• Category Archives not ashamed

  • Not Ashamed: Introvert

    Posted on by amber Comment

    If you haven’t already, please read the introduction post. That will give you context for this page.

    Being an introvert is a topic I could take a lot of ways. But one way I’m definitely going to approach it is to cram in a lot of pictures that don’t necessarily have anything to do with the surrounding text of this post, aside from all of it being about introverts.

    I could try to be one more voice explaining what it means to be an introvert. Because, in spite of the glut of pages doing that, people keep telling me I’m not an introvert because I’m not shy or because I can get up and address or entertain a group. But, listen, there’s a glut of pages. Educate yourself. This is a topic where it’s really, really easy.

    Fictional map of an introvert brain

    I could try to explain to you that introverts are worthwhile humans as well. But, again, there’s a glut of pages (and some books…oh, and Ted Talks for those of you who prefer to listen rather than to read). And, even worse, I keep running into this thing where it’s implied that maybe it’s the extraverts who aren’t worthwhile humans. Which just makes me shake my head because, for those of you who are new to me, I believe all people have equal great intrinsic worth. So, honestly, all I have to say on that topic that might not be on the pages you can find for yourself is that neither introverts nor extraverts are inherently better. Each kind of person, or, rather, each stop on the spectrum of introversion/extraversion, has both useful traits and traits those on the other end might consider problematic. No need for war, kids.

    But with all the articles you can find out there now on introverts, I still find people who treat it like a shameful thing.

    I don't want to be alone. I want to be left alone. -Audrey Hepburn

    I am not ashamed that I need (aye, need) solitude. That being around other humans wears me out. It can be a nuisance, that latter bit…though I revel in the solitude. But great thoughts and works of art and acts of self-discovery can come when one is alone with oneself.

    I am not ashamed to be exuberantly content with, (nay, to prefer) a few close friends rather than hoards of not-very-close friends. I can enjoy some moments with those who aren’t close friends in spite of that and don’t understand why people feel the need to all be counted as my Super Awesomest Friends!

    I am not ashamed of finding small talk painful. I can do small talk; I don’t enjoy it. Why this point comes up as a thing that I should feel bad about confuses me. Hey, let’s talk about my introversion instead. Y’know, since you’ve already gone there. Now we’re beyond that small talk some of you find so sacred and into my territory of something a little meatier.

    Introverts hate surprise parties

    Actually, if I just google “traits of introverts” and scroll through the list on the first article or two, I see nothing there to be ashamed of. Sure, last I heard, people on the introvert side of the spectrum are outnumbered by those on the extravert side. And, yes, I’m waaaaaaaay over on the introvert side. (When I take personality assessments, I’m 90-100% over on that side.) So, yeah, that means I’m not within the mathematical norm of humanity. But anyone who knows me knows that I laugh at the idea of being ashamed of being outside (or inside, for that matter) the norm.

    I do feel bad that extraverts and less introverted people get sad over my lack of social engagement. I don’t like to make people feel sad.

    But I like myself enough to consider my own health. I’ve made the mistake previously in life of trying to spare people the pain that is apparently associated with not getting enough social time with me…and, wow, was that a massive harm done to myself.

    Picture of a cat. Text: How was your weekend? Great. I didn't see anyone for two days.

    Actually, considering some of the traits of how my autism manifests, I’m not just not ashamed to be an introvert; I’m thrilled to be one. The introversion wants many things that are also kind to the autism. I can only imagine, for instance, the troubles in my head if I had my overwhelm and overstimulation issues but were also an extravert who needed all that human interaction. (Even typing that has made me cringe. Don’t worry, me, we’re good as-is.)

    I suspect that the upset at my not wanting the same amount of interaction and that old incorrect beliefs in introversion being the same as shyness are at the root of people considering my massive introversion a shameful thing. (Though, shout out to you shy kids. Yes, it can make life tough sometimes when you’re shy. But I see no reason you ought to feel ashamed of being shy.) Neither of those motivates shame in me. Nope.

    Girl says "I'd love to hang out, but I have to go sit in my house by myself..."(hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com)

    If you can stand the time alone with yourself to consider it (and I’m not being facetious; i read and hear that extraverts don’t love to be alone with their thoughts), I’d suggest that maybe, rather than spending time thinking about how I should feel bad for being an introvert, you might explore what in you makes you think that. Or at least google information and educate yourself about the power and awesomeness of introverts. We’re just as awesome as you, even if we’re quietly awesome. Ha!

    Post card that says "Introvert Problems: I'd love to hang out with you, but I need to be alone today. If I have any social interaction in the next 24 hours, someone will die."

