What if I were one of those people who could write just to write and not for anyone else to read? What if I didn’t need the feedback and the affirmation?
I want to read a story like mine. I want there to be a queer woman who was married to a man, who tried to be (and for a minute convinced her self* she was mostly) straight. I want to read about how she didn’t like her self, not as a second grader who wished she hadn’t been born, or a 12 year old who waited and waited to be special, or a youth group kid who prayed and struggled. I want to read about her apologizing for being fat– really saying the words, “I’m sorry I’m so fat”– to her fiance. I want to read about another third grader trying to make her have sex with him; who even knows if he had any idea? I want to read that she was afraid, too, when a grown man masturbated in front of her, standing in his front doorway, watching her play in her friend’s front yard. What about all the other men? All the other times?
I want to read about how she resigned her self. Over and over, she decided that good enough was good enough. She was motivated to this little acquiescence by religion, by knowing that God, actual God, the actual creator of the universe and the human circulatory system guided her or required it of her.
I want to read about how she thought she was in love. People around her warned her that she was too young and that she didn’t know him well enough. She knew that he wasn’t everything she’d ever wanted, but she took vows and committed. She was sure her life would be beautiful and sweet and full of good things. Time went by; it was, and it wasn’t, because life is never just good.
I want to read about her marriage ending.I want to read about her coming out of the closet. I want to read about her losing her religion and her belief in any higher power and especially in church folk.
That’s where I really, really hope her story differs from mine. For this story to be exactly what is necessary to soothe this ache in me, that has to be where she learns to like her self. She finds her worth. She invests time and resources in knowing who she is and valuing that person.
She falls in love. God, I need her to fall in love. I need to see that someone else loves her. Someone else sees her worth and her glow and her grit and falls head over heels into her. If she is a pool, some other beautiful soul needs to jump into the deep end of her, and she opens herself to it.
I haven’t found a story like this. Today, I’m disproportionately disappointed in the internet for this.
There is no blogging like angsty, wine-drinking blogging.