I feel like an impostor. I went to an LGBTQ support group today and every other person was a lesbian. That, in and of itself, isn't a bad thing. I've never felt more vulnerable, though. Well, "never" is harsh. But I'm protected as Dylan. I'm safe. I can joke about myself, withdraw into myself, perform with myself, drawing attention away from the "real." I can act as myself. When I distance myself from Dylan, I get further away from that safety. I'm not "myself," in a sense, and getting to understand the new self is a frightening process. But even more than that, I have to take myself seriously. I have to be vulnerable. I have to say "no more distance, no more hiding, this is who you are, intractable imperfections laid bare."
And if there was a litmus test, if there was a brain scan or DNA extraction procedure that I could point to and say "you test positive for XYZ" (pardon the pun) or whatever, I'd be ok. But instead it's all a murky world of if's and maybes and it's not so simple as kissing a girl and liking it. It's not so simple as ascertaining attraction. It's the deconstruction and reconstruction of identity, of self. It's a fundamental questioning of feelings so deep and devoid of conscious logic that I find myself swimming in darkness, thinking I know the way by the breeze but worried the wind's always shifting.
I haven't been this terrified of not being accepted since high school. I haven't been this self conscious since I was a shy introvert who always worried what others thought instead of a person who started gauging reactions instead of fearing the worst. Oh God, I can't take myself seriously, I can't. And yet I take her seriously. Dylan is a wry joke. Yes, she makes wry jokes but is herself sincere by virtue of legitimacy. She's beautiful and whole, and Dylan can be a shell, a skeleton, a twisted and crumpled figure that animates and slinks and is not to be taken seriously, in and of himself, because he knows he's just a game and a joke. Or, at least, he knows that's the way the game is played.
Who the hell am I? Dr. Jekyll, Mrs. Hyde.
And if there was a litmus test, if there was a brain scan or DNA extraction procedure that I could point to and say "you test positive for XYZ" (pardon the pun) or whatever, I'd be ok. But instead it's all a murky world of if's and maybes and it's not so simple as kissing a girl and liking it. It's not so simple as ascertaining attraction. It's the deconstruction and reconstruction of identity, of self. It's a fundamental questioning of feelings so deep and devoid of conscious logic that I find myself swimming in darkness, thinking I know the way by the breeze but worried the wind's always shifting.
I haven't been this terrified of not being accepted since high school. I haven't been this self conscious since I was a shy introvert who always worried what others thought instead of a person who started gauging reactions instead of fearing the worst. Oh God, I can't take myself seriously, I can't. And yet I take her seriously. Dylan is a wry joke. Yes, she makes wry jokes but is herself sincere by virtue of legitimacy. She's beautiful and whole, and Dylan can be a shell, a skeleton, a twisted and crumpled figure that animates and slinks and is not to be taken seriously, in and of himself, because he knows he's just a game and a joke. Or, at least, he knows that's the way the game is played.
Who the hell am I? Dr. Jekyll, Mrs. Hyde.
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