Let’s talk about another taboo.

Dear Cyber-Friends,

I’ve talked before a little bit about my own dealings with depression, but I don’t think I ever really touched on one of the causes that kicks off the endless up-and-down cycles I go through with no end in sight. It comes down to simple biology. Not a genetic presupposition for depression, although it’s possible that’s a factor too. I’m talking about the basic biology be being female-bodied.

Being female-bodied in society has a lot of baggage already attached to it. Things are pretty messed up, to understate the state of things. Everyday in the news there’s new reasons and examples of how much life sucks for the female-bodied and female-passing, and it’s hard to ignore just how little we’re valued as equal people. The issue I’m talking about today is one of the first basic taboo subjects we’re all taught to avoid and ridicule from adolescence: our periods. The time of month we cry and bleed and hurt and rage, and around expected to either hide it or be teased about it.

For at least a quarter of every single month of the majority of my life, I can expect my own body to put me through a personal hell of physiological and psychological warfare. Every female-bodied person experiences this time of the month a little differently. For me, starting a little over a week from when the blood comes, I start feeling overwhelmed and helpless and stressed out. I get depressed, I can’t focus mentally, I cry at the slightest frustration or emotional response to anything, I just want to stay curled up in bed so I don’t have to face anyone while I feel raw and vulnerable and flayed open by my own mind. It’s impossible to my usual optimistic and cheerful self. It’s like Jekyll and Hyde; I become dark and cynical and sometimes suicidal, feeling hopeless and distracted and unable to cope with any kind of interactions.

This is every month, for one week out of every four. No matter what I do or try.

Recovering from this kind of mental flogging is bad enough, difficult and painful and slow. Usually I have about one good week a month, because I’m beat down by my own body and worn out trying to recover for that long every single month. On top of this, I also get beat up and worn down by the things which are usually called ‘cramps’, which in my opinion doesn’t even come close to describing the endless twisting aching stabbing pain which, lucky me, isn’t effected by any pain relief, over-the-counter or prescription. This is the kind of pain that makes me feel like I’m going to throw up all day because it runs so deep in my body, that makes life unbearable while it lasts, that leaves me faint and ill and pale and hunched over if I have to stand up or walk anywhere. This is the kind of pain I’m expected to work through without showing it, because it’s the pain of being female-bodied and comes every month and “everyone has to deal with it” so I shouldn’t expect special treatment. This is the kind of pain that usually lasts about 24-48 hours, and leaves me weak and shaky for a day or two more after it leaves. Every. Single. Month.

This is considered within the realms of “normal”. Oh sure, having some kind of weird immunity to painkillers isn’t typical, but that’s just a bit of random trivia to other people, a point on which to show a little extra sympathy while still telling me to tough it out and keep working, don’t slow down, we all go through this so why are you so weak as to ask for a day off?

There’s a lot of messed up expectations in society. Despite people not admitting it, the fact of that matter is that having a menstrual cycle is a lot like having a mental illness with physical symptoms, complete with a lot of the same stigmas, belittling jokes, and daily struggles. The difference is, there’s a lot of fight happening right now to increase awareness and understanding about a lot of mental illnesses, and effective or not, there’s at least some forms of support networks for a lot of them, too. Not so much so for the things I’ve been facing and fighting on my own, and I bet that a lot of other female-bodied people are, too. It’s a conversation that just isn’t happening, and I don’t think a lot of people are even aware it’s something that should be addressed, because it’s so deeply ingrained that periods are normal (yes, they are), and that there’s nothing to do about it except put up with it (wrong wrong wrong).

In a perfect world, female-bodied people who suffered through their cycles like I do would be given the support and help they need to take care of themselves during this time. They wouldn’t be forced to try and hide the impossible battles they faced. Instead, they would be encouraged to do whatever helped them survive it, up to and including simply not going to work when necessary, or being given options of different tasks they could actually perform during the times they were unable to fully cope with their normal duties. I don’t think of this as “special treatment”; I think of it as basic human compassion. If people with physical differences and people with mental differences are worth fighting for to get equal treatment, then so is over half the world population who happens to have both a quarter of their lives because of their biology.

