slurryofdreams
Rant Dumpster Supreme
My name is Roni and I'm either on top of the world or the dirt beneath my shoes.| non-binary | they/them | trixic || ENTP | 7w8 sp/sx/so |
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Gender isn’t a big deal to me. And I mean that both as a nonbinary person and as a pansexual.
Personally, it doesn’t matter to me if someone is a man, woman, or nonbinary. If I think they’re attractive, then I think they’re attractive. If I see someone and think “oh he/she’s hot” and it turns out they’re actually nonbinary, I’ll just go “oh THEY’RE hot”. No fuss, no worries. It doesn’t matter. Simple as that.
Though for a lot of people, it’s actually not that simple. They get confused about it. Sometimes they think it’s just the same as bisexuality, or that we just made up the label for attention, or that we’re more likely to cheat in a relationship, we’re always horny, etc, etc, etc.
That’s not it, though. Pansexuality is its own sexuality and it’s what we are. And we’re proud.
We deserve to be, after all.
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I wouldn’t say I have a lot of friends.
I keep telling people I’m actually an extrovert and that I’m just shy, but really, almost anyone who knows me will tell you I’m an introvert. I guess that makes me an ambivert then(?)
It’s not that I’m an antisocial grouch- it’s just that I can’t find any group of people where I can really say I belong. Cliques, social circles, whatever else there might be, they don’t stick to me so much. I mean, sure, I still have my old high school clique’s group chat (it’s muted, though) and a group chat full of all the people who were invited to a common friend’s debut once and I’ve made friends with some of the people there, but to have the same kind of loyalty and conformity that people expect from cliques? Nope. Get that away from me, I want nothing to do with it.
Though, despite all that, I still wish I have more friends than I do now. Or at least I wish I can get along with people better. Appear friendlier. More approachable. I just feel like I come off too cold and uncaring sometimes, but I can’t help it, I don’t want to fake anything either.
It’s really hard.
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Who are you when it’s
3 A.M., and you’re all alone?
We all have a front. An act that we put up when we’re around certain people, whether we want to admit that or not. It’s normal, really. We can’t act the same way with our best friend and our boss, right?
But I wonder, how much of our true selves do we try to maintain in all of these acts that we put up? Sure, there’s certain decorum we need to follow, but do we still have our own self in everything we give? Or do we just... follow?
Collectivist societies like these don’t really have much room for individualism. It’s hard, really, making our own when everyone else out there already has something to expect from you and it might not even be anything like how you actually are at all.
Does anyone know who we really are, then? Do we know who we really are? Beyond the roles we have to fill and the parts we have to play, if we were to strip ourselves of all of that, will there be something underneath that we can recognize and say “that’s me”?
For once, I would like to see.
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The Empress
Upright: abundance, creativity, nurturing, maternity
Reversed: Co-dependence, stagnation, domestic troubles
The Empress is a mother figure. From her springs forth life and she nurtures whatever it is she has created. She is the refuge of her children, the mother’s touch that soothes all hurt.
But while she takes our pain away, who takes away hers?
In this patriarchal society, mothers are under-appreciated. Some work full-time jobs and still have to go home to housework that they need to finish- while their husbands can already rest the minute they get home. Some only work part-time, either on their own accord or their husbands told them they need to, so that they have more time to spend with household matters. Some don’t even work at all, even when they want to, because their husbands won’t allow them.
What gives? Why do we treat mothers- and women in general- like this?
I’m no stranger to such oppressive systems. In fact, I was born out of it. My grandfather passed on the business to his male siblings instead of his wife, because the only role he saw fit for the women in the family was just domestic duties- keeping the warehouse clean, cooking and feeding the workers, etc. Imagine being treated like a second-class citizen among your own family members.
I see the same kind of attitude with my own father too, unfortunately. He throws fits when my mom needs to go to work but he needs her to stay at home and run errands for him- none of her business, mind you, but he insists. She’s his wife, after all. She’s supposed to support him
Whatever. Well, I can’t just say ‘whatever’ either, because my mom doesn’t even bother fighting back. Oh, no, she just lets him have his leeway. Even makes up excuses for him, to justify why he might be so mean.
I think it’s called being an asshole, but my mom says he’s just tired. Stressed. He needs patience.
Where’s that patience from him for us, though?
I’m tired of all this crap. I’m tired of being stuck with a bunch of nitwits who still abide by these outdated, misogynistic ways. I’m tired of seeing this Empress Reversed.
It’s about time we flip the cards.
