Queerly Designations

This being the end of the year, I've come to terms with something about myself: I'm a little queer. No, not in the sexuality sense. I'm strange, there's something off about me, but queer is really the best way to describe it. I do things backwards, I'm clumsy, I say weird things at weird times, the most crazy thoughts gallop through my head on a regular basis, the way I go about somethings makes normal people look at me funny...but I'm going to stop letting myself feel bad about it.

We have a world full of billions of people, and it makes sense to hold every one of them to a single standard? A standard that is only vaguely defined, that makes people feel inadequate if they don't somewhat resemble it? And those few who do manage some sense of it are a minority (that I very much pity) rather than the majority? Normal?

And I thought I was the backwards one.

Normal is too stressful, too mundane. The thought of a "normal" life honestly terrifies me, once I get right down to thinking about it. I'm supposed to jump in this miles-deep rut that makes nobody really happy but is given all the attention of what life is all about? Where's the fun in that?

A happy man and his happy wife, in their happy jobs, with their happy dog and happy children who go to their happy school, and they all live happily together in the happy suburbs with their happy neighbors. Everyone wants that? And look at how very seldom that truly occurs.

Ugh. Reminds me of the song "Little Boxes". If you've never heard it, give it a listen.

Not for me. This queer girl wants life to be an adventure. I'm not going to be the one stuck in the suburbs thinking about all the things she wished she had done but didn't and is now going nowhere. If I'm going to be clumsy and awkward, I might as well be clumsy and awkward in a place I've always wanted to see or doing something I've always wanted to do.

I meant for this post to discuss my complete lack of normal, but I'm glad I always follow the bunny trails to the bigger picture. It's too normal to focus on just myself anyway.

I am queer. And that is just fine.

P.S. Who decided that queer had to mean homosexual all of the sudden? Or even gay? Those two words meant completely different things fifty years ago and we've lost two good, specific descriptions because everyone interprets them to mean homosexual these days. Gay is happy. Queer is strange. Call me old-fashioned but any time I type those two words or you hear them come out of my mouth, I intend them for their original use and strange or happy is what they mean.

Misery. And No Company.

Some contemplations have arisen on this day, as I usually set aside a few minutes to ponder my life and blessings.

I realized that as hard as I've been trying to make myself believe that I'm miserable these past few months, I've got some things in my life that a lot of people wish they had, especially at this time of year. People I used to envy more than anything are still wearing themselves out, desperately grasping at aspects of life that I comfortably hold.

I've got a loving husband and a solid, growing marriage. It isn't perfect and we definitely have our moments. But while some go back home tonight to their lonely old selves, my partner in crime is right here with me and I know he is dedicated to me for life. I am secure in our love and the ring on my finger and warmth his eyes tell me I don't ever have to question it.

We have a roof over our heads and with all the necessities (and a few extra comforts!).

My husband has had a stable, well paying job in the U.S. Army for the past two years (almost three).

His gunshot that has caused us so much grief? Is actually a blessing in disguise, not only bringing us closer together, but assuring that he will have some form of income for the rest of his life.

We have loving families who encourage us and support us.

We're stable financially.

Our puppy is the best creature on which I could bestow my motherly love at this point.

Our cars are paid off and even the older one still runs alright.

...and so many more things.

Why was I ever so silly to envy those people, when none of the happiness I craved was dependent on them anyway? It's even sillier when I have all of these things (and more) and they barely even have one or none at all. I kind of pity them. Some of them can't attribute it to lack of trying, just incorrect timing, I suppose. I'm not looking down my nose at anyone either. I'm just realizing that I have so much in my life, and some of those things are the reason some people cry themselves to sleep every night.

What have I really got to be miserable about?

A Run Around A Tired Mulberry Bush

I'm going to be very real and vulnerable for a few minutes. Aside from all the ranting and ramblings, I feel that as a writer, it's important not to hide behind my writings and show you that I'm a real person. Now is going to be one of those times.

I'm not doing this for attention-I'm not. And if you think so, then you can stop right there and go back to whatever it is you were doing. It's not enjoyable to put my heart out there for someone to go all kinds of judgmental on it.

I can hardly walk by a mirror or reflective surface without glancing at myself-not for vanity's sake, but to see if I'm beautiful yet. Some of these times, I really like what I see and continue walking with my head held a little higher. Most times, I can't stand the face and body staring back and me and want to hide in a hole where no one can see me.

It's been this way since after I hit puberty. For a little while, I didn't even care what I looked like (obviously leading to my major weight gain). Then I wondered why I never got attention from the opposite sex and I realized I was not what most guys were looking for. That's where the depression kicked in.

After a year or two of moping, I figured it out and lost a lot of that weight. I felt more comfortable with myself than I had ever felt, and even though a lot of people complimented me on how I looked, I still felt somewhat fat. I ended up gaining some of that weight back and here I am today.

I guess once you've been fat, you will always feel some kind of fat, even if you're not. That feeling is attributed solely to anorexia today, but to me, that's an incorrect assessment. When you've been overweight and you lose it, you're not used to being the skinny person or the fit person. You're used to beating yourself up all the time; there's still a period of time where you look at your nice body and still think "Okay, those thighs have got to go".

My self image at this point is not the greatest. Somewhere along the road, I learned to compare myself: TO EVERY FEMALE I SEE. I don't mean that to be funny either; it's true and it's scary. If her arms are skinnier than mine, I hate myself all over again. If her belly is more visible than mine, I feel a little better.