Society has conditioned us all to accept that we don’t deserve consideration for the acts of our biology simply because it’s something we all experience to various degrees, and that giving in to it is weakness and we must hide it to be considered ‘equal’ to male-bodied people.

That’s utter nonsense.

Hopefully by now you can see how utterly nonsensical it is, and how very far from any kind of real equality it is. I don’t have answers on how to fight this battle, or advice on creating awareness and change, or channels for building support. All I have is this blog and my words and my outrage. All I have is the hope this is message will resonate and spread, and that somehow, eventually, the world might become a place where I don’t feel like life isn’t worth living because of having been born into this body that I mostly try to love.

Keep fighting. Maybe someday a real equality for everyone will be achieved. Until then, we can keep whispering the dream of it into the darkness, a prayer and a wish to attract the sun and a new day into this endless night terror.

Love,

GeGi.

Catching Up: A Quick Review of 2015.

Dear Cyber-Friends,

My first non-book-review post of 2016! I know it’s been a while since I’ve written about my own physical life adventures, so I thought I should take a moment today to write a post I’ve been putting off.

2015 was really hard. I started out last year having really high hopes. I was living and working in a beautiful snow-covered Rocky Mountains winter wonderland, learning and loving to cross-country ski, and having a job I pretty much enjoyed. All that fell apart pretty quick; the snow melted early, I stopped having the time and energy to ski, my housemates were mostly various kinds of awful, and I worked with half of them on a daily basis. I tried to make the best of it, but depression hits pretty thoroughly sometimes, and I spent the rest of the time basically gritting my teeth and waiting to escape at the end of the season. It sucked, because I wanted so hard to be able to appreciate the amazing place I happened to live it at the time, but all I wanted to do was hide until I could run away.

My spring road trip has been, eventually, fully detailed in the blog, as have parts of the following summer drama in Colorado. Suffice it to say, summer was basically a repeat of winter, but with added “fun” of getting injured in my right shoulder and unable to work the majority of my time on the ranch. Cue depression and alienation, with the side bonus of lost wages and extra paperwork.

I clung to plans of escape when the season was over, and left as soon as I could, leaving the ranch for the final time in the early dawn light and not looking back. Shortly after my return to the Northwest Coast, the region I’d been daydreaming about with nostalgic feelings of being as close to home as I can get these days, Mum came over from Hawaii to visit.

As glad as I was to escape the people and politics of the Mid-West, seeing my Mum was incomparably better. I played the driver, and took Mum up and down the northern part of the Washington coastal region while we visited her parents. We got to spend the last few days together, just the two of us, and getting to spend all that time with Mum…well, my heart is aching and I’m getting an about-to-cry feeling again just thinking about it, I miss her so much. If I could stand the bugs and the weather and the job market and the housing issue and all the rest of the stuff that comes from living in one of the poorest parts of the jungle side of an island in the middle of the biggest ocean, well, I won’t hesitate to be closer to my Mum. My sister is pretty astonishingly lucky that she managed to make it work.

Anyway. Mum left and according to my plan I should have started immediately to figure out the details of moving to Portland. I didn’t. I tried, but my heart wasn’t in it. I wanted to be in Portland eventually, but over the course of about a week I realized what I need to do first was give myself time and permission to just STOP for a while. Stop running from one thing to the next, stop pushing myself to keep going so I can’t feel how burnt out I’m getting, stop trying to fake being okay so hard. I needed time to wallow, to hurt, to distract myself, to be lazy and indulgent, to get to do all those things in a place where I was safe and not judged for it. I needed to let myself let go of the past year so I could finally start to process and heal from all of it. I needed to do those things before I could have my fresh start.

