I Join A Clique

Warning: this post may contain strong language. Actually, you know what? This post definitely contains strong language. I know, since I fucking wrote it. Last year I had an amazing group of friends. It was the first time I’d been part of a tight-knit clique rather than an oozing mob. To commemorate this special relationship, I wrote a series of poems dedicated to these three lovely girls. 

The first one is entitled “Elaine”*.
Fuck you

Fuck you

Fuck fuck fuck fuck 

Twatwaffle
This second one is “Victoire”. 
An inability to become emotionally invested in people is not a virtue, you miserable bastard. 
And finally, “Miley”:
Bitch.
After I made out with Elaine (more on that here: https://thequeerprotagonist.wordpress.com/2017/01/29/first-blog-post/ )Victoire stopped talking to us for a week without explaining why, and then after causing several mental breakdowns for both herself and the rest of us, she decided to go with us to Homecoming. In order to regain our friendship, she said we could do whatever we wanted to her. So we egged her car. 

Victoire spent the remainder of senior year avoiding me. She started talking to Elaine again, although god knows why, because the whole egging thing was Elaine’s idea. Elaine and I stayed close for a while, and then I said something about “you shouldn’t cheat on your boyfriend” and she broke up with me. I think Miley and Elaine are still friends. Sort of. I wouldn’t know, since I blocked Miley’s number. 

The reason I’m bringing this up is, firstly, because I’m bitter. As an example, see below- last night a group of friends and I burned a picture Victoire painted for my boyfriend back when he was stupid and dating her instead of me. (This group of friends included the infamous Rose Velt (Rose Velt doesn’t really need to be mentioned here but asked nicely so I agreed (“nicely” is relative- I might have been concussed at the time so I forget most of the details (how many parentheses can I include in one sentence?))).)


Secondly, I want to explain queer-platonic partnerships. That’s what Elaine, Victoire and I were. Queer-platonic is a label used to describe a love that’s not romantic but goes deeper than friendship. It establishes a special connection with two or more people of any gender or sexuality without adding the pressures of dating or sexual intimacy. Blah blah blah, word sewage, something fancy to convince you that “queer platonic” isn’t millennial hipster junk. Which it totally is. But that doesn’t diminish the fact that I loved those girls more than anything in the world. 

Let’s have a quick Question and Answer about queer-platonic partnerships. If you have questions I don’t answer here, feel free to ask me in the comments.
Q: Aren’t you just describing friends with benefits?

A: Yes. Except the benefit isn’t sex, it’s a onslaught of crippling depression when you break up. So actually I’m describing “friends with horrific side effects”. I think this applies to humanity in general, though.
Q: What’s the most important aspect of having a successful queer-platonic partnership?

A: As in most relationships, communication is essential. It’s also essential not to be a jealous bitch. For example, if your partner loves someone else in addition to you, it will make you happier to recognize that this in no way diminishes their feelings for you. And if you do have a problem with something your partner is doing, for example, making out with another partner, it’s important to talk to both of them instead of shutting down because you have unrealistic expectations for people and think they can magically read your mind. This is, of course, a hypothetical situation and I’m not pointing fingers at anyone (*cough* Victoire *cough cough*).
Q: Fiona, why are you being so petty?

A: I’m not being petty! Maybe YOU’RE being petty.

Q: You’re the one who wrote a blog post dissing the girls you used to love.

A: Yeah, okay, I’m being a little petty.

Q: A lot petty.

A: I’m being extremely petty. To be fair, Victoire still doesn’t acknowledge my presence in class, has sleepovers with my ex girlfriend, and tried to get my boyfriend to break up with me. I think I’m entitled to a little pettiness. 
I know I hurt Victoire. But she hurt me too, and unlike her, I tried to fix it. Right now I’m being petty because writing this makes me feel better, and then I’ll let it go. That’s the best anyone can do.
*I did, technically, change all names used in this post. I’m not sure how much good that does since most people who know me also know Victoire, Elaine and Miley, but I did try. So probably no one can sue me.

I Have Fancy Depression

I stare at Paula. Paula stares at me. To the casual observer it might look like we’re checking each other out, but since Paula is a fifty-something psychiatrist (not my type) I’m pretty sure she’s just waiting for my reaction. This is because I haven’t said anything for a solid 47 seconds- a record feat, since I usually don’t shut up.

“So you’re saying that when I’m sad… I hallucinate.”

“Essentially, yes.”

I look at the fire-breathing unicorn sitting next to me. “Is this true?”

The unicorn shrugs.

“It’s called depression-induced psychosis. It means you blah blah blah blah blah.” Paula says blah blah blah a lot.

My depression is fancier than your depression. Instead of being normal sad, I’m crazy sad. I’m not delusional- I can tell what’s real- but I become terrified of monsters I know aren’t there.

I hate people who talk about their depression. Like, oh my god, get over yourself. At the same time, mental health is an epidemic that needs to be addressed, etc, but if you’re the kind of person who’s still reading this post then you probably know that already. Then again, you’re also probably the kind of person who thinks I shouldn’t tell people with depression to “get over themself”. This is a fair point and I don’t really have a good response. To be completely honest, I’m terrified of posting this because I don’t want anyone to think I’m seeking attention. Which I’m not, because I’m putting this on a blog, and no one reads blogs anymore.

I once had an ex girlfriend threaten to kill herself if we took a break. So I dumped her. This is one of those things that was logically healthy for both of us, but kind of disgusting for me to do, like eating eggplant. To be fair, I knew she wouldn’t actually commit suicide; dying takes courage and she had none. (Saying things like “dying takes courage” is another one of those disgusting things, and according to my therapist, it’s not even healthy. So like nutter butters instead of eggplant.)

After I was diagnosed with depression, the satirical and bitchy LGBTQ novelist who runs my life, Janine, and I had a firm discussion about stereotypes and how I don’t want to be one. This mostly consisted of me flipping off the sky and getting a lot of weird looks from the other students in my History class. Like most conversations I have with authority figures, it ended with me being bludgeoned on the head with a mace. Or at least, the metaphorical equivalent.

I wrote a poem about psychosis. It’s not funny, but it’s important to me, so if you read it I’ll give you a meme at the end.

 

Nyctophobic Lovesong

 

Good morning, Love!

Welcome to my world!

I’ll take you in and out and home and down;

you can watch my head spin round.

They’re laying brand new concrete on my lawn.

Well, Love, come- the morning’s bright and flashing gone.

 

Afternoon, my Love!

Put those poppies in a vase!

The day is feverish and pliant colors gleam,

so we’ll rip spiders at the freaking seam

and scatter their dark legs in wet cement.

Can you hear the grass, my Love? I hear it and lament.

 

Good evening, Love!

Are you afraid of sunsets too?

The twilight is serene, and so we’ll walk

and maybe sketch our limbs in sidewalk chalk.

Ooooo! My feet are squelching- now they’re stuck-

Come here, my Love, and help me up?

 

Good night love.

The moon is too dark to ascend.

Concrete hardens at my ankles, as I sort of  knew it would.

I can’t reach out to touch you- I’m not sure that I should.

Stars stretch out to fade in the darkness and the din;

I can open up my nostrils now, and breathe the cement in.

 

Good, good.

Good morning once again.

Do you like the cobwebbed ceilings of my brain?

The grass grows glinting and is trampled in an infinite refrain.

You hate the concrete pouring? Well, I smell it every day.

The sunlight hardens quickly now. Don’t look back, Love- run away.

 

Salty meme