    Before I go, there is one more thing I’d really like to address. There’s this idea out there that, if I tried, I could somehow cure myself of introversion. Now, I will absolutely agree that, with practice, one can get more adept at social situations. But this idea of curing myself of introversion ignores that, to say it once again, introversion is not the same as shyness (or social anxiety, which is also not necessarily easy to “cure”). It also ignores studies that have been done that show that the brains and nervous systems of introverts aren’t different to those of extraverts. Yes, science has shown that this isn’t just me having an attitude problem or needing to try harder. (I looked for the original essay I read about this, and the best I could do is this one or this one, especially if you scroll a bit to the Neural Clues section.) In this case, the graphic that follows is totally relevant:

    introvert vs extravert brains (processing routes)

    I won’t be cured. And, honestly, I am entirely good with that. It’s not a disease, it’s no more problematic than extraversion, and I’m so very not ashamed.

    Introverts Unite! Separately. In Your Own Homes.

    Cross-posted to the Not Ashamed section of my site (so that it’s all tidy).


    not ashamed

  • Not Ashamed: Science Fiction Writer

    Posted on by amber Comment

    If you haven’t already, please read the introduction post. That will give you context for this page.

    I was talking to someone whom I would consider an amiable acquaintance. I liked her well enough and had reason to believe she also liked me. In fact, one thing I know is that she considered me smart. And I know that because of the following conversation.

    Her: I heard you’re writing a book! What are you writing?

    Me: It’s scifi and—

    Her: Oh! But you’re smart…

    I was so shocked by this belief that scifi isn’t smart, and by the fact that anyone wouldn’t just assume scifi was my realm, that I didn’t reply in any sort of useful way. I’ve since thought that, given the chance to do it again, I’d have responded either by asking what she thinks smart people do write (and then saying some of what I say below) or by noting aloud that she’s obviously not very familiar with science fiction.

    I wish I could say that this scenario was unlike any other experience I’ve had, but I try hard not to lie.

    No, it seems that smart people can write poetry and lyrics (though there are people who assume that my lyrics turning into rock music, instead of some other kind of music, is proof that those probably aren’t smart). And I guess they, the smart people, write fine literature, the great American novel, or non-fiction. But never scifi (or, I’m betting, any kind of fantasy or horror).

    Before I laugh myself to death, let me assure you that many, many writers (and readers) of those presumed non-smart genres are ridiculously smart. That some of the wisest words I’ve read in fiction have been found in scifi (Dune, anyone?). And that assuming a whole genre of writers aren’t smart is, itself, not exactly a smart mindset.

    And even if scifi were never smart.

    And even if every other speculative fiction writer were a drooling moron, barely able to figure out how to make letters.

    Why would I be ashamed of making something out of the stories that fill my head? As I noted in my post about being a daydreamer, why would I feel ashamed at having that rich internal life?

    For some, it hasn’t been about smartness. They expect me to feel ashamed because I’m writing something that’s not to their tastes. That’s so ludicrous I can’t even conceive of responding to that. Except to suggest that maybe my tastes aren’t the ones with room for shame. Ha! (No, in all seriousness, enjoy what you enjoy. I might not want to catch a film with you if we don’t share tastes, but that doesn’t mean I believe you should feel shame.)

    Another likely reason it’s suggested I feel shame is that scifi is frivolous (according to some people). Oh, mate…I can appreciate that not all art speaks to all people. And you should certainly stick to what speaks to you (though I find that occasionally giving something new in a genre or art form a chance can lead to unexpectedly good moments). But scifi has taught me important lessons, saved my sanity, and (along with other speculative fiction) been proven to make my brain a better place.

    The only other reason I can think of that people think I should feel ashamed of being a scifi author is that the act is proof I’m a geek. And I already told you how unashamed I am of being a geek.

    So, yes, that’s correct; I am smart and I write science fiction (and read it and watch it and love it). And I can’t even understand why you think I should be ashamed of that. It’s beyond magical to write my own escape hatch out of the real world.

    Cross-posted to the Not Ashamed section of my site (so that it’s all tidy).


    artist's life not ashamed

  • Not Ashamed: Ambitiously Pursuing My Dreams

    Posted on by amber Comment

    If you haven’t already, please read the introduction post. That will give you context for this page.

    Ambition has its pitfalls. I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t. For the sake of fulfilling ambitions, people have lied, cheated, stolen, and done all manner of other immoral and unethical things. They’ve thoughtlessly ruined relationships. They’ve lived with only their own personal glory in mind.

    I’m not here to say that all ambitious pursuit ought to be free of shame. Nope. I fully advocate shame for some people and the way they pursue what they do.