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Above are pictures of my birthday cake from earlier this month. As a nonbinary person, I wanted my 18th birthday theme to be a gender reveal as my own subtle way of (finally) coming out to my family. The idea was simple: the cake would be like your typical gender reveal cake that isn’t really about gender but about the sex of the baby (and of course, the gender binary hoax), but when you cut into it, the layers are in the nonbinary flag colors.
I’m glad my mother let me follow through with the idea despite the looks she gave me and the reference picture I used for the outside of the cake. I know she doesn’t quite understand any of this- from why I chose that godforsaken sperm design to what exactly nonbinary means. I also know we probably won’t be able to talk about it soon either- confrontation doesn’t sit well in this household. And yet somehow, I get the feeling she’s trying to accept me anyway. Like how she respected my decision to not wear a dress to my cousin’s wedding last May. Or how she’s resigned to my habit of not wearing bras every time I go out. Or how while we were shopping for clothes, she asked me if I wanted to buy from either the men’s or women’s section.
I know my mother is very conservative. Maybe not so much as my father, but definitely still conservative. That’s what make these subtle little things mean so much. Years ago, she would have never even think about such things, but here she is, trying to make room in her headspace to accommodate these new ideas and terms that don’t really make sense, not to her at least, but they do to me and she knows that and that’s why she tries.
And I’m happy with that.
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Drift
Amidst places of yearning
That never fulfill
Or backstreet canals
Filled with garbage molehills
Where do the people run
Where’s this place called home?
Because I, I never knew
Where I really belong
To the blankets of warmth
Ends the bitter night
And yet by subtle knowledge
It never felt right
Violent war cries
From these labyrinthine halls
Hidden traps and subtle schemes
That stifle freedom’s calls
So then you drift as vagrant
Follow the lonely sun
Because what else do you know
Except how to run?
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Borderline Happy|Borderline Sad
Feelings are weird little things.
They can take you to soaring highs or the darkest depths, sometimes all at once and it’s frightening. Feelings are our friends, or at least they’re supposed to be. It’s hard to believe that sometimes, though. Friends are supposed to care about you. Why do my feelings just seem to trample me most of the time, then?
Maybe I’m just stress. Maybe it’s the basket case of mental illnesses I have that churn my moods so violently. I’m literally an entirely different person a few hours later and I can’t ever seem to get on top of anything lately.
I guess that’s why I keep making these little original characters, or OCs as they’re called in the online art and writing community. I’m just a very emotional teenager who’s a different person every time I’m feeling something, so why not put a name and face to these different feelings, to make them easier to deal with? I have one for my anger. I have one for my joy. My optimism. My frustration. My melancholy.
That way, they feel like friends. And my own children too, at the same time. And to be honest, they really do help. Just like friends. So maybe I can believe that.
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Gents of the empire,
strangle my desire.
Pull the plug, sire,
and I’ll spit fire.
Tove Styrke, Borderline
We live in a patriarchal society. Let’s face it.
Some of us are lucky enough to have been raised in a family that breaks free from this standard, where mothers hold the same kind of power fathers do. Some of us may have even experienced a role reversal in their families; where the mother works and the father is the one who stays at home. You can rest assured children from these kinds of families are treated fairly, regardless of their gender.
Good for them. But the rest of us? Not so lucky. I would know.
It’s hard laying down the entire situation because I don’t even know where to begin in unpacking it. I mean, I understand what’s going on with my family’s case, but if you were to ask me to explain, there just isn’t a clear point to start with. I mean, it’s much like the very essence of injustice and oppression, right? We don’t know how it started. We just know it’s always been that way. As far as we’re aware of, at least. But that doesn’t matter, because I don’t need to go all the way back to realize everything I need to know about what I have before me now.
I don’t need to look further or elsewhere when I see my mom have breakdowns and use me as an outlet for all her tears and rage as she curses my dad and the way he orders her around; forces her to skip social gatherings or even work, sometimes, because he needed her to and of course, how could she defy? Especially when he raises his voice and starts kicking the things he claims his money, no one else’s, bought?
I don’t need to have a degree in gender studies to decipher what my grandmother really means when she mumbles on a rambling about how my grandfather used to treat her, like a second-class citizen, like a child who didn’t know a thing about finances or property management, as if she were property herself? How he pulled her aside and yelled at her about having no gratitude for him when he’s doing everything here- for everyone, for themselves, for her.
