Out, Many Times

It was when Sheik turned into Zelda in Ocarina of Time and I was still attracted.

Incidentally, that was when my cousins started calling me “gay.”

I didn’t know what gay meant then.

I was 13.


One day in grade school I was asked what I thought of boys. I answered honestly — and after I answered all the girls avoided me. I’d said that I liked girls better, and suddenly I was shunned by all.

I was 12.


A few years earlier I’d had a good friend. We shared the same interests. We got along well. But a rumor started. I didn’t know about it until I arrived for the scheduled hangout and was told that her folks didn’t want “that type of girl” hanging around. Then the door was closed in my face.

I was 7.


I was 20.

I’d just successfully confessed my feelings to my crush on campus. He’d shot me down. My friends took me out for sushi to make me feel better. A few weeks passed and I saw more of the guy that made me realize that I’d actually dodged a bullet — the guy was beautiful, but BOY was he problematic. While all this was going on, one of my other friends had something awesome happen to her — and in her soaring euphoria, she kissed ME before skipping off to her destination.

“Guys,” I said to my group as the realization finally dawned, chest a flutter, “I think I might be bisexual.”


I was 30.

I’m freaking out because my clothes are gendered. Male is wrong. Female is wrong. But if that’s the case then what am I? I panic and cancel my plans. I hit up the new LGBT sub on 4chan of all places — where I learn about nonbinary identities. The panic subsides a bit, and I research into the night. By morning I have a handle on it.

Ze/zir.

Genderqueer/Genderflux.

And a private identification tied to my blood that I reveal only to those who I trust.

For the first time in years, things are clicking.


I am 33.

Things have settled in. Some have evolved: as a nonbinary individual, I now identify more as pansexual because it’s outside the binary. Some have refined: my attraction type is demi-panromantic, if we’re splitting hairs.
I have accepted that I am settled firmly beneath the trans umbrella — something that I denied vehemently before. And I am growing as a person.

… well, that’s my Coming Out™ story.

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Never a dull moment in this line of work

I work in a hotel.
You see some things, working in a hotel. Drugs, alcohol, needles, diapers of all stripes, mayonnaise on the ceiling (don’t ask, I still haven’t figured that one out). There’s rarely a truly dull day. Today I was making my last bed when I stubbed my toe on something very solid. “Somebody leave a weight?” I mutter, reaching down, picking up the thing and
OH BOY WHOO-WHEE THAT IS MOST CERTAINLY A GAT BOY I TELL YOU, YES INDEED THAT IS A FIREARM, IT IS, THAT IS INDEED A GUN
“Shit!” I say, very wisely NOT dropping the very possibly loaded piece as I decide to call my boss on the phone.
“What’s up?”
“I might’ve slightly found a gun.”
“YOU WHAT?”
“YEAH. GUN.”
“DO NOT MOVE. We’ll be up.”
We spend about eight minutes gawking at it before looking up the records and then confirming that yes, we need to call the cops and yes, I’m going to have to give a statement.
Never a dull day there…

The BDD Demon.

Today, my BDD was out in full force.

Sitting on the bus, a voice in my head repeated: “Fattie. Fattie. What happened? You were so good last week. One piece of toast a day! You can do it again! Maybe half! Do you want to stay like this? Fattie? Look at yourself. Fattie.”

It was all I could do to not scream “SHUT UP!” at the voice in my head.

The trigger?

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a shiny surface.

There is a reason why I don’t own a mirror big enough to see my body.

It took some mental wrangling to get myself to eat when I got home. Hell, I’m still hungry. But I’m also trying to shut that voice up again so I can eat in peace.

I mean, I was too sick to eat last week and the voice HEAPS PRAISE on that

It’s not easy. It’s not simple.

But it’s everyday.

… I better eat so I won’t get sick again.

Just some thoughts, and things making sense…

For the past few days—probably because it’s been close to the anniversary of the dumpage—my ex has been on my mind.

Don’t worry, I’m OK, nothing drastic is about to happen nor is it in any way shape or form risky. What’s been on my mind are the things about me that probably would have gotten me out of the “relationship” even without the circumstances that there were.

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Started from the bottom… 

I’m self taught.

Yet, I have the audacity to call myself a photographer.


I started from the bottom. Mom’s old film camera and B&W film and things in the backyard. When things went digital I experimented with the things she taught me using an entry level digital camera. It was like going back to class—which is a funny story. The primer she gave me over the years was so thorough that I was summarily booted from one intro class. I already knew the material inside and out. Unfortunately, the class I needed was two hundred dollars above my pay grade.

So I turned to books, articles, and the good old street beat. From instant Polaroid, to Kodak point and shoot, to now, I’ve gone from simply trying to catch what is in front of me to actively trying to blur the line between record and art.

But it didn’t happen overnight. I had to start somewhere.

Washed out on the way to the work shift.

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They always happen after I’ve been left or ditched—the nightmares, that is—and getting back to sleep is a trial because I tend to fall back into them.

This time it was a combination of the ditch and the almost aggressive way I’m misgendered at work. No matter what I do it’s in one ear and out the other.

These things always leave me dizzy and exhausted. I’m not sure my “breakfast”—a double espresso used to shoot my meds—will do much against it.

And now I get to pull a mad long shift…

Almost a week removed from the collapse at work.

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Tesla the kitten. We're all sure she's an evil genius.

I just woke up and am not photogenic so here’s my friends’ kitten, Tesla.

I think I am now in the “medications do weird things to me” phase of treatment.

I dreamt Pharrell was in my kitchen with a bunch of judges and we were trying to learn two things: how to make a good turkey flat wrap with country music on the side, and an indie 8-bit concept-punk game. (Yes it was sponsored by tumblr, why do you ask)

At one point he panicked and I had to talk him down from using HAM, which was banned… So naturally, red versus blue bass pumped low riders follow and we do that instead of the contest.

What hell, medications.