Like Eowyn: #FaithFeminisms

[TW: self-harm discussed.] 

They asked me to write down when I’m happiest. 

Asked that I be honest, real. 

I kind of think they’re not ready, unprepared, mush less wanting my brand of honesty. Exclude the factor that I speak abrasively and rub raw wounds more raw, I have stuff I would say no one particularly cares to hear. People want honesty as long as it isn’t shocking or disgusting to them. And my truth isn’t either but been told that it’s false and therefore ugly. Some bullshit about truth being beautiful and beauty being truthful. 

So, you want me to speak of my happiest, most at peace moments. You want me to speak of the times I feel most safe and home, then let me tell you how I feel most beautiful. Some people have vivid imaginations and I have an ability to visualize and that is where I go to feel beautiful and happy. So, here it goes. 

Don’t be afraid, darling, because this is the only shit I know about myself to be true.

Time I feel most safe and beautiful I see a woman, short blonde hair, wearing a black and white dress with tights and gladiator-esque shoes. I’m not sure if she’s got long blonde hair or a pixie cut. I see a woman with nice curves, slim but not skinny, and has a personality full of beauty. 

Not catching on yet? 

Let me make this simple as all get out: I would prefer. No, not strong enough. I wish to fucking God that I were a woman. I have no clue why that is but it is. I am what I am for no reason and without any seeming causation. Any chance of being male or identifying as such seems inane and false and dumb and terrifying and demanding— 

(I know I could die for identifying as a woman)—

(I’m aware of the attempted suicide stats because I am one)—

(And I know of the high murder rate)—

But—

But I can’t live a lie. 

I spent too many damn years cutting my own body and declaring a fucked up freedom to keep lying to myself. So, if that’s what makes me happy why can’t I be that? I’m scared of every single ideal or thing that tells me that I am not manly enough or that I was born a swear-to-God-on-high man. So, instead, I said I was gay. 

This was close to the truth. 

But I had more awareness of my unhinged womanhood before my bullshit gayness. Eventually I realized the simplest truth of my mortality. That, if I could die for transitioning, and I’ll probably not make it to thirty if I don’t transition in any way, where am I to go? What am I to do? 

I think I’m gonna be a statistic. I’m not sure thirty is likely. Especially when getting to thirty is my only life goal. But if I can’t be the woman I want to be will it even be worth it? Goddamn it. 

I quit.

I have no life goals. I was asked tonight what my goals are and I said, fully honest, I had none. Then I rephrased and said, To make it to thirty. Everyone thought it was funny and I laughed to hide the truth, the not so beautiful truth. But I have no goals, and that’s okay. I fight on. I live on. I continue to exist. I speak my truth because to be a woman in a man's world means shouting till lungs bleed to be heard. I will shout my story and my sisters stories, cisgender or transgender. I will shout of injustice and I will raise a fist and fight back because without fighting I will be silenced and if I am silenced all women will be silenced. 

Stand. Speak. Feminism, Jesus, God, whatever, gave these abilities to you. 

This is my anthem:

I refuse to cut my body anymore, until I need to again. Till I need to cope and function—

I refuse to succumb to bullshit in my own mind— 

I refuse your truth and your ideas and your bible’s—

I write into my soul: woman—

I write and write and write—

No promises made—

Except—

(only promise I can make)—

Like Eowyn, I shout: I am no man. 

--

anger towards those who kill us

i can't help but wonder if anyone else noticed

that the serpent in the garden has taken on the 

form of old    white    men and     women in

jean skirts. this is satanic, the way in which you

speak. speak not words of wisdom, listen not

to the wisdom of the beatles. no, instead, perpetuate

the lie that you are god for other people. so fuck you 

satan in all your incarnations. i don't think youre 

a pointy eared devil more like a dirtbag who tells me

im deviant. and if that's the case well then ill be deviant

cause it sure is a helluva a lot more fun than 

following you. 

so here's to you satanembodied i bow at your alter

and throw up a finger to your sacrament of marriage 

and piss on the walls of your church of gender. jesus

christ in heaven raising people up to meet him and i hope, 

as vindictive as this sounds, cause it is,  

its a bunch of queers and their fabulous souls because you and

your idols will be smashed. we are the prophets of the new age

and we will

burn

smash

destroy

pisson

and tear down all the idols you throw up. 

satan embodied no longer a serpent but a man in a pick up truck

and a woman who cares too much about others to worry about

the two by four sticking out of her eye. 

Shut the Fuck Up

Trigger Warning: Suicide and self-harm discussed. 


I was called a faggot in the first grade. Too early to understand the weight of the word nor the implications. Too young to have even been called that. But that's what you get when your only friend was a third grade girl who sat with you on a bus of twelfth graders (whoever planned that shit was an idiot in all honesty). I remember crying one day when I got home, walking up my cul-de-sac, listening as the bus pulled away and with it the words "lover boy" and "faggot". I walked into my house, in tears and simply said that the boys were mean to me. No more. No less.

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I'm pretty thick skinned. I'm not easily offended. Ideas don't offend me, and, in fact, I don't think they should offend. But, since coming out, I've realized that "faggot" is hurtful. For me, though, it's more hurtful knowing that others around me might be struggling and are gonna hurt. I get annoyed but very rarely am hurt by those words said in ignorance, though ignorance is not an excuse. 

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I guess it helps that I have a deep voice, am relatively athletic, and decently good humored. That's probably why I don't get insulted. Who knows. Regardless, I still struggle with body image and self harm. And while I choose to cut I still blame those who have hurt me and insult me. I get angered and triggered by the bullshit that is hatred. 

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I wish to god I could tell people that words have consequences. And if they said, Like what? I could point them to the stories of Tyler Clementi and others. Kids like me who were told they weren't okay, beautiful, or good enough. That they needed to change. That they were fags and abominations. Kids who are outed or mocked or embarrassed for something they can't change. Just the thought, the typing of those words in sentences gives me chills. Words have consequences so shut the fuck up when you want to say something harmful or wrong. 

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Are those who hurt LGBTQ folks who have killed themselves culpable? Part of me, in brutal honesty, thinks so. 

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