These are a few

Validation.

Acceptance,

Care,

Concern,

Worth,

Worry,

Pride,

Happiness,

Importance.

Thank you, Diana. 

You are a truly great friend and a wonderful person. 

I wish I could remember all the time how you feel for me. 

And I wish that I could adequately express my affection and love for you. 

Justice, Sort of. [TW: child molestation, incest]

About a week ago, maybe a little bit longer than that my sister told me something important. We were talking on the phone like we do every so often and she tells me- she says that our dad has told her that our uncle is in jail for child molestation.
I didn't feel anything, at first. Or so I thought. It was like suddenly there was this great big nothing pursuing me. It was a strange feeling but I intellectually I knew it was a good one. See, my uncle molested me when a was young. It made me feel so betrayed by my family and so hurt that I couldn't really ever trust them because not only did they let it happen to me but they were the ones who did it. For so long I have been so angry and so scared and so hurt and and so untrusting of everyone I love that it was impossible, really, for me to feel and be close to someone in a healthy way that didn't lead to me running away or ruining it. Because I was so angry, because I was so hurt, because I couldn't trust in people, because I was always afraid. Because I never got justice.
I never wanted revenge. I just wanted justice. I wanted him to know that what he did was wrong and that society wouldn't stand for it. I wanted him to pay for his crimes justly. I wanted it so that it would ever be that much harder to hurt another child again. I wanted there to be people who watched him and knew him for what he was. I wanted him to be punished for his crimes in accordance with the laws of our society.
And now he has.
After about five minutes googling his name and various phrases I found him. He's on the Megan's Law website of California. His address is known and he is known for the evil that he has done. It's a terrible thing that he had to hurt another child to be caught but caught he has been and he is being watched.
But since I've found out I've noticed some strange changes in myself.
I remember feeling this piecing sensation like a knife was being removed when I found his image on the MLoC site. It felt as if an old and cankerous wound had finally had the barb that had been festering in it removed. I didn't feel free. I didn't feel elated. I was momentarily terrified like a patient before an operation but once I looked at it and confirmed it was him and read all of the information they had I felt so much better. It felt like I had just woken up from anesthesia and the doctor was telling me my prognosis was good, that they'd removed most of the black cancerous tumors of hatred, anger, and fear that had been filling my body.
I felt lighter and it was like suddenly those things I feared when I turned off the light or walked up the stairs at night or sat alone at home were mere whispering vapors.
It wasn't so much that I was suddenly free and glad of it because I still feel angry and scared and don't trust easily and I'm still hurt by what my family did to me but it's lessened now. It's like I know I can defeat it now instead of just faking like I can.
It's as if all of those things I feared are no longer these undead things that grip the back of my skull and whisper terrible fears into my ears. They're intangible now. They can't touch me anymore. I can see them and I can laugh at them and walk away and they fall farther and farther behind me, rotting and dropping to the ground like the remnants they are.
Because justice is no longer an abstract thing but a reality, firm in my life as these demons that plagued me were.

I'm not saying they're entirely gone because they're not. I'm still angry. I'm still hurt. I'm still afraid. I'm still untrusting. But it's easier now to deal with it. It's like they've gotten weaker and I've gotten stronger simply because out there was someone who cared enough about a child to say 'hey, this is wrong. This man shouldn't be able to get away with what he's done.' And yeah, it wasn't for me that this was done, and more children had to get hurt for it to happen but it did happen. It's possible for there to be justice where there is evil.
And that is the most comforting and therapeutic thing that could have happened for me.
The man who hurt me is being dealt with. He has been told that what he did was wrong and that he won't get away with it anymore. I am not irrational. I am not alone. I am not unjustified in being angry or hurt or afraid. What happened to me was wrong and the monster who did it is being watched.

Groundhog's Day

“Another Day Sunrise”

Another day sunrise

Moments before dawn

Sails set

Friends depart

But they are not gone.

That was written by my Uncle Stephen who was the greatest man I ever knew.

On February 1, 1952 one of the most important men in my life was born. 

He had thin red hair and a slow steady gait. 

In his office he had gadgets and do-dads and bits and bobbles. 

In his kitchen he had an armada of little model houses.

In his dining room he had glass shelves covered in Star Trek memorabilia.

In his living room he had wind-up music boxes and the world’s largest collection of B-rated science fiction films all stored in brown boxes with thin faded black text describing the movie and some facts about filming.

In his life he lived simple and relatively lonely. He never married. He didn’t have many friends. What he did have were nephews and nieces that he treated like treasured plants. Plants that would look pretty damn badass with a machete and possibly a katana in some pictures. 

In his actions he was direct. He had honesty in spades. He showed me that solitude was not sadness. That finding the silly in the mundane was amazing. That making doo-dads even if they didn’t work was a great thing. That label makers had many uses.

On March 22, 2004 he died at his kitchen table. It took several days for him to be found. His baby sister who lived less than five miles away refused to drive to his house and see if he was alright. The same sister held his funeral in a Chapel with a pastor presiding. This same sister talked of God and what “Stephen would have wanted.” She said he would have loved the violin. She said a lot of things on his behalf. 

