(I never know if this thing is a declaration or a confessional.)
(What I might say to you:)
Bi #1: Let me get you caught up. In 2016, I was diagnosed with bipolar II disorder and generalized anxiety disorder. I have to remind myself all the time that it is an Illness, and not a monstrous, all-consuming Fault. I see a doctor, I swallow pills, I am sick, but I am alive. I do not always know what thriving might feel like, so long have I been in Survival Mode.
But tonight my roommate and I made tacos and I thought about how nice it might be to make you a taco one day, if you wanted one, and that was sure something to consider. Yes. Yes, I think I would like to make you a taco. I would like to chop things up and mix up a fancy sauce and heat up the tortillas, because I think it would be nice to do something nice for you.
I am thinking nice things again. About myself, about the future. I will try to hold them gently. Try not to clutch them lest they run away. Trust that I do not have to rush, do not have to push, do not have to strain.
Declaration: Hello, my name is Dani and I am Mentally Ill. It isn’t anyone’s fault. I didn’t do anything “wrong.”
Confessional: I am sorry. I am sorry all the time. I would sing it deep into space, if I could. I would plunk my apologies down to the bottom of the ocean for documentary crews to find in the future. I am sorry.
Bi #2: I’m going to be honest with y’all. I downloaded Tinder last month in a fit of pettiness and it was NOT THE MOVE. I AM TOO AWKWARD FOR THIS LIFE.
Still, though: I think I’m sort of proud of myself for taking another step forward? Of continuing to tiptoe softly down this queer high dive. Of continuing to nervously pull down at the crotch of my damp bathing suit and declare to the entire rest of the pool, “HELLO, I AM NOT HETEROSEXUAL.”
Declaration: Hello, my name is Dani, and wow, I am reading a lot of nerd-erotica wherein two creatures with vulvas kiss one another. I am not wrong about who I think I am.
Confessional: I’m still scared that I came to this too late. Scared that I will just eventually disappoint. Fuck.
Non-Bi: So, I have this stupid, stupid notion down in my stupid, stupid guts that I’m not allowed to start dressing the way I’d like until I lose some weight. Because I have gained some weight. I have been sad and there has been nowhere to go and running is hard and ice cream is easy. It isn’t a new story.
But I am taking a virtual burlesque class this month. On the night of our first class, we were told to identify the piece of our bodies we most disliked, and then to touch them as we seduced ourselves in the mirror. Or, in my case: the little Zoom box staring back at me.
Of course, I placed my hands on my soft stomach and, let’s be clear, I don’t know how to seduce ANYONE, but I tried. I did not fight it. I did not fight the notion that this body of mine that I am still coming to terms with every single day… that this body could ever be truly handsome, truly gorgeous, truly sexy even. One day I will don suspenders and a bow tie and maybe I won’t even have to try to seduce anyone.
Declaration: Hello, my name is Dani, and I am a sexy motherfucker, every last curve and squish and angle and hill and crevice of me. Fuck you if you disagree.
Confessional: I am afraid I am too much. I am afraid of being too big, too loud, too fast, too soft.
(What I might say to you:)
Hello, my name is Dani. I talk too much on the Internet and I like your hair. Sometimes I feel ashamed for taking my anti-depressants and my mood stabilizers, but I do it anyway. I like almond croissants more than I like going to yoga class. I miss drinking whiskey gingers and performing my weird words on a tiny, smoky stage down in a tiny, smoky basement. I am drinking pre-mixed mango margaritas tonight and thinking a bit about hope.
Would you like a taco?