[between the margin and the edge]

I think sometimes I forget that I am human.

I often speak, in my efforts of consciousness-raising, about marginalization. About how politically and socially, I and others like me are still marginalized. I propose solutions to the causes of this marginalization, and I try to speak out against institutionalized complacency toward it. I try to explain how I and others that I know are marginalized to those who do not understand, and sometimes the injustice of it all causes me to lose my temper behind the safety of my keyboard.

But it is I who have become complacent. I have learned to expect that I will be marginalized. I have learned to be quietly angry and loudly political. My lack of basic civil rights has become integrated with my life, and my level of societal privilege often shifts depending on the legal sex of my current dating partner. An outer layer of me is passionate about fighting these injustices, but the very core of my being has backed into a corner to make room for this newer, more active, more invulnerable me. An inner part of my has learned that feeling hurt, ashamed, or outraged only hinders my outward progress through life as an activist.

Today I was reminded how important it is to learn to contain and express my feelings while still allowing myself to be hurt, ashamed, or outraged. I'm not sure why things hit me quite the way they did, but I was reminded today how very vulnerable, how very human, I still am. While I am pleased with the way I expressed my level of disappointment, I am more concerned about the fact that today I felt more than disappointment. I was hurt. I was a little ashamed.

I'm not sure how comfortable I am with allowing these layers of myself to fully mesh. There is a level of safety in only sharing what is easily understood. There is a level of safety in only sharing parts of myself in which I have confidence.

My sense of logic knows that being listened to, being taken seriously, should be enough. Progress should be enough to keep me feeling pleased with myself. The fact that I, in my small way, am inciting some sort of social change, should leave me with positive feelings about my day.

Unfortunately, today my blood runs rather thin. Picking at an old scab might perhaps have been an unwise choice of self-violation, because now I can't apply enough pressure to make the bleeding stop.