So now it’s 2016. I just left Seattle finally, and am staying with an Aunt and Uncle in Tacoma while I gear myself back up to really actually for-sure-this-time start to act on my plans for Portland. I’m less hurt emotionally than I was before I took time off from being a “responsible adult”. I still feel the wounds of the past year, still have the new battle-scars, the aches and wariness, the depression and lingering suspicion. But I also feel more confident, more self-possessed, more me. It’s not perfect, but then, life never is perfect. The trick is to learn how to embrace the messy bits and make them into a new kind of perfect. Not the all-encompassing kind; the quiet contented kind that creeps in during the little moments.

I’m typing this upstairs in the guest bedroom, warm orange-red walls reflecting the soft yellow glow of the overhead light down onto the desk. Outside it’s overcast and has started to rain enough to hear it through the window and on the roof. This morning I woke to the smell of baking bread. Right now I can hear the rain, and muffled traffic, and the music I’m playing very quietly, and voices from whatever my aunt is listening to downstairs. The house has a faint and constant scent of incense and essential oils that’s saturated into the walls and the paint and the rugs over the years. There’s nothing big or flashing about this moment. But when I stop to notice it, I feel a sense contentment and home-y-ness that’s as close to perfection as I ever really need out of life.

Now I just need to figure out how to create and support this for myself in Portland…

Wish me luck, my friends, as I wish you luck in finding your own kind of perfect in the New Year.

Love,

GeGi.

The Tattoo.

Dear Cyber-Friends,

I have this tattoo. I have several, actually, but there’s this one in particular.

before

It was my second time going in to get tattooed. The first time, I had finished designs ready. The second time, I had what apparently looked like a finished design. It was a rough draft actually, but I went to the same artist as before, and he assumed it was finished like the others, and I was too shy and scared and intimidated by, basically, the world, and not in a good head-space for sticking up for myself at the time due to lots of screwed up things that had been happening in my life, and basically, well, I got the tattoo anyway, even though it wasn’t right.

Of course, this not-quite-right tattoo is the one everyone sees all the time; out of five tattoos, this one is the biggest and in the most visible location. People always comment on it, and every time they do, and every time I see it out of the corner of my eye or in the mirror, I’m reminded of that time, and how it isn’t what I wanted, and how I didn’t speak up about something so permanent and important. It’s a reminder of who I never want to be again.

In one week exactly, that tattoo is getting modified and expanded into something I do want. I’ve spent about five years (give or take a year) waiting for this moment — that’s how long it’s been since I got it in the first place, if I’m remembering correctly. I’ve spent all that time thinking about exactly what it was I wanted in the first place, and what I want now, and finding images and writing plans over and over so that I can get exactly the right thing this time.

Today I stopped by the tattoo shop with the best reviews, and talked to an artist there. We talked over the ideas I had, he sketched a few things out and took notes and pictures, and we kept discussing it until we both felt sure we were talking about the same thing and both getting excited about the concept. He has a week to design something beautiful, and will send me pictures to approve before my appointment.

That is the experience I should have had five (or so) years ago. That is the experience I wasn’t capable of having five years ago. The fact that I can do it now — even, especially, when I’ve been feeling depressed and anxious and lost and burnt out — proves how much I can and HAVE changed and grown. Even when I feel like I’ve gone backwards in my growth and stability, I’ve proved it’s not as far back as I think.

This new version of the tattoo will be a reminder of this lesson, a constant beautiful image that strength and growth can’t be taken away, even by ourselves. It will be a reminder that something amazing can come out of something unfortunate. It will be a reminder that mistakes don’t have to be forever, and they don’t have to define us.

Stay strong, even when it doesn’t feel like strength. Some day, it will.

Love,

GeGi.

Not the usual kind of post…

[WARNING: this post talks about my struggles with triggering subjects, including but not limited to depression, self-esteem, cutting, suicide, and bad relationships. Only read if you feel such subjects aren’t going to be harmful to yourself. Your own health and care and safety are far more important than whatever rambling words I’ve typed.]

