Belonging

Herself speaks.

Sometimes, I wonder what it is like to feel like one Belongs.

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I have never fully felt integrated into the Group. Any Group -- Classmates (from grade school through college, to professional school); fellow Campers at summer Camp; the Mom groups; Colleagues; other categorically-similar professionals (same gender/societal position - "Women Professional Blahblahs"); and so forth. For over twenty years, I worked in a profession that straddled fields -- as neither scientist nor true other-professional, I was neither one nor the other. And as a long-time telecommuter, I was nearly invisible on the whole for the entire time. 

As a transplant to this desert land, I have not been (nor will I ever be) a Native. I'm a non-Spanish-speaker in a population that is 80% Hispanic. I'm a woman disinterested in stereotypical 'girly' things -- makeup/nail art/wine/home decor -- that make for female small talk. Even online, I'm a bystander in the social groups. Forever peripheral. Sometimes, that's OK -- I'm an introvert in a sea of extroverts.  All the same, though, it means that I'm never fully part of the whole. I'm a hanger-on, an extra, someone who can be easily shed, who does not count. 

Communication: so difficult. I'm a person with a need for precise vocabulary usage, in a land of people who are annoyed by oddly-specific language choices. I try to say what I mean, and am forever stymied by people who talk around what they intend or insinuate secondary meaning where I cannot see it in their own words (or worse, where I do not intend it to be in mine). Forever needing to watch my word choice, to ensure my face is doing the right things and my tone is modulated, to ask reciprocal questions (I tend to forget to do so, because I am concentrating on All The Other Things). Who has time to settle in and Belong, when just Being in the Group is so much work? 

Imagine what it would be like, to be comfortable in a room full of people. To just feel that they like you, accept you for who you are, are glad you are there -- and not just because you can do something for them, but because of who you are as a person. 

Wouldn't that be lovely? 

Heartrending Earworms

 Herself speaks.

I have this song stuck in my head. I need to listen to it, and yet it pains me: it's like an itch that must be scratched, even though it hurts.  Back At Your Door, Orville Peck and Debbii Dawson. It is unbearably sad. I cannot turn away. 

Have a listen. I am not sure you will enjoy, necessarily. But it will enrich your life. And perhaps, it will be stuck in your head, too, and then I will not have to suffer alone. 

Niche Interests

 Herself speaks.

Sometimes, the only thing to do after a long day of work, is to disassociate while scrolling through TikTok. (I know there are more fruitful things that could be done. But right now, I am allowing myself leeway to just... not think for a little while, when needed. And TikTok helps.) 

It's interesting, the way the algorithm picks what it thinks it should show next. I haven't quite figured it out yet. Most of it is predictable and in keeping with my interests and inclinations; my feed most often provides videos relating to animal rescue/LGBTQ+-support/science content/autism information/recreational vehicle tours. I also get a certain amount of Harry Potter content, although that is much less likely, now that I do not "like" or interact with those videos as often (I do not support the author, who has taken on her own Voldemort-like status, she-who-must-not-be-named, for her TERF attitudes and generally hostile and snarky social media content.)

Given my love of our favorite masked country singer Orville Peck, though, and a passing interest in the group Sleep Token (who have a song that is being heavily featured along with clips of Death Eaters at the Harry Potter Experience, and who are also masked), it seems inevitable that TikTok should drop me into what is apparently known as #MaskTok. 

MaskTok probably goes a lot farther (and more... MORE) than I've ended up -- like #BookTok, there are sections of TikTok that are much more R-Rated, feral and explicit and beyond what this unimaginative middle-aged woman can conjure. The corner that I have found is primarily a set of cosplayers from Call of Duty (COD), who make short videos in their cosplay costumes, occasionally hold live TikTok sessions in which they sit and banter with one another, and so forth.  

So now I've learned about Call of Duty. A game which I've never played. It's a weird topic for a person like me. But truth be told, I am so glad that I am interested in something, rather than absolutely nothing as I was for so long, that I'm allowing myself to sit and learn a little bit. 

