Sometimes the thought of failure drowns me. It eclipses any
amount of passion that once circulated through the very veins of my existence.
I think my fear of failure stems from my childhood, like most of ours does.
What is it though, from my childhood experiences that make the aspect of
failure so uncontrollably paralyzing? Is it the fact that I was overshadowed by
an overachiever of a twin sibling? Or is it the remarks of my father that still
bruise me today? Is it the experience of living with a mother who was kind and
accepting of my sibling and I until someone who disagreed with our existence
came around? I may never know.
I was never given the luxury of being an optimist. Throughout
my life, I have always been a failure. I have learned how to perfect a fake smile
and laugh in order to surround others with the comfort I never received. I have
seen the breakage of a family. The loss of loved ones and the disapproval of
the church. Halberstam states: "Relieved of the obligation to keep smiling
through chemotherapy or bankruptcy, the negative thinker can use the experience
of failure to confront the gross inequalities of everyday life in the United
States" (pg. 3). But am I a negative thinker? in a lot of ways yes? I was
raised to win. And whenever I lost, I was reminded that I was the child my
parents never wanted.
Now, I am not looking for a pity party. I am just exercising
my thoughts around the subject of how failure was presented to me in my youth.
I know as a human being am not a failure in day-to-day life. I win, by taking a
breath of air when I wake up in the morning. But I am also reminded, often time
in the most dreadful moments of the day, that others see me as a tragedy. I
know for my father, the moment he lost all hope in me is when I came out to
him. Granted I probably chose the worst moment in the history of ever to tell
him that I was not heterosexual. But nonetheless, I did.
I remember being in High School, and laughing around his
living room, while he endlessly flipped through television channels. He landed
on RuPaul’s Drag Race, and the room went quiet. He was a few drinks in and was
feeling the burn of alcohol. I could tell by the way his face lit up like a
firetruck as he muttered something having to do with the f-slur. His wife, my
stepmother said nothing, and my twin clearly uncomfortable looked in my
direction. I am not scared of confrontation. I reminded him that saying hateful
things about people who are different is not an acceptable thing. Of course, it
triggered an argument. He began to go on and on about how 'the gays' are a
burden to society, and that they are all going to hell. Now, I have never known
my father to be a religious man, so it shocked me that he would bring religion
into it when I could count the number of times I have seen him step through a
church's doors on one hand in my time of life. I laughed, which I think
triggered him because I have my mother’s laugh. and after hearing him ramble on
about others' lifestyles and his opinion on the subject I came out to him,
angrily. I saw the five stages of grief pass through my fathers' eyes all at
once. He launched upwards off of the couch screaming about how I was not his
daughter anymore and walked outside to have a cigarette. I remember bursting
into tears, as my sibling held me and my stepmother (who is always caring and
considerate as long as my father is not around) saying he was just upset and
that he would come around eventually. At this time, my sibling had also
expressed to her, their identity in the LGBTQ+ community at a previous time. He
did not. Which sucks. I remember the days after, being stuck in his home,
hoping the days went by fast so I could return home to my mother. I was scared,
upset, and overall, I felt like I had failed my father.
I am not scared to be this failure any more in his eyes. His
opinions do not matter to me, nor should they ever mattered in the first place.
I found my place in the world with friends who accept me. and I am not scared
to be a failure to him or anyone anymore. My identity has nothing to do with
failure, but it has everything to do with how others perceive me. Halberstam,
later on in his text states: "some of us who have escaped our cages may
start looking for ways back into the zoo, others may try to rebuild a sanctuary
in the wild and a few fugitive types will actually insist on staying lost"
(pg. 26). I never want to return to the cage in my father's zoo. I have built
my own sanctuary here. With my partner, with my friends, even if far away in
distant states in the US, and around the globe. I am a pessimist, but I have to
say my community gives me optimistic tendencies. I do talk to my father, once
every few months while he plays house with his new family. But I am reminded
every single time that I am not the daughter he wanted to have. And quite
frankly, I am perfectly fine with that because I am content with the situation
I am in, even if it is not perfect. I still question myself, my existence, my
sense of self, and my winnings and losses. But I am not going to let others
dictate what makes me a loser. I get to decide that for myself.
I am a failure for other reasons, but my sexuality and my
existence as a human is not one.
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