I've been getting up at 5am on days when I work my part time job. It feels good to be awake in the morning again—the only drawback being that I get maybe a couple hours of quality time with the sun on those days. Taking the TTC so early in the morning reminds me of childhood road trips, and makes me want to buy a breakfast sandwich even though I don't particularly like breakfast sandwiches. The texture of the egg tends to weird me out. My job is simple and allows me to tune into the part of my brain that wants to organize. Today I made friends with a coworker by letting her know which items were going to be on clearance, and handing them to her as soon as I'd marked them down. She introduced herself to me, peeking through the little hole in the plexiglass shield in front of her. Fun way to start a friendship. This time in 2015, John was texting me photos of drawings that I'd done as a kid. I used to draw all of my people with big puffy sleeves. I was sending him Feist lyrics.
In the effort of starting to read again, I've been rereading a book that I used to consider to be one of my favourites. I don't think it's one of my favourites anymore. I grew to trust the author through my love for some other things that she's written. I felt that I knew her and that, even if she were to write something that sat sour, I could easily forgive her and make the writing out to be what I wanted it to. She writes of self discovery and of longing. There are so many parts of this book that I once read with trust, and that I now question. I thought, the first time around, that her circling questions were posed in a way that was honest, self-aware, and true. I now think that they are enabling of her internalized misogyny, which is certainly real, but also a rather sad realization. I want to reach inside the book and provide her with some kind of encouragement. I guess I once identified with the desire to hold onto the thoughts that could hold me back (namely internalized transphobia and homophobia) because they lead me to feel desirable, or consumable. It isn't worth it. I like the way that she identifies that 'not being a thing' can be a place too. But at a certain point, I think that a desire to find a place in 'not being a thing' can still feed an obsession with the thing itself.
I was thinking about my November project on my way home from work today, and when I got home I was happy to see that my supplies had arrived in the mail. I spent the afternoon into the evening with one of my roommates, and listened to his stories about his childhood while I made dinner. I bought the same clearance alfredo sauce as my new work friend. My roommate gave me a bowl of fresh pineapple chunks before I went upstairs to start on the project. I feel a deep sense of comfort with my two roommates, and am pleased with my decision to live here with them. I spent a couple hours this evening stitching a grid with 10x10 count boxes to make the stitching process easier. This grid is a temporary guide and will be removed when the work is done, or maybe before then—we'll see.
I would like to let go of where my circling thoughts about my life become obsession. I think that often when I'm trying to work something out again and again I am holding myself back from the experiences that could push me forward. I want for Molten Heart to be a celebration. I want to tell the people I love that I love them. I want to say hello to a new coworker when I feel the desire to make that connection. I want to give vehement yeses for pineapple chunks. I want to call my family when I miss them, or before that, too. I want to correct people who misgender me. I want to share with confidence that I am both a lesbian and a gay guy, and likely some other things as well. Learning to hold boundaries can be about learning to hold them in my own space, too, for me.