Hear Me Out (When I Have Nothing New to Say)

There's a line I've always loved and never challenged in The History Boys. Hector says it, talking about books, about why we learn, about his own isolation as a closeted gay and (I'm totally projecting here, but I imagine) a closeted fat gay man:

"The best moments in reading are when you come across something - a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things - which you had thought special and particular to you. And now, here it is, set down by someone else, a person you have never met, someone even who is long dead. And it is as if a hand has come out, and taken yours” 

I eat that shit up every time I see it. I accept it as some general, but articulated-just-for-me, truth. Feeling alone in a way of knowing is painful and terrifying; finding you're not alone in some way you experience the world is a tremendous comfort. And as an observation, it's both logical and intuitive: sharing a viewpoint with someone else feels half as lonely as holding it by yourself.

But I've been wondering lately if what leaves us feeling the most widowed is not the unique perspective but the universal one. There's no power or identity in having the same experience as everybody. You don't become more or know more from occupying that space.You are not the chosen member of some specific community of people who feel or know what you feel or know, because when everyone has joined the club, then the club no longer exists. It becomes about being rather than belonging. You aren't some one; you just are.

And it's not just that you have no definition, that you have nowhere to stand. It goes beyond the post-structural bullshit to how people (don't) connect with or listen to you. How easy is it to invalidate or dismiss anyone's experience by telling them it's not there's or not just there's? To deny or belittle someone's feelings by placing them in a box that belongs to everyone?

"Everybody gets depressed some times."
"I know it hurts now, but everyone moves on eventually."
 "I don't know anybody who doesn't think they're too fat, or too thin, or too something..."

 This is exactly what we tell people when they try to articulate some sensation they're working through. And regardless of the supportive intention, it ultimately erases and silences what is theirs. No, they're not feeling depressed-- they're just a shapeless blob feeling shapeless blob feelings in the great shapeless blob that is the singular human experience. We don't have to listen because there's nothing to hear. We don't have to see because there's nothing to see. And I guess it shouldn't make anyone feel lonely, specifically; it should make them feel like they don't exist and like their entire way of being is just white noise.

But hey, you're not alone! You're just invisible, or you just haven't realized yet how invisible you are. Such a comfort.

This lovely doom and gloom string of musings is all pretense, a prelude to saying that guys, I'm sorting through feelings, and I know they're not unique to me, so I feel like I can't express them. Having these feelings seems pointless. Saying them out lout seems pointless. The feeling is isolating and feeling the feeling is isolating and saying that I feel the feeling is isolating.

But--

I'm having that thing. That thing in every bad indie movie where the protagonist is completely still while the world buzzes and flashes at warp-speed all around them. Or there's a 5-second shot of his mouth agape, screaming, but we cut back to him to realize he was not, actually, screaming-- it was all in his head, it was a storytelling device to illustrate the character's frustrated voicelessness.

I am feeling unseen and unheard and unnoticed in my own life. I think I've been feeling this way for a long time. I feel surrounded by people who don't know who I am, and I don't know if it's that they don't care, or if I've been doing a shitty job of showing things to see and saying things to hear and doing things to notice. But most of the time I feel like I'd have to scream and flail to hold anyone's gaze for 5 seconds, and I'm just too hoarse or exhausted to bother.

And I can't speak this out loud because a) there's no way to express this without sounding like I'm 12-years-old; b) it's the human condition to feel misunderstood or invisible so why would anyone connect to or notice my own brand of smallness and muteness; and c) it's all just real downer stuff and nobody wants to hear it, especially if it reminds them of their own sense of inferiority or isolation or unknowingness.

I've just always had this sense that your voice and your connection to it was supposed to evolve with age. In your teens, you want your voice heard and validated by everybody. In your 20s and 30s, maybe you want it heard and validated by a small group of people, or maybe just that one person. And eventually, you reach a relationship with yourself where you don't care who hears or sees you because you're that confident in your own voice, you love yourself and what you have to say. Mostly, I feel like I'm straddling between those first 2 stages, between wanting 1 and 8 billion thumps up and pats on the back from whoever it is that's actually paying attention. But sometimes--and lately--I question if the whole evolution narrative isn't a farce anyway. Maybe we spend our whole lives wanting other people to see and to know and to love us; maybe we never decide we're happy just basking in the sound of our own captivating voice.

Some days, I'll admit, I really want to be celebrated. I want a fucking parade in my honor. I want the experience of knowing and hearing me to be transformative, to give you a reason (one of many I hope) to wake up in the morning, to make you want to scream, laugh, cry, orgasm, faint, reflect, and better yourself. I want a memorial built when I'm gone that says "We knew Adam Conway, and we were better for it. Thanks for helping us feel all the feels and think all the thinks."

