Confessions of a Teenage Runagay

AND THAT'S WHAT IT WAS. Running away was supposed to be arduous, maybe treacherous. And although it was terrifying, when it came to the rough-and-tumble-hitchhiking-living-out-of-a-knapsack lifestyle, I lucked out. There was a small house, there was a big house, there were a bed and a couch respectively, and each night I played out mild nightmares of prodigal return.

I was high every day. I was drunk every night. And in my sleepy mornings in between desperate glasses of water, my headspin caused the makeshift sleeping bag glide against the floorboards. It felt as though a reckless inertia was driving the particles of my body away from each other, which made sense since - as far as Rockland County is concerned - I've vanished into a black hole anyway.

And there you were the whole time, unfalteringly, unwaveringly beautiful. Like watch you in the car when you close your eyes to sing along beautiful. Like hazy teenage trips to the back of my mind when I would trace the shapes of girls for the first time. Now at 19, I'm old enough to feel embarrassed about it but young enough to clumsily hope for more.

We couldn't always hold hands in public, but we could make out in your car. And we did. In a very specific way. Like gravity, like collision. Like the way two teenagers make out in an airport parking lot, hungry and impatient, because that was who and where we were. An agreement made in a fever dream. We felt scared, but never alone. We felt right (we were right). We felt stupid ("We are so stupid"). We felt big (it's still true).

Because I knew that if I knocked long enough at the curve of your ribs, if I lingered just a bit, your anachronistic heart would wake, answering me suddenly, and I would be granted permission to live within the walls of your body.

And you didn't even come with any weird surprises. Not even a tacky winter coat.

In my time here I learned to talk to animals. I feel like that makes it sound like I fell flaming from the sky into the desert, where I was rescued by Bedouin people and given special powers. Or like I'm Eliza Thornberry (and however she got her powers, I don't really remember). In actuality, I just met a dog that didn't know she was a dog and a cat that thought I was a cat. Animal-queer is what Charles said. And I thought it was funny. And then I hid behind your best friend because the cat kept hissing at me.
--
Postcards from Mexico.
Postcards from Dallas.
Postcards from the road.

I am in none of these places, not right now, but they are from where I'm sending my love. It's unrequited, the way we all secretly like it, because there's no return address. Because there's no return, not really, anyway.

I just can't believe I left all my underwear at home. Scratch that, I can't believe I left all my underwear where my parents live.

I'll eventually have to trek it back to the East Coast. And if I could go back on wheels, I would. Fuck, If I could go back on foot, I would. I would send my love not from the places I am, but from the places I've been, so even if you try to go looking, you'll just find tire tracks and whispers, if that.

This is my pledge to never stop moving.

(If anyone feels so moved to read more on the adventures, check out my Autostraddle piece toooo).

I Was Going to Google It, But I Thought We'd Have a Conversation Instead

I WANTED to document 30 minutes of an amphetamine crash.

5:04 a.m.
These are the most unproductive moments of my life. My heart has never beat so fast, and my eyes have never moved so slow. I'm darting. I'm shaking. I'm drafting notes.

Is this a panic attack?

The sun doesn't rise until 6:38 a.m., did you know that? The fuck is that about? Did you know I'm a little more than a mile from campus, and there's thunder and lightning and rain, and that might make it dark for a little longer? I think it will, and I don't have an umbrella or a hood or an excuse.

No, really, is it?
Hours ago my heart felt like it would swell until it exploded. MY BODY WAS ALL CAPS. I was so excited. I love(d) you all, I want(ed) you to know it. My arms tingled. My thoughts chased after my words, which tumbled carelessly and endlessly out of my mouth, my eyes were bright. I laughed into your collarbone, I told you all how much you meant. Now, alone at 5:09 a.m., an amphetamine rush is only panic. My mouth is dry. I don't want water. I want water. I have to get up for water. No water. Where is my love now, where are my thoughts? I have no more words; the insomnia stole my words. Where are all those whom I've neglected for fear of missing? Where are all those whom I've avoided because they kept calling, unknowingly waiting for my anxiety to subside? Where is everyone now that my hands are shaking and the sun's still hiding and the clock moves two minutes forward only to fall one minute back?
-
I think I have effectively broken every basic rule my parents have ever given me. All at once.
I think I look like an asshole when I try to dance like a hipster. I think everyone looks like assholes when they try to dance like hipsters. But I think I do it wrong, so the asshole-ness is extra. Like, I get a gold sticker.
-
By the way,