Dear Cyber-Friends,

On the surface, I have a pretty awesome life; I’ve never had debt, I have decent jobs, I now have a good car, I pretty much always have somewhere to live and food to eat, I have friends and family who love me and support me when I ask for it, I have a computer and a smart phone and books and movies and an ipod full of music… There’s a lot of obvious comforts and benefits in my life. Not to mention things like being unattached to any location so I can travel whenever I want (jobs allowing) which a lot of people seem to find quite enviable, and having the ability and privilege to be independent, and apparently having some talent at artistic things like writing and painting.

On the flip side, I’ve also struggled with things like having a short and violent temper, having untreated depression, thinking I’m worthless and invisible, self-harming, finding meaning and direction in life, coping with the unexpected death of someone I grew up with as a teenager, isolating behavior, social anxiety, introversion, extreme trust issues, a history of bad and borderline abusive romantic relationships… A lot of those things are connected, and pretty much all of them have been/are being handled on my own — without the help of trained professionals or medication, or even much discussion with said friends and family.

I think a lot of the reason I’ve never gotten help or even opened up all that much about the internal things I deal with is due to those trust issues and that self-image of not being worth someone else’s care/time/attention. Everyone has shit in their life they deal with. My suicidal moments haven’t played out to actual action and my moments self-destructive behavior has been contained enough not to interfere beyond my own mind and body, so to the slightly damaged logic of my meaner side equals all that to being not bad off enough to bother anyone else with my own issues. Besides which, talking about my less-than-happy bits means being vulnerable and trusting not to use that to hurt me, and so far the track record on that working out in my favor has been spotty.

Even typing this post is hard to do, and the thought of actually publishing it terrifies me because then I’ll be admitting how broken I feel inside sometimes. I work hard to keep it hidden from everyone, and I honestly don’t think I could even tell you why or how I became convinced at such a bone-deep level that I had to pretend to be perfect, but for some reason I hold myself to an impossibly high standard. Exposing the parts of me that don’t live up to it, no matter how much I know those who love me already know about them, is one of the hardest things I could possibly do. I want to delete this whole post, but for some reason being honest right now feels really important and necessary. Which means I probably won’t be reading this over again before I post — something I usually do to make my typical long run-on sentences broken down into coherent thoughts — so if this post is a bit of a rambling mess, that’s why. Welcome to how my brain composes writing.

I don’t know what point I’m trying to make here. Maybe I just wanted to use my little corner of the internet to confess that I haven’t been feeling very stable lately. I’ve been using physical exhaustion (cross-country skiing) as a way to cope — I push myself beyond what I think I can do so I end up too tired at the end to feel anything but the “high” of exercise, while also satisfying the part of me that demands self-punishment by doing something a little more constructive than cutting. It helps to purge the build-up of frustration and anger and depression which cause my short temper, and allows me time and reason to be outside, which helps build a sense of contentment.

But the holidays are here at the ranch, which means I haven’t had that outlet all week, and probably won’t get it again for another week. I haven’t been dealing with it well, which is to say I’ve been cutting and drinking and isolating myself and listening to angry music and crying. Not to mention getting progressively more annoyed, frustrated, and generally pissed off with basically everything, but especially the people who already take more energy to deal with. I simply don’t have the energy to spare for dealing with them right now, because I’m using it all to keep myself alive and get through this period. I cling to the knowledge that my emotions tend to cycle, so every darker time like this is always book-ended with brighter times. It helps. It helps me survive it, anyway. It doesn’t really help make it any better to go through.

I have a really hard time letting anyone see me when I’m like this. I get very edgy knowing people are around, and I just want to feel safe — which for me means being alone, or at least anonymous. The last thing in the world I want is people being physically around me, people I don’t know very well questioning me, or generally interacting with others physically or verbally. So I spend a lot of time with headphones on, and I spend a lot of time on the internet. Internet friends are, at the very least, a welcome distraction. Sometimes they even help me feel better, if only for a brief bright moment.

