It just sort of baffles me how indifferent and negative my own mother can be at our country having our first female major party presidential nominee. I expect it some day from future generations, who just sort of scoff and say, “Yeah, and? Of course a woman can be president. Like, duh, Grandpa Zane. Where have you been?” 

Instead I got a “So? Who cares?”

I expect more from her. Better even.

How historic this is means nothing to her. To any of the three women who raised me. And I just don’t get how they don’t care or see how great of an accomplishment it is, whether or not they like her. It’s still important.

My family and I live in such different worlds–politically, socially, physically, intellectually. Every day it gets harder to connect with them, to have conversations with any depth or meaning. I literally had to explain to one of them that no, Hilter didn’t come in and take over Germany. He was voted into power. The people gave him the power to do the horrifying things he did. That was my grandmother. Someone who lived through World War II and the aftermath, both here and abroad. 

They don’t understand our history. Not as a world and not as a nation. None of the atrocities or the triumphs or that the soil beneath their feet was taken from the Native people of this land. That it doesn’t belong to them or me or our ancestors.

I still have to call them out for using a racial slur to refer to our Chinese takeout.

Or tell them it’s not okay to drop the N-word when the person taking too long to back out of a parking space they’re waiting on is black.

I’ve spent a lifetime collecting little puzzle pieces of memory when one of them said something negative or cruel about someone they’d never spoken to because of that person’s skin color. Or accent. Or outfit. Or religious garments.

After a lifetime of raising a kid, who they always had an inkling would in some way be LGBTQ, and after almost nine years of having an out and proud trans person in their lives, I still have to explain what LGBTQ means every time I say it.

It’s the simplest thing. After nearly a decade I feel like I can’t even share those conversations with them because it becomes me giving them a lesson they won’t commit to their memories or lives. 

I’ll be glad to be away from this in another month. To be 3,000 miles away from the indifference and the negativity.

From my mother walking in while President Obama is sitting in a room, on national television, of BLM activists, families of victims’ of police brutality and systemic racism, and the families of police officers, alive and lost in the line of their chosen duty. And she says, “What’s he saying now? Oh, he’s just stirring the pot! All lives matter, not just them.”

My mother, who’s always taught me to value myself, to believe that nobody can take away who I am, to be proud of the person I am. A mother who was fully on board in 2006 when I explained what transgender meant and that was part of my identity. I was 16. Living in a time before the word transgender was all over the news or plastered on the internet. She stood with me.

I guess now I’m just questioning how deep that caring went. How much of that support was “Well, as long as I don’t have to learn anything and it doesn’t effect me, then fine. Do your thing.”

None of them ever want to learn anything. To grow. To seek out information or knowledge. To apologize when they’re wrong or hurtful or cruel. To better themselves. They treat knowledge like a chore. The same curiosity to understand doesn’t consume them like it does for me. It wasn’t nurtured and muddled itself into grumpy indifference and a believe that if people who look different are getting the same as them, then somehow they’re being cheated. 

I guess this is some part of growing up. Being adult enough to recognize how flawed and terrible a wonderful mother can be as a fellow person. 

Mostly, I wonder what it means for us after I’m 3,000 miles away. If our relationship will turn as superficial as it’s starting to feel or if the distance will bring enough nostalgia to keep whatever our bond might me now. And I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to know.

anonymous asked:

I think Courtney will never get over Kurt. The process of her grieving is 20000x harder because people remind her every day and she gets so much hate for it. I kinda wonder if a tiny part of her blames herself

I would imagine.  krist has mentioned that,  that he should have realized.  so has dave.

PCap Sexy Saturday Club

July 16: A bit of Malcolm and Sam. Moody and grey kinda week.

Malcolm stood at the window, head resting on his hand as he looked out on the early morning street. The only light was the street light down the road. It was getting harder and harder to get himself to move every day. The sheer futility of the government was getting worse. He had spent the past ten years trying to keep things together for the party despite their own internal fuck ups.

He ran a large hand over his naked chest. Behind him, on his bed, he could hear the soft sounds of Sam as she slept on. Malcolm was becoming more and more torn over their affair. He called it that in his own head. Not like either of them were in any sort of relationship. Except the office. Wouldn’t HR have a right fucking field day if they knew they were fucking around.

The sounds of the sheets drew his gaze backwards and he saw her move under the sheets. One of her hands reaching out to his side of the bed but she didn’t wake up. God, she was so fucking beautiful, Malcolm thought to himself. Her long brown hair, her smooth skin. His eyes wandered over her naked body, his tongue licking his lips unconsciously at the memories of their love-making.

Sam never talked about work. She never judged him, never countered what he did. But how she looked at him said more than enough. ‘Stop this, Malcolm.’ He fancied she was saying to him. ‘It’s killing you. The hours. The stress. You’re fuse is getting shorter. You’re snapping more often.’

And she was too fucking right. Malcolm admitted it to himself.

It wasn’t time yet. One more election. If he played it right, he’d have the perfect bow out.

One more election, he said.

With a grunt, he pushed away from the window and went back to bed. He had a few hours yet to enjoy the peace Sam offered him. As he pulled the sheet over him, Sam moved up against him, pressing close and her hand reaching around his chest.

Being a muslim right now is not easy. Every day there is a new attack by ISIS, all around the world. Every day it’s getting harder for us. I swear every time I hear an attack has happened I pray so hard that it isn’t a ‘muslim’ who has done it. Even muslims who aren’t living in Europe are being affected. Countries that we used to travel to, where we would be welcomed and treated kindly have now looked down on us. We bear the name terrorists, as if it’s branded on our foreheads. We are scared. We are worried. We are human. 

today has been about "getting real"

Told some friends I can’t go with them on a tropical vacation in the winter cause I’ve been doing worse then I’ve let on.

Told my manager and my work mentor that my life is messy and my health is going to take priority over my career for now (they were great and totally agreed).

I feel awful today. I have felt really bad every day since coming home. It’s getting harder to hide that things have been rough and seem to be getting worse. I’m just hoping this is a bad patch and not the start of a steady decline. Things have been good for the last few years, you know? Not great, but still functional and tolerable. All I want to do is get back to that.

I was in denial, and now I’m not. It’s shitty. But it also means I can focus on doing whatever it takes to get better and improve my quality of life. Next step: starting topamax or gabapentin.


I know this is gonna sound gross, but the last few days my appetite has reverted back to what it was in kindergarten; which means the only thing I’ve been craving are bologna and cheese sandwiches and Capri Sun juice bags…I have yet to indulge these cravings, but it’s getting harder and harder every day.

I told you, I can’t adult.

I could also go for some Dunk-A-Roos.

Update on my personal situation

Every day is getting harder and harder for me lately. I feel 10 times worse than I did the other day when I posted my first update. I legitimately don’t know how much more of this I can take and I’m worried that I’m going to become so desperate that I’m going to do something to hurt myself out of fear and pain, without even giving it thought. This is the worst thing I have ever experienced in my life.