Vagueblogging

I had half a post written and more I wanted to say but I deleted it because it was going nowhere. And I think I mostly just want to acknowledge that I finally decided to be an adult today and Use My Words instead of speculating, fantasising, obsessing and worrying, despite the possibility of Consequences.

The outcome landed smack bang in the middle of what any reasonable person would expect: no Dreams Fulfilled but no Life Shattered either. 

Turns out honest communication can short-cut a lot of problems. Who knew?

I would say I wish I'd done this ages ago, but then maybe I actually wouldn't have ended up with another friend and a new hobby, so who's to say what I should or should not have done. But now I'm just hoping I can scratch out that one bit of my mental model of "what I want my life to look like" and free up some time and energy to do other things. Like find a counsellor, or any of the dozen other things I know I should be doing to try and rebuild my life in a hopefully less broken way than it was before. 

Pride

 I have complicated feelings about Pride. Beyond the whole "argh, people" thing, I never quite felt like I belonged there. 

A lot of it is internalised biphobia I guess. I've mostly been attracted to men throughout my life, so am I really bi? Is it just a convenient explanation for why I was so unfazed by my partner's transition? Aren't all women a bit bi?

It's not like I've really suffered much because of my sexuality; my teenage and young adult years were spent just assuming I was straight, and, sure, once Jess came out the microagressions got a bit tiring but that was nothing compared to what she had to go through. What all trans people have to put up with: now possibly more than ever. So when we first started going to Pride, it was because Jess wanted to, and somehow I always felt like I was going to support her, nothing to do with me.

Today was the first in-person Pride since COVID, and therefore the first since Jess died. There was no way I wasn't going. For her, obviously, but also for me. 

To prove to myself that I could. That I could cope with the people. That I could cope by myself. And that I was allowed to be there: just me, in my pretty subtle pride top, existing. And I had a good time, in my own quiet way. Met hardly any of the people I know that went, didn't dare attempt bar and didn't feel like queuing forever for food, but I managed the march without issue, I wandered round the knavesmire a bit and found a local cover band that I will probably never get round to hearing play again. 

Now my feet ache quite a lot, and I feel like another milestone, another "first since" has passed. And more importantly, not once did I feel like an imposter who had no right being there.

Yes, it's been a while, no I'm not going to address that

 It's the hope that gets you.

Maybe this time it will be different. This new drug/dose combo will be sufficient for you to make and maintain the lifestyle changes, and you'll feel great. You'll actually keep up the new habits this time. Ok, the last diet didn't work, but this one will for sure. You're a new, better person now! You're not going to keep making the same mistakes!

After everything you've been through, surely you've learnt some perspective. You know this won't last forever, so it will be easier to handle. You managed last time you made a phone call, so another will be just fine. You're forty-one now, for gods' sake, you can handle a little disappointment. 

But it's not just about you. Oh no.

Maybe you read the signs wrong. Maybe they didn't notice you were flirting. Maybe there's still a chance. Surely that couldn't happen here. Surely now people will demand change. Surely someone will do something to stop it.

And then you find yourself at the bottom of a pit again. Just like before. Habits slip. Health deteriorates. Thoughts stuck in cycles oh so familiar from oh so many years before. It feels like the end of the world. You freeze up. Everything upset is a killer blow. Nothing ever happens. The world keeps getting worse and worse. 

And once you climb back out, you look down into the pit and think, "Well that can't happen again. What can I do to stop it?" 

And you do it.

And you hope.