My cat Holden is a wild man. Still, at almost 17 years old, he sprints the length of the apartment, his claws hitting the hard floor with unpredictable rhythm like fire crackers popping. He spots a bird out the window and gets so charged with predatory energy he must leap to his half-circle scratch post and rip it to shreds. I know that when he does this he’s pretending to slaughter his lunch. I’m unbothered by his instinct.
These spring mornings he’s been up with the sun and the mourning doves nesting outside our bedroom window. He cannot contain himself. From 6:45 and on he bounces from surface to surface, stretching at doors and walls, pawing at faces, pacing across my reclined body impatiently. I linger in bed and theorize about why he’s acting this way. Maybe he’s roid raging, or coming to life after a long, dull winter. Or maybe he’s just unbearably desperate to kill those doves. Whatever the cause, it doesn’t make a difference. He’s doing it and that’s real enough to wake me up.
Still, every morning I grab my phone and google some new version of the question “why is my cat insane in the mornings,” hoping to figure out why he tries to scratch a hole through the baseboard beneath the window. The answers are vague: he’s crepuscular! He needs something from you! It’s never satisfactory, because I’m looking for someone to confirm exactly what I’m seeing. As though me seeing it is not enough for me to believe it.
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Last week I asked my new therapist, J, to give me a name for something. “What would you call that?” I asked them, after explaining an emotionally loaded experience. They elaborated on a few concepts. One resonated enough for me to hold onto and I felt satisfied. But minutes later, I was asking for another label for something different.
Therapist J is Queer, which is what I wanted in a therapist right now. Queerness is so significant to my identity but I still feel lost in it. Intuitively I know it’s real for me—like I know that Holden is thirsty for bird blood. But I know by now that I have little respect for my intuition. I seek another to tell me what is real. Therapist J is here for that. Because they specialize in supporting people through identity questions, they are equipped with knowledge and the vocabulary to discuss experiences that don’t match traditional and mainstream narratives. They reassure me that my experiences are valid, human, and fine. And when I ask for it—which I always do—they can give them a label.
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Broadly speaking, the thing I value and admire most about Queer culture is that it celebrates defying labels, living outside of labels, redefining labels when it feels right, or rejecting them all together. It is a culture that acknowledges and honors the fluidity of being—a state that permeates all parts of life, not just sex and gender. Almost everyone I’ve ever talked to in depth has expressed at some point in some way that they have failed to align with a label they were assigned. Queer culture says never mind about that label—what feels true to you?
I tell Therapist J that I recognize the irony in this—that I’m fixated on categorizing my experiences while wanting to embrace my own fluid nature. But naming things is sometimes an act of belonging. It gives context, and context helps us make sense of things. This is important even if the context is that there is no existing context. A label imposed by someone else is suppressive. But selecting your own label is a way to relate to others and feel less lonely in a novel experience.
Owning my Queer identity and watching others in the Queer community discover and celebrate who they are has given me the permission I’ve long needed to start accepting myself in ways I never could. It’s the most beautiful thing.
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Yesterday I took my vape pen to the top of a hill that overlooks an industrial chunk of the city. I’ve learned that weed not only helps me feel calmer but it also helps me process. I laid on my back with my eyes closed to the sun and spoke out loud to my voice memos app. I’ve been digging deep into my journals and old emails for a project I’m working on. In them I find all the thought patterns I’ve carried throughout my life. I see how they harm me. I’m ready to let go. I spoke them to the clouds above, opened my eyes and watched a cloud evaporate.
By the time I left the hill, I felt lighter. Trusting myself to notice my patterns is a step in the right direction.