This is super candid, so per the content’s candor, for myself, the comments on this post will be turned off. If there are any questions that arise from this, readers can always send me a message and even link this post to the text if they feel they must. This was in part inspired by the Daily Post’s prompt of the day for Jan. 6: Winsome.
This Is Me:
I’m pretty winsome, right? Wait, if you didn’t look it up earlier, but want to now, this is the definition of winsome: “attractive or appealing in appearance or character.” So, I ask you again — obvi for my ego — am I winsome?
I hope so! I didn’t always look this darn cute. In fact, although it’s not #ThrowbackThursday or #TransformationTuesday, I’m going to share with my readers a photo that I certainly wouldn’t put up as my profile pic now. Well, here’s the damned thing:
Also, so you know, because it’s Saturday, every time I curse in this post I also do that Catholic cross-thingy, just because. One Saturday afternoon I started doing it, just to keep track of how often I cuss, and it kind of stuck. I do weird things like that because they’re fun, but I feel like there could be some seriousness about it too.
I’m not religious, although I probably should be, seeing as I’ve been told I’m “going to hell” more often than “what pronouns do you prefer?” For different reasons, I’m not interested in caring how people feel about my gender identity. Yet for some reason, I care about how trans people are treated in general; like it’s one thing if you’re attacking me, but if you’re coming for a slew of people, whether it’s because their darker complexion, their sexuality, or their gender, that’s what really sets me off.
That’s why I love M.I.A, as much as I do — fun fact, one of the few artists I have actually felt speaking to me. She grew up as a refugee in Britain and struggled to become the artist she is today, but instead of really just sitting high on her laurels, she’s pushed boundaries and made enemies of powerful people to make a point: we’re all refugees in a way. She, of course, speaks mostly about those in real, forced diaspora, and not really about those that only feel as if outside of their homelands.
The digression was necessary because there’s always that song, or that artist, or that person or group, or activity, that keeps us going.
To many, it may be a mystery what could keep even one such as myself going. There have been times when even a funny, decently intelligent, and normatively attractive person, as I believe I am, have had trouble keeping optimistic about sharing this beautiful life with anyone. There have been times when I have been metaphorically ousted from my home. Such as those early moments when I came to realize what my feelings meant, at least to me. When those same feelings, of being someone different than who I was raised to be, made me doubt reality, made me fear my surroundings, made me question things much more deeply. And when I finally came out and became whom I saw myself to be, losing those that made life feel like home. Losing partners, friends, and even not getting calls returned by family members, can probably feel like seeing one’s home pushed away from them in warfare.
As another aside, I want to point out that people aren’t inherently good. Nor are they inherently bad. Life is a bitch but I hear that having refugees as neighbors is great.
I’m not always a great neighbor. I don’t really care about anyone. Not because I don’t want to, I really do, but I’ve been hurt a lot. I can’t help it. I can’t help but put myself out there. Like that saying: don’t let anyone dim your light” or whatever. My light shines pretty brightly, for some reason. That’s okay with me, and I like the way that I am. Others do too, and I like that even more! Yet, that appreciation, if turned upside down, hurts more than anyone that could simply say: “you suck!” I’d prefer that. Enemies. No problem. Frenemies. Crap.
I hope that my readers become my friends. I’m also not afraid of frenemies. Only, be warned: I’ve definitely gone Super Saiyan.