Wednesday, 5 July 2017

My Brain

My brain can do fucking cartwheels.
My brain is the star performer at a circus
       or a freak show.
My brain could be balancing twelve plates on its nose,
       while standing on a beach ball and
       while singing Celine Dion and
       while juggling and
       while belly dancing and
       still manage to tell me what a fucking failure
                                                               disappointment
                                                               waste of oxygen
                                                               toxic person I am.

My brain is marvelous.
My brain is capable of twisting every thought
       beyond recognition.
My brain can take the most explicit compliment given to me and
       break it apart.
       Distort it.
       Bruise it.
       Shatter it.
       Annihilate it
                       me.

My brain is so strong and confident.
My brain knows exactly what it needs to think about myself and
       none of it is kind.
My brain is my most powerful weapon
       against myself.
       And boy, do I use it.
                                        boring
                                        predictable
                                        idiotic
                                        selfish
                                        poisonous
                                        unlovable
                                        pathetic
                                        weak
                                        desperate
                                        neurotic
                                        psychotic
                                        rejecte- I could go on.

My brain wants me to.
My brain is telling me all the ways that list is incomplete.
       Even this, I can't do right.
My brain has worn down the paths of my thoughts so well
       I literally can't conceive
       of a single
       positive trait
       about
       myself.
My brain is doing fucking cartwheels.

Tuesday, 4 July 2017

I have nothing left to give. I have given it all. I have been wrung out and beaten and am dry and empty and cracked. A black void seeps out of me. I feel like poison.

Monday, 3 July 2017

Representation

A poem.

If
You
Don't
Think
Representation
In
Media
Matters
It's
Probably
Because
You're
Represented
Everywhere

----------------------------------------

The other day at my weekly family dinner, a family friend brought up an event in my city that occurred a few weeks ago, and the surrounding controversy.

A local music institution, the uni bar, was closing its doors forever and having a huge closing night show, being organised by a local music event company. In the lead up to the show, the bands for the night were announced and it was going to be this huge thing, with lots of local bands as well as some (one) bigger name.

At one point, someone asked the promoter why there were literally no female or non-binary musicians playing, either as solo acts, as part of bands, or entire bands (if I recall correctly). The promoter responded with a typical terrible "but I'm organising it and this is the music I want to listen to and also here's an offensive and ignorant comment about non-binary people" response and it was major news.

So at this lovely dinner, I was the only one of eight people who thought that the line-up was an issue. Some had heard this new ~local celebrity~ on the radio and his comments hadn't been as offensive as those he made initially and were confused by the fuss. I explained his initial comment re: NB people and most of the table conceded that was uncool (not that I think most of my family are familiar with non-binary as a concept for gender) but still thought the line-up was fine.

I flat out refused to engage in this debate, which was a good move, because even the fact that a refused to debate was taken as an opportunity to illustrate to me all the many ways I was wrong. And while it's always fun to be the one person being picked on among a group of eight, I continued to shut the conversation down and refuse to be part of it.

Because here's the part that they wouldn't understand: If you constantly see yourself represented, in diverse roles and professions and films and music and media, of course representation isn't something you would care about. You're everywhere. Hell, I'm plenty of places, as a white cis able-bodied person. Even as a white cis able-bodied woman I'm more places than any other women who are not white or cis-gendered or able-bodied.

So you think the douchey promoter guy should have been able to just pick his boys club of bands for the night and it doesn't matter? Sure it doesn't matter to you, because you're there. You're visible. You see yourself everywhere. You don't care that there's no chicks there, because it's about the music, man. Why do you gotta make everything about gender? Isn't it worse if he hires a bunch of lady musicians PURELY because they're women? Isn't that the real sexism, choosing people just because they're women????

No. It's not. For many reasons, it's very not.

It's recognising that representation is important, even if it means you're represented less.

Sunday, 2 July 2017

Blogging every day in July except the first because that's for dummies maybe?

I need to write more, and I want to write more, and I have been writing more, but only in small notebooks and only a page or two.

And as noted in the title, I understand it's kind of ruined already because I am starting a day late, but 'kind of ruined' works for me as a person so it should work for this thing, surely. SURELY.

Here's the thing though.

In my notebooks, I can write whatever I want, but on this thing, it's like, potentially public. I can either write real things (which are not nice cheery things) that I mostly don't want people to know about probably, and then I get to spend a whole month writing things that no one will see because I won't share it with anyone, so no one will know there are things here.

Or I can write other things. I can write things that are real but are not authentic, if that makes sense? They're things I really think but they're not what I want to write about.

I guess we'll see.

I do have some plans. I already have some verrrrry initial drafts of things. Which is good because usually when I do this, it results in me spending half an hour up at 11:30pm writing four lines of garbage to fulfill an arbitrary goal I've set myself and becomes more about writing to a quota than for any deeper, existential purpose.

Because this is very deep and existential.

Here is a truth: I feel numb. I feel disconnected. I feel like I am a puppet or wind up doll or robot. But none of those are quite right.

I feel like a human-shaped sack of sand, where the weight of moving any part of my body requires almost more strength than I have. I feel like it's taking all my self control to move my limbs in the way I want them to move to resemble a human being, or to move them at all. I feel like my movements look like they're being controlled by a remote from like, a real decent distance, which is probably reflective of the fact that I feel like I am controlling them from a real decent distance. I feel like the part of me that's meant to feel anything deeply and persistently has been locked away, and I can't get to it if I tried. This is a look of sentences starting with "I feel..." for someone who feels nothing.

Mostly, I feel like there's a human part left in me, deep deep down, and it's curled up tightly, in the fetal position, around the part of me that is meant to feel, and occasionally the human part looks up to see if it's safe to stand up and let go, to see if there's any sunlight or breeze, eyes hoping, and it sees nothing. Darkness and clouds. And every time it looks up, there's a little less hope there, and the look is a little bit quicker, and they come a little less frequently, and it holds on a little tighter.

There's a line in It's Quiet Uptown, from Hamilton: The moments when you're in so deep it feels easier to just swim down.

And it does. I can feel myself slipping further away. I can feel myself disconnecting more and more. Sinking.

Sometimes I can actually sense all the things I want or need to feel, like a wave cresting over me. Sometimes I can literally feel the weight on my skin like a physical presence. Pressing against me or swirling around me or grabbing me sharply. And it's too much. I sense it there, and I retreat, because it's too much. I've gotten so good at retreating, and the wave has kept growing, that I'm worried if I let it wash over me, it will crush me. It'll tear me apart and break me and suffocate me.

Well.

Let's see how long this stays up for, shall we?