until my last relationship i thought that it was possible to be the lover of everyone. i did love everyone. i dated someone once and she asked me what the difference between my friendships and romantic relationships were and i said i don’t know. then i said i wouldn’t have sex with my friends lmao and she kinda went quiet a little and i didn’t realize until later that she really just wanted to be fuckbuddies because she ended it because she was married and couldn’t divorce her husband to be with a woman.
some bi people are cowards; some genuinely can’t come out and i get it, i understand. i don’t like hearing people complain about erasure when they’re in straight relationships because as you’re crying that your queerness is questioned i’m crying because my queerness puts me in all these liminal spaces and i cannot just have one space that is stable anymore and that does a lot for my mental health that is not good. i was in a heterosexual relationship and it was stable. that will anger some people and i’m sure there are gay relationships that are stable but mine have not been. not in the slightest. and the thrill of it just sent me into a tailspin of love and sex but mostly love, and then it usually crashed.
but my heterosexual relationship was not great, either. it was great for a long time but mostly i was not great. actually i was not great at all, and it was entirely my fault that it ended.
but for a time and up until recently i thought that i could love everyone in an almost-romantic way and it would be okay. i was raised in a christian environment and and if you’re perceived as a christian you get taken care of emotionally. we always prayed for and with each other and raised money for each other and played music together and created art together and loved each other fiercely. so i thought it was natural to love other people that way and i did. i told someone i was dating that i did. someone who spiked my drink and tried to sleep with me told me that i did.
I’m trying to articulate here the ways in which I have been lost. I want to recover what I lost, so forgive me for talking to myself before I talk to the rest of the world.
i used to write things that were so ambiguous that people could not tell whether i was talking to myself or to them, and one time it hurt someone enough to make them forsake me. but then i dated someone who didn’t like words so i stopped writing except to pontificate about her eyes because obviously i couldn’t talk to her about how brown they were and how absent of oxygen my brain was when they really looked inside me because she didn’t like words. she had the words to tell me she didn’t know if she loved me.
i remember one time i was laying down in the sanctuary staring at the ceiling and i was ready to cry and i felt a car parked on my chest and i was thinking about the end of the world and i thought to myself what if, what if, what if, what if, what if, what if, what if, what if i wasn’t ready to leave the physical world for something metaphysical i liked my body, i liked my hair and my eyes and my big nose and my skin stuffed with fat and muscle and bone and veins. but i was crying because i didn’t want to have to give up all that.
then my theology changed and i realized that no self-respecting early christian would believe that our bodies vanish into thin air. i read more things and Greg Boyd thinks that the only reason that might happen is because God will no longer support someone’s existence; no eternal torment or hell everlasting but just a not-there-anymore situation. love wins, amirite?
after love wins i read Rachel Held Evans and she changed my life. wrecked my shop, as the kid-me used to say. i hate the phrase. wrecked my shop. what does that even mean?
but that doesn’t matter. she changed my life and it might have been because she was a straight person realizing her queerness, her disidentification with the gender roles prepackaged and presented in the Bible, but i broke, i cried, i thought it was possible to be myself and someone would understand.
i had time to read all these books. i had more time to play video games in my room by myself. i ate a lot of junk food but now lentil soup tastes like junk food so i’m okay with not having that part of my life back and maybe i’ll start running again even though that started after i started to hate myself because my first gay pseudo-relationship ended. i think it’ll be different now because i don’t hate myself.
and my now-ex-girlfriend and i weren’t speaking to each other for two weeks
because she was losing interest in me i wasn’t not really sure why but i thought it was okay because i was not feeling the same way. i was not scared of losing her; i’m more scared of losing myself than losing anyone or anything else. this is a good thing, so i’m attempting to recover myself here. i’m smiling and holding out something to you in cupped hands. it is precious. see? i don’t fear. it is a beautiful thing, to scavenge for the good bits of who i used to be.
for instance, back to the loving people thing. i used to be an encourager. i used to encourage people and i was happy and they were happy and i would prophesy over people’s futures and it was a grand time and often they didn’t even know it because prophesying often sounds a lot like encouragement. i used to love people as much as i loved my boyfriend at the time, which was a lot. i would take care of them like a mother of the spirit, like my dear Margery, the lovely lady of the 15th century who wept and cried and kept herself from her husband and spoke out against the church’s lack of compassion. the only distinction between my romantic partners and my platonic friends was a physical connection, and even then, there are gradations of physical connections i don’t feel the need to outline here.
So here I am. Do you see me? She doesn’t right now; She can only see herself. And that is okay for a time, but not forever. Time will soon tell. All that matters is that you see me. Do you see me?
oh yes, one more thing, something that i always forget.
if i am to be playing music in the kingdom i have to imagine i am once again playing, i have to imagine my fingers once again dancing on the keys. maybe if i imagine the sounds my instruments produce and the sounds their instruments produced i will be able to go back. maybe someday i won’t play and feel serrated knives carving their words into my flesh anymore and maybe then i will be able once again to make the notes obey me. i controlled them, telling them to say what i wanted them to say, but it was always perfectly insufficient, so i kept at it. i had to get it right, i had to get it right, i had to make them say the right thing so that people would understand. i mean, they never did, but only after i was excommunicated did it really matter.
music. why did i wait to speak on it until last?