Full Moon in Scorpio Personal Musings.
I have always been different.
I don’t mean that in a fun way.
I have always been different, and it has always been hard.
“Quirky,” is a term continually prescribed to my person. A gentle word used by adults to signify wrongness. A tepid way of telling me: “you are different and it is wrong.”
“Quirky” eventually morphed into “weirdo” and “freak.” Kids are more blunt. Direct. The message became more clear: “You are wrong.”
Nowadays, it’s shifted to “radical.”
I have always been different. And it has always hurt.
I’ve tried hard to stifle it. To fit in. I have worn conformity like a second skin, forcing my body into shapes it couldn’t make, forcing values that didn’t align down my throat. Shoving myself into relationships, jobs, and hobbies that I could never sustain.
One can only keep up a farce for so long.
Because a farce is a lie, and a lie leads to loss.
I have borne much loss in this life, and delivered unimaginable wounds because of it.
I have experienced severance too often, done by my own hand. The last few years has been sitting in that grief. Grief from the wounds I have repeated over and over, the price I have paid again and again. My silence is so fucking loud its all I hear at night.
I think I was a sycophant in a past life. I think I came into this world knowing and sensing that I was different, and I’ve wielded flattery as a safety net, a get-out-of-jail-free card. As armour and protection.
But it did not save me. It has never saved me.
Growing up in a white christian household, traditions and obedience were priority. And yet, looking back, I sense that my whole family was merely cosplaying. We were all conforming to something we didn’t really believe in, we just didn’t know any other way.
My ancestors ripped themselves away from their true lineage. From their culture, their customs, their wisdom. They severed themselves from their truth. They gave everything up for power and supremacy. They stripped themselves of difference for the prize of conformity. They denied everything they were to be a shell. Not a vessel – a shell.
But I am not a fucking shell. I have never been a shell. I’ve just been damn good at playing one.
Here’s the thing, though. The moment I decided to stop playing and start discovering, I descended into hell. I walked away from a twelve year career. I walked away from nearly a decade’s worth of friendships. I lost a sibling, I lost stability, I lost independence, and I lost my identity.
This didn’t happen overnight, either. Its occurred over a series of years. Every day was a loss. Every day was a little death. The moment I received something, I was forced to release something else.
I could never gain ground. I could only shed. Shed and shed and shed and shed until I was stripped absolutely raw.
I felt brittle for years. Like an exhale would splinter me into a thousand pieces, and you know what? It did. Every breath I took shaved off a piece of myself.
I was in perpetual autumn, all my leaves falling away as I desperately rooted into soil meant only for decay.
But winter eventually came. As it always does.
I got pregnant.
That’s when the loving began.
Because the rot wasn’t just mine anymore. I was stripped bare, naked, with only my essentials, and something – someone – was growing within me.
Growth. Was. Happening.
Not everyone needs this kind of lesson in life, but I certainly did.
And the loving has been slow. Glacial. Micro movements on a macro stage, so infinitesimal I can’t see it until time has passed. Until space has created some sort of form. But the loving grows everyday, and the loving is different.
Because I am different. I am strange. I am a queer person that doesn’t believe in traditions or the past or the way things have always been done.
Nothing has ever been done forever.
I refuse to tether myself to anything permanent. I refuse to bend and break, and watch others bend and break, for conformity, for obedience, for perceived fucking comfort.
Call me radical. Call me quirky. Call me a freak. Prescribe whatever term you want to my person – that’s your prerogative and that’s your truth.
But it doesn’t have to be mine. It has never had to be mine.
Because what I do believe in, and what I am becoming is something strange and different and weird and wonderful.
It is fucking ancient. And it is terrifying.
Terrifying for conformity and obedience and adherence. Terrifying for traditions, and tolerance, and oppression.
“Traditions” are dying because they’ve caused, and continue to cause, countless and needless deaths. The price has been paid for centuries by black, brown, and indigenous bodies. All the while, costing most “white” bodies nothing more than our comfort.
So yes, I am different. And thank fucking Goddess I am.
I hope you are too.
If not, it’s time to fucking start.
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