Sorry I stole the sheets from your bed.
Sorry I didn't let you know what was going on. I didn't mean to, or not to.
Sorry I was drunk when you saw me. Sorry I'll be drunk next time you see me. I'm actually only a little sorry, but I know I should be more sorry, so here's my apology.
Sorry I did exactly what I begged you not to months ago. Sorry I cried then. I cry easily; it's a little stupid and a lot embarrassing.
-
What if we made fewer confessions and told more truths?
-
Sometimes there are nights that disappear into haze. Maybe you forgot what you were on.
Sometimes you wonder where you were all night, and then you wonder where you should have been, and you wonder if you should have been the source of the noise. If you should have been making the floorboards creak and wail with your jumping, if if the walls would have been happier to echo your voice. Entire portions of night disappear. Where did they go? More importantly, where did I go? I think that I stopped existing for just a little. I think I got lost in an alcove; it was pretty dark, y'know?
-
I think that I live far away from home, though I don't really know what that means.
Hometown nostalgia tricked me in those last few days, made me think it was real. Made me desperate to be seen before I disappeared. I wanted to be seen. I wanted to be wearing skinny jeans and plaid, I wanted all of you to see how the band of my boxer briefs peeked out the top of my pants. I'M GAY, I wanted you to know. I'M GAY, and I was gay when you knew me, but now I'm not sorry, and no one needs to tell me it's okay and that I'm okay and that high school doesn't really matter, because I always knew those things. It's just that now I believe them.

Leaving was sad. Leaving was final.
They said you'd go to college, and you'd come back, but you'd never come back. I think I'm going a little farther this time.

About that thing, about my parents, about how we fucked it up. We just fucked it up, this thing. That they always saw their lives, secure and prosperous, without lesbian daughters or heartbreaking arguments or silent stalemates. We should have been sad to see each other go; instead, I think we're relieved. How does that thing happen? That thing where your life wasn't what you wanted or expected or believed? Does it happen to our unhappy, middle-aged parents? Or does it happen to us all?
-
But hey, what am I scared for? Hey Brandon, didn't we realize today that everything, every moment has already happened at some point in time? All of this has already happened; somewhere it's done. It's just a matter of getting there. I'm worried about 6:38 a.m., but that's okay, because by 7:38, I'll know. It's just a matter of getting to 7:30. Life will just happen until then; we'll get there. We'll know.
-
5:33 a.m.
Street lights still glowing orange. Can't tell if it's raining, can't see through the blinds. Weather.com says it's raining. Guess I'll have to trust that. I wonder if, when I get outside in an hour, I'll be trapped between places, locked out of one apartment, a mile away from the next. It's going to be raining, which is too bad, because I wanted to walk along to the sunrise. Maybe I should memorize these directions, just in case the newly inked napkin melts through my fingers on the way.

There's Blood In My Mouth 'Cause I've Been Biting My Tongue

My parents know this: I came out on January 3, 2009.
My parents do not know this: I was scared, but I was not sorry. I waited a long fucking time after I was ready to come out to actually come out. While I was waiting, I did everything I could to prepare myself for the process. This ranged from pamphlets and other forms of literature to talking to friends about their own experiences and watching every damn Logo special on it. Also watching and memorizing that episode of The L Word where Bette tells her dad that God made her just as she was (I'm not sorry to say that I paraphrased her in my coming out conversation). I was ready for any argument they had to throw at me.

They don't know that it was the most empowering night of my life because it was at that moment that I realized that, with or without their approval, I was finally completely and totally unashamed and unapologetic about who I was. And I was happy. I was living it like I wanted. And I had a support system. And the sky was clearer than I had ever seen it, and it told me to just drive.

Six months later, after not mentioning it at all since that one Really Bad Conversation that finally caused me to run away to Rachel's house, a dinner table confrontation occurred.

It was pretty much the same old patronizing/denial deal about how they don't think I'm really gay because you can't know if you're gay if you've never tried not being gay and also if you're gay you can't have weddings or have children because you're gaygaygaygaygay.

In addition to this, my mother (oh also, my dad, while he doesn't approve of my "choices" or "lifestyle" is very rational and has promised to love me no matter what, should I eventually come to the conclusion that I am, in fact, gay) lamented over the fact that she had no idea how I, being raised in her household, could possibly have taken on such a set of values that allowed me to be like this. To be accepting and open and happy with who I am (I asked this)? She claimed that she was not prejudiced. I said it was okay if she was because everyone has their own prejudices and both my parents happen to come from an extremely conservative Catholic country, and whatever, that kind of wack shit happens there anyway. And then she finally admitted that no, she does not hate gay people, BUT she has worked hard and sacrificed so much so that she could one day see me get married and have kids.

