Dearest Reader,
When we look at ourselves and our Inheritance—when we name ourselves and declare I am this—boxes and bodies loom large. We spend our lives coming into emergence yet refuse to let emergence alone. We refuse to let ourselves alone and by alone I mean ever and always free to emerge. Rather, we rush to carve and defend a name plate. We clamour for a findable, fixable self.
For most of us, this means choosing. For most of us, our own choosing is inseparable from what others choose for us. This is true whether we go along with what’s given or rail against it. Either way, we define ourselves in relationship. Either way, we say yes to this and no to that.
The inheritance of addiction is part of this story: The eating disorder identity. The person with a “problem.” The identified patient. The perfectionist. The addict. Whatever our drug of choice, it becomes wrapped up in us and, at a certain point, becomes us. We take on the drug’s personality. We lose touch with what makes us special and become not just numb and dumb but painfully predictable.
This inheritance — whether or not carried to extreme conclusion — dulls, limits, and denies our fullest expression. This inheritance — whatever the drug — cuts short continuous emergence.
What personality do you wear when you drink? When scrolling your phone? When lost in bread and sugar? Who and where are you then? Where is Source and presence and consciousness?
So yes, addiction becomes part of our identity and eventually subsumes it. But another, sneakier affection is addiction to identity itself. In receiving our lot and making our way, we grasp for something known. We pray for something certain. We even go so far as to say: This is me. I am this.
Yes, maybe. But also, life never stays still. When it does, fully and finally—when we reach our ultimate conclusion—we call this death. Meanwhile, we move. Meanwhile, we weave self and story. But neither self nor story is static. Neither self nor story comes as a matter of course—complete, determined, ended.
Instead, we choose certain threads and some are handed to us and some are tied too tight around our throats and we spin internal cohesion. Here, me and mine make sense. Here, I can delineate and advocate. Here, we find a closet of boxes and dutifully maintained coherence.
Gender and sexuality included. Gender and sexuality at our core.
Lots more on this for paid subscribers after the jump—plus intimate glimpses of my own gender and sexuality story. But first, a photo that my photographer best summed up as “creepy” :).
I say this as a person who identifies as queer. I say this as a person who’s been “out” for two decades. Still, I’ve yet to try a gender or sexual identity that fits perfectly. Perfect-for-now has seen iterations aplenty: bisexual, pansexual, lesbian, soft butch, baby dyke, gay, androgynous, queer.
Take your pick. None encapsulates my essence or experience.