Dear tumblr

You are the pocket where I keep my words, my sadness. My thoughts that want to go somewhere, but not towards people. They need to get out me, into the ether.
I have lost my desire to write such things in a paper journal. Paper writes too slow and holds too fast to keep it near.

I go

Through friends like phases
or maybe even phrases
Of my life story.
I seem to succeed in finding just what I am looking for, for a moment, at least.
I used to think it was them, not me.
It was circumstance, a moment that could not, because if its nature, be sustained.
The friendships that last are not the ones that I put my whole heart into. They are not the intense, heart-wrenching moments of joy and the feelings of Everything is Perfection.
Those, I think I am learning, cannot last. A heart will break. My heart will break, in the loss of them.

Lately the idea of my heart breaking seems mystifying.
I have one still, I feel it beating, but it has burrowed. Somewhere inside, it is beating, but untouchable.
I feel ok, but I also feel a bit unsure how
I keep breathing, lifeforce and passion
seemingly buried with my heart.

This blog

This blog, read by no one, is where I go when I want to tell the world I’m sad without burdening anyone.

I am starting to forget what it feels like to be not depressed. I think I need a jolt (of change?) in my life.
I am tired of this grey all the time, I can’t decide if the change in weather makes it worse or just doesn’t make it better.
I want to connect but it feels too hard to even try.

Walking down Christopher

I have always loved Christopher st. It’s a lot of what I think new York has always done well. The beauty and privilege sitting next to the freaks and weirdos. 

I love seeing all the queer kids who take the PATH from jersey. I don’t think they see me as one of them, but I am, and I know it, and I’m proud to be so.

Which is why it’s so hard for me to see and hear all the judgement and looks that these kids get. There was the couple holding hands, and the guy who did a double take when he realized that the one in a tie and vest was a woman. 

But the trans* women get the most attention, the most flack. It makes me angry, I want to yell at people. But what do I say? I can’t even explain properly why the stage manager calling transitions on the stage “trannies” is so upsetting. Don’t you understand? Your straight privilege makes it not ok for you to say that. Honestly, I’d like to take the derogatory terms out of our language all together. Then I wouldn’t have to talk to my coworker about how calling your diagonal cutters “dikes” isn’t wrong like someone once said, but calling someone retarded is actually never ok. 

I know that retarded used to mean just slow, but now it has so much negative associated with it, I’d like to throw it out with the dish water.

I am so angry! I am an angry queer feminist, and I’ve closeted that. Thanks to my career in the Theatre, I’m allowed to be gay. But angry? Feminist? Like the vocal about how politically incorrect you are kind of feminist? No, we’re not that liberal. The New York theatre community is stereotypically northeast liberal. Liberal in small comfortable doses. Like my mother, the liberal who gave me so much flack when I came out. The liberal who still says “black” in a stage whisper because “is it okay to call them that?”

It’s stuff like this that makes me want to skip off to the A Camp commune. 

Yarn

The woman on the train next to me is crocheting these little flowers. I don’t know what she is making, maybe a scarf. But I know that I saw her and thought of the hat that Hali gave me. I also thought about how I don’t think I will ever have the patience to learn to do that, and I don’t really mind. And then I’m back to thinking I was a permanent enough fixture to have her make me a sweater, and I never even made it to “girlfriend.”
I don’t know, am I still depressed, still sad about it all ending? Or am I moving on? I feel numb, which I think means I am indeed still depressed. I feel no particular emotion, though I feel like I ought to be sad that summer is ending. Or like maybe I should have some emotional connection to something.
I’m just going to take a note from rachel maddow and ride it out. I know that some time I will feel better again, that depression isn’t forever. I just need to accept its presence and do my best to not let it limit me.

Write talk think

I don’t remember ever not imagining myself writing down my thoughts as I have them. I am always either telling someone or writing it in my head. These thoughts used to make it to paper more often than they do now.
On my bike ride home I was composing and recomposing an email to Hali about the question of a friendship or even a possibility that we might “keep in touch”
I find I think of her less and less. Still daily, but less.
I found working long hours and biking and climbing and reading ya novels to be my therapy.
As of last weekend, I was finding social interactions tiring, that I wasn’t able to fully engage.
The crew this week, and especially having my good friend working alongside me, led to me putting on my loudest and sassiest voice for work, and I hadn’t quite shaken it off at the gym tonight.
But I get self conscious at those displays, I wonder how people perceive me, how much of it is really me, and what happened to my previous work persona.