1. WHAT.
2. Gay peeps are on the way to doing that now, don't'chaknow?
3. WHAT.
4. Listen. I'm sorry. But even if I were straight, being someone's Wife and having their kids would never ever be the measure of my success in life. It's just never been my dream. And I don't really appreciate my mother basing my value on whether or not I can attain this goal that I don't even want to pursue. I respect anyone who really, truly wants this, I do. But fact of the matter is that I don't. We've all got our own aspirations, and this just isn't one of them for me. Never has been. That's that.

They also said I couldn't possibly be happy like this, and that I was being way too closed-minded about the whole situation. As if it had never occurred to me to date men. Well yeah, I had never though of that, thanks for the suggestion, brb, being straight now! But no, really. I can pretty confidently say that I am one of the most sexually open-minded people I know to accept the label "lesbian." I'm not going to go into details about this, but you can ask Rachel because she gets all the phonecalls in the aftermath. Also claiming that I am not happy is just ludicrous. Because fuck, I am happy. I am like lay-spread-out-on-the-floor-and-stare-up-at-the-ceiling-and-just-sigh-because-I'm-so-happy happy. I said it before. I'm living it like I wanted.

But wait, there's more!
You see, I'm aspiring to be a professional gay, and I happen to be having the most mindblowing interning experience at a website that's allowing me to pursue this (I'd drop the name here, but I feel like this is kind of a negative context, so I'll sit and think about that, plus I've probably talked about it a shit ton to anyone who's reading anyway). Like fucking wow. Never before have I had the honor of being around such confident, intelligent, witty, (and coughsuperattractivecough) and self-assured queer women who are out simply unapologetic about their sexuality. It's what I've been working to be, even before I ever realized I was doing it.

My parents wanted to know why I insisted on living this lifestyle and told me that it was a choice. And yeah, sure, being out is a choice. But it's a choice to be honest and happy and just plain satisfied with my life. And in that sense, it's not really a choice at all.

The reason that one of my great goals in life is to create visibility for queer women is because shit like this, shit that happens with my parents, happens all the time for girls who are coming out. And they shouldn't have to feel ashamed about it. And they should have role models. And they shouldn't be afraid or feel alone, even if they can only get that reassurance through the Interwebz (I'm also a big believer in this).

ANYWAY.
This was supposed to be a big gay weekend for me. My Montreal buddy, Emily, is coming down tomorrow for Pride festivities, and the whole intern team is going to spend a big gay weekend together etc etc. Clearly my parents aren't going for this.

The plan is that, in about an hour (when we're both all tired and honest), I'm going to go talk to my dad and basically ask him permission to peace the fuck out this weekend. If it's a no, then I'm doing it on my own, runaway urban backpacking style. My life's been so fucking ridiculous lately. These past 6 months have proved not only that I am strong enough, but that I am just plain lucky enough to dodge and bob and weave through all the tight situations that I've encountered (this is saying A LOT).

This weekend is going to be a most excellent adventure, and goddamn, I can't wait.

How We Operate

I'm doing this because I'm lazy.
There's a 3am life chat-inspired post that I was planning to make, but it's the middle of the afternoon, aka the lull of all my writing abilities, and I don't think I'm going to have any time tonight.

So I'm posting a little piece that I wrote a couple of months ago.
I'm sort of torn between whether or not I'm actually into this. I do believe that it's an incredibly valuable skill to take mundane experiences and dress them up with pretty words until they feel significant and profound (I'm not sure if I've actually attained this ability yet), but on the other hand, I think that life should be lived with such intensity and passion that even the most blase of phrases should convey the beauty of the human experience.

And right now I feel somewhere in between.
So here's what I got out of Winter Break.

They say to expect traffic in Stamford, Connecticut. They say it’ll stop you all the way down I-95. Turn on the radio, and you’ll hear that what was supposed to be a two hour drive will now double itself into four. Nothing weird, no freak accidents, no flipped tractor trailers spilling produce onto the roads or any weird shit like that, just traffic slowly clogging up the arteries of the road.

Arteries carry blood away from the heart, which is funny because this highway is the one that’s taking us back home. We’ve been away because home contains memories that we can no longer chase and people we no longer know, and in this two days’ time, we’ve come so close to truths we may never reach again.

But we cannot be away forever, and so we go, chasing the sunset that my parents demanded that I beat home. Chasing the sunset because it’s unacceptable to chase ghosts. And as much as we wish to speed down the highway, weaving between cars and confronting danger with every change of lanes, we remain in traffic. So we sit and we wait and we turn up the volume, screaming away the melody and drowning out the sound. We hum through words we cannot say, and sing softly the melodies that ring true with a heartbreaking beauty that keeps the silence at bay.