Scarleteen

So recently, I've been reading the book How to Tell When We Will Die by Johanna Hevda. Johanna is a genderqueer artist and writer who lives in LA and Berlin. They are VERY queer, VERY kinky, polyamorous, and a witch (I think).

They are also disabled with a multitude of mental illnesses and a history of involuntary hospitalization and suicide attempts.

My point is, I have very complicated feelings about Johanna. I admire them; I want to be like them. I'm afraid of them (or the idea of them). I relate to them and yet feel so far removed from them. Love and fear and shame swirl and join within my heart all at once.

I'm afraid of what my feelings reflect about myself.

Is it weird, even, to care about an author like this?
I'm thinking that these feelings might be reflective of my desire for community; for a queer elder of some kind. Someone who can tell me what the right thing to do is. Someone who can tell me that everything will be okay. I've realized that, for practically my entire queer journey, I've been alone.
I have struggled and tried (and failed) to figure out my gender identity and expression alone. I have wrestled with my attraction to men alone. I have grappled with my fear of intimacy, sex, and men and their power alone. I have, recently, dealt with my feelings around kink alone. I have dreamed and thought and wondered about my future alone. I have laughed alone; I have sobbed alone.

I have always done it all alone. For a very long time, I've told myself that I was fine with it, that it didn't bother me. That, of course, was a lie.

But I'm terrified. Terrified of reaching out my hand; terrified of trying. I'm terrified of those I admire and those I hate. I am terrified of my and other people's bodies. I am terrified of my desires, and especially of whatever I've started to feel about kink. I am terrified of my future. I'm terrified of the thought that I will always be alone.

Part of me doesn't want to relate to Johanna, as much as I admire them. I don't want to be defined by my body or my mental illness or, sometime in the future, disability. I don't want to be involuntarily admitted again (which is why I never tell anyone anything).

My admiration for them, their strength, their courage, their unashamed queerness, kinkyness, and everything else, has not faded. Part of me wants a life like theirs, even if it can be so painful. Because, throughout it all, they have had friends. Lovers. Their own assuredness in their own sexuality and identity; not letting anyone else decide it for them.

But what do I have? Nothing. My life has amounted to nothing; there is nothing to be left behind other than my pathetic fear.

Hey LopezMonty,

These are all reasonable feelings to have and I'm sorry that they may be making you feel a bit hopeless at the moment. It seems like there are a few different things going on, so let me know if these feel true to you: complex emotions about how you relate to this author, possibly some shame or disappointment about the past, and feelings of loneliness when engaging solo with concepts dealt with in community in this book. These are all absolutely valid things to be experiencing, but uncomfortable nonetheless.

It's understandable, the feeling of looking up to someone, especially someone so open publicly, and feeling mixed emotions. On one hand, it can be totally inspiring to see their experiences laid out so confidently, but on the other, it does mean that those things can potentially become associated with the people who express them. It does not feel weird at all to me for you to look up to them, though. It seems like there are things worth looking up to in what they share with the public, especially things like queerness, disability, mental health, and non-monogamy, that are not really discussed mainstreamly. In this way, it makes a lot of sense that their account of their own experiences helps fill a kind of gap for you, but still leave you wanting more, wanting that same kind of community. It can be such a difficult and long-term goal to find people who make us feel authentic, cared for, and vulnerable in the right ways.

Can you tell me more about your fear of reaching out? As someone who has also experienced many of those events alone as well, and is not too much older than you I want to say that this is absolutely relatable. But the only way I've really managed to take that step is by intentionally getting uncomfortable and choosing to put myself in awkward situations until they became fruitful .But it sure took lots of work, and still does all the time. So can you tell me more about how this fear manifests for you and what feels the most scary about getting out of your comfort zone/if you feel it's worth it to you?

I guess I’m afraid of rejection; of getting hurt. But it’s not like I’m not used to rejection, in my own way. I’ve been alone for a long time, so I don’t really know how else to live?

I just feel like I’m bad at making friends, bad with people. That if I do reach out, I’ll either be rejected or mess it up myself somehow. As bad as I am at making friends, I’m worse at keeping them. I don’t make the effort partly because I’ve convinced myself it won’t work before I even try.

I feel, what? Unlovable? Romantically or platonically, I feel like no one would like me. That I’ll burden people or be an annoyance.