I’ve been told my entire life that nothing I do is good enough. That I reach short of every expectation regardless of how much effort I put forth — and honestly, regardless of how much I’ve achieved. I’m not good enough — and this fact was tossed around so much that it somehow lost the quality of being a complaint or criticism and reached the status of being an inalienable truth. That inadequacy was somehow an integral part of my existence.

Even when I realised that the expectations for myself were rather impossible and constantly being raised, I still internalised the lesson that I was just not “good enough.”

Anecdote time! I took the PSATs in high school like everyone else in my school did. When I got my results back, to my surprise, I was in the 99th percentile — the highest grade of percentiles on the test. In other words, I did better than 99% of the students in the nation. I was in the top 1%.

When my mother saw my score, she turned to me and said “Only 99%? Why not 100%?”. In shock, I turned to her and said “It’s PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE for me to be better than 100% of the people who took the test. It’s impossible for me to have scored better than myself.” And turned and walked out.

But the lesson still remained. I was not good enough. It turns out I was a National Merit Semi-finalist.16,000 people of the 1.5 million people who took the test get this status. There was one more stage to get through to be a Finalist. About 90% of the people who are Semi-finalists make it to the next round. All you have to do is write an essay and turn in your SAT scores.

My SAT scores would have gotten me through. If I had written an essay with any sort of effort, I probably would have gotten me through.

But the refrain of never-good-enough stays in your bones and leaches motivation. What’s the point of applying yourself when you will never be good enough?

Because inadequacy is what makes you you. It is the only sentiment your environment has ever repeated.

(Like when you were 9, and you were curled up in a ball as your mother punched you repeatedly as she cried about how your C on a quiz meant that you would spend the rest of your days working in McDonald’s and that you were a failure and how could you do this to her?)

That’s all there ever was. That’s all you ever knew of yourself. And whenever anyone else ever praised you, you remember your mother’s words. You remember her telling you that everything anyone else said were lies. That the only people who loved you enough to tell you the truth were family. That the only truths were that you were never good enough.

And years later, you realise that you still believe her. Years of therapy and introspection and trying to break those thoughts haven’t changed it. Years of looking into the mirror and saying “I am good enough. I have worth.” haven’t changed it.

And you’re 23 and still waiting for the permission to be worthy of love. And that even when someone gives it, you will never believe them.

Because this is you. This is what you were molded into and you never knew you could be anything else. You never knew you were enough. You never knew you were amazing.

I’ve recently finished Polyamory in the 21st Century by Deborah Anapol. It’s a decent read, if often cissexist and non-binary-erasing, but I suppose that’s to be expected.

I’m going to be posting quotes from the book and the thoughts that they inspired. I’d like to make this a regular feature (especially because I miss libraries. :( )

[Further book details are under the cut.]

Read more …

I love you like black-and-blue-berries,
and rainbow-winged butterflies,
and the purpled swirl of a nighttime canopy.

And were I to find mossy woods to embrace, my love for you would not diminish.

Love is not a brimming thimble to be watched lest it topple. Love is the water itself. It is brooks and rivers, the stillest ponds and tumultuous cascades. 

The more you love, the more you can love.
The more you love, the more intensely you love. 

There is no limit on how much you can love. There is no limit on how many you can love.


I have too much love and too little time for anything less.


I vow to fight for the infinite power of love.

“My story is a peculiar story. Frankly, it’s a bit too unbelievable and lacks the necessary narrative for me to feel comfortable calling it a story. Is there a word for serendipitous vignettes bound together by gauzy wisps?

Because that’s what this is. A series of disjointed portraits and I am the only leitmotif.

I suppose what it’s called isn’t the important thing. The important thing is that I pen them down lest they float off into the ether.

And hey, if it makes you feel better, you have my permission to write it off as a dream. Sometimes it’s the only way I can accept them, too.”

I had a dream that I knew how to teleport. But my abilities had a curious caveat. I could only teleport to strangers. If someone I knew saw me, I would disintegrate and never be able to teleport again.

So I would think of places (London, Paris, the East Village) and teleport there. My magic would find me the one person who I could teach the most and from whom I could learn the most. I would teleport and spend the entire night there.

And in the morning, I would wake up in my own bed, the entire night just being made of the haze of dreams.

It’s a little bittersweet meeting a person, falling in love with their unique being, and knowing I will never see them again. But I wouldn’t have given it up for the world.