    But I’ve examined both my dreams and my intentions. I don’t just know what I want, but I also know why I want those things. And I see no shame in wanting success with my music or my writing, nor do I see shame in the reasons I want that success. (I won’t elaborate here, but there’s a list of reasons, and they have nothing to do with personal glory.)

    There are two ways in which my pursuits of my ambitions are seen as a reason for shame, in addition to the reasons listed in my rock musician and scifi writer essays.

    First, some people look at what they see as the personal cost of my pursuit. Working hard takes time and resources. How can I “waste” those on what I do? As I explain, I believe that talents are like divine callings. If you have a talent, there is something you are meant to do with it. I think that the purpose doesn’t just vary talent to talent, but person to person. I’ve done what I can to figure out how my talents are best spent. And, in the past, I have tried to live a life where I didn’t give that my all, but spent my time and resources on more “normal” and less-criticised things. I felt…hollow and incomplete.

    I don’t take lightly the impact of my actions on others. I try to be mindful. But I also recognise I won’t do it perfectly; none of us can make it through life without causing some upset, hurting some feelings. I do my best. I’m sorry that not everyone approves. But I feel no shame. (The only time I feel shame, a shame that sits deep in me and can’t be talked away, is when I don’t give everything I can to making the best of my talents. And then I am miserable. So those whose judgement seems rooted in the fact that I’m not social with them as often as they’d like, I’d say you either aren’t a true friend—cos you’d rather I be miserable so you can hang out with me—or you haven’t thought this through.)

    The other way in which my pursuits are seen as a reason for shame have specifically to do with the realm of my ambitions. If I were ambitious to the same degree but it were business, law, medicine, and things like that, I’d be spared this particular set of judgements. Because there are those, including those amoungst my friends, who believe that the only pure ambitions in the arts are those that have to do with making your best art. The instant you also admit that you wouldn’t mind if you got paid for it (you know, being paid to do what I love, like non-artistic people can do without judgement…being able to focus all my time on the art instead of having to give my whole day to a “day job” and cramming bits of art into my evening…) or that you see benefits in being known by people other than your friends, you’re suspect and a sell-out and a defiler of art.

    Ehm, no. I’m working to make authentic art that speaks to me and is high quality. Your limited capacity to conceive of a situation where one can be true to art and hope that truth helps pay the rent doesn’t sound like a cause for me to feel shame…(It’s okay. Pause a moment, reassess, change your mind. See, now you’re good? Didn’t change your mind? Well, now you know a topic you’re best not pressing me on.)

    Because I continue to work hard towards my dreams and to do that without shame.

    Cross-posted to the Not Ashamed section of my site (so that it’s all tidy).


    artist's life not ashamed relationships

  • Not Ashamed: Rock Musician

    Posted on by amber Comment

    If you haven’t already, please read the introduction post. That will give you context for this page.

    Being a rock musician comes with a reputation, doesn’t it?

    Smart and cultured people play in orchestras or play folk music.

    Rock music is for the loud, the deviant, the not-as-talented, the disturbed.

    Rock musicians will surely end up earning scandalous stories in tabloids. And that’s if they even get enough renown to merit space in those cheap papers.

    I see the disappointment and disapproval in people’s eyes when they ask what kind of musician I am. As if rock is a lesser genre.

    As if my character has been proven lacking by my association. (Should I mention that some of the best people I’ve know have been rock musicians or rock music lovers?)

    But let me tell you about rock music.

    Me performing

    Rock is a broad umbrella, which is tough when I’m describing what music I make but is great because I feel like it can be a really inclusive term.

    Rock music is full of passion and has plenty of room for both the terribly talented and the ones whose talents aren’t traditionally musical.

    Rock music lets me growl my anger or sob along to heartbreaks.

    Its dirty underbelly spoke to a younger and more broken me, allowed me to connect with it and, most importantly, be saved by it.

    Rock music has been the perfect soundtrack for rolling around with people I fancied or storming the dance floor. It’s let me rage and let me bleed and let me swell with joy.

    Rock music…with its electric guitars but also its electric violins, not to mention acoustic instruments and a dizzying range of voices.

    That you don’t appreciate rock music doesn’t make it bad. (Art is subjective. Your tastes don’t determine what is good.)

    That you don’t appreciate it doesn’t make it lesser or less worthwhile.

    I thrive here. My talents shine here. It’s where I was born to be. And, oh, I am so far the opposite of ashamed.

