On closets, and other practical matters.

Got a new job.

It pays well and I seem to be pretty decent at it.

I have a new girlfriend willing to move mountains to make me happy.

Yet here I am, in the same spot I was two months ago trying to write a piece but feeling that it was too sullen and off topic to be posted on the site, or even to be of interest to anyone. Two months ago, I found myself in the midst of one of the most fruitful yet utterly devastating job searches in which I had ever engaged. Everyone wanted “Carlos”. Every prospect getting to the third interview me even turning some down because I knew that there was a better on out there. In the end I took a position doing something that my last “real” job passed me over for; six times.

Okay, this actually sounds pretty awesome. Let me back up a bit.

October 2011, my previous “real” job is coming to a head. After doing the same menial shit while taking on more responsibilities for the last five years. Seeing my Boss call customers and collect favors by hiring their kids and nephews to positions that I have been working towards, often in a week or two when it takes anyone else months to get into this company, it just started to grate. Being called “Carlos”. Being “Carlos”. Having the smallest bit of wiggle room afforded to my Gender expression by letting everyone know that I was Bi. It was just time to go.
I left on good terms. Told them that I was going back to school or something. Out of there, I felt like I had turned a corner. I was finally going to be myself at work. “Carlos” would just be the suit that I wore to my Mother’s (She knows, It’s just not worth the fucking trouble).

Then came six months of making less than I have ever in my life…

So here I am. Being good. “Being Carlos” Making more money that I ever have made before. A pretty decent amount considering I have no type of degree or special training and there is no manual labor involved.

I turned 30 this year

I honestly have no idea which half of my 20’s was worse. Coming to terms with who I was just made me see everything that I could not have. The funny thing about the closet is that you feel safe inside. Or at least I did. I was miserable but I didn’t exist. I couldn’t live life, but there was nothing out there for me. I swear, all of the people who harp on coming out of the closet never mention the goddamn the electric fence waiting five feet outside of the motherfucker. You go from never really seeing what you are missing, being totally in the dark with open eyes; to never being able to look away. God help you if you get lost in what you see. Maybe start to see yourself in it. Forget that the fence is there.

You will be reminded.

Some Good happened. I just can’t feel it. In dragging myself through for the sake of those that just can’t see me go; I lost something. I am still out, everywhere that is not my Job or my mother’s house. Just about everyone who loves me, calls me Kara; and considers me Kara. Things are not horrible. They just hurt and I can’t feel anything else.

I hate when people call me brave.

I guess that this is the part where I staple on some bullshit Tranny “Sailor Says” section so that this is not just a complete whine fest. That’s fine, while a major part of me is writing this just so I will be able to finally write something else, there can be purpose in this piece. Whipping Girl was the first book that ever offered me personal validation. In it, the writer mentions that one of the problems with mainstream trans-narratives is that they all tell the same story and that story seemed to be tailored more towards non-transpeople than anyone who actually needed to know that there was someone else out there like them self.

The closet really is the safest place for a lot of people’s “right now”. The Hood is not the place be an LGBT teen. The Hood is barely a place to safely be a human being. When homeless LGBT teens are the most at risk of any homeless youth, who would ever put pressure on a kid who has no control of their living conditions to be “out and proud”?

As for adults, we do make a decision and are not nearly as helpless. That being said, anyone who faults someone as smart as me and as hardworking as me and as resourceful as me for not accepting minimum wage in a sleazy area as a small price to pay for “pride”; can go fuck themselves.
No one ever talks about the people who hurt and keep moving. No one sees poor Gays and Lesbians who can’t afford to move somewhere safe. No one sees selfless LGBT people who care more about their families than they do themselves. No one sees transwomen that would fall too far outside of accepted female standards so fucking rigid that Fat women can barely fit inside without an asterisk. You won’t see these people posting transition timelines on Reddit or parading in their local Gay Ghetto declaring their Pride. They are just trying to keep a gun out of their fucking mouth.
I guess that if I could tell these people anything, it would be that “You exist as you are. You are doing the best that you possibly can with what you have and you are going about the hard work of living. You don’t owe anyone a damn thing and above all, stay safe.”

I promise. Next week I’ll talk about League of Legends or some shit.