Anxiety, or A Series of Affirmations

I woke up today tired of dealing with people who don’t understand that I can read between the lines even if they don’t sign an email. Or that I always forget the difference between “HHOJ” and “HHOS” or any of the other damn TLAs we use.

Yeah, there are a lot of them. Yeah. I know. I know I ask first instead of relying on Google-fu.

But you didn’t Google me first. You didn’t RTFM. Did you? Or did we talk about that?

I know my tastes in VCS make me a little different than the rest of the team, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know them. It just makes me… different.

Different.

Right?

That was my word, not yours, wasn’t it?

I mean, it’s not like git could rewrite our history.

Could it? Do we want it to? Do I want it to? Did you want it to?

Shit.

Yeah, I worry over misplaced semicolons sometimes. There might be a reason for that. Respect that.

You did respect that, right?

I mean, I respected that.

Didn’t I? I’m pretty sure I did.

Well, as pretty sure as I can be…

You know, human memories aren’t…

sigh

There I go again. It’s not like I don’t have a mouth. I’m pretty sure I didn’t scream. I’m pretty sure…

I have to remember that it’s time for another day at the office.

Some days I wear a black hat because it matches my jacket, not because I plan on stabbing anyone. Even if I feel like someone deserves it.

Even if that someone was you.

Social signaling, motherfuckers! Do you speak it?

I mean, you did speak it.

Didn’t you? It’s so hard to remember… sometimes.

I know we’re all busy people. Just because my issues aren’t instantly obvious doesn’t mean I don’t feel deserving of respect.

Re-fucking-spect.

I asked for that. I made it clear. I know I…

Ok, yeah. Not so PC. I get it. You’re probably right.

Wait. Let’s try again.

I understand why it was different when my grandfather made fag jokes. I understand why it’s different when the head of the studio does. I understand why it was different when the professor did. And I understand why it is different when you do.

Did you ever understand that?

No matter. Nevermind.

My anger and frustration don’t make me crazy. That asshole at the easel didn’t make me crazy. No single comment about “weirdo trannies” made me feel like this. They all did.

And they all didn’t.

Or maybe both?

Fuck. That wasn’t my word. It was weasel, wasn’t it? OK. Yeah. Try again.

My emotions makes me motivated. They make me focused. They make me concentrate on where to strike.

And I can choose when I do.

And I can choose when I don’t.

Did you?

No, I do not like to say “well, actually…” if it means talking over people. But if you think that means I don’t know self-defense, then you may be mistaken.

You are mistaken? You were mistaken? Something… OK. Not me. You’re right.

I never want to hurt people again. That doesn’t mean I don’t grok “when.” And that doesn’t mean I can’t break bones. It means I get to choose.

I am happy to casually talk politics. But I’d treat a conversation with weev where someone asks me if I have a wide stance very differently than I would one at a moot.

Don’t pretend that you don’t understand that.

Don’t pretend that this makes me evil.

Yeah, I know grok. Yeah, I know frob. Yeah, I know yiff. We both know Jedi. We both know…

Knew? Know. Funny how words stick. I think it was Sith? Sure.

No, I don’t think knowing these things makes either of us vile. Of course it’s OK to ask for that. You can alway…

Could always? Are you sure? I really don’t want to start over another… OK. My voice.

Gotcha.

I do think we ought to respect each other. And ourselves. We can do that.

Can.

Ca-ca-ca-

OK.

Not PC. But still Me.

I work hard to channel my anger, to focus my frustration. I know when I will rage. I feel out my golden path. That makes me strong.

That makes me weak.

That makes me neither.

And it shouldn’t have to matter. Not even to you.

I think. I feel. I perceive. These are all parts of me, but none of them are all of me. None of them are weak. None of them are strong.

I know when what I do will make makeup run. I know when what I do will make me look like a sissy. Or you.

I don’t expect you to. I didn’t? I don’t.

But I do expect that experts in their fields will understand why I don’t like doctors of philosophy telling me I don’t know hawks from handsaws.

And I expect that of you, too. Expected?

I wear black hats because they are cute. I wear black hats because friends have died. I wear black hats because I want to.

And that’s ok. Even if I never ask you. Never?