And some days, it would mean the world to me to have someone stop me at a party and say "How are you, really?" or "What are you thinking about?" and to genuinely and effortlessly listen.
--Or have them say "I thought about that thing you said last week, and here's my take on it."
---Or, Jesus, even just comment on some rambling feminist Facebook post of mine that said "Your self-righteous, sophomoric, but well-intentioned pedantics are not being thrown meaninglessly into a void. I read the words you decided you need to share, and they left some impression on me, even if it was a miniscule one, or even it wasn't necessarily a positive impression." But we heard you, Adam. We saw you. And your words and your you did something.

I imagine I sound depressed, down-trodden. Strangely, I'm not. I'm actually better than I've been in a long while. I like the things that I have to say, and the way that I say them, and it means something to me to say them out loud. And I've got a boyfriend and a couple of other people in my life who listen to and respect what I have to say and what I have to show them, even the things that they don't like or they don't necessarily find interesting. They even humor me when I share the same thought in the same voice that we've all had and we've all heard and we've all articulated a million times over. And while that's not necessarily "knowing" or "getting" someone in some (probably impossible) completely whole or total sense, it absolutely sounds like love, which makes it a little harder to get too down about feeling small.

So, I guess I'll chock this post up as therapy and as the first or 30th step in sorting out my own, personal, 100 percent-unique-to-me experience of this whole universal "wanting to be known and wanting to be valued"  thing. I guess I keep digging through all the words in my head until I find some outlet, some community, some way of voicing that makes me feel heard and makes me feel like what I voice matters beyond me.

P.S. I'm wholly aware that this whole post was both circular and ironic. I champion that History Boys quote only to undermine it, and then I ultimately articulate that I would, indeed, feel like my hand was being held by someone who anonymously validated some piece of myself that I thought no one valued or noticed. Again, I think it's the difference between the feeling I'm discussing here and what it feels like to feel that feeling.

Why I'm Not Writing This

Sometimes I don't write this
because the words that come out
aren't pretty enough
to keep.

If you write about Flowers
they will put it in a book
on a shelf
in a library
and maybe they will never be read
but they will live there.

If you give somebody Flowers
they will just die.

And I guess when I don't write this
it's because what I'm (not) writing
isn't about Flowers
it's just:
-Flowers-

It's like how all the great poems about Sex
are not:
-Fuck-
or
-Desire-
but they are about Peaches
and therefore about
Fuck
and
Desire

And I get it.
I do.

We all respect the primordial
       the raw
                the primal
           the lived
the overwhelming verbness of being.

But that's not what words are.

We know what a gift it is to:
LAUGH
or
ORGASM

But
-Laugh-
and
-Orgasm-
are not poems
that you can read.

Hold
-Laugh-
and
-Orgasm-
in your hand
with your eyes
and you will neither be
nor do
nor know them.

You need something beautiful to take you there.

So when I'm not writing this
it's because I can't find the "word vessels"
that bring you to Laugh

Or the obscuring syntax
that somehow is the journey
to Orgasm

I am not writing this
because I can't make you
Smile
or
Cum
with my Nakedness

Because I can't write my Nakedness
because my Nakedness is not words
and because not words are not pretty
and not words can't take you to the Nakedness
that words create

Because if I had words
Sex would be Peaches
and Commitment would be An Aging Tree Forever Giving and Seeking Comfort & Sustenance
and Love would be Rain

But I have not fallen in Rain
and I do not measure this in inches
and my heart may be brimming
but the banks of the rivers are not

I'm not writing this
because if I wrote this
I would write
-Love-
and it would be the turth
but no one would know it
because it would not be beautiful
because it would not be words
because it would not be mystic lies
that made Love
out of syllables 

 Yes:
-Love-
that's the truth
but I can't write it
and I don't wish to lie.

2014: My Most Shameless Year

When I came out as gay 6 years ago, it was not a consciously political decision. I was not concerned with power or progress or social policy, and I was not looking to change minds. I just had 20 years of longing and desire building up inside of me, and the longer I kept it hidden--from myself and from everyone--the more it became fear and anxiety. The more all the beautiful things I dreamed for myself became ugly and contaminated. And I wanted those beautiful things.

I was trembling when I told my best friend Sam over labor day weekend. I didn't really fear rejection-- not from her-- I just knew that when I said the words out loud, that it would all suddenly be real. That I would actually be a gay man, living a "gay" life, pursuing a "gay" future. And I didn't know what that would mean, but I knew I couldn't keep avoiding it.

And the opening of that door absolutely did breathe life into my sexuality, my identity, my romance. I grew less and less afraid, more willing to explore, more confident and celebratory of my feelings and wants. My cryptic poetry grew less cryptic, and my hushed, ambiguous conversations online became open flirtation, gay-friendly events, and eventually sex, dates, boyfriends, romance, love. I walked into myself and my future and the things that have become the most important to me.

