CW: This piece deals with self-harm and just general being a mess. If that isn’t your heart’s jam right now, I understand if you need to go take a break.
Greetings, fellow cool kids. My name is Dani, and I am bipolar, bisexual, and non-binary, aka bi, bi, non-bi. These are my adventures.
Prologue: Y’all, everything has been on fucking fire lately, so please excuse me, but I’m going to swear A LOT. And maybe scream, and probably cry. It’s all been a lot. I feel like a lot. And I want to say up front that you sitting here means the goddamn world to me. Let’s get the fuck into this, yeah?
Bi #1: FUCK. So, in December, I sort of blew my life up. I quit my full time job AND my part time job, and I left my long-term relationship, which means that I don’t really have a place to live anymore. Which is stressful for anyone, I imagine, but especially stressful, I KNOW, for someone with a mental illness.
I broke up with my boyfriend of six and a half years, and then the next day I was in the light booth at the Shakespeare Tavern, running sound (with very little preparation or skill) for a fucking wedding, and there was this familiar feeling that I hadn’t really encountered since college: You’re a bad person. (Okay, that one I’ve encountered) More specifically: You’re a bad person. You hurt people. You deserve to be hurt. I took a pair of scissors from the booth and dragged them across my forearm, because I believed that I deserved to be hurt, to be marked, to be in pain. I stopped before I broke the skin, and I texted my friends that I was having self-harm-y thoughts. They sat with me for the rest of the night, and we drank a lot of rum.
I was and am very grateful.
Bi #2: FUCK. Guys. Okay. I know it will fuck up the title of this segment, but Am I Just Gay?: A Study in Three Acts. Sexuality is fucking confusing. If you were here last month and are curious about an update, still listening to just a shit ton of “Thunder Road.” IT IS A PROBLEM. I signed up for a Good Omens romantic comedy fanfiction challenge, because I am a complete fucking moron. What business do I have dabbling in anything romantic right now?! I am so confused all of the time!
Because I don’t think any of my previous relationships weren’t real, you know? No one has ever been a cover for me, no one has been a placeholder. But I think maybe I didn’t know who I really was, and now here we are, and, on the one hand, I think perhaps I know myself better than I ever have before, and I also feel like a fucking stranger to myself.
I was Dani Herd. I worked for the Shakespeare Tavern Playhouse, which was my dream. I lived with a kind, sweet, wonderful man, and we shared a lizard together. I was fine.
Was I fine?
Am I selfish? Am I deluded? Why do I think I deserve something else? Something better? What does that even mean? What is love? (Baby, don’t hurt me.) I think perhaps that I love very deeply, and I think that I am very sad right now, and I think perhaps I am going to take a break from everything romantic for a little while, but also, goodness, I’d like to go make out with a girl right now just to MAKE SURE, YOU KNOW?
ALSO BECAUSE THEY ARE VERY PRETTY.
Because, like… okay. I’ve only had sex with straight, cis dudes. Fine. I’m so much more intimidated by the notion of having sex with a non-dude. I don’t know what to do! I’m learning a lot from genderfluid Good Omens fanfiction, because of course I fucking am, but also FUCK. I’m a fucking virgin again at 30, and that is stressful and a bit of a bummer.
UNRELATED, BUT ALSO: RISE OF SKYWALKER WAS GARBAGE, AND WHAT THE FUCK.
Non-Bi: Okay, y’all, so things are largely on fire, as I’ve said, but also: I wore a suit to my best friend’s wedding, and it felt like a new kind of home? I realized that it was something I’ve been dreaming of my whole bullshit “tomboy” life. Because I am not a “tomboy,” I am not a boy, I am not a girl, I am just me, and I wanted to be tall and shiny and in a suit with a bowtie, and I looked goddamn handsome. Someone wrote that on Facebook: You look handsome. And that’s the kind of little nonsense that means the world to me, and I still don’t know that I can officially articulate why.
Okay, maybe I can. Maybe it’s because I’ve lowkey felt trapped in something that didn’t quite fit my entire life, and fuck, it was my fucking body this whole time and it was my identity, and the call was coming from inside the queer, and I want to cry about if for a thousand years, but also I feel liberated and excited and free and HANDSOME. For the first time in my adult life, I don’t have a secret from ANYONE. I am not hiding anything, least of all from me. And, again, things are a mess right now, and I am very sad and very scared, but I know that things are going to be okay.
Epilogue: Fuck fuck fucking fuck. Fuck everything, fuck gender norms, fuck heteronormativity, fuck mental illness, fuck the patriarchy, fucking fuck, fuck everything, fuck ME. Fuck me!
(Someone will fuck me again, right?)