Mashes buttons.
The older I get, the more I explore who I am, and the more I untangle the things I was taught when I was so much younger, the more I realize I don’t know what I am, but that I also do know what I am and who I am, and it’s just a deliciously chaotic order that I couldn’t explain to you no matter how hard I try.
So here I go.
I’m 44 years old as of this writing, in the holy month of August, year of our Serpent God 2024. I have almost no hair left, and I’ve taken to wearing hats. Now, I do like hats, so this is no problem, and yeah, it sure is nice not to have a sunburned head. Plus, my hats are never just plain hats. My current favorite is the one that says “Become Ungovernable,” and it has a goose holding a knife.
Life is an experience, and much of what I’ve experienced has been sad, depressing, cold, lonely, disconnected from others. Not always, there have been brilliant moments, and I have friends whom I adore, some of you may be reading this post right now, and I bet you know who you are.
For the autistics who are wondering if I’m talking about you: yes. You don’t have to worry whether I like you or not. I do. I realize this will be a question again next post.
Anyway, there are so many thoughts and feelings that run through my head and my heart every day, at any given moment, and I often wonder if other people experience this, too. I’m sure many do, and maybe they don’t know it, but if you do, believe me, you’re not alone!
So I’m this large guy, I look very male, have the beard, and look like I’m about to hop into a Peterbilt and haul ass across state lines to pick up a load of beer. Well, no, because I got to drive a semi-truck once and nearly got me and my best friend slightly injured, and would have done hundred of dollars of damage to an abandoned restaurant sitting in an empty parking lot. That’s a story for another time.
No, I am not that male. I’m not really any male, I’m me, and sometimes I float between non-binary and other, because I’m still figuring me out, but I can say that every one of those feelings I have is valid, they are a genuine part of myself. They are authentically me.
I’ve generally felt that if god had a problem with that, he or she would have been more clear about my feelings, but then I don’t follow old books for what I should and shouldn’t think about myself based on someone who had no idea I existed thousands of years ago but, again, another story for another day.
I am a dangerous person at times. See, I have no borders when it comes to my identity, I have no boundaries to how I feel. I have removed them because I don’t want them. I have a code of ethics I follow, but I allow myself to feel everything I need to feel. My brain is a giant computer, and she wants to have all of the data possible to make decisions, and that means allowing herself to feel the extremes of everything, and this is part of what makes up me.
I know this unsettled some people, but I embrace it because IT IS ME. Why would I deny myself myself?
I’ve known this about me for most of my life, all the way back to when all the boys in my 4th grade class chose footballs and basketballs for their school photo props, and I chose a lovely large stuffed racoon.
Sure, I liked some sports. I like baseball, for example, and I love watching the Olympics because while I used to have excellent balance (for fun, in 3rd grade, I used to run, skip, and flip on the balance beam, and never fall), that is no longer the case, so I enjoy watching athletes achieve levels of human excellence of which I can only dream, and observe quietly from afar.
Did you guys see Simon Biles just kicking so much ass? They call her a “grandma gymnast” because she’s 27 and still competing in gymnastics. Firstly, goddamn, we’re just making us 40+ year olds feel like shit, right? Secondly, she’s incredible, I love her to death, and wish her the greatest of successes. Simone is being Simone, true to herself, and still loving her friends and compatriots, and I’m the same way.
I mean, without the ability to backflip, of course. That said, I CAN roll my tongue to look like a burrito, so… hey ladies and George Clooney. (my eyebrows are raising up and down sexotically).
I’ve had to undergo an ego change in the past few months. I’ve been so used to denigrating myself, using self-deprecating humor to soften the hatred of myself, and I have started putting an end to it. I posted a picture in a thread on Facebook, and almost typed “sorry for breaking your monitor,” and then I stopped myself. I deleted the sentence and said “this is the face of unmitigated gall,” which is a lot more confident than just putting myself down.
I’m doing this because I have to unlearn all of the self-hatred I’ve gained from being so different from people. I’m autistic, ADHD, and just generally weird, but in a good way as far as I’m concerned. I’m weird in the socially understandable sense: I love unicorns, rainbows, fuzzy animals, and soft things. I’d rather listen to sweet and soft pop singers than country music, because even though I look like I’m in a Jason Aldean cover band, I don’t like those kinds of things (that isn’t to say I don’t like country, I love Johnny Cash, for example).
I like to joke that whenever God was building me, and getting ready to load up my personality, they asked me “what would you like as your major interest?” and I responded “yes, please.”
Oh! I also love to be hugged and kissed! It doesn’t have to be sensual! Just a peck on the cheek, a nuzzle on my neck, a brush of a hand against my arm. A bear hug. A light hug. Sit on my shoulders and I’ll carry you around! Why? Because I delight in you, in your presence, and I want you around!
Which is why it sucks so much that I am often touch starved. I grew up hugging everyone, of course I learned boundaries, and didn’t hug anyone who wanted to be hugged, but if you let me hug you, oh my goodness, were you getting a hug!
People don’t like hugs around here, especially from people who look like me. That’s not me denigrating myself, that’s just acknowledging that I don’t look like the approachable soft type.
I built the foundation of myself on love, which is a hazardous thing to do, because love can be an undefinable thing, but then so can I!
Isn’t that interesting?
.Red
