I fucking hate it when I’m scrolling through a good blog thinking “hmm might follow this” and then I see that ridiculous post whitesplaining to black Americans that racism is “different” in Europe and that white people can be victims of racism here.
No. We’re not. White people from Poland and Romania and other countries can be victims of xenophobia. People of colour are victims of racism. And racism in the UK looks much like racism in America - we have police brutality against black people, a disproportionate amount of black people in prison, Islamophobic hate crime, lack of POC representation in our media, a disproportionate amount of POCs living in poverty and all the rest of it.
White people are not victims of racism. We can be victims of xenophobic hate crime, xenophobic discrimination and xenophobic legislation but we will never ever be victims of racism.
And you can sit there and shrug and say “meh same difference” but it fucking matters. It matters because white people are responsible for racism whether we like it or not. We all benefit from white privilege and we’re all complicit to varying degrees. When people blur the lines between racism and xenophobia, it leads to the fallacy that anyone can be a victim of racism, which means nobody is really responsible and nobody has any particular obligation to examine their thoughts and actions.
Xenophobia is dangerous and life threatening and oppressive. We don’t have to mislabel it as racism to understand that. Racism and xenophobia have separate histories and separate causes. It’s not difficult to learn the difference.
Sometimes… Poly is watching your partner get their needs that match yours met with someone else.
Sometimes poly is having to accept less, instead of all.
Sometimes poly is, I hate this, but you don’t need my permission to do it anyway.
Sometimes poly is burning. Sitting in your room, your house, alone, burning with all the emotions and there is no one to put you out except yourself. And sometimes, you’re not enough of a firefighter.
Sometimes poly is boring.
Sometimes poly is Netflix and chilling, by yourself, your own hand down your pajama pants.
Sometimes poly is rage. Fierce, hot, molten gold down your gullet, choking you, burning you, cooking you to a not-quick enough death.
Sometimes it’s this is not enough, but this is better than nothing.
Sometimes it’s pain, bright, white hot, cutting into the very core of you. Splintering you into a thousand, million pieces.
Sometimes it’s I don’t know how I survive this.
Sometimes poly is… Acceptance of not so great, because there is no other option.
Sometimes poly is a snide laugh, a kick in the gut, a slap in the face.
Sometimes poly is heartbreak.
Sometimes poly is, I will never feel “safe” again.
Sometimes it’s just… Overthinking. Overanalyzing. Overdoing. Over scheduling. Overtalking. Over… Everything.
Sometimes poly is… Can’t I just go back?
But what poly really is?
Poly is I can’t. I can’t go back. Because going back would mean so much sacrifice. So much giving up of people that I cannot fathom how much I love them. So much beautiful, wonderful, awful exploration of self that I would never get again. I can’t say, I don’t want my lovers and friends and amazing people who blur ALL of my lines and boundaries with their amazing selves. I can’t say, for the sake of some general level of “comfort” that I know is false, I will give up everyone. Their intimacy, their vulnerability, their nakedness. What they look like laughing, and coming, and crying. Versions of them I don’t get to see within the confines of monogamy as I knew it. I have sacrificed so very much to be here, uncomfortable, today.
I feel I’m awake now, with all the discomfort that comes with awakening. But I can’t go back to sleep. It’s shitty, sometimes, being awake. The sun is too bright, the sounds too harsh. It’s easy when I’m head down, dreaming. But it’s not real, you know? It’s an illusion, a construct. It works for some, but I’ve taken the red pill. I’ve seen my life for how it is, my thinking for how it is. I can’t unsee it. Maybe one day how I outwardly perform myself will change, but for now, I can’t go back. I am what I am, doing what I’m doing the ways that I do it. Sometimes it hurts. Fuck yeah it hurts. Don’t ever believe anyone who tells you anything remotely differently. And you know what?
Through this, we grow.
We become something else. We become better, stronger. We know ourselves more. We know more words to use to advocate for ourselves, and that is fucking amazing. Without this pain, without this trial by fire and molten metal, we might not know what we’re capable of. And knowing what we’re capable of is an awesome, incredible thing. That is what makes you, you. That is what inspires you to fucking amazing things. Even if the journey is horrible to get there.
It’s not hitting 30k subs
It’s not being offered a documentary with warner bros
It’s not being awarded 4th best DID blog on the web
It’s not preparing to be a four page spread in a mental health magazine
It’s not setting up to appear on one of Australia’s biggest news networks
It’s having chickens named after us from someone in Sweden that’s made us think “wow, we must be getting a name for ourselves”
the way most tv shows/movies portray older history is wild like in any given time travel sequence we’ll see half a dozen iconic monuments during construction, several important locations prior to the event that made them important, one (1) historical figure of some significance, and everyone sports period-accurate gear. it’d be like traveling to 2017 and expecting to have a drink with barack obama, beyoncé, and stephen colbert, all dressed like hipsters and dual wielding fidget spinners