New People and the Resulting Annoyances

I have been meeting a lot of new people lately. We are more than halfway through the semester and it feels like I have had a tidal wave of new students looking for a reliable multi-divisional tutor so I have had my free time eaten up by working with students (or working through the newer textbooks myself just to make sure that I am up-to-date on my information). At the main job, the fall temps are leaving come November and the new temps are coming in for the winter, which is still essentially a skeleton staff since our events are highly concentrated around the holidays and then nothing for months. They've also been sending me to dance classes to refresh and learn new things. It sounds silly, but it's been very helpful, and I've been pushing for it for a long time since I am their only full-time performer and that kind of makes me the star of the show (which is the lie I tell myself to make me feel better about my job, which is actually not a bad job, but I am so deeply ashamed of it). And then I've been trying to get familiar with my future students at the new dance studio, sitting in on classes or guest teaching when I am able.

There are many new people in my life. And new people mean a bunch of different things: more anxiety, more bullshit, more explanations I need to make, more nasty comments. I've been bracing myself and my family's been scolding me for being so tense lately. But surprisingly, most people have been pretty good, pretty accepting. By general rule too, the younger the person, the better they are about it. My future students have all been good, a couple asked if my scars hurt or how I got them. New temps have been annoying, but they always are, mostly because I'm in makeup a lot so they don't see them right away and then they act all shocked and horrified because they didn't know. But one new guy is being exceptionally obnoxious and trying to spread the rumor that they're self-inflicted for sympathy (and I say "trying" because fortunately everyone knows me well enough to know better). My students usually find me through Dad so they already know what they're getting into with me. But it's the 40+ yr olds that can't behave themselves or keep their mouths shut.

I can't even keep track about how many say really nasty things about me while I am STANDING RIGHT THERE. How I shouldn't be allowed out in public. How they won't take a class if I'm teaching it because they can't take me seriously. How I should have the decency to get "some kind of surgery.' How no one could be expected to look at me for a whole class period. Really nasty things. It's like high school all over again. People have no boundaries either. One guy grabbed my face a few nights ago when I was teaching foxtrot (adult group) as a guest teacher (regular had an emergency) to see if they were real and what they felt like. First of all, I have to know you and like you to let you touch me and secondly, you don't touch my face unless I consider you family, and that's a grand total of five people. Needless to say, this guy is not one of them. I almost decked him. He got pissed off at me though when I pulled away and told him that wasn't acceptable, not to do it again. He made a complaint. Fortunately, the studio sided with me but I'm already getting complaints before I even start working there as a regular and I'm already rather stressed thinking that the studio will reconsider my job (and of course they will if I make enough people complain about me, if only because they're uncomfortable looking at me or can't keep their hands to themselves, ugh for customer-is-always-right mentality). And if these people sign up for my classes, I can't say no. And if these people go to the management and say that they won't sign up for my classes because of me, then I really may lose my job, even if it's not my fault.

Like I said, new people = stress. And I should be really happy. I have a plan for the next year to keep a relatively steady income and yet.... The bullshit. I'm so tired of it.

Being Emo and I Apologize

I had the movie The Elephant Man on tonight last night. Dea came home towards the end and stopped in the doorway. She knows it is one of the movies that I don’t watch so much as cry-my-way-through. And she asked, point blank, “why do you do it to yourself?”

And it’s a valid question, I suppose. I don’t know why I do it to myself. Masochism? Catharsis? Maybe I just need permission to cry. No idea.

There are select movies that can cause me to weep through them. I love them, but they cannot be watched very often. I only put them on when I need to work something out of my system. And my watching is not limited because I weep uncontrollably, but because they do something to me, alter me for a little while. I get extremely introspective. It's almost like defragmenting myself. I do a self-assessment. I explore all those negative sectors. It takes a while. When I'm done, I'm better for it, a little more organized, possessing a little better perspective. But to get to the better end, I fall apart, mentally, emotionally.