Family is tricky, because I don’t want them to worry about me, so I don’t want them to know how screwed up I feel. When I was a teenager and wanted to kill myself, I didn’t because I decided I would wait until my parents and siblings had died, so I wouldn’t be hurting them. Since I felt dead already and just wanted to stop existing, it seemed like the least I could do to simply hold on long enough not to cause those who would miss me any extra pain. Even now, in my darker moments, I wonder if anyone would really notice or care if I were simply gone. I know my Mum would, and probably my Dad and sister and even my brother, and maybe a few others, but I have a hard time understanding why anyone loves or cares about me, the real me, so it’s difficult to convince myself I matter.

Being alone is easier to deal with — even when I feel lonely and isolated — than trying to understand and deal with people caring about me. I just can’t quite wrap my head around the idea that I might be important to someone else. I mean, I’m important to me because I have to be, but I honestly can’t figure out what there is about me that would make anyone else care. If you’re not immediate family, telling me you love me and being serious about it is a sure-fire way to make me at the very least confused, if not actually freaked out and running. Partly because of bad past experiences, but partly just because if you think that I’m worth loving there’s clearly either something wrong with you or you just have no idea who I really am, and either way isn’t promising. Much better to just avoid all that and be on my own, where I can be as crazy as I need to be without fear of judgement or of causing pain.

Big chances to the outer life are good — for a while I can cruse on the excitement and newness, which gives me the extra energy to be social and optimistic. But it’s not really my natural resting state, so to speak, so eventually I revert back to introvert and depression, unless I put a lot of effort and awareness into self-care. The moment I let that awareness slip into laziness, all the issues I’ve pushed back pounce again, and it’s back to fighting to survive long enough to regain equilibrium, while expanding all extra energy into not letting the mask of strength slip enough to let those around me see how much I’m hurting. I think half the reason I’m being a nomad with seasonal jobs is so I know I’m only committing to a few months at a time before the next new thing. Having an end date in sight gives me sometime to aim for when things get dark.

I’d been talking about doing a Europe trip with a couple of the roommates here at the ranch once the season ends. I’ve been rethinking that plan this last week; I feel like I’d rather spend the majority of my time between seasonal jobs doing something on my own, being away from the constant interaction this lifestyle demands. It would help me recover enough to get through another season, and maybe I could even save up enough money to do a bigger trip later. Also, I’ve been feeling a strong urge to make going to the parts of Europe I’m drawn to into a sole trip, with more of a personal pilgrimage focus than just tramping around with a couple people half a decade younger than me.

The idea of traveling on my own is very soothing to that part of me that feels constantly on edge when I’m around people. Thinking about it brings a feeling of calm to the constant agitation, which seems like a pretty good sign that it’s a good call. I haven’t talked to the roommates about my possible change of heart about the plan yet, because I’m still not sure which way I’m gonna end up going on it. I’m not sure what I’ll decide to do this spring. I have a job interview for next summer already, though.

The whole point of the way I’m trying to live right now is to have freedom. I want to live life on my own terms as much as is very possible for anyone. I’ve always been pretty fiercely independent, even at my most co-dependent, and I’ve finally gotten over my own fears enough to act on it. I don’t want to start compromising that just yet, so right now I think that means traveling solo between jobs, and doing my own thing during jobs. I don’t hold on to other people well, so I lose touch as soon as I leave, and I think I’m actually pretty happy with that. I’m not a social creature. I think I want to just drift through the lives around me, and not hold on. I want to be free that way.

There’s more I could say, but this seems like a good stopping place. I’m only going to get less coherent as it gets later, for one thing. And I feel like I’ve lost the plot somewhat of what I was trying to say — which I’m not even sure what that was in the first place, so…

Anyway.

Take care of yourself. It’s the kindest act you can do.

I love you all.

GeGi.

Fan Fiction.

Dear Cyber-Friends,

This is a subject I’ve been thinking about writing a post on for a while now, and a moment ago a twitter-friend told me to do it, so here it goes…

Fan fiction, for those who don’t know, is not-for-profit original stories using various elements from established works. Basically it’s a way to play in someone else’s sandbox, use their toys, and giving them back afterwards. There’s fanfic of books, movies, tv shows, video games, songs, real people…basically anything. There’s cross-over fanfic that combines elements from separate works, alternate universe fic that takes elements (for example: characters) and places them in a completely new setting, slash fic that explores potential relationships between various characters, and on and on. Again, it’s whatever the author can think of. There are really no limits when it comes to fanfic (except maybe legal ones).

