I used to be a writer.
I mean, I used to need to write – it kept me centered and sane.
I’m not centered and sane anymore, so does that mean I’m no longer a writer?
This might be a chicken/egg argument.
At any rate, I miss it. I miss sitting down and typing until my fingernails are tired – the sound of the keys, the smell of my coffee, the silence of everything inside my head.
I used to be a femme, vocal about what that meant and how it felt.
I mean, I used to like being femme – I knew exactly who I was and what I wanted.
I don’t know who am I and what I want anymore, so does that mean I’m no longer a femme?
I used to be a mouthy little thing, sure of what I thought and how the world should work.
I’m quieter now, less front-and-center in the mix of things.
(I’m not any bigger, unless you count this little extra married weight that’s depriving me of my favorite Anne Klein slacks and driving me crazy.)
All I’m sure of, today, is that I feel like something has been taken away from me. I don’t feel like myself anymore – not that I’ve grown into something more, but that something is missing. I don’t know exactly what that thing is. I’m tired of hiding. I’m tired of feeling like there’s no place for me. I’m tired of feeling like I don’t fit. Either in my world, or in my own skin.
I want to go out and look for it, but I don’t know where to go. Maybe just writing again is part of the answer. Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s time to shut down TSOC for good, let Jolie retire into whatever nebulous ether claims ex-bloggers.
Life’s just gotten too big for me.
Perhaps, just possibly, I’ve shrunk. It’s not like I’ve had the easiest few years. Could it be that I’ve given up, quit fighting, quit trying? Can you give up without knowing you’ve done it? Is that possible?
Maybe I’m like a houseplant that’s gotten root-bound. I’ve been confined to this small, rural dot on a map; nobody like me, no place safe, nothing to do. My entire life rotates around Cub Scouts, Little League, work, and church. The only one of those activities that belongs to me is work – and work kind of sucks at the moment. There’s no queers, there’s no femmes, there’s not even a fabulous gay boy to do my hair.
I miss my queens.
I’m tired of being the token gay. I can’t begin to describe how sick I am of trying to relate to straight women and make girl talk. I want to go sit in a seething mass of other queers and blend in and disappear.
Maybe I’m just lonely. All of my extended family – blood and otherwise – has scattered to the four winds and nothing has grown up in its place.
I’d like to think that it doesn’t matter where I am, I’m still me. But recent evidence appears to be pointing to the contrary.
Regardless, a change in geography isn’t in the cards. So I’m left with the original question; what’s wrong with me? What’s missing? How do I find it/replace it/fix it?
The itch under my skin for more/bigger/better seems to have been replaced with an achy, tender, cautious feeling. Maybe one bruise too many, one shot to the gut too much. I want to go home, back to Albuquerque, back to my gays, back to Sharkman being a little boy and having all this to do over again.
I don’t want to start over, I want to go back in time. Where more feels possible, and less feels risky and dangerous.
Where risky feels fun instead of terrifying.
I am so sick of being afraid.
It’s all so frustrating. It’s not even like I want my life back; I just want to feel like I have one. I feel like I’m living in stasis, waiting for other people to decide what they’re going to do, how they’re going to do it, when they’re going to do it. I’m sick of being dutiful and responsible and careful so that everyone else gets what they need when they need it.
I was never cut out for this kind of need.
Except the universe seems to disagree. No matter where I go or what I do, this is where I end up.
Which means I’m doing something to perpetuate this cycle. I just wish I knew what.