I sat for what felt like eternity listening to what she and others said on his behalf. I listened to my brother cry his way through an Edgar Allen Poe poem that he had spent days searching for. I listened to this pastor talk about heaven and hope and the ending of lives. I sat there and cried and looked at this blown up portrait of him. I sat there and thought about how he didn’t like green or red foods and how he always went to Al’s Pancake Palace and the waitress would bring him an iced tea without asking. I thought about the sweat stain in his truck’s front seat that was dark and pungent that I never wanted to touch. 

I thought about how he always made me try new foods and the careful way he went through every row at the Dollar Store. I thought about the time he took me and my brother to the park and tried to play a camera trick so it looked like we had jumped over a huge stone. I thought about the times he took us to the birdcage movies and how at the arcade he always played Space Invaders. 

I thought about all of these things while sitting next to the man who molested me when I was younger and listening to the woman who told me awful things about my whore mother. I thought about all of these things and I got angry and tearful. I thought about all of the cruel and meaningless things the people on the pew set aside for family had done and I was so angry.

Angry that these people had the right to talk on behalf of the one good man in my life. Angry that the pedophile still lived while the greatest man I knew had died. Angry that they had such a right and the privilege to stand there and tell us all what Stephen wanted, who Stephen was. I sat there and burned on the inside and listened to their lies and their legitimate grief and hated. 

I hated the chapel. I hated the pastor. I hated the violin. I hated Stephen’s brothers. I hated his sisters. I hated his friends. I hated everything except that picture. That ridiculously huge picture that was nearly drowned out by the hideous bouquets of flowers around it. 

That night at Stephen’s wake I laughed when my drunk aunt gave me the shirt off her back. I laughed not because Stephen would have wanted me to but because I wanted me to and that, more than the pastor, the chapel, and the awful squeaking violin music is something I knew in my heart that Stephen would have appreciated. 

I will never do anything in his name or because he would have wanted me to because that would go against everything he taught me growing up. I am my own person and the best way I can honor him is to continue being my own person. Proudly and without fanfare, I will be myself. Not because he loved me for me or because he would want me to but because I loved him- love him and this is the best way I can show it. 

Uncle Stephen was the greatest man I knew and he died alone. He loved his toaster oven and worked on traffic lights for a living. His obituary stated he “will be loved” and he is.  

In his words, “I’ve a feeling we’re all just a cornflake / Spilled loose from the box.”

This is something that has been bothering me for a while

The fact that while my orientation isn't well known it's already developed stereotypes that fuck up how I interact with others.
Because I'm asexual I must:

• Not like sex at all ever.
• Not like to talk about sex ever.
• Not like it when people check me out.
• Be uncomfortable around "sexuals."
• Never want to engage in sex at all.
• Have no desire or reason to have sex.
• Not be flirty at all for any reason.
• Never want to have sex with someone.

Holy fuck, people. Stop this. Just because I'm asexual doesn't mean any of those. The only thing being asexual means is that I do not experience sexual attraction. The rest of these purported traits are simply stereotypes. Not all gay men have sex indiscriminately. Not all heterosexual men only want women for sex. Not all asexuals lack a sex drive.

Putting in a page break to warn my sister that she may find the rest of this post awkward to read.

Tesk Rambles Because Tesk Can

I have problems remembering that my idealistic view of the world is not quite reality so that when someone does something that is entirely in their character but below what I expect from them I feel hurt, a little betrayed, and miserable. I know it's all my fault. I look at the world from a perspective that many people would call naive.


Because I am naive, in a way, really. I believe that everyone has in them the potential to be good. That everyone is inherently a good person but that societal expectations and personal grievances often overcome their good nature. I believe that everyone battles between wanting to be good and the easier ability to be bad. So when I interact with people I expect them to be good. I honestly believe they are. I feel they are capable of so very much and that they are trying to be a better person. I have hope in every single person that I meet and some that I never do.

This expectation- this faith in the people I know- has hurt me so much. I have spent so many days being miserable, being hurt, feeling betrayed by the people I love and the people I have hopes for and I will spend many more the same way. I wouldn't trade one miserable, forlorn day for an instant of expecting people to be less than they are capable of. I feel such a natural capacity for love and I don't want to dampen it, to let it wither away. I want to keep believing in people, in second chances, having faith in humanity, in my loved ones.

People make mistakes, they stumble, falter, fall, trip up, get upset, do things they know they shouldn't... I know they do. I do it to. I get terrified by things that most people spend their life chasing, I am scared so much, paranoid so often, hurt so habitually... My life has not been easy. At all. My life has been a stew of rot, mold, lies, treachery, betrayal, negligence, and a constant state of lacking. I have seen the worst in humanity. Raised by a murderer, birthed by a prostitute, left with a pederast, abandoned, starved, beaten, ignored, and betrayed repeatedly. My body is littered with the scars of a difficult life, my mind is a mass of them. I am so scared all the time. Afraid to have my back to doors, afraid to sleep in the open, afraid to speak too loud or too much, afraid to ask for what I want, terrified to depend on someone.

