Why is it easier to write about pain than my queer joy?
Writing is a fulfilling form of creation that sometimes comes with feelings of restriction.
Am I ready to say this?
Is the world ready to know this about me?
Am I ready to know this about myself?
Some days it feels easy to report on my heartaches and hopes for the future. Other days it feels too real….too vulnerable to share what’s been happening in real time.
I spent a lot of my life in spaces where my voice felt altered and suppressed.
Writing and posting online has been a liberating experience for my self expression that laid dormant until my 20s. I lived most of my childhood and teenager years with repressed anger.
Between my undiagnosed sensory processing disorder and unacknowledged trauma….I was really angry growing up.
Teenagers scare the living shit out of me fr fr.
No wonder I screamed “I hate you” throughout my household when I deemed my experience as unfair (it was).
Writing helps me honor the rage that lives within.
I’ve had a really good couple of weeks which has been unexpected.
My apartment flooded a few weeks ago and I’ve been apartment hunting again.
I’ve moved closer to Denver and didn’t have to pay April rent. This means I had some space to actually have some fucking fun.
I’ve been staying out until 3am kissing people again. Some kisses exciting and others tasting a little bit like regret the next day.
I’ve been meeting more queer people and intentionally putting myself in queer spaces.
Aka queer bars and burlesque shows.
There were two parts of me showing up to write my blog this week.
The first part of me: “Let’s give them the sexy deets and not hold back!!!!”
The other part of me: “I’m not ready to share yet. Let’s protect these experiences.”
I want to give you the details of my queer joy the past week….yet I feel nervous.
I’ve laughed more recently.
I’m coming alive…..
My queer joy is turning back on.
Shouldn’t I want to share my joy more willingly than the pain I experience?
I realize that sharing the dark, shadowy parts has somehow become easier for me. Transmuting my pain into art feels more accessible.
Writing about a new sexual partner offering me ice cream as a form of aftercare…feels tougher.
I feel nervous writing about my hopefulness in great detail.
It’s interesting how healing, joyful experiences feel harder to creatively express.
I want to write about how I reconnected with a familiar face and how healing that was for the two of us.
What if I told you more about these two healing experiences?
What if….
What if I told you more about the former lover who held my face in a Colorado brewery and said, “It will always be you.”
Maybe I am telling you that.
Maybe I’m just a tease in my writing.
Maybe my level of description is good enough for now.
You probably get the point.
I’m telling you but I’m not. I’m leaving the explicits out….for now.
You can have a little but not the whole scene.
Why?
I don’t know.
I guess I need to warm up to this new version of myself.
Maybe I’m saying everything that needs to be said for now.
Maybe I’m scared if I share with the internet then my joy will be real. Tangible.
If my positive experiences are truly happening then there’s meaning making.
A story to share.
A story with a beginning, middle, and an inevitable end.
If I share then maybe I’ll reclaim my sexuality that’s been hibernating for the last 7 months.
Maybe if I write the truth then my self perception will change.
I’m no longer celibate.
I’m no longer in the mountains licking my wounds.
I no longer ache in the way I was this winter or the winter before that.
My story is changing from the lonely, bisexual girl who’s stuck in the past.
I’m metamorphosing into something more. Someone else.
Maybe I’ll start to see who I’ve truly been this whole time.
I only need some more time and space to reintroduce myself to myself first.
I’m ready to feel into this new version of Morgan.
I’m just not sure if I’m ready to be seen as her by you….quite yet.