But I am never completely happy with myself. And that is a feeling that is constantly haunting my mind, no matter what I am doing. Anytime I go out, it is a battle to find an outfit that I am truly comfortable in and helps salvage a sense of semi-confidence (part of the reason I don't go out often). I try to keep pretty healthy, work out, all that jazz. But for some reason, God chose to bless me with a body that makes it harder to lose all the extra stuff. I'm sure He wanted me to learn my worth, no matter the size of my thighs.

It isn't just my body, either. It's my face. I really don't like it. My whole life, I've been told how "cute" I am. Solely based on my face. And at almost twenty years of age and married, I would trade "cute" for "sexy" at any price. Or even to hear beautiful more than cute. When someone struggles with her self image as much as I do, "cute" is the last thing she wants to hear. If I had anything but a cute face, I could probably get away with being the weight (and the age) that I am.

I daily (sometimes hourly) tick through the list of things that make me unhappy with myself and uselessly wish I could magically become normal. Bah. What the heck is normal. It's a myth. Why I spend so much time wanting it, I don't know. I must be insane.

Normal probably isn't the best word, because I shouldn't base my happiness on numbers on a scale or a clothing size (those are more fickle than anything anyway). I want to me happy with myself, confident in my skin. I want to be able to look at celebrities on TV and not make myself feel like garbage because I don't look like that. I want to stop beating myself up every hour of the day. It is so hard to enjoy the journey of life when you don't love the vehicle you're in.

(As a side note, my husband is a perfect gentleman. He does tell me I'm pretty every day or that my weight doesn't make me less attractive to him. He builds me up as much as a husband should, if not more. But if I can't have mercy on my own self, then it's difficult to take his words to heart, no matter how often or how sweetly he says them. A man can't make you feel like a queen if you won't admit you have a queen inside of you.)

Back On the Web

I'm back, everybody. Not that I was missed, I'm sure. My computer's been MIA because we had to take it in to have some maintenance done on it. Today is the first day I've had it in almost a week, and I've spent most of the afternoon putting everything back in its place since the hard drive had to be wiped. I still have all my writing, pictures, and music, so no worries.

It's so nice to actually be typing on my own keyboard again, let alone a real one. My husband let me do my gaming on his computer, but his keyboard is just so foreign and not comfortable to me at all. I've been using my smart phone to update my social networks and post some on my other blog, and I have realized there is only so long your eyes can take staring at that little screen. And typing on a touch screen just isn't any fun.

I feel home and comfy and not as restricted. You don't know how much you miss technology until you don't have it anymore. I thrive on constant communication on my social networks--being able to talk to anybody, at anytime, about anything. Or having the freedom to starting typing random crap like this if I feel like it.

It's just nice. I'm chemically happy right now, so I can't really think of any great descriptive words. But I prefer this feeling to racking my brain for something that sounds cool. And with that, I shall sign off. Shalom, ya'll.

Nine Months

Nine months. I've been here for nine months. I want to scoff at...well, nobody really. Just the statement itself, I suppose. It sounds ridiculous. Nine months usually feels like a lot of time, but this go-round, it hasn't at all.

When I look back on everything that's gone on since I've been here, ok yeah, it makes sense. Logically. All of that stuff couldn't have happened in a smaller amount of time. And all the holidays we've been through while living here certainly tell the tale. Everything but Christmas, New Year's, and Valentines Day, all which are coming soon enough.

But it doesn't feel like nine months have gone by. When the days run together, they start to blur and few take up significant room in my memory storage. I can remember clear as day the 'official' day of my move. It was a terrifying and uncomfortable day, but I knew if I could push through it, it wouldn't be long before my husband was at my side again.

Nine months also means how long he's been home, and it's the longest consecutive length of time I've had him with me. If not for his injury, it might not have been long before he was shipped back overseas. Now there is no more chance of that, and I am one grateful wife. I don't have to sleep alone while he would go to train in the field for weeks at a time, or hear the news that is never fun to hear: "I got my orders. We're deploying on such and such date for such and such time," and have to figure out what to do with myself with him gone (besides pray and worry). Never again for us.

This will also be our first Christmas (and New Year's) together as a married couple. We were married during those holidays last year, but he wasn't home to celebrate them with me. Having him here for them now is much more than many couples will get this year, so I consider myself blessed.

Nine months of healing.

Nine months of pain.

Nine months of learning.

Nine months of anxiety.

Nine months of hope and positivity.

Nine months of planning for better things.

Nine months of wishing I was home, and nine months I'm grateful I wasn't.

Nine months have I been out on my own, and nine months of experience that I wouldn't trade for anything.

Nine months of fear.

And nine months of faith.

Flee the Self-Destructive

Fingers, jabbing at a keyboard.
Pen, scratching at a page.
The medium doesn't matter
As long as it dispels her rage.

The anger, the tears, the endless quiet
Ever building up in disconsolation.
Seeking a leak, a tear, the tiniest fissure,
Some kind of break to relieve the pressure.

Aha! A rip, a crease, a furrow!
The venom spouts, the acid leaps;
Higher and higher in the atmosphere they climb.
Raining, pouring, enveloping all below.

Not a whisper of love or a touch of tenderness,
Not a hint of regard or buffer.
All the while, the terror keeps coming;
All in its reach shall suffer.

But none are there,
No, not a one.
All who would love and comfort have fled
From the monstrous hurt that she has bled.

Fear, fear, fear!
Estrange the one who hurts,
Before she has the opportunity to turn it on you.
Distance the distraught!
Abandon the stranded!

For there is no fear in love, but no love in fear.