Truth or Dare, Ivy?

I had a talk with my Dad last night. Not really—it was in a dream. 

He's not dead. He lives in North Berwick. I see him on Wednesday, where no doubt he will ask us how we are, and we will proceed to disappoint him by how little we've changed in his eyes. 

No, we haven't found a permanent job yet. 

We're still volunteering—three jobs. Thinking of also volunteering as a triage receptionist for the local CAB. Looks like fun and rewarding work. We would like to do that. Can pick up some more skills. 

We have many skills. One might call us jack of all trades, master of none, but we have some skills we are very good at.

Shall I tell you one? 

It's one I do daily: I take a rag-tag group of queers, misfits, waifs, and strays and help them function in a world that openly hates and despises them. The Perpetual Cabaret Players. My head-mates. My system. My alters. My friends. My selves. Our selves. 

That is a full-time job. Not that we get paid for it. We don't usually toot our own horn... well, maybe we're currently tooting, but... shut up. 😉😘😂

Ha! Point is, we keep ourselves busy. All while being on limited-capacity benefit due to long-term disabilities. 

But yeah... 

Still looking for work, Dad. 

What? How's therapy going? 

Therapy is... therapy. 

Hmmm. Therapy is going great. Katrina thinks it's time to dig deeper. She's heard the stories. What makes us tick. Now she thinks we can begin tackling the reasons why we started therapy; to process grief, loss, trauma, anger and channel it productively. Rather than letting it fester and consume us.

Because that helps no one. 

And if I let it hurt me... Hurt us... … … and don't do something positive with it, then what was it all for? 

Every insult. Every hit. Every act of sexual violence, harassment, and rape perpetrated against us. What was it all for?

I want to help make the world better. Be a positive light. Because sometimes, from where I am sitting, it is so very, very dark. Okay, maybe this is cliché. Sanctimonious cliché. But I can't help it. My idol is Superman. 

Well, Talon's idol is Superman. I'm more of a Wonder Woman fan myself. 

But while Talon is me,

Talon is Talon. 

But Talon is also me. 

He's AN Ivy

I am THE Ivy. 

"The definite article... so to speak."

Or at least... I think I am. I don't know. There is some debate on that front that we are dealing with. 

Wibbly wobbly. 

Identity medley. 

Like what I did there, Doctor Who fans?

So yeah... … …

Hmm? Why now did I start therapy? Why not earlier, when you gave us the money in January? 

We weren't ready for it. But now we are. Circumstances changed. 

Yeah. It had nothing to do with us moving away from home, which was not a safe or healthy environment for us. No siree. No. 

Hmm, this burrito is so good. 

It has nothing to do with feeling like we could not be the perfect daughter. Feeling that you would not accept us for who we are. Feeling like we could only be your daughter if we were "fixed." 

Because there is no "fixing" us. We're already fixed. You're looking at the fixed. You are talking to the fixed.

Hello. Hi. Howdy. 'sup. 

One at a time. One at a time. I know we all want to speak to him, but I only have two ears, one mouth, and 104 brains to contend with, so you'll all need to form an orderly queue.

… … … 

Well... … … You knew some of us back then. Because they've been around since I was … 4? I think? When we first moved to Edinburgh. You knew me (?) - I think? You also knew Delirium. Back when they were Delight. And then you knew Kitty and Talon. They first emerged after Delight tried to top themself at school. 

Do you remember that? 

I do... Err … vaguely, anyway. It was a long time ago. And it was Delight who was fronting. Not me. Not me. 

Delight was the people pleaser. 

But... children can be cruel. 

They don't mean to be. They are. And sometimes they grow up. 

And other times... they go on to write successful children's stories, all while using their billions to persecute 1% of the population and fund a Supreme Court ruling that sets women's rights back at least a century. Ha... fucking Riddikulus. We would laugh at her obsessive, childish, narrow-minded ignorance if it weren't so insidious.  

Anyway … … … That was the first time Delight's resolve wavered. After that, they were on double duty to ensure we looked like we were okay. 

We were fine. 

And that was that. 

But... shame and stigma are so very very very very very very very very… constraining. 

Be good. But not too good. Comes across as being disingenuous. 

Be happy. But not too happy. Comes across as insincere. Fake. 

Etc etc. Yadda Yadda Yadda. 

And also, parental expectations are such big shoes to fill. And I may be a size nine, but I still feel like they slip off my feet at every turn.

We have had a past. A past we felt ashamed of—because that's how we were conditioned to feel.

Slut. Whore. Queer. Faggot. 

And... they were right. 

I am a slut. 

I am a whore. 

I am a faggot. 

Well, maybe not a batty boy and Nancy boy, because, except for a few of us, we're not boys. 

But I am a mincing, preening, limp-wristed sissy.

A queer fairy cock-sucker, arse bandit. 

And I was good. 

I was very good. 

When people ask how my head is, I tell them I have no complaints. Because I never did. 

And, I am not sorry, Dad. 

I have no reason to be. Well, save for one thing. 

I am sorry to myself for not embracing who we were sooner. 

Mum secretly blames us for robbing her of time with her daughter. "Secretly" in inverted commas, because she said it to our face—but you get the idea. 

I was so ashamed. Thought these were scars that I had to hide. But why? 

I am a sexual being. I am a being of emotions. I have pride. I have desires. I have dreams. I have fears. I have wants. 

And I am done apologising for taking up room on this planet. It is expected of us because we are a minority. To beg and accept scraps. Well, here's what I think about that. 🖕 From every one of us.

Maybe that's not the answer you are wanting to hear... but it is the answer you are getting. 

Not very people pleasery, I know.

I have so much love to give. 

And I am going to give it. 

But I choose how to give it. 

And when to give it. 

And who to give it to. 

And it is not going to be given to those who ridicule, tease, mock, scorn, judge and hate us. 

… … … 

And then I wake up. I stretch, take my meds and wonder how the conversation will go on Wednesday. 

Will I say all this to him?

Or will I, for the sake of preserving our relationship, slip back into old habits of people-pleasing?

Truth or dare, Ivy? 

Dare. 

I dare you to say this to him. 

Fuck. Rouge, you're killing me here. 

Yeah... 

I double dare you.