The COD cosplay community on TikTok is surprisingly sweet. They all seem very supportive of one another; they've built a little community based on their love of cosplay, and post kind and thoughtful words back and forth to one another. Like all online communities, there does appear to be a bit of Drama here and there (though I haven't seen much), but overall, it's nice to witness. Like being in a room full of cheerful, supportive friends. I'll never be one of them, but I get to sit in the atmosphere of the room, and that's good enough for me. 

Most of the creators in the community require age-checks for interaction (MDNI - Minors Do Not Interact), which is wise since there's a certain amount of adult flirtation and Language.  For me, though, that is the moment when it's frankly horrifying to be such an Old Person online. I'm sure my presence/commentary is questionable at first, particularly because my TikTok name is gender neutral (though my gender is listed in my profile) -- who wants a 57-year old who-knows-what lurking with the youngsters in cosplay? I don't say or do much besides post an occasional supportive statement or 'like'; until I'm proven to be harmless, I don't want to come across as a creepy creeper. 

A side note: approximately 80% of the COD cosplayers I am currently following on TikTok, are women cosplaying as male COD characters. Nice. I really admire that, for reasons I can't quite parse. It seems like something I would do, though, if I were younger and a physical shape that could pull off a male cosplay. In my next lifetime, perhaps. 

And also, there's the masks. We know I like masked singers. We're extending that to masked people in general now. I find the fact that most of the videos focus on the creators' eye expressions, to be SO HELPFUL.  Learning what eyes say, and being able to look at eyes safely, is really an unexpected bonus of this corner TikTok. 

(This is a point when I wonder whether there's overlap between autism TikTok and MaskTok, because Great Learning Tools in both places. Things to Think About.)

At any rate, so that's where we are now. We'll see how long and how far it goes. I'm just glad that for now, something has captured my interest a tiny bit. Perhaps that's a sign that things are just a little bit better.

I'll take it. 

Awkward Calls

 Herself speaks.

It's the beginning of the month, and so I do my lovely-Daddy-related tasks: I take care of Mom's regular bills, and I check Daddy's emails to be sure no unusual bills or other correspondence have come through. These are quiet little tasks that do not take long, but allow me to ensure that lovely Daddy rests in peace. Don't worry, Daddy, I'm taking care of things. You can rest easy. 

This month, he had a reminder about a doctor's appointment. (It's not as unusual as one might think for this to happen; this was for a routine appointment that would have been made far in advance.) Out of courtesy to the doctor, I made That Call, to let them know that Daddy wouldn't make the appointment. Or any other appointments, ever. 

People are always so very kind when I tell them that Daddy is Gone. As awkward as it is to have to be the bearer of sad news, it is always a moment when strangers appear to be genuinely sympathetic. 

In this hard world, I'll take those few seconds of compassion. Even though it invariably, momentarily, softens the walls I have built to protect myself. 

I miss you, Daddy.  

Fuzzbutt

Miss Poppy is such a... LARGE and fuzzy bun. 

Question, and Answer

 Herself speaks.

One of the things I miss most about my lovely Daddy, is how, every now and then, when we had that ever-so-rare moment to ourselves, he would ask, "How are you doing?" 

I would always be caught off guard by the question. It's as if he somehow knew that there was something else, something deeper and perhaps more painful, behind the deliberately bland/benignly cheerful/otherwise quiet persona that I carry around with me. 

I was never completely honest with him. Primarily because I didn't want him to worry. (Or secondarily, to share anything too private with anything else.) And what could he do, anyway, if I told him that I was Tired or burnt out or worried about all the small things? 

Perhaps I was doing him a disservice by not letting him in. He would have gladly helped me to carry my burden -- whatever it was -- for a little while, if it could have brought me some peace. This I know.

I wonder if I could be more honest now, if he were still alive. Or perhaps, it is the freedom of knowing that he is both Nowhere and Everywhere all at once, that I can at last talk to him in my head instead, and tell him the Truth. 

Perhaps that is why I miss the question: because I am finally ready to answer. 

And that is just one reason why I miss my lovely Daddy: because he is the only one who ever asked the question.  

Find the Happy Ending

(Bianca Sparacino, again)