There’s a huge stigma about fanfic; basically that it’s a shameful and shallow no-talent thing, often full of porn and/or “Mary-Sues” [the author inserts themselves as a “perfect” original character in order to be loved by their favorite characters]. While some fanfic can indeed have these things, there’s so much more to it than that. Even if there weren’t, I’d argue that fanfic can still be an important expression of creativity.

First, the big picture: as a storyteller/bard and druid-in-study, here’s my take on fanfic in general.

Stories are meant to be alive. They are meant to grow and evolve and change with each new telling, with each teller of the tale. We are suppose to be able to make each telling of a story relevant to ourselves and our audience, adding or changing or taking away as we are moved to. We are suppose to explore and connect with our stories. Taking familiar characters and putting them in new situations is a story-telling tradition as old as stories themselves. Some of our most famous and beloved tales are basically fan fiction: retelling someone else’s story with new elements. From King Arther and his Knights of the Round Table seeking the Grail and having love triangles and bastard kids, to the fairy tales we all grew up listening to and watching, our culture is seeped in retold tales that have evolved beyond recognition of the original versions.

I’ve said before on this blog, it’s only because we humans started writing down stories that we started believing there was “one true version”. Even if having a true version is important to you, fanfic still doesn’t take away from the original; on the contrary, it can often add to it and even draw in a new audience to the original work. There are several examples I could use from my own personal life in which I gained an interest in a new show or found new value in something I was already familiar with, all thanks to concepts from well-written fanfic. It can give someone insight into a character they can’t otherwise relate to, or fill in missing scenes, or point out a subtext you may have overlooked. At the same time, the original work is still there, intact and unharmed by these new ideas surrounding it.

Second: let’s look at fanfic from a writing angle.

Writing something completely original can be huge and overwhelming. You might get lost in the little fiddly details of world-building, or struggle with creating multifaceted complex realistic characters. Original writing is a great skill to have, and it needs a lot of practice to hone it. It’s also a hard sell; there’s a lot of competition out there for getting your original stories into the market. Internet and social networking is opening up new ways to do that, but using those tools is practically a full-time job on its own.

Writing with someone else’s creations is a whole other beast. It takes a lot of attention to detail and tone to create accuracy and authenticity with an established character and/or world. It takes a lot of imagination to create new scenarios and figure out how these well-known and beloved characters would react to them. Playing in someone else’s world means playing by their established rules, or at least knowing them well enough to figure out how to break them. There’s a lot of dedication and passion involved, especially since it’s done out of love rather than hope of profit.

There’s several points I’d like to make about this. One is that writing fanfic is an amazingly powerful exercise as a writer; it trains not only better writing skills, but also an ability to write with someone else’s voice. This is exactly what a lot of markets call for (tv shows and franchises being only two examples). The other point is that both writing and reading fanfic can be hugely therapeutic.

Let me give a personal example here for what I mean. When I was a teenager, I self-injured. I couldn’t deal with the feelings I was experiencing, and I scared myself by not understanding why I felt the need to hurt myself. So I wrote fan fiction, and I placed those feelings and urges into an already-familiar character, giving myself an outlet for exploring and putting into words what I felt and why I did what I did. It was a safe place for me to figure out something that scared and confused me, and I was able to understand myself better after I did. I published the story anonymously, where I was given positive feedback from other fanfic writers. I felt accepted into part of a community, and it gave me more confidence in my own talent. I still self-injured, but I didn’t feel as alone or afraid, and I understood why I did what I did a little better. I was able to start helping myself. I started to heal, and as I did, so did the character in my fanfic.

