My fosterbrother, all of just-nine-years-old was watching the youth news (newsprogram for kids) earlier and looked back at me with this heartbroken expression. “I HATE it when it’s about refugees. It always makes me so sad… Can I just not watch?”

And all I could think to say was “Me too sweetheart, me too…” while not trying to tear up.

I am
Who I am
Am with you
Am with them
Am now
Was then
Will be
Some day when
I am
Yet you'll see
That I am
A million different kinds of me

There are so many ways I could finish the sentence that starts with 'I am'. So many different labels I could apply to me, different identities. Different places. Different 'masks' if you will. People will sometimes tell you that makes you fake. Honestly though, I think it makes makes you whole.

The word that is the thing that is the word but what is it?

Sometimes, you hear a word. Sometimes you hear a word and you go: Oh... Oh, I like this word. It is a nice word. It is a beautiful word. It has nice sounds and nice syllables and nice meanings and nice people who say it and I think it means nice things and I think... I think... I think that maybe, just maybe, this word might mean me.

And so you google this word and you youtube this word and you celebrate this word and you learn from the artists, the champions, the epitomes of the word what it means to be that word.

And then you pull back. You pull back because you can never be those people, can never be so good, so perfect, so right as these people manage to be. You're probably not. Not good enough. Not pure enough. Not perfect enough.

And so you keep your head down.

You slink away.

Quietly.

Dejectedly.

Like you were never there to begin with.

Like you never heard that word.

That word that you thought... hoped... dreamed... might be you.

And you wonder: If not this, than what am I? What word means me?

And you forget.

You forget that a word is not made by a dictionary. That it's not defined by a youtube vid and not owned by a person. You forget that there's no people out there whose job it is to make up words, but that you make up the words. That you give the meanings and the definitions. That if you use the word, it is yours as much as anyone's. You don't have to be perfect or pure or right. You don't have to fit other's definition or demands to a T.

Because if the word seems to be you?

Then it probably is.

Strawberries and Sex(uality)

"I just don't get it," she tells me. "How can you be attracted to other women? How can you fall in love with one? I just don't see it!" 

"I just don't get it," I tell her. "How can you not be attracted to all genders? How can you not see the beauty of a woman's body, the lure of those curves, their eyes, their minds? How can you not fall in love with those? I just don't see it!" 

A conversation I’ve had a number of times now, with a number of people. The people around me, sweet and open-minded and smart, used to knowing and understanding, accept me for who I am: pansexuality and all. But when they try to understand, to empathise, they just can’t. The same goes for me. I just can’t understand how you do that. How you can not be attracted to someone, simply on account of their gender. It makes no sense to me.

So often, you hear people going on about how ‘everyone is a little bi’, or 'gays can be cured’, or 'bisexuals are just gay people unwilling to admit they’re gay’, or 'asexuals must be really traumatized’, or any other such nonsense. The thing is, I might’ve started understanding that a little bit.

Imagine your favourite food. Now imagine hating it.

Doesn’t really work, does it? Yet somehow, out there, there’s this person who hates your favourite food. Who just can’t imagine that anyone would eat that willingly.

The same goes for sexuality, I think. Only much more strongly. I think sexuality is wired so deeply into the brain that you just can’t imagine anything different. I mean, on an intellectual level I understand and accept that there’s straight people and gay people ace people and lots of other people whose sexuality isn’t the same as mine, but I can’t really feel as they feel. Just as I can’t imagine anyone disliking strawberries. My brother hates strawberries and even though I don’t get it, it doesn’t mean I’ll stuff them down his throat, right?

Happiness is...

Your best friend calling you on the phone because there’s these Doctor Who themed knock-knock jokes and she just had to tell you.