so fuck it i will put it here and people can see it and they can think that its pretty cool or "meh" and thats ok but i should probably stop being my own Problematic Person X...