Over the next few months after telling Sam, I had dozens of coming outs. But they became less and less about me and more and more about logistics. I couldn't not  tell my college friends because it would be exhausting to keep my romantic and sexual life from them, and they'd feel pissy and betrayed if they didn't know. I had to tell my family because eventually I would want to bring a boy home, and I might get some weird looks if they saw me grabbing my "good friend's" ass or stealing a kiss from him in my parent's basement. And wouldn't I have a better chance of finding an eligible gay boy in rural Missouri  if I shared that I like men on Facebook? Guess I better tell a bunch of people beforehand, then I'll just have social media out me to everyone else-- no more wasting time retelling my "here-and-queer" testimonial to every friend I encountered!

And for the better part of a year, coming out was simply a practical, tactical decision for simplifying my social and personal life. But my tone is getting a little cavalier here-- there was, certainly, considerable fear and personal struggle. For every friend I was confident I could tell nonchalantly--or at least in a "I-know-that-you're-cool-with-this-but-I-thought-you-deserved-to-know" way--there was that person you thought would shut you out of their lives forever. Your father. Your brothers. Your friends back home. Your friends from church. I mean, you bring yourself to them with the simple wish in your heart that they will tolerate who you are. You tell them about all this love in your life you're finally discovering, and you hope that they won't be disgusted by you, won't hate you, won't wish to erase you. And I guess that comes from a fear that maybe you were wrong about how beautiful this thing is; maybe it is contaminated and ugly; maybe you have reason to be afraid.

But you tell them. You tell them because it makes sense. Or because you need to. Or because it's simply who you fucking are. And some of them are disgusted and full of hate. And some of them can only respond with their tolerance. Yet, over time, something immensely power-filled happens. You not only become more yourself, but you learn that you have the capacity to change people and how they see the world, simply by being who you are. Literally scores of people in my life have told me they learned to accept and celebrate homosexuality because of me, because of seeing and knowing who I am and how I love. And when those people start to question their beliefs about homosexuality, they start to question any of a number of their personal politics: their views on women, on minorities, on vulnerable populations. And those changed minds become votes and voices that stand with people who need someone to stand with them, and they become hands on your shoulder when you need them most. It's amazing to know that I am able to help create the world that I want to live in-- where everyone is treated with love and respect-- just because I was brave enough to be myself, just because I've tried to live a good and authentic life, and because I said "Hey, btw, I love dick, and one day, I'm going to fall in love with a man, and maybe we'll get married and maybe we'll have a kid. And, I don't know, maybe we won't, but we'll still have love and each other. (And dick!)" It was that simple. It is that simple.

What's funny is I started writing this post in response to some recent conversations, movies and plays I've seen, and this plea and reminder from Don Lemon, about the political efficacy and relevance of coming out. I am often one of those over-it, worn out, "who cares?" people who rolls my eyes at every celebrity outing. And I do think that the cultural climate for much-- DEFINITELY not all--of the country has reached a point where public coming out can be quieter and revealed simply through a pronoun, dropping the word boyfriend or partner, or just walking outside and holding hands with the person you love... I don't know that it's necessary to always portray homosexuality as this thing that has to be revealed to the world, as some sort of apologia statement, as something to 'fess up to. But I do, for all the reasons I've listed here, think there is tremendous social and political power in being yourself and not being ashamed. I think we open and change people's minds. I think we create spaces for other people to be and share themselves. I think we create a safer, more just, more equitable world when we exist on the streets rather than in the closet. So, yes, politically, I do think that coming out and being out matters and that it's a way I can vote and protest and campaign with my body every day.

But like any writing worth doing, this post became nothing I intended it to be and it revealed the path ahead for 2014 that I need to be following. You see, 2013 was largely a year of shame, fear, and anxiety for me. Somewhere along the line, I got the message that I needed to hide and doubt and hate so many things about myself. 2013 was the year of not being smart enough, funny enough, pretty enough, skinny enough, interesting enough, talented enough, anything enough. 2013 was the year of not deserving a future or love. It was the year where I held in all the beautiful things and convinced myself that they were ugly and contaminated.

And I've been afraid to see and to share myself or my dreams out of fear that they're inadequate but perhaps more so out of fear that once I speak them out loud, they will be real, and I'll start becoming them. And how fucking terrifying is it to become who you are and what you're meant to be when you're not really sure who that is yet?

But 2014 is going to be my year of pride. My year without shame. Because I'm prepared to--and I need to-- become "less and less afraid, more willing to explore, more confident and celebratory of my feelings and wants." Because it's what the people I love deserve and it's what I deserve.