As an adult, I’ve had a lot of traumatic emotional experiences. I tend to bottle those feelings up rather than process them (a bad habit I’ve had since childhood, that I’m actively working on breaking), and then they burst out in unhealthy ways. If I read fanfic about characters I already feel connected to, and go through similar experiences with them while I read, it helps me draw out those emotions, dwell in them, and express them. Then the overwhelming feelings become something manageable, and I can process and move on. The fact that it’s characters I’m already familiar with makes the whole thing easier and more accessible, especially when I’m feeling run down or mentally fatigued. I don’t have to work as hard to connect to them, and the journey they go through can therefore have more impact quicker. I don’t have to commit to a novel, but I can often get the same effect.

Same goes for fluff, the lighter feel-good pieces of fan fiction. If I need something distracting or that will give me warm-fuzzy feelings, and I don’t have the time or energy to invest in something completely new, and I don’t feel like re-reading something I’ve already read, I can turn to fanfic. You know that feeling when you finish a favorite book and you wish you could just keep reading about those characters who have become your best friends, and you don’t care if they’re having adventures or just hanging out? Fanfic can make that dream a reality.

Alright, for my third point, let’s look at those stereotypes I talked about at the beginning of this post. What value lies in badly-written Mary Sues and porn? Well, for one thing, every aspiring writer has to start somewhere, and a Mary-Sue is often a jumping-off point for someone’s first attempt. There is no reason in the world not to encourage someone’s passion for writing, and eventually they might evolve beyond those Mary-Sue stories. Also, see my above point about therapy; maybe the writer is at a point in their life where they need that kind of escapism to survive whatever it is that’s going on. There’s no call or need to shame them for it. (This doesn’t mean I don’t support clever parodies of the Mary-Sue troupe. Writing those is a valuable practice for hopeful comedians and satirists. Being funny is amazingly difficult to pull off. Being dismissive and/or hurtful, however, is a talentless and useless non-skill.)

As for the porn, well, that’s easily avoided if it’s not your cup of tea, and if it is, a lot of the fanfic is better than the stuff making money. Fanfic means it can be exactly to your tastes, and involving the characters you might really want to see in those positions (as it were). It’s not hurting anyone, and it might even be helping some people figure out what really turns them on — something that can be difficult to safely explore given some of the issues and stigmas our society still has ingrained.

So that’s my take on fan fiction. Let me know if I missed anything, or what your own thoughts are on the subject!

Love,

GeGi.

6

“I contain multitudes.”

Dear Cyber-Friends,

I’ve mentioned before that I am genderqueer. In case that interests any of you, I thought that today I’ll talk about it a little more.

When I was a kid, I never heard of any options outside the gender binary (male/female). I was female-bodied, so I figured that meant I was female. I grew up in the country, and I was either by myself or tagging after older kids a lot. My favorite game was coming up with fantasy scenarios — usually along the lines of my being an elf ranger with a stick for a sword and an imaginary bow, fighting orcs and having epic adventure quests. I was quiet and and uncomfortable around girls my age, because I couldn’t relate to them. They were interested in love stories and playing mommy and being mean towards other girls, and I wasn’t. I was more interested in trying to prove that I could be as good or better than boys at anything, being physically strong, and having fantasy adventures alone in the woods.

As I got older and the other girls started reaching the ‘boy-crazy’ phase, I related less and less. I swore to myself that I would NEVER become obsessed with make-up and skin and clothes and especially with boys. It all seemed like such a waste of time to me, when there were so many other interesting things to do and think about — like reading, and fantasy games, and archery lessons, and riding horses, and running around in the woods.

As I entered teenhood, I got more and more uncomfortable with my body. I wore baggy boyish clothes, because anything more feminine or revealing felt awkward and wrong. I spent more time online, looking for things that would help me understand why I had slowly stopped feeling the pride I had felt as a child in my body and gender. I started fantasizing about being a boy, and experimented with binding my chest. I imagined what I would have been like had I been born male. I started writing stories with male narration. Yet I didn’t quite feel comfortable with claiming a transgender identity. Being a girl still didn’t feel right, but I didn’t quite feel like a boy either. I started identifying with androgyny, and the idea of being “both” and “other” at the same time.