I don’t need to ask when I see my dad yell at my grandmother, the other one, not his mother, because like my mom’s mother said, he wants his own mother here in this house instead. Because why would he treat any other woman who isn’t his mother with respect?
I already know. And I hate that I know and I wish I didn’t have to.
I know.
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Uprooting
I tried ripping my roots from the earth
That seemed to hold me back
I thought I wouldn’t leave a trace
I thought I’d gain what I lack
Instead there lies a scar on the ground
In the place where I once stood
And I realized the soil still stuck to me
On the surface of my wood
I know I can’t forget this part of me
But oh, I wish I could
‘Coz there’s a disease that afflicts all of us
Who stick too much to their roots
It eats up the greenness of our leaves
And our trunks become too tame
It makes our flowers wither way too fast
Until we all look the same
My roots, like almost any other tree
Are built on tainted ground
Of swollen pistils and bumped-up fruit
That yield to stamens ‘round
This I wanted to remove from me
Origins I didn’t want
But alas, my stump still bears my mark
It still continues to haunt.
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“I am less interested in dating and romance than most people I know.”
I remember receiving such a question from one of those psychology assessment quizzes online. I was bored, and I didn’t really take the whole thing seriously, but I remember being stumped on that question because I genuinely don’t ever seem to have a solid answer.
Romance. How disgustingly overrated, and yet the mere mention of it can win over nearly anyone. And I know I’m not above that compulsion either. Of course not, who wouldn’t want to feel special in the eyes of someone, and see them as special in return?
But at the same time, the idea of actually getting into a romance terrifies me beyond compare. To surrender to the dreadful experience of being known so intimately? I have a hard time being vulnerable around my own friends. Maybe that’s just the childhood trauma speaking- I learned early on to keep my distance from people and to constantly reevaluate who I can and cannot trust from my own home environment. And even now that I’m aware of that and trying to overcome it, I still wouldn’t even think about actually dabbling in such a love. I’m not even sure if I know how to.
I really do want to love someone like that and be loved back just as much in return. I don’t however, want all the pressure, both from within the relationship and from society, that comes with it. There’s too much buzz with romantic love; too many people who want to pry and too many expectations I’m not sure I can meet.
All I want is someone who’ll understand and accept me for who I am, without caring too much about conforming to conventions or fulfilling traditional expectations. I want someone who doesn’t just tolerate my oddness, but embraces it and actively supports it. I want that, for myself, because I know I’d do that for anyone.
But who can do that for me?
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Any Filipino who’s been up to date with local news knows about the incident involving a trans woman being discriminated against in a public restroom. This ended with her being harassed by police, dragging her away in handcuffs and detaining her for a short period of time. This has sparked much public outrage, and thus a flurry of conflicting stances on the matter have bursted through the floodgates of controversy.
As a trans person myself (non-binary trans), I did my own subtle way of showing I was on the side of transgender folk by sharing articles on Facebook that showed sympathy towards the woman, Gretchen Diez. Considering my highly conservative and bigoted family members and family friends who were friends with me on Facebook, this was already quite the brave feat to make.
Until I saw my ninang share a transphobic post that was against Diez, and my dad commenting (twice! TWICE!) that he agreed with the sentiment.
I was angry. It wasn’t a scared angry either; no, this was a burning, righteous kind of angry. The kind of angry you feel when you shout “I’ve had enough” after tolerating something so wrong for so long and you have been blessed with the warm rush of an opening towards freedom. Because indeed, I had been tolerating something so wrong for so long. It has been a year since I realized I was trans, and while I immediately came out to my friends and colleagues, I didn’t come out to my family yet. They would never understand, they still don’t, and I didn’t have the energy to deal with the inevitable misgendering and deliberate disregard they would give me if I came out to them.
That moment, however, was when I finally woke up. I put my foot down, I took a deep breath, I cracked my knuckles and I typed up furiously my statement regarding the whole issue as concisely as I could.
I also came out as I did that.
I attached a photo to my post too, the one seen here. It’s an edit I made using Pic Collage.
The statement I published gained 31 heart reacts and 13 likes. My closest friends messaged me saying they were proud I did something so brave. I feel proud for myself too, and as someone with deep-seated self-esteem issues, that’s not something you would hear from me often.
Surprisingly, among the likes, were my parents. While I’m glad they didn’t give an angry react or worse, started a fight in the comments, I’m still suspicious of their eerily subtle approval. It could mean anything. Are they finally coming around to see my point? As they passive-aggressively dismissing me? Am I in for a mouthful after a few days time.
Looks like I’ll have to wait and see.
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