And I want to remember the tremendous power that comes from being and sharing yourself. That you become stronger in who you are and ignite revolutions in the minds of the people you love and encounter. If I've stirred the pot that much just by telling people "I like dick," imagine what I might be able to do if I share something more profound and personal.

So no more shame. No more trying to pass as whatever I assume people want me to be. And no more self-loathing and self-abuse over being myself, this beautiful thing, this more-than-enough. Cause I'm here, I'm queer, and I'm a lot of other shit, too, and some of it may be able to transform you.

And fuck anyone who responds to who I am with hate, disgust, erasure, or half-hearted tolerance. And bless all of you who love and nurture me on the journey.

The Who

I am a writer.

I am a writer who hasn't written anything in about four years, really. But I'm still a writer. It's not really something I would tell people about myself if they asked for my personal elevator pitch, but it would be in  my mind, sitting there. Probably the word itself, "writer," written somewhere in my brain. Probably written on misfired neurons. That would make the most sense.

I guess I'm a writer who doesn't really write anything. Or a writer who doesn't really write through anything. Not so much a writer with writer's block as one with some sort of writers E.D. A writer full of false starts and premature exits. I've written on the first five pages of recycled paper of countless gifted journals. I've started several different blogs over the years that end after a couple of weeks of enthusiastic posts. Blogs about queerness and feminism. Blogs about food studies. Blogs about my relationship with my body. And, a handful of years ago, blogs about being earnestly in love and in lust and in pain with some beautiful boys. But the blogs quickly evaporated or lost any sort of arc because I wasn't always the person I was blogging as. Some days I'm hardly (just) a queer feminist or an amateur cultural anthropologist or a boy in-and-out of love with himself and the world around him.They're all nice identities to occupy for a time, for a purpose, but they started to feel limiting and dishonest and I felt I couldn't consistently fit the brand of the blog and I just fizzled.

And this is more or less what has been going on in my life lately. I feel as though I am without any sort of signifier to stand under and point at and say "this. this thing here. this is absolutely me, and when i say i am this, it really translates, it really means something." And without that designated label-- without that consistent brand-- I've felt identity-less. Unidentified. Misidentified. Drifting from half-assed blog to half-assed blog and not really being or saying anything.

I think it was easier for all of us a few years ago when we were students. I could say I was a student. I could say I was a student of history or gender studies. When someone asked me what I was doing, I could say I was researching the history of conversion therapy or leading a discussion group on body image or directing a children's theater show. And I felt I could be student-scholar, student-counselor, student-activist, student-director, student-anything because it was the world I lived in. And if it ever felt dishonest or like it wasn't enough, I could easily drift into the promise of a number of any possible futures where I would be a professor or journalist or revolutionary. But now I'm in a world where I feel like I'm supposed to be a certain kind of person, and I can't wander rosily into the realm of possibility because I'm 26 and the future is supposed to be now. Or so an entire generation of us find ourselves feeling.

Indeed, I know I'm not in a unique situation here. How many of us are living our lives right now inside our minds, bound by our anxieties, and by the absurd sense that we are not who we are supposed to be or that we are not who we are, actually? And who knows whose voice that is or who ever proposed that we had to be or were supposed to be anybody or anything or anywhere. Personally, I believe that the nature of being, of existing, is a constant journey of discovery and creation, but it's also just being what and who and where you are in any moment, at each exhale. That I'm simultaneously who I am in this blip of a second as well as the amalgamation of all my seconds lived and unlived.

And I think the reason I'm a writer is really just that I'm a chronic processor. I think big and knotted and beautiful thoughts and I have to unknot them and break free of them. And I used to do this through writing, through putting the thoughts on page so that I can see them, know them, and let them go. And lately I haven't been doing that-- I've either been living in my tangled brain or depending on other people to process things with me, and it has meant being less present and knowing myself less and hardly trusting myself. Maybe if I return to writing the things that are in my mind, I can see a little more of who it is I am, and I can have the comfort of believing that I'm being that person with myself and with the people I love.

The intention of this blog? window? mirror?, then, is to be whoever I am and to say whatever I'm feeling. It's meant to be a space where sometimes I will journal about these armchair existentialist "revelations," and sometimes will write about the things I'm passionate about, and will sometimes be a queer advocate or an angry feminist or a (movie) lover or an addict of most cultural products marketed at teenage girls. There is no brand. There is no message to stick to. It's me both being present in and creating a space to process the person I am so that I can be this moment and all the moments. It's meant to be a journey to know and grow grounded in myself and the many signifiers I can occupy. And it's going to be haphazard and messy and poorly stitched but I can't wait for the good that might come of it.

To thine own self be true, bitches.