Psychobabble
At the risk of sounding like a pop psychology addict it all begins in childhood doesn't it how we interact with our siblings spills out to how we interact with in our work place.
I felt the anxious sick feeling, that tense muscle teeth grinding tension, that body language, high pitch get away from me you are stressing me out spasm.
I look at my brothers eyes across the dining table from me, its been years since we have been in the same space and now we are having a meal. My mind transposes his face with my assistant for a second and it comes to me. That uncomfortable tension, the aggressive behaviour and reaction to another person this is where it comes from. This is what causes it.
There is a yearning though, I missing something to have had a relationship with my brother not based on mistrust and the feeling of not being safe. There will always be in me the little girl waiting for her brother to home from school to be a team. Tonight, I a grown reflecting can see that he was child as well with the same miscommunication illiteracy. He could not read human and neither could I. I wonder this new year, with my dissertation due in days and my baby due in weeks, on mother's birthday and after a day away from work spent with my sister and husband. Am I ready?
We stood in the cold basement flat in Baker Street, waiting for the photographers to reset. Mum's second outfit change glamorous to mark her platinum years on earth with her disparate, desperate, scattered middle aged children.
You look like Tyler Perry,
Isn't he gay?
He is a cross dresser.
They are all gay!
I sit now and wonder was that opening for me. Was that their own tacit way of providing a safe space for me?
Africans, we bludgeon are way through don't we?
I felt cold, numb, shocked sick.
I have no confidence in being gay, no pride, no understanding no acceptance.
You can sell anything if you are confident. You can make anything cool with swag.
Lie to myself? Make me believe.
I see a home full of children, I see mattresses arranged in the sitting room, which chaos that only groups of siblings and cousins can bring. I see a future that is destined, not for anything that I may have done or wished to do. I see acceptance and buoyancy to my life.
It occurs to me have I come back to writing now I have no therapy? Have I come back to writing now because I spent weeks in training on how to be a better communicator for work? Have I come back to writing now I don't twit or chase recognition.
Have I grown or is this cyclical, a return because it is the time of year for me. Or have I come to writing as way to procrastinate from deadlines looming.
I am of the school of thought that natural is the way. That for me, with kindness and respect for others to be me is the way.
Have I come to writing because I'm alone and full of lesbian fiction consumed like the munchies after weed? To use the cliche, I am searching for my authentic truth.
I begin to see, that I see myself as a migrant and the struggle and desperation to get this passport, this infinite to me at the time visa of freedom has created within me not only a distrust of government barriers. But goes deeper, the search for freedom to be on the wining team. To wish to be a boy, a male child, then gay away from the competition of other females to get the best male mate.
There is something in there to unpack another time.
It 's almost 4 am still up trying to reading a lesfic novel about a woman paid to get married. The bit about her struggling with her mom's Alzheimer's is giving me flashback about work. Repeats of scenes with my boss, and triggers from work decisions out my control. I am meant to be asleep so I can go downstairs and work on this damn dissertation instead I am skimming through the novel trying to get to the scene where the two main characters interact. The don't begin into until way past chapter 11. Why do novels waste so much time?
I felt the anxious sick feeling, that tense muscle teeth grinding tension, that body language, high pitch get away from me you are stressing me out spasm.
I look at my brothers eyes across the dining table from me, its been years since we have been in the same space and now we are having a meal. My mind transposes his face with my assistant for a second and it comes to me. That uncomfortable tension, the aggressive behaviour and reaction to another person this is where it comes from. This is what causes it.
We stood in the cold basement flat in Baker Street, waiting for the photographers to reset. Mum's second outfit change glamorous to mark her platinum years on earth with her disparate, desperate, scattered middle aged children.
You look like Tyler Perry,
Isn't he gay?
He is a cross dresser.
They are all gay!
I sit now and wonder was that opening for me. Was that their own tacit way of providing a safe space for me?
Africans, we bludgeon are way through don't we?
I felt cold, numb, shocked sick.
I have no confidence in being gay, no pride, no understanding no acceptance.
You can sell anything if you are confident. You can make anything cool with swag.
Lie to myself? Make me believe.
I see a home full of children, I see mattresses arranged in the sitting room, which chaos that only groups of siblings and cousins can bring. I see a future that is destined, not for anything that I may have done or wished to do. I see acceptance and buoyancy to my life.
It occurs to me have I come back to writing now I have no therapy? Have I come back to writing now because I spent weeks in training on how to be a better communicator for work? Have I come back to writing now I don't twit or chase recognition.
Have I grown or is this cyclical, a return because it is the time of year for me. Or have I come to writing as way to procrastinate from deadlines looming.
I am of the school of thought that natural is the way. That for me, with kindness and respect for others to be me is the way.
Have I come to writing because I'm alone and full of lesbian fiction consumed like the munchies after weed? To use the cliche, I am searching for my authentic truth.
I begin to see, that I see myself as a migrant and the struggle and desperation to get this passport, this infinite to me at the time visa of freedom has created within me not only a distrust of government barriers. But goes deeper, the search for freedom to be on the wining team. To wish to be a boy, a male child, then gay away from the competition of other females to get the best male mate.
There is something in there to unpack another time.
It 's almost 4 am still up trying to reading a lesfic novel about a woman paid to get married. The bit about her struggling with her mom's Alzheimer's is giving me flashback about work. Repeats of scenes with my boss, and triggers from work decisions out my control. I am meant to be asleep so I can go downstairs and work on this damn dissertation instead I am skimming through the novel trying to get to the scene where the two main characters interact. The don't begin into until way past chapter 11. Why do novels waste so much time?
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