I know the show you learned about this hat from. I mean, we watched it together. We did that. I remember clearly.

But that doesn’t mean I have to accept questions about how well I cook from the likes of…

OK. OK. Calmer. It’s a process. Process. A race, but not a sprint.

I do not have to knock to know my strength. I do not have to feel this way every day to know my weakness. I do not have to say this. I do not have to feel that this is strength, nor weakness, nor anything related to any of that.

I know that it is neither. I know that it is both. And that ought to be enough, even for you.

I do not ask you to understand. Just that you respect.

You did that, right? Do that? I mean, I’m not an idiot… you weren’t?

Yeah. OK. That is funny because I’m the American. Yeah. It’s OK for that to be funny.

My CV is not me. My resume is not me. My website is not me. None of them need to say I understand little deaths for me to know the phrase. Or for you to know it. For us to know it.

I do not need a vacation right now. I do not need special breaks right now.

But I demand the freedom to walk my path as I see fit. And I hope you can recognize that.

I understand that “integration issues” is a series of characters. I understand that “linear combinations of finite-dimensional vector spaces” is one too. And I know why they are different. And I know why merely permuting them may not change them enough to matter.

I understand what it takes to testify about these things in a court of law. Knowing that these are different makes me me. Even if you asked me to testi—

Testif… Testic? OK. OK. Moving on.

I don’t have to say these things every day for them to be true. I just don’t. I can be who I am without it.

No, I don’t want to talk in court today. But don’t think that means I can’t. I could. Even if it meant talking to you again.

I do not care if you didn’t realize how much weight I lost. I still know that “you look good” from a therapist means something. And it means something else from you.

Meant? Sorry. I guess I’m getting lost again. Just like me, losing the plot. Right? OK. Popping that stack.

Yes, I know “pumping lemma.” Yes, I made that joke too. That doesn’t mean I think I have to look like I lift to know what I do.

I do not care why you ingest this chemical, nor how, not why. I do not care where you keep it. But I do know why it matters when you ask.

Do you?

I need not be Heisenberg to know this chemical.

I need not be tough to know what it stains. I know. And that is enough for now. I never have to knock. I never have to push. I never have to pull. I choose. I edit. That is enough. Right?

It is enough.

It is enough, even if I spell it E-N-O-U-G-H or “dayenu” or “דַּיֵּנוּ” or however I feel like today.

I need not cite Chomsky, though I may. That does not change what I know. Just feeling that “αAβ → αγβ” can, should, and will be enough for today.

Do not presume I do not know what “kisses as it bites.” Do not presume I don’t know why some names matter. Don’t presume I can’t “smash stacks.” Don’t presume I forgot what that third beer tasted like.

I could. I can. I did. I do.

But I choose not to.

I do not expect you to know my software; I merely expect yours to function.

I do not expect you to know my hardware; I expect you to treat mine with respect.

I do not expect you to know “métis;” I expect you to not mind if I am. I do not expect you to know rage; I expect you to understand my request for distance. And I expect you to know why it’s OK to call me that in scene but no—

Shit. OK. My words. My voice. My anger. My feelings.

I do not expect you to know loss; I expect you to know that I may. I do not expect you to know how it felt to get dragged through hedges; I expect that you trust me to say how it felt. I…

I. I. I. Aye? Eye? Transparency? OK. Not Emerson. Just me.

I do not expect you to know mudblood; I expect you to respect me anyway. I do not expect you to understand me, or Twitter, or Facebook, or literature, or software. I don’t care if our issues were wetware or dryware or self-aware. I may have then. But today?

Today I merely ask that you respect my ability to edit. To revise. To iterate. And to do so quietly if that is what I need.

I do not need this to be published. I do not need this to be filed. I do not need this to be stamped. I do not need this to be indexed. I need not be a prisoner to this feeling nor any other.

But I need my time. My space. My rooms. My metaphors. And I believe that you do too.

I do not need to be Rich to be published. I do not need to be Wilde to be a person. I do not need to be anyone else. It is enough that I am. I am not Sisko, nor Silko, nor sicko, nor any of the names you called me.

Nor would it matter if I were.

My decisions matter. My beliefs matter. My ceremonies matter.

And so do yours.