When I went to bed last night, I was still in this highly vulnerable state. And Dea, angel that she is, came in to check on me. She settled herself beside me, her arm over me, her head against my chest, and I broke down and cried at her for who knows how long, interrupted only by my profuse apologizing. I'm not even sure what I was crying about, if I was crying about anything specific, or if I was apologizing for crying or for something else entirely.

She ended up spending the night (all completely chaste). I woke to her, still wrapped up in my arms, still sleeping. And I felt so much better. And so much worse. And I wanted to weep all over again. For all that love and all that trust, no matter how equally matched we are in both for each other, I don't feel worthy of it. I don't think we idolize each other. I think we are both too aware of each other's faults to consider even thinking of each other as paragons. But she adores me in a way I cannot comprehend because I'm not exceptional in any way, not extremely talented, not extremely patient, not even extremely kind.

For all that I am older and stronger than she and the most responsible member of the household, I'm not very good at this life-thing. I blunder my way through it. I pretend at confidence. I fake joy. Even when I am closest to bliss, like this morning with her contentedly beside me, I ache with an inexplicable misery. And it sounds so emo, I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I know how to be happy. I am sure I have the potential to be, but I don't know how to access it. And maybe that's why I watch films that destroy me, because I'm looking for something I cannot find so it's better to take it all apart and sort through it one item at a time.

A Few Inarticulate Thoughts on the 2012 L'Homme Qui Rit

anonymous said:

How do you feel about the newest l'homme qui rit?

I know you sent me this question last week, anon, and I apologize for not answering sooner. I have a lot to say and yet no words have been readily available, but I figured that I had dallied long enough. When I have a better and more eloquent answer, I will be certain to let you know.

I’m assuming you mean the 2012 film? (There have been many stage productions in recent years including the Russian musical so if you meant one of those, I’m sorry that I misunderstood. And, if you did mean the Russian musical, let’s talk off anon because I don’t know anyone who has seen it yet.) And I reblog things about the 2012 movie, but I know I don’t talk about it quite as much as I could or perhaps should.

It’s not because I don’t appreciate it. I do. I have seen it quite a few times, a great deal more times than anyone knows about. I treat it a bit like contraband, relegating my watching habits to when I have the apartment alone because it sets me off for days, to the point that, for well over the past year when I have been moody or unusually melancholy, the first question is always “what’s wrong?” followed immediately by, “you didn’t watch l’homme qui rit again, did you?”

The first time I saw it was with my love. She knew that I had been waiting for it to come out and she’s the one who studies French in this household, so it made sense to experience it together. We cuddled on the couch as it played. She had tears in her eyes by the end. Meanwhile I had spent the whole movie silently weeping into her hair. Not my finest few hours.

I could write a great deal about how I feel about it, and maybe I will eventually when I am capable of processing it without being so profoundly affected. While it is not the most book-accurate, it is the most vicious version, not due to the tragedy of the story set as a fairy tale but in the small incidental ways that are more than rooted in reality. When he spills the wine on himself while drinking for example, it is not secondhand embarrassment or even the resulting laughter from those attending his fête that makes me lose it (yet again). Some people carry pens or breath mints or band aids wherever they go; I carry straws with me because I will spill otherwise. And no other version illustrates these daily realities and difficulties or offers this brief and brutal exposure of insecurities quite like this version. There’s a real and terrifying humanity at play. And it’s painful. And it’s beautiful. And it’s cruel.

All Backbone and No Apologies

anonymous asked:

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?

How to Avoid Looking Like a "Horrible Person" When You Meet Me (or anyone else with a facial difference)

anonymous asked:

I'm hanging out with a friend and some of her friends in a few days and one of them has a port wine stain over most of his face. I've seen pictures of him on facebook and I still think he's hot even with it. But I'm terrified about meeting him because of this huge crush and I've never met anyone with a facial mark and I'm afraid I'll act awful without meaning to. What advice could you give so that I won't look like a horrible person?