The majority of my friends are at least five years older than me. This isn't something I've done on purpose but a natural sort of gravity. I have always been old for my age. I get along better with older people. People my age just always seem so young, so free, so unburdened, so inexperienced and it bothers me. They bother me. Make me ache with an age I haven't earned, make me burn with this sort of jealousy for the easy life they have had. Sometimes they just frustrate me. I find these people my age who have gone through things like mine, maybe not so much or so severe or maybe they just had it hard in different ways and they're still so young, so free, so their age. Sometimes it has nothing to do with their maturity and more to do with their intelligence.

I am smart. I am. This isn't some egotistical statement brought about by a self-delusion but a conclusion arrived at by assessment of various factors. I am intelligent. There are people out there leagues beyond me and people out there at the same level as me that simply hold more general knowledge. I prefer to feel a bit stupid when I am in a group of people. I don't like to be the smartest person in the room. I like it when others know more than me. Now here is a distinction I draw: there are people out there who have had years and years more education than I, who have spent their lives in a higher socio-economic spectrum than me and thus have more knowledge- this does not make them more intelligent than me. More knowledgable, yes, and I appreciate that, but not more intelligent.

There are people out there who think that age and knowledge equate with a type of better-ness. This is not true. No one is my better. We humans are all equals. No one is better than another. I may not be their peer but I am always their equal. I always deserve the same level of respect. I always deserve to be treated like the equal I am. Any less than that and I cannot respect you as much as I once had. There is no better way to turn me off of you than to condescend to me, than to underestimate me because I am poor, because I am young, because I am not as educated. Especially if you know me. Strangers can be forgotten, they do not know better even though they should. But loved ones who do this hurt the most.

I have spent my life living under an enforced divide because of people who love me and as such believe it is ok to withhold things from me or to treat me different. Because I am female is no reason to treat me any differently. Because I am young is no reason to withhold things from me. Because I have not yet obtained a "proper" education is no reason to condescend to me.

I promise you that I have been torn up inside and out to such a degree that many people would not have survived. I have grown up in hell and I deserve the respect and regard that I should receive. I may be a woman. I may be young. I may be small and blond and bubbly and naive. But I can promise you that I am tougher than you think and I am stronger than you could believe. I have always survived and I will continue to do so. If you treat me like I am fragile, like I will break, like I can't handle things, then I can guarantee you that the only thing that will break is our relationship.

I can promise you something else, though: if you try, if you want to do better, if you recognize your mistakes and apologize for your wrong-doings then I will forgive. It may take me a while to trust again but if you come to me and try then I will try as well. I am human. I make mistakes. There are things I wish that I had done differently, people I have hurt that I wish I could mend, mistakes I have made that I desire strongly to correct. I understand what it's like to battle with those dark things inside and to lose. I know what it's like to give in to fears and insecurities when I know I shouldn't. So much of my life I spend afraid and fighting.

So yeah, maybe I am a fool. Maybe I am naive and maybe I let my hopes get too high but damn it, it's worth it. It's worth it to believe in the utter goodness of people. It's worth it to hope for the best. It's worth it to cling to some "idealistic" perspective. To me it's like loving. It's always worth it to love. Sometimes you get hurt. Sometimes you get broken. Sometimes love leaves you in a landfill of despair but it's always worth it. The pain is worth the trust, the warmth, the respect, the learning, the companionship.

Sometimes when you leap from tree branches you hit the ground (and every branch on the way down) but always when you leap you fly. Maybe briefly, maybe for a while, and sometimes if you're very lucky you leap and you just keep on soaring.

My Parents Were A Series Of Young Adult Books

My parents didn't teach me to be a good person. In reality, when it came down to where I learned the importance of truth, where I found the fibers to build my moral from, it was not my parents who gave me these tools. The people who raised me up to be the good (according to everyone who isn't me) and honest (according to most people who aren't me) person that I am were authors. J.K. Rowling taught me the importance of friendships and misrepresentation that people can build of others. Shakespeare taught me about the mercurial dangers of infatuation, what happens when you are dishonest when honesty would solve your problems, and the downfalls of doubting yourself too much. Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child taught me that being unusual was nothing bad and that my skills, however odd and derided they were, could be the most valuable asset I have. I could go on, really, for quite some time.

The thing I'm trying to say is that it wasn't my parents who raised me but the books I read, the movies I watched, the t.v. shows I followed, and the music I listened to. My friends, that is the ones who take enough time to observe me, realize I have an uncanny understanding of people and a force of mind that startles many. My critical thinking and creativity has usually far outstripped most people my age and this isn't because of my parents but because of what I've learned through reading, writing, listening, and observing the fiction of my culture.

From my parents I learned habits: laughing when I'm nervous, never making my bed, the way I stand, my constant checking of exits, and my inability to comfortable stand with my back to doors and large groups of people. From books (and other media) I learned that poor communication is the downfall of basically all relationships, the truth is usually a better option, everyone needs moderate social skills, what social skills are, how to stand up for myself, and that there is absolutely nothing wrong with not being like everybody else.

I have lived my whole life in the fictional world and I do not think that I would have been better off outside of it.