I've been catching your posts on and off (your posts, not reblogs and stuff although those are great too) and it seems like you go about living your life just like anyone else which is a good thing (right?). Where do you get your courage? Where does that bravery come from?
This is a question I get on occasion from people I meet or interact with in person, one of those things that gets asked after someone has spoken to me for more than half of an hour, but not much more. Because, at its surface, it seems like a really solicitous and admirable thing to ask, and by asking, it is implied that I embody the qualities of courage and bravery, both which are generally considered good and noble things to be. And for those people who would think I have them, I will be gracious and take the compliment. So, Anon, thank you.
At the center of the question, however, is also the implication that I have something I need to be courageous and brave about. And of course, when I say that to anyone who asks that question, they immediately respond, “but your scars…!” And yes, my scars indeed. They are completely unacceptable in society, hence the need for bravery and courage to go out in society at all, correct? And yet, should I be called brave and courageous for just doing what I should be able to do without remark? Perhaps instead, it is the unspoken rules that make me unacceptable to society that should be called out instead of my so-called courage and bravery.
Because, I will tell you the truth: I am not brave and I am not courageous. I am a terrible little coward who just tries to live his life as best he can if only because there is nothing else to be done. I hide my face behind a scarf in winter. I keep my hair on the longer side so that I can somewhat hide behind it the rest of the year. I like high-collared coats and jackets. I find unoccupied corners in public places, keep my face down when I don’t have to interact with anyone, and strategically hide my mouth with my hands while looking studious and deeply contemplative. On the bus to work, I always try to get a window seat so that I can pretend to be looking out when other people board. When I wash my hands in the bathroom, I won’t even look up into the mirror because I know what I’ll see looking back at me. I know I’m a cowardly little shit and I find reasons not to stray beyond the people and places with whom and where I am already familiar. But there are two reasons why I might appear to exhibit the fine qualities of courage and bravery that you think I do: necessity and fatigue.
Necessity is cruel. You know how you said that I ”go about living [my] life just like anyone else?” You know why that is? It’s because I don’t have a choice about it. I have to contribute to the household. I have to eat. I have a car I need to pay off. I have to have insurance for it. I need gas for the car. I need the bus pass for work since I don’t want to put too many miles on the car. I need the train pass if I want to continue my job interviews in The City. I need a little recreational time. And I need a way to pay for it all. So I work. So I go grocery shopping. So I take the bus and the train. So I walk places. So I go to the post office. So I go to the park. So I take Philandros for walks and play fetch with him. So I, surprise, live my life pretty ordinarily. I don’t have the luxury of being a shut-in, recluse, or agoraphobe. I leave the apartment and go out among humankind because I have to.
Fatigue is another of those annoying reasons why I don’t just hide myself away completely. Do you know how tiring it is feeling like I need to be ashamed and hide myself all the time? Let me assure you, it is damn tiring, not to mention demoralizing. I get tired of being treated poorly or just plain dismissed, of feeling guilty if my face makes someone else uncomfortable, or of being made to feel like I’m repulsive. It’s a constant effort of will not to get down on myself when I’m terrified people will look at me and, the horror, see. And while the discourtesy of others often gets me angry, I am not an angry person by nature and it quickly translates into weary resignation. Being treated like a plague victim is par for the course and it gets old. And because of it, some days I just wake up and think, “fuck that.” And I go out and do normal ordinary things and think, if someone doesn’t like it, sucks to be them. But those days aren’t frequent enough.
Of course, the real irony is that I know all of this quite clearly about myself, the cowardice, the insecurity, the extreme self-consciousness, and yet I am widely told that I am (not necessarily brave or courageous but) one of the most confident people [the people telling me this] have ever met, “all backbone and no apologies.” Admittedly, the confidence is so much more “fake it ‘til you make it” than real personal strength even if I do call people out on their bullshit when I have the opportunity, but I will agree that I have no apologies. Why should I when I should be able to, as you say, “go about living [my] life just like anyone else” without being called brave or courageous for doing so?
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