Poly

For once, my radio silence wasn't just because I had nothing to say. I have poured way too many words into poems and slam and angry tirades at God and the air around me. I just haven't been able to type any of them. Everything has been by pen or by voice.

Before I went to Italy for a month to try to salvage some kind of relationship with my father (which, while a story for another day, unsurprisingly failed), I met a person who I quickly fell for. She was the most handsome boi I think I may have ever seen, and we spent two whirlwind nights together up until the hour before I left for the airport. She was, since I came out as trans, the first person who ever gave me the hope that I would never have to settle on a partner. She was everything that I would have ever described as my "type" before I had the luxury of thinking someone like me could be choosy enough to have one. Significantly older than me, a stereotypical stone butch, chivalrous with a huge queer identity, passionately invested against oppression of all sorts, a stunning interpreter, polyamorous, and spiritual. She told me spoken words poems that I made her think of; I wrote poetry for the first time in far too long because of her: I just couldn't help it. She lives on the opposite end of the state from me, but she was already making plans to come visit before we even parted. We spent my month abroad writing each other like teenagers in their first romance. I was foolish enough to let myself fall head over heels for her. It only got better once I got back to the States, with phone calls for hours or even just minutes so she could hear my voice before work. I still couldn't stop writing poetry because of her.

Just a couple of weeks after I got back from my trip, with next to no warning, she called things off. In her texts to me, she told me she was so sorry. That she loved me. That she wished she hadn't dragged me into her shit but would love to be allowed to contact me again in the future. In the email she sent a day later, she formally told me she wasn't poly and that, as her friendliness could often be mistaken for flirting, she shouldn't have taken it to the next level. My gut says she told her partner a very different story than the truth, but I have no power over that. I'm not sure which part of making love for three days, plans for a stay at my home, and over a month of relationship was the "next level," but it didn't make me hurt any less. Losing her, along with the reassurance that I didn't have to settle for a one-sided attraction in my relationship, hurt more than it had any right to after such a short time. The lack of reason didn't make it rock my foundation any less severely.

I've spent the time since growing and being mindful and grateful. I miss her still. Of course I do. But, I think I'm grateful most of all. I was given an opportunity to realize I could have a partner I was in awe of, who I was smitten with, who turned my thoughts into poetry. Who could even be attracted to me as I am. A trans*guy. A queer. A Christian. Someone who is both at least a little poly and ace. She let me realize how valuable people perceive me as, and that maybe I should learn to perceive myself like that too. That I base too much of my happiness on situations and people rather than turning inwards and upwards, taking my joy from God and His sport and the energy of the Earth around me. She taught me to ground myself with big trees and old rocks and even my shadow of a dog. I'm grateful and more open, even if that than gratefulness is still a little sore around the edges. I'm a little wary of having an open heart, and more than a little wary of polyamory without talking to the primary partner first, but mostly, I'm healing.

Will you love the parts of me
that are unloveable? There are
monsters in the shadows of my heart,
and there are times when I cannot
make it out from under the covers
to face them in the light of day.
Will you be scared of my darkness,
or will you bring pillows and
flashlights and help me build it
into a blanket fortress?
The nights when I do not want
to see the dawn, will you kiss
my scars and hold me until sun
kisses the Earth, just so I can say,
"I'm glad I didn't die before I met you"?
When I am a building ablaze with
no fire escapes, will you escape
with me on the rising smoke like
phoenixes from the ashes of the arson
of my memories?
With as little of yesterday's self
that remains in me today,
will you love me as I grow into
the me that will exist tomorrow?
More still, will you love the
parts of me that remain unloveable?

Foreigner

     In the States, people stare at me constantly. It has become so second-nature that I can almost convince myself I don't notice the up and down examinations.

    Here in Italy, though, in the meager 11 days I have been here, I've been nearly able to forget the feeling of being an interesting specimen behind a wall of glass. Maybe it's because I look like every other pierced punk with a mohawk, or because there's no queer culture here for them to fear my belonging in, or maybe Italians just care less about the weird trans*dyke walking past them. It's a nice change, but it makes it all the more noticeable when I see the discomfited man glancing warily in my direction the entire time I wait in the queue.

     Men used to look me up and down like I was a cut of meat they were eager to gnaw on, striking fear into me. Now, though, their eyes deflect skittishly away, as though I were the frightening one.

As I sit here with the sun beginning to kiss the horizon,
I write you a poem because dreams of you
still dance through my head.

Watching the foreign sky turn pink,
I finally admit that I am writing you a love poem.
I was never supposed to love you.