When I first came across the terms “genderqueer”  and “genderfluid”– the idea that gender is a spectrum and one’s position on it can be outside the usual categories, and can even change dependent solely on how one feels at any given moment — I knew I had finally found the answer I’d been so desperately looking for. It was freeing and liberating; suddenly I could let go of the guilt I felt at “failing” to be a girl, or at “failing” to be a transboy. I wasn’t either, and I didn’t have to choice between them. I could just choose to be ME, free of gender labels that didn’t fit anyway and had been feeling more and more like they were full of constraints and expectations.

Some days I want to be a bit girly. Some days I want to be a boy. Some days I’m still horribly uncomfortable in my own body, because it is so very female. Some days I don’t care. Mostly, I wish society in general knew that gender wasn’t always binary, so people would see me as my actual gender rather than just my female body.

I worry sometimes that telling people about all this will make them think that I hate or fear being female, or that I have “penis envy”, or some other completely error-filled assumption that helps them invalidate my feelings in their world-view. My response to these and similar claims: I believe those feelings are probably normal reactions in a society that creates a world where being female is a bad thing, and being male is a good thing, and it speaks vastly more about the problems with such a society than it does the invalidity of those feelings. I don’t know how much of what I feel about my personal gender is in reaction to living in an insidiously patriarchal culture. Even if the answer was “100%”, should that really make a difference? We don’t exist in a vacuum, so why should my influences make what I feel less valid? It’s still how I feel.

If we lived in a more equal society, I would hope that it would also be more equal towards a less binary view of things like gender and sexuality. I want to live in a society where the person I know I am is accepted as valid without explanation or defense, where discussion is surrounded by genuine interest instead of attacks, and I would be able to check the box that says “fluid”. All those things should be basic freedoms for all people.

At the end of the day, how I feel about ANYTHING when it comes to identity — gender and sexuality included — tends to be in constant flux. It’s part of being alive, at least for me. It’s part of my growth and change and exploration. Fluidity is part of my identity. I call myself genderqueer because that’s who I am. I know it the same way others know they are male or female.

Love,

GeGi.

A Letter of a Different Kind.

Dear Cyber-Friends,

This post is not part of my usual schedule, but it says some things I needed to say…


Dear Ex,

I was wrong.

I was wrong to think — to believe — that you were my match, that you were my equal. I was wrong to think we believed the same things, or that we were on the same path. Words can lie and mislead, and yours lied to me, allowed my heart to be misled by hope.

You did not intend to hurt me. But you also failed to step up and be a partner when you saw that I was hurting. You did nothing. You stayed silent. You stayed passive. You turned away from me, and ignored me. Your words turned away from me, turned into disappointment in me, frustration in me.

I fought to be at your side, and you kept walking away.

And when I couldn’t fight anymore, when I was tired and bruised and bloody from constant battle, weary to the soul, what did you do then? Nothing. You told me it was my fight, my choice. Your actions and words sent a loud clear message: You didn’t care. I was nothing to you. I didn’t matter.

You were wrong.

You were wrong to think I was nothing, that I didn’t matter. You were wrong to treat me as a problem, an annoyance. You were wrong to treat me as less than a partner. You were wrong to stand idly by as those you cared about mistreated me. You were wrong to watch and do nothing as I fought, to blame me for fighting, to tell me I shouldn’t fight, to tell me I was wrong.

You were wrong.

I carry the scars, still fresh, on my bleeding heart. I carry the weariness, the sadness, the hurt and the guilt. It is not my burden to bare, but you made it mine. You failed to be my partner, and I constantly pay the price. I carry the anger, too. That is mine, my right, won in battle. I shouldn’t have to wear it, but I choose to take it up because without it what else is left? The battle is still being fought, every day, by my sisters and friends. I wear it for them, and for myself, until there is a day when no one hurts us anymore.

Love,

Fox.