There's been a dearth of 'postings of import' lately; my journal's been a steady flood of lemmings for the last couple weeks. If finally crystallized in the wee hours of the morning what's 'up' with that... and this could get a little long and convoluted. If the little girl behind the bouncer mask isn't of interest to you, then I'd suggest keeping moving; some of my friends are equally fond of lemmings. Try there if that's what you're looking for, yes?
( The lyrics to the song that WinAmp3 decided to play... out of 750+ tunes, it picked this one... )It started with a seemingly random conversation with Hilfie. She's a local friend, viewed by some as a 'ditz'; a reputation she chooses to feed because it keeps the mudheads away. She's the only other gender outlaw in my main circle here locally, and one of three here that knows -all- the details to the hidden life I live; she knows more than Megan does. She's been nothing but supportive, but she's a realist; bouncing things off her is a worthwhile experience, because we can compare notes and understand each other's permission. She's also an amazingly perceptive person... when we first met and talked, being the only smokers in the reenacting group, one of her first questions was 'Why are you trying so hard to be a boy?'. It led to a much deeper conversation (we ended up missing the entire meeting we were there for; everyone inside figured we'd gone to sleep on the side steps) that laid bare most of the stuff I'm dealing with.
But the question remained unanswered. At the time, my hedge-and-evade was something along the lines of maintaining appearances until I was ready to move. It's even partly true.
But Friday, she was over here to do sewing with Megan, and while out on a cigarette break she managed to drop another bombshell question on my brain:
Do you even know -who- you are anymore?No. I don't. And that's what's kept me mostly silent for the weekend. It's not a matter of needing to 'find myself'.... it's more a matter of trying to peel away the artificial traits. As a child of five, I'd come to the conclusion that the world was not a 'survivable' place for me. I'm simply too fragile, too high maintenance, too broken... and too desperate to please and be wanted. A borderline personality at best. Given the situation with my mother and the people around me, I chose the only path that looked like it was navigable: I hid.
I hid well, too. A bit
too well. I carefully built and assembled a 'mask' to wear in public, transforming myself from broken toy to emotional-but-intact boy. In past entries I've mentioned the 'void' in my memories. Just after my fifth birthday, to just before my eighth birthday, there's -nothing- [and the one psychologist who tried to pry back the edges via hypnosis unleashed a demon in his office... not only did I hide, but I set up protections as well, it seems] ... and coming out the other side was 'Don'. Emotionally volatile, loud, constant jokester, brash and gruff and (relatively) confident. A complete puppet persona to wear like an All Hallows Eve costume and fool the passerby. There were holes in it, but it worked. And over the years, I've worked like one possessed to seal all the holes... only to discover that I'd turned it into a prison.
When my health collapsed in 2000, so did large portions of the puppet. It left with with a puppet persona that was as shattered and splintered as my own, with the pieces all falling together in a weird sort of collage. I've spent the last three years trying to sift the broken shards, sorting things into mental bins labeled 'Donald' and 'Elisabeth'. Trying to sort.... none of the pieces are labeled. I wore that shell for so very long that I don't know which pieces are which anymore. So my sifting has actually been a 'useful vs non-useful' thing, with the usable bits being tossed into the Ellie basket.
But I lived in the shadows for so long that I don't know how to act when I'm not there. Some of the patterns, particularly the vocal ones, are so deeply etched that I can't find what was -really- there anymore.
And I'm afraid of what I'll find if/when I do...
You see, I... there's a fear that the bits and pieces of 'me' that folks liked, particularly the folks I consider -family-.... a fear that the pieces that brought these wonderful people to me are /false/... and that when they discover that, they'll shrug and walk away. Every time I try to tackle a new fragment, I have to deal with the fears that -this- will be the piece that shows everyone that I'm not who they thought I was. Fear that I'll lose my sisters, my Lady, the close friends who're gravitating -fast- towards family status (both of them being J's...). Fear that /EVERYTHING/ I have and see and feel is false. Fear that what I see as 'me' was ALSO a puppet, and that there's still another layer behind it. That in the end, I really will be the monstrous freak that my mother accused me of being so many years ago.
There's dissent in my mind, as well. Part says that none of this really matters; I am what I embrace, nothing else matters worth a damn, and my Family will never leave... they're faithful. Part simply wants the pain to stop, and cares not at all for the end result so long as the chaos ends. They are minorities... the bulk of my thoughts echo the paragraph above.
It's not aided by the fact that I still -am- living partially in the shadows; I can't discard the shredded pieces of Don yet. For 'appearances', I'm still being forced to wrap myself in the splinters and keep up the act. That will change once I'm out of here, but for the moment I'm very much stuck with it. I no longer feel the despair as I look around me; I have an Owner, I'll have a place to go soon enough, and chunks of this nightmare will be over. But I have trouble envisioning it... the brightness outside the shadows that've been my home are glaringly bright. I have some truly wonderful folks that I consider family... but I'm terrified that I'm -not- who I appear... and that the truth will leave me entirely alone.
Alone in the dark.