This is a good question, and although I understand why you’re on anonymous to ask it, I wish more people did. I can’t say that I’m the highest or best authority in these matters (so anyone who can discuss this with the wisdom of experience, please feel free to contribute), but I will do my best to be helpful.

It sounds like you’re already quite interested in this guy and it’s great that you’re not going to let a birthmark, that might be considered a physical deterrent to others, diminish that interest. But please, please please please, and I cannot stress this enough, do NOT create a personality for him before you meet him (and this is general life advice too, but…). Now, if you’ve already started building up a personality for him based on your assumptions, you aren’t a terrible person but throw it away. People take a look at someone and instantly begin assuming things about them — it is human nature. They size them up, figure them out, decide if they are worthy of getting to know in-depth or not. Are there cultural influences, gender cues, ethnic associations, religious indications, etc etc etc? It takes us seconds, less than seconds, moments, to compile a cursory profile… and then we build upon it with our own little imaginings.

With me, a lot of people come to the conclusion that I am shy, quiet, extremely serious, timid, and that I have nil for self-esteem. I know it is because of the scarring since, when people look at me, that’s all they see (how I know that as certainly as I know it is for a whole other discussion). And when they see it, they think (I paraphrase here to condense the multitude of responses I have received to this question), “That poor man probably doesn’t want to show his face, probably wants to hide somewhere, probably won’t speak up because he will be noticed, probably has been hardened by how dreadful his life must be, and really, who could blame him when he looks like that?” And then they meet me. At first, yes, I am extremely reserved, but not because I’m shy. It’s because I’m anxious at not knowing how I will be perceived and treated. Once I feel safe, I’m silly, extremely vocal, possessing a healthy dose of confidence, and yes, I look in the mirror every day and hate what I see, but I don’t think that I, as a person, am half bad. And, as it turns out, I have devastatingly, but accidentally, disappointed people who have formed fanciful crushes on me because I did not live up to their brooding moody beast of fairy tale expectation.

As for his appearance, if you feel moved to tell him that you find him “hot,” I would caution you not to phrase it as you did in your question to me. In the most basic, unadorned way, people cannot help what they look like, and no one wants to be told that the thing they cannot control is the detractor. Please don’t make it sound like his birthmark is a hurdle (that you can surmount or not is immaterial) to his natural attractiveness, i.e. do not tell him that he is attractive in spite of it.

Also, do not tell him that he is attractive because of it either. This goes a little hand-in-hand with making up a personality based on a facial feature. Saying attractiveness is because of said feature sort of commodifies it. It’s saying that the feature is essentially the most important thing about that person and that, were it not there, you wouldn’t be interested. It isn’t objectifying so much as turning that feature, which may well be one of their most personal sensitivities, into a fetishistic feature which is never a good thing.

Keeping all of this in mind… when you meet him finally….

It’s really easy to say “treat him like you would anyone else,” but much harder in practice, right? Because you’re crushing on him and you’re dealing with something you’ve never had to deal with before, even if you know, deep down, it isn’t anything weird or different or dangerous. But don’t worry, a lot of people freeze up or do something that’s not ideal, not because they’re bad people, but because they are going through the same experience of not knowing what to do.

When most people meet me, they will not look me in the eyes and while it is such a small thing, it really says a lot about how uncomfortable they are, all the while sending the signal that I don’t merit their attention (which in turn makes me feel like I’m bothering them and that I should probably excuse myself so that they are no longer uncomfortable). So, when you meet the guy, look him in the eyes. Don’t meet his eyes and then look away. Look him in the eyes and keep the contact for as long as you’re interacting with him. Don’t look down. Don’t look at an ear. Don’t turn to your friend while you’re talking to him.

