this post is not about my failure to find a romantic partner, although that might make an interesting post (you'd be amazed at how many ways there are to fuck up a first message in online dating. so far I've had someone ask how I chose my sexuality, what do my genitals look like and will I marry them as, erm, they're "really into tall girls" as well as a few of the usual "hey, your hot! want 2 get 2 no me between the sheets" and the slightly confusing "where are you from? I mean originally?").
no, this is about a different kind of love and the unspoken insecurities that come with it.
the people who know me really well irl will know that I have some sensory issues, sensory processing issues, a needle phobia and a history of panic attacks. a few even know what the sensory issues are. luckily, these issues don't have a major affect on my life; I'm working hard on the sensory processing, needles and the triggers for my sensory issues are easy to avoid and the panic attacks are rare. still, I'm sometimes concerned about being a burden.
the problem is, I need help getting out of the panic attacks. I mean I really need help. if I don't have that help, the attack will just continue.
my worst ever panic attack happened at brighton pride a few years back. I'd just come out and a certain LFNT was messing with my head. I'm still not sure what happened there; he might've thought he was being helpful or he might have been hurting me for his own entertainment. it doesn't matter, anyway. I ended up on my own in walkabout and I started to hyperventilate. I couldn't stop. I couldn't call anyone because the phone networks always crash at pride (and anyway, the LFNT was the only one in my phonebook I was sure was in brighton). I was scared to get up incase I collapsed. I started getting pins & needles. I felt lightheadded and unreal. I couldn't move. I couldn't stay there forever. I needed to pee. I was scared I'd wet myself if it didn't end soon. I couldn't talk because I was hyperventilating. this went on for over an hour.
eventually, a group of straight women came in. they were celebrating a 30th birthday. one of them came over to help me. her name was lyndsay. she asked what was wrong and, with her talking and me writing my response in a text on my phone, she managed to calm me down. I know nothing about this woman, I never knew her surname or the name of her friend the birthday girl, but I don't know what would've happened to me without her help that day. thankyou lyndsay.
so, the point is "help" is really important during panic attacks, even though "help" really means something very simple. I just need to believe that whoever is helping me will stay there, by my side until it's over. if we're good friends, that just means a hug. that seems ridiculus. an hour hyperventilating because I didn't get a hug.
and thats where the insecurities come in. you see, to my friends who "have to deal with" my dysfunctional brain, it's no big deal. we hug as a greeting, to say goodbye, because one of us said something funny or sad, to say thankyou for a birthday present...
...but I know that this hug is a big deal. this hug stops me from getting trapped in a moment of desperation and fear. for this hug, I owe my sanity. we always make sure the small, tangible things balance out. if one of us buys a drink, the other one returns the favour later or next time. but I can never repay the real debt. the one that has nothing to do with money.
or can I? you see, the friend who helped me out of my last panic attack, the one who probably would be my best friend if that term didn't reek of bitchy tween girls? I know they've got their own dysfunctional brain to deal with. maybe I do some of the little, just-part-of-our-friendship things that have the potential to save them from their psycological emergencies. maybe.
if I do, then maybe they feel the same. thats why this is probably the last taboo of our relationship. theres just no point discussing it; we both know what the other one would say if we brought it up, and in the moments we doubt that truth we'd just think they were saying what we wanted to hear. so, here on the internet I'm going to say it anyway.
you bring joy to my life. I want to help you be as happy as possible. you don't owe me anything. I love you.
Saturday, 4 August 2012
"you can't call her that! it sounds like that old boat."
if it were possible to live without a name, I'd do it tomorrow without hesitation.
