A Collection of Short Stories and Poems

Theory of The Flesh

***Howdy, howdy, howdy. It's been a hot minute, right? Anyways, I'm currently in a Queer Studies class at my university and I had to write something about my experience with gender and sexuality, and I thought I'd just post it on here. Do with it what you will, I suppose. I just feel bad for never posting anymore. Enjoy.***

Portfolio 1

I have often found that it is more difficult to talk about one's true self -- my thoughts, my feelings, my shortcomings, my memories, my trauma -- than it is to create someone I wish could hold my stories. There is a certain distance, a safety net if you will, when it comes to making myself into a fictional character as if it is a form of validation to myself. Perhaps it's because it feels less like you're confronting your past so much as it's helping another person cope with the horrible hand in which they were dealt.

I'm a writer by trade: I enjoy manifesting fictional worlds and guiding characters that have never existed before through a universe that is not their own like I want them to feel the same sense of confusion with their world as I do in my own. Through my writing, I've made many people, most of whom I adore because they've suffered the labyrinth of my mind and still somehow found themselves being the best humans they possibly can; their compassion inspires me. And it is through them that I feel I can now begin healing from what I thought were my awful idiosyncrasies. I suppose this is where my story begins.

When I was younger I already knew I was different: I sat on benches during recess to fill my mangy journals with nonsensical words and my dress hem tucked between my knees while girls chased boys and vice versa, subtle gossip swimming in the chilly morning air about who had a crush on whom. I could never understand the concept of crushes when I was younger.

Blocking people out was one of my superpowers after so many years of people mocking the look of my name or the stutter on my lips after every other word. Compared to my mind, my tongue was clumsy and words failed me at the worst of times. I confided in myself that I'd become the quietest person I could possibly be since talking only brought me ridicule. Because of this, I was seen as a model student: a good little girl, a wonderful listener, submissive, and patient. How could I go back to the talkative little thing I was before that incident, that trusting and innocent girl I missed so dearly when so many teachers loved me because of my timid nature?

I'd been naive and believed him when he said "it's what little girls do for their older cousins -- you have to do it! You're the only girl!" I ask myself why I ever let myself believe him frequently, why I let 7-year-old Kelleigh get dominated, and why I kept it a secret regardless of the years after the first time he molested me that he'd sneak into my bedroom and force himself on me. It's what little girls do for their older cousins.

It is difficult for one to talk about their stories without growing cynical or scared of those finding out about something you don't even want to admit to yourself. I must admit, I feel bitter about the things that have happened to me, but I feel even more ashamed that I've kept it all a secret up until now.

Through this I learned that girls were seen as nothing more than a little boy's plaything, something he could abuse, torment, and tear down without any consequence as long as he ended a day of belittlement with a gentle "I love you" or promised her pretty things for all of her troubles regardless of whether or not they were actually given because she's likely to forgive you for your lies. I was taught that those perceived as little girls and women had obligations to those that called themselves boys or men just because "that is the way of your gender, and you must learn to deal with it before people see you as undesirable ." It is unfortunate when one is shown the cruelty of humanity so early on in their life, especially when it forces one to lose their childhood. It is even more unfortunate knowing that females are not valued as much as the life of a man because, after all, "all women are weak, hysterical, and over exaggerate when their emotions overwhelm them unlike the superior man." A blatant lie from the patriarchy.

I have given much thought to the contents of this paper and what I could fathom into words, but, as it had for many years, real words fail me. Though I no longer identify as strictly female (I much prefer gender-queer or non-binary with an affinity for a feminine expression) I can't help but feel the societal pressure in every move I make; everything is a calculated risk, every piece of naked skin an invitation for assault, and every wrong look a possible death sentence.

My father has always been an exception to my early distrust of men: he is the most accepting man in my life, always telling me I could play with the boys in the mud, get my dress dirty, be disgusting if I so wish, wear what makes me comfortable, not align to the societal standard for what is feminine and what is masculine -- he even supports the fact that, because of my past, I may never give him the grandchildren that some part of him wants.

My asexuality stems from my experience with a physical 'relationship', the one in which I may never truly be able to recover from. Physicality hurts me, it terrifies me, and makes me feel useless knowing I'll never be able to hug a friend I so dearly love as earnestly as I once did. Men bring me distrust, but, somehow, I still identify as panromantic because there is still that trusting little girl that wants and hopes to see the best in everyone; thinking all men are predators trying to take advantage of "damaged goods" is just as wrong as saying all women are completely controlled by the radical extent of their emotions. I'm still trying to get over that fear of toxic masculinity deep within me. I want to love the good that manifests itself in everyone in some way, I want to trust, and I want to talk as much as I once did. I long for openness so that I no longer cry when I'm pried open. I'm getting better at it. I can look a boy in the eyes now and talk to them as if they were a friend despite the fact that we may have met only moments ago -- I've learned that I can still love a person regardless of their identity, orientation, expression, race, gender, disability, past, or socioeconomic standing because I've known the confusion of not belonging to the male gender nor the female gender while still employing aspects from both.

Perhaps one day I may be able to change my mind when it comes to a physical relationship with a partner. It is often forgotten that someone can still bounce back and forth between sexualities even though they can be so sure that they are one thing now. Most of us are so sure that we're straight until we encounter a situation that tells us clearly otherwise. We police our bodies so stringently -- whether it actually be us policing, a spouse, a partner, or society itself -- that we forget the flexibility of our desires and our hopes for intimacy to the point we think that humans are able to fit into tiny boxes filled with regulation and the restraint of one's true essence. Humans can't hide like that. Life becomes miserable and exhausting if we allow ourselves to believe the stereotypes and perpetuate the incarceration of the loving nature of our hearts to the prison of our chests.

And this is why I write: I can be me without being me. There is a professional separation in fictional writing -- I can write all of my experiences into my main character, have him suffer and be comforted in ways I wish I was, and still have him be a hero. I've taught myself that being broken doesn't limit your ability to be your own hero, and it is the very reason why I conjured up my high school's Sexuality and Gender Equality (S.A.G.E.) club. People like me deserve an outlet; they need a role model that can be strong enough to lead them to visibility and validity through my experiences and their bravery; to learn they are not alone in the world; and to know they can be their own saviours with the help of others. This is my theory written into such fragile flesh: we deserve hope, those of us that have been damaged and still somehow want to believe in the hope of tomorrow.

I've been the victim of words my entire life. They've always been there to tear me down, to shove me into silence, or to lift me up and exemplify my natural state. But words mean everything to a writer; it means a story can be told.