I’ve been lonely all my life. I’m not always alone, but almost always I’m lonely. I first read about this distinction in a Maggie Stiefvater book; English isn’t my first language and I was just a teen whose tender brain was only starting to develop then. I didn’t understand what she meant and had to think about it for an entire day, but when it clicked, I was exhilarated. That was me! Lonely was what I was! I carry it with me to this day.
On one hand, it is sort of my own doing. I isolate myself from others easily and constantly, I’m short tempered, ill mannered, socially challenged; on the outside I’m civil, but only because I’m aware I live in a society where other people occupy a space as much as I do. Maybe I do it because I’m afraid of confrontation—anything that disturbs the peace (fake as it may be) fills me with so much dread that I feel like I might puke. Stillness is okay. Stillness is predictable, it’s safe. I’m kind and accommodating to a fault and I hate myself for it; I remember my mom telling me about how kind a man my dad is, telling me how my kindess is probably his, and then, a few years later, I remember my mom divorcing him. In hindsight, I know that their marriage not working isn’t tied to his kindness, yet, my kindness constantly reminds me of how unlovable I am.
On the other hand, it’s not like this is something I’m doing intentionally. Because there’s this specific kind of loneliness that comes with being queer. I suppose it’s only natural, given that we experience ourselves in a subversive manner, one that clashes with the established norms of our given community. Because of this, I find it hard to bond with people on a meaningful level I see in my daily life, hard to ever feel comfortable around them; on a good day, I just do not find them and their conversations and assumptions so rooted in the heteronormative lifestyle any relevant or engaging. On a bad one, the fact that I wouldn’t be welcomed at all in their circle if they knew I was a lesbian is constantly turning in the back of my head, completely keeping me from enjoying myself. It takes its toll on me. I don’t want to have to go along with things that don’t apply to me all the time.
And it’s not even like I act on my lesbianism. I never dated a woman before. I dated a guy before I realized I wasn’t bisexual at all, and he was a douchebag and I did not like my time with him one bit. I think I’m scared of making a move towards my own desires. Once again, I’m scared to disturb the peace. This one is nasty, though. This one changes everything. For the first time in my life I have to be brave and actually care for myself, tell my family who I am, tell them to accept me as I am or not accept me at all (thank god the few friends I have in my life know me as I am so I’m not completely lost). I don’t know how easy this is for others. For me, it isn’t. Because:
- As things stand, there’s no way I can put some physical space between myself and my family. In a world where I already do not feel at home, I don’t want to make things harder for myself.
- I’m my mother’s emotional crutch, her extension rather than a Person. She’s not in the right headspace to accept that a part of her is “not normal,” that that part is somewhat crooked. When I come out, I don’t want her to make this about herself. I don’t want her to think that this somehow ties to her, because it does not, and I don’t want to end up consoling her for who I am. I’m not faulty. I’m not faulty.
All my life I wished I was brave. That I wasn’t held down by my anxiety and depression and other possible mental problems that I’m sure I have but haven’t gotten them diagnosed because I’m a coward, and every day I wake up and decide to keep this charade going instead. Someday I might get tired. I might even give in and find myself a man so I fit in. This is what mom did, after all, she divorced dad and not wanting to deal with her parents, decided to just not tell them. Forever. Maybe I’ll follow her lead. The apple doesn’t fall from the tree, after all.
