“Scream in the dark
I’m gonna light up this place and die in beautiful stars
But if these demons keep falling from the sky (it’s alright)
‘Cause sometimes I love the way you swing the blade at everything in sight“— Pierce the Veil.
If you thought to yourself yesterday, “I bet Mia’s gonna wait until the first so she can make a gay post on the first day of Pride Month”, then I’d say you’re a goddamn psychic! HAPPY PRIDE MONTH MY WEEPING WILLOWS. I woke up sad, gay, and Black and I couldn’t be anymore content. I truly don’t want to mess with the vibes so I almost deleted the sad part of this post, but then what’s the point, ya know? So, I’ll spit this one into two sections, and I hope you stay around for both of them!
So, life has really fucking sucked. I’m waking up most days past the time I was supposed to be, covered in a cold sweat full of dread, and a very persistant thought that maybe I had it right in March and everyone else had it wrong. It’s almost been three months post my attempt and I’ve have done some tremendous emotional healing and unraveling (so much so that I graduate my program on Friday and I’m crazy anxious about it). Cognitive defusion, T.I.P.P, self-compassion – I’ve done some big girl healing using my whole brain, and I’m exhausted.
If I haven’t said it before, I’ll say it now: emotional and mental healing is like physical healing, like a bruise, because it gets REALLY bad right before it gets better. The bad part is usuaully a great sign that healing is on schedule and in good form. So of course, here I am, crying at anything that sounds like hope and better days, because my brain is purposefully making them feel unattainable due to how close I am to getting where I want to be.
You know what I’ve been crying over the most? Charles, I miss Charles. He’s a pickle plushie that my exes gifted me a bit ago, and he had this cute little vine thing on his head and a silly mustache and yes, I cried writing this (twice…sigh). I assume he’s in the trash and is long gone, and I think it’s the symbolism of it all that has my throat feeling tight. Things you expected to stay or be the same can just up and disappear, or leave, or have to be left behind. And it’s not just Charles. It’s the sink mirror with my name written on it, or the table my godparents bought me, or the empty seats at the events. It’s the list of names of people I can’t call, the list of names of people I’ll never be able to call, and the list of names of people I should never call again. Things change – not out of spite of me, but because just like leaves, things may only have the purpose of just blossoming and dying.
I’m reserving my right to be heartbroken at the dead leaves all around me, regardless if it’s okay that they ran their course. I want to be bitter at the fact that people have treated my life like a man handled door – they leave it behind with their finger prints all over it for me to clean up. I hate the heart break at the reality of how I got in this current sitution (a story for another day, maybe). I’m heartbroken that people made a choice to act in such ways or do things they were aware were gonna hurt me. I’m angry that I still care despite the pain. I’m heartbroken that I have to pick up pieces of myself that someone else chose to break. I’m heartbroken that the people I thought I needed to stay beside during this recovering don’t think twice about it. I’m heartbroken that I, along with others, can’t just lead lives full of love and vulnerablilty without the fear of someone taking advantage just because.
A part of me wants to wallow in the unanswered questions of “what did I do to deserve treatment like this?” and “Is this not just proof that I don’t deserve good things?” God, I spitefully want to rip this beating organ out of my chest and recycle it so that the rest of the world is force to deal with angry, hopeless, bitter Mia.
But I can’t be bitter, not even when I stare myself in the mirror and watch as the grief pulls me under the waves. I don’t hold grudges, I hold memories, hurt, and “should’ve beens” – against my will. I want nothing more then to let go the way others do, but I am not others, I am Mia, and I value caring over convenience. I know I have every right to feel angry, but honestly? I’m just sad. It’s all just overwhelming grief as I sit back and watch old patterns, old comforts, past people, and past times die off right infront of this verison of me. This change is big, and scary, and tedious – but nothing has felt more rewarding.
I miss Charles. He is everything and anything I have ever missed, ever, all in one – he speaks for the crowd. And I’d like to think that he misses me too. Time heals all wounds but it doesn’t close all doors. My love doesn’t fade, it just goes through the cleaning process and gets repurposed into where ever it’s better held, where ever it feels safe. And slowly but surely, I’m finding that in which makes me feel safe. So, life sucks, but only for right now, and that feels good enough for me.
Alright, onto the gay stuff!
To be clear, I am a ENM demisexual panromantic. Thats alot to say in one go (and sometimes too tedious to explain to those who are unfamiliar) so I am far more comfortable identifying as queer in big groups (especially because there’s gender stuff going on with me, but I dont have the time to explore it quite yet). I have always known that I liked souls more then bodies, but it was in the 6th grade that things started to feel heavy, complicated, and shameful.
In Mia fashion, I came out by accident. God, it was terrifying. I was looking over a picture of some hair or fashion thing with a cousin and got WAY to comfortable and said something along the lines of “she’s really pretty/good looking”. You could’ve heard a fly piss on a cotton ball with how quiet and still it went. My cousin grilled me with “Why’d you say it like that?!” a couple of times, and then straight out asked “Are you into girls?”
I decided then that I wanted to stop hiding, even if that mean getting kicked out. My family is “not” homophobic, in the “we don’t want you to die, but keep that shit to yourself” kind of way. I think if I married a non-cis man, they’d come to the wedding, but they also might get cut off before they even get sent a save-the-date. But it’s not something I bring up anymore, specifically because I’m hyperaware that my identity is legislated over, and I don’t have the capacity to argue with anyone who also isn’t hyper aware of that. We will see how things pan out if it ever gets there.
It’s important to me that I talk about being queer and being proud because there was the time before high school where I spent nights in an incognito window on the family computer looking up gay Black woman couples or Pridefest or why it might be wrong to be gay. This led me to stumbling onto the ‘the P in LBGTQ+ means pedophile” rhetoric, and as a survivor, that sent me into a spiral of anorexia and self harm. I already felt like God hated me, but now people wouldn’t trust me babysit because they think I’ll do to them what others have done to me??? It was an incredibly dark time for me – but we got through it!
And honestly? The last relationship I was in truly taught me about my queerness, gender roles, and how I want (and don’t want) romantic relationships to look like. Did it kill a part of me I’m scared I won’t get back? Yes, I won’t even try to get it back anytime soon. Did it also teach me what is feels like to be with a woman you truly feel safe, comfortable, and seen with? Gods, yes. I’ve had relationships prior to this one, but those felt preformative almost, like being together was a show more then a wanted and lived experience. This one? It taught me what it felt like to laugh my ass off in the wine aisle at Walmart with two people I saw myself in. It taught me what it can feel like when that “they complete my sentence” vibe kicks in. I don’t know that I felt as powerful as I did then being a part of a puzzle with people you naturally moved around – like a gear to a well oiled machine. It felt as though my panromantic-ness was lit on fire and glowed so bright that it hurt to look at – but damn, did it look good.
I say that to say that my pride was forged despite of the homophobia, self doubt, and little gay representation I was exposed to. I live loudly because others had to live quietly, or not all. I’m proud because I get to walk in the foot steps of my ancestors and get to work beside my elders. I don’t really care if poeple find it sinful, or don’t understand it. What’s not to understand about love, about loving someone, and about allowing yourself to do so openly???
I’m open to comments about my identity or journey (about both parts!) in the comments (god, I LOVE when yall comment!!), as long as you keep them cute and respectful!!! Also, I’ll be sending this week working on my bonus project for this space, and I’m crazy excited to share more things with yall!
Until next time, my weeping willows!
~ Amillia
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