I wish I could say that I regret this,
but imagining the next time I can be wrapped in your arms
forces me to admit that's a lie.

With an energy that draws me in,
an interpreter's expressions and a smile that holds me there,
I love you.

Grace

The part that perhaps hurts the most in my expulsion from my former home church is the lack of grace. They showed grace to both my former abusers. One of those abusers, after raping and sexually assaulting several high school aged girls, some while he was over 18, was welcomed back into working in the high school ministry. The Ex, who also abused me, is welcomed back as an employee. Yet, I've never been shown grace by the leadership. While that doesn't absolve me from my responsibility to show them grace in light of this rejection, it doesn't make the pain any less heart wrenching.

When the prodigal son returned home, having sinned and squandered his inheritance, his father rejoiced and loved him still. When His disciples denied Him and turned Him over for His crucifixion, Jesus loved them. When the dying criminal on a cross beside my Saviour begged for forgiveness and mercy, He granted it instantly. That is the gospel's idea of grace. I'm not sure when I became less deserving of grace than others, but all it means is that I can learn how I submit to God's plan for me more gracefully and willingly. I will praise Him for that, even in the storm. God is good. God is good. God is good.

Thoughts for Today

• God is good. 
• God is sovereign. 
• Everything works out for His glory. 
• It also apparently works out for my good. 
• In submitting to Him, I can praise Him. 
• He gives and takes away and my praise should not be dependent on being blessed. 
• When He slams doors resolutely shut, He has a perfect purpose behind it. 
• I have His grace in me that I need to show, even when it's not shown to me. 
• He has blessed me with so many people to love me and support me. 
• He manipulates my plans in beautiful perfect ways. 
• God is good. God is good. God is good. 

Prodigal Son

     I met with my pastor today, from my home church. This was the church I was saved and baptized at, and the only church that has ever made me feel like home. Over the 6 years since I started attending there, I've been through several growing pains with the church, the leaders, and my fellow attendees, but I never stopped seeing it as my home. When The Ex, who volunteered heavily there at the time, outed us, it didn't go smoothly. We were looking for affirmation and love and support; we were met with the reality of a church (nationwide, really) that wasn't ready for that. They loved us, but no one involved handled it with aplomb and feelings were hurt all around. The Ex and I left the church after the first service of 2012. We were heartbroken and hurting and couldn't gain anything by attending there. I don't regret that decision, as much as hurt. It was what we both needed.

     Towards the end of our relationship, I desperately wanted to try returning to the church. I missed it and my pastor desperately. I missed learning and growing and attending. The Ex said she wasn't ready, so I held off. Once the relationship ended, she returned to the church. I wanted to go back, but I was too forlorn over losing her to risk seeing her.

     Two weeks ago, I finally bit the bullet and emailed my pastor, asking for his blessing in returning to my church. While I don't want to see The Ex or run into her, the pain of missing my home finally far outweighs the risk of encountering her. My pastor and I met today regarding it and I, for one, was terrified. I prayed desperately for God to give them grace and forgiveness and mercy, and begged for acceptance and submission on my part for their decision.

     He accepted me as a transguy, even if he still cared for the girl he had met me as, and respected me enough to use my chosen name. We discussed the hurt that had taken place when I left the church and the fact that I've matured enough that I can recognize that, even if I disagree with someone, we can love each other anyway. I confirmed that I am willing and wanting to submit to my church's spiritual authority by calling it my home church even though I disagree with their stance on queers. He grieved my rape and need for a service dog, and was shocked to hear about what had transpired with the best friend who had sexually abused me being allowed to remain working with high schoolers. We talked about his joy at seeing me again, thriving in spite of my brain injuries and mental illness.

     We discussed the real impediment to my returning to the church: my history with The Ex. He mentioned that, from what he's seen, she's doing so well on her spiritual walk and fellowship and I couldn't be happier for her. The concern is, of course, if I return and disrupt that. I do think that's a valid concern, if not an entirely fair one. She returned first to the church so she gets priority in staying there? Considering that I had two of my abusers be allowed to stay at the church unquestioned, that doesn't seem quite right to me. Regardless, it's their decision to make. They plan on talking to her about it to see if she could cope with me being there. I'm praying desperately that she says she can deal with it. I already told my pastor how much I'm willing to work to mitigate any negative effects, in the sense that I'm not asking to go back to the college group or any of the church events that she would typically attend and even sitting places that wouldn't impact her working there. I hope that gets relayed to her.

     I know whatever God wants will happen, but I'm still selfishly praying that that might be me being able to return to my church. Either way, prayers for acceptance and submission on my part and grace and mercy on everyone else's would be so appreciated.