Elevator Conversations

Me:
That is so gay.

Mum:
Don't use that word.

Me:
I've been using that word since before any closets were opened.

Brother:
It's derogatory against my people.

Me:
Well what about my people?

Brother:
Evidently Mum and I are still trying to work out who your people are.

What makes someone worthwhile? What qualities form the basis of not necessarily likability, but a level of tolerance?
One would assume that sharing a gene pool would help, but it appears not. If I were to model myself into the smallest form of acceptability where would I start? Shorten my hem, lighten my hair and lower my standards?
Perhaps my level of acceptability is higher than others? Maybe that's why I feel so isolated. Why I find it hard to really fit in. Why boys don't ask me out and why there's always an extra inch of space between my friends and I that I can't work out how to fill?
My mother always said that if you have no expectations, then you won't get disappointed. Then why do I feel so disappointed not having the things that I don't even know that I want yet?
Maybe the feeling isn't really disappointment. Maybe it's worthlessness or anger or guilt or anxiety? But for now, it just feels sad.

Should I find it odd that I experience things that no one else talks about? How I can see things change colours or can watch something move when really it is sitting still? I smell things that no one else admits to, and see people that weren't really there in the first place. I feel things touch me; the weight and texture and sensations one would expect, but actually, there's nothing there. The only people who claim to have experienced these things are labelled. Some as Schizophrenic and others just plain insane. I wonder how long these things have been happening? Perhaps for years and I haven't noticed until now, when I'm feeling particularly vulnerable and looking for people and things to blame.

Sometimes I wonder how much of what I think I am is real? The things that I think and believe, see and experience.
While cruising the Atlantic I embraced in using my sea legs because it justified the vertigo that sometimes occurs when I'm on solid ground.
When in foreign ports my eyes tried to convince my brain that I have seen people I know. I have to look twice, sometimes even three times to prove to myself that they're just another stranger.
I have been trying to drag up moments and memories from my childhood; perhaps to explain why I am who I am? I recall one from being two or three in the butchers shop and looking at the red cheerios through the glass - but I can see my miniature figure too. I can see me as if I am a fly on the wall or a skeleton in the closet. The little girl is standing on tip-toes with her hands on the cabinet with a face so close that the glass is fogging up. I know it's me because my mother reminds me of going to the shop every week and the butcher giving me a cheerio if I'd been good that day. I have vague recollections of this, but as a third party and so disconnected that it could be just a dream instead.

There are times when I don't feel quite like myself. Granted, I don't really know myself yet. I tell myself I do. I paint out my dreams and aspirations, my fears and favourite colours and musicals and actors. Sometimes I wonder if it's all just a trick? As if these things that I think are pieces of me are really just a cover created by my soul to hide the truth of what I think I want to see but really don't have the courage or strength or maturity or maybe even the sanity to accept.
Perhaps I'm only aware of this when I have moments like now; when I don't feel like myself. As if I'm to know how I should feel anyway?

Opera Queensland

When I was in Year 10 I did a week long opera workshop. I loved it. It encompassed everything that I loved about the theatre and more. After our presentation performance on the last day I felt empty, almost like I had lost something or someone.
I went home and typed an email to Opera Queensland. I explained my satisfaction with the programme and documented my personal thoughts of each tutor. I'm not sure what I expected to come of doing this. Truthfully, I figured it would be read by a computer system and then appropriately discarded. Instead it was printed in the company's newsletter and sent to hundreds of theatres, schools, companys and prospective students.
They sent me some copies to show to my family and friends. I put them in a box in my room and never showed a soul.