Also, be honest about your experience. If you do freeze up or say something you think is horribly insensitive or you do something you think might be interpreted as being unfriendly, go for honesty… maybe not about your crush but for those of us who get a lot of negative reactions, being told that you’re just unsure how to act and that you do not want to be insensitive is completely acceptable. But don’t make the admission about your comfort — make it about his. Apologise, ask him if there’s anything that would make him comfortable, and if he’s willing, ask him things about it (provided that you do so in a kind and respectful way). Granted, we’re people and not all about our facial differences, but what’s the first thing we see on other people? Their faces, and it’s better to address it openly and honestly than to pretend its not there.

Hope this helped a little?

Best of luck to you with your crush!

It's Never Been About Being Ugly

It's no secret that I'm really self-conscious about how I look, at least not to people who know me. And to those who don't know me, I don't try to hide my insecurities although the internet makes it easier to pretend that I am much more comfortable in my skin than I actually am. But the thing is, my self-consciousness has never been a matter of ugliness.

There has always been a great degree of honesty in my family and we speak frankly with each other. We have a policy of Brutal Honesty, because if the ones you love tell you the hardest things to hear, no one else can ever hurt you with the truth. That, paired with the fact that I have had my whole life to think about it and to understand my situation, means that I have a rather intimate understanding about where my self-consciousness and insecurities come from and why I have them. And I am also quite certain that it is not because I am ugly. I know for a fact that I am not.

I hate looking at myself, it's true, but for far more subtle reasons than just what can be summed up under the word "ugly."  "Ugly" is used commonly as a catch-all term for something that aesthetically makes us uncomfortable, but in truth, it's merely a word to describe something unpleasant, not something uncomfortable. Sure, I am not the least bit photogenic and despite being closer to thirty than I would like to admit to, I still look like a boy of sixteen (and with the same amount of pathetic patchy facial hair as a twelve-year-old).

But overall, I don't think the general package is too bad. I am aware of being incredibly blessed. I am healthy, have the use of all my limbs, and possess all of my senses. I am reminded of this every day since I live with someone who is blind. And for as vibrant and independent as Dea is, I am certain that I have the much lesser burden. Like anyone, I wish I could make changes to myself. I dislike my hands. They're squat and square and calloused all over the palms from work. I wish my hair was thicker and fully black rather than its natural brownish-blackish-can't-decide-on-a-color. I wish I were taller. I wish my face were a little less round. I cannot change any of these things though, and for what I have, I think it's pretty good.

Sometimes when I see pictures of myself, a thing which I have done extensively over the past week out of some hope to cure me of some of my insecurity, I have the fleeting thought that (I suppose going hand-in-hand with thinking that I look like a teenager) I could be a pretty guy without the scarring, like... genuinely pretty (side note: I don't understand why people think "pretty boy" is an insult. Hell, if someone wanted to tell me I was a pretty guy, I'd be very happy). The scarring however.... that's a nuanced and loaded subject.

When I think about the scars, my immediate reaction is frustration and anger. I have so much of it, but I know it's reactionary to the way they hurt me. Physically, they are not painful and any recollection of the initial pain has completely faded from my memory. At the most, they are uncomfortable on occasion when they pull. They only hurt in the small pernicious ways.

I hold the belief that scars should only ever be considered as documentation at having lived, having experienced life, having it written on your body. But most scars are the results of accidents or of medical necessity. In my case, mine are neither of these kinds. They were deliberately inflicted and done with no apparent intention other than to deface me. I don't remember a time in my life when I didn't have a permanent smile. And knowing that someone did this to me, with full knowledge of what they were doing and doing to a child... that is the most difficult piece to live with.

And it makes me wonder, who could have hated me so much to do this?

And the tragedy, the cruelty, of it is not that is has made me ugly, but that it has rendered me ridiculous. My face feels like someone's bad joke, something people cannot take seriously, something worthy of derision. And for this, I have become so deeply ashamed of my appearance. It's not the ugliness but the shame that hurts so badly.

I think perhaps having just been ugly might have been better.