I have many lables that I identify with very strongly, but I've never felt my name was part of that identity.
it's not about the name; no part of my name is offensive to me and I can't think of any that I might prefer, it's more the concept of names that bothers me.
my mum has explained how it was chosen. my last name is the name of all my male line ancestors, in the way that is customary in our culture. my first and middle names a result of a few strange ideas....
mum liked Harriet, but my dads name is harry. his brother is George and they had a dad George, a grandad George, an uncle George, a grandad harry, 3 uncles harry and a cousin harry. dad didn't want any more Harry's or George's.
so mum had to pick a different name. she wanted something that wouldn't get in the way, and that I might "look like". apparently names like Melissa or Jessica were "to pretty" for someone of my expected size. mum picked a traditional girls name that she thought was unusual. when I started school there were 3 of us in my year with the same name, so clearly not that unusual.
mum liked rose as a middle name, but dad and my aunt Ivy thought that with my 1st name that sounded too much like "Mary Rose", the Tudor shipwreck raised not long before (hence the title of this post - I can almost hear Ivy saying that). so she picked a new middle name.
apparently none of this could be decided before I was born; apparently they had to see me to make sure I looked like the chosen name. this seems quite bizarre to me. babies look like babies. specifically, new born babies look like the offspring of Winston Churchill and some sort of reptile (they also scream like they know they look like this, and are very angry about it). yes, I know the hormones kick in and when the time comes I'm going to fall madly in love with my screaming Churchill lizard creature, I just don't see how they might look more like one name than another.
so there we have it. before I was even really me, I was assigned a 3 part lable based on compromises, daft assumptions and my male line ancestry. I don't like or hate it, I just feel it's irrelevant to who I am. I have a name and I have a national insurance number. both are useful to have, neither mean me.
so, what about my own reptilian wartime prime ministers? how will I choose their arbitrary social admin lables? well, the surname depends on my partner. if they especially want theirs to continue, fine. ideally, I'd like us both to pick 2 other surnames from our recent ancestry, assign each of the 6 names a number (my current surname, theirs + the 2 we each chose) and roll a dice.
as for first & middle names, I want to minimise any difficulties in the social admin and, if possible, give them a sense of belonging. in my family, we have a history of specific learning difficulties, so this means short names with no lower case b,d,p or q. I think Nina or Amy for girl lizards, Luke or Jack for boy lizards. I like the weird relatives idea of using the grandparents names as middle names.
I have many lables that I identify with very strongly, but I've never felt my name was part of that identity.
it's not about the name; no part of my name is offensive to me and I can't think of any that I might prefer, it's more the concept of names that bothers me.
my mum has explained how it was chosen. my last name is the name of all my male line ancestors, in the way that is customary in our culture. my first and middle names a result of a few strange ideas....
mum liked Harriet, but my dads name is harry. his brother is George and they had a dad George, a grandad George, an uncle George, a grandad harry, 3 uncles harry and a cousin harry. dad didn't want any more Harry's or George's.
so mum had to pick a different name. she wanted something that wouldn't get in the way, and that I might "look like". apparently names like Melissa or Jessica were "to pretty" for someone of my expected size. mum picked a traditional girls name that she thought was unusual. when I started school there were 3 of us in my year with the same name, so clearly not that unusual.
mum liked rose as a middle name, but dad and my aunt Ivy thought that with my 1st name that sounded too much like "Mary Rose", the Tudor shipwreck raised not long before (hence the title of this post - I can almost hear Ivy saying that). so she picked a new middle name.
apparently none of this could be decided before I was born; apparently they had to see me to make sure I looked like the chosen name. this seems quite bizarre to me. babies look like babies. specifically, new born babies look like the offspring of Winston Churchill and some sort of reptile (they also scream like they know they look like this, and are very angry about it). yes, I know the hormones kick in and when the time comes I'm going to fall madly in love with my screaming Churchill lizard creature, I just don't see how they might look more like one name than another.
so there we have it. before I was even really me, I was assigned a 3 part lable based on compromises, daft assumptions and my male line ancestry. I don't like or hate it, I just feel it's irrelevant to who I am. I have a name and I have a national insurance number. both are useful to have, neither mean me.
so, what about my own reptilian wartime prime ministers? how will I choose their arbitrary social admin lables? well, the surname depends on my partner. if they especially want theirs to continue, fine. ideally, I'd like us both to pick 2 other surnames from our recent ancestry, assign each of the 6 names a number (my current surname, theirs + the 2 we each chose) and roll a dice.
as for first & middle names, I want to minimise any difficulties in the social admin and, if possible, give them a sense of belonging. in my family, we have a history of specific learning difficulties, so this means short names with no lower case b,d,p or q. I think Nina or Amy for girl lizards, Luke or Jack for boy lizards. I like the weird relatives idea of using the grandparents names as middle names.
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