    (Want to check out what I do? Here’s the site for my main project, where you will notice the songs don’t all sound the same. Even my non-rock-loving mum liked a couple of our songs…)

    Cross-posted to the Not Ashamed section of my site (so that it’s all tidy).


    artist's life not ashamed

  • Not Ashamed: Daydreamer

    Posted on by amber Comment

    If you haven’t already, please read the introduction post. That will give you context for this page.

    “Your head’s in the clouds again, isn’t it?”

    From a young age, it was clear that my daydreaming was problematic.

    Daydreamers don’t pay enough attention to adults.

    Daydreamers don’t concentrate enough on grown up things.

    Daydreamers rudely live in a world that others can’t access.

    Daydreamers are impractical.

    Daydreamers are too easily distracted.

    Shame on us!

    Shame on us?

    picture of space (Two galaxies: NGC 2207 and IC 2163)

    I don’t think so.

    Daydreamers don’t stay needlessly trapped in a mundane world.

    Daydreamers are the visionaries who change our world with their innovations and inventions.

    Daydreamers are the ones who push on for big goals because that daydreaming helped them grow deep roots that would let them survive trials.

    Daydreamers are the artists, able to transport even the non-daydreamers to other worlds because they (the daydreamers) have spent time in those worlds though their bodies are trapped in this one.

    Daydreamers are accessing a little more magic and, therefore, a little more joy, even if that joy isn’t what you see as joy.

    So, yes, indeed, I am unabashedly a daydreamer. And the older and busier I get, the more decadent and nourishing my daydream time is. I wallow in that as often as possible. And I’m not inclined to apologise, much less feel ashamed. I love my inner world too much to sully it with unnecessary shame.

    p.s. My head isn’t in the clouds; it’s in the stars and in entirely other worlds.

    Cross-posted to the Not Ashamed section of my site (so that it’s all tidy).


    artist's life inspirations & influences not ashamed

  • Not Ashamed: My Own Biggest Fan

    Posted on by amber Comment

    If you haven’t already, please read the introduction post. That will give you context for this page.

    I am my own biggest fan. I don’t think any human is intrinsically worth more than any other, so I’m not saying this in a way that I intend as pride or vanity. Nor do I think that I’m not sufficiently loved and celebrated by others. I mean, sure, I wouldn’t mind more fans for my band, but I am certainly well-loved by family and friends. I even seem to be held in high esteem for assorted reasons in assorted other circles.

    And, as I touched on in the post on being awesome, I am well aware that people often feel I should be ashamed of thinking I rock. But I refuse.

    Refuse!

    Because I fought hard for this self esteem. I went from the self loathing I wrote about last week to this. This! This magical feeling where I see my awesomeness. Where, no, I’m not blind to flaws, but I could list out ways in which I am, to my tastes, great. I’ve now felt this way a few years and still, as I write this, I’m bubbling up with glee that I feel this feeling.

    Paper with the following text: You, yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection. -Buddha

    I wish everyone felt this feeling. My sincere plan for world peace involves everyone getting enough sleep and everyone having the sort of healthy self-esteem where they see their own goodness and worth without feeling like others are less than them. Really, since I became my own biggest fan, I’ve found I’m less likely to think hateful thoughts about others. Or to worry overly about what those others think of me.

    I find that I try to live in a way that honours how I feel, that treats me well, but that also shines out my kindness and goodness to others. (I think everyone has light to shine if they’ll let themselves.)

    Now, about the fight for this…I’m pretty sure I mentioned at least some of this in another post, but I can’t find it to link to and maybe this is the only post you’ll read, so I’m going to put some stuff here.

    I got professional help. And we were working on my depression (and, really, if you don’t love you, maybe you also fight some depression). And I was given some assignments when she saw that my self-loathing was pretty raging. I’ve passed this advice on to friends…and I’m pretty sure some have used it…actually, I know some have because they’ve told me it helped. (But I only get credit for passing it on; this wasn’t stuff I came up with to do. All credit to my lovely counsellor for this.) Both things here came down to being honest with myself.

    As I mentioned in the post on being awesome (in the last half of that post), part of what I had to set aside was culturally imparted fears of being prideful or of being seen as putting myself on unequal footing with the rest of humanity. Honesty can be hard.

    Part of what I had to do was pierce through the thick cloud of lies others had told me about myself and that I had bought into and then reinforced with some kind of scary zealousness. Honesty can be hard.

    So here were my two most helpful “homework” assignments:

    1. I had to keep a list of external proofs…Compliments I received, certificates for academic excellence, notes thanking me for kind acts, anything that was someone outside of me saying good things about me. This felt decadent and I felt silly and hoped no one would know. But I did it. Every. Little. Thing. Including things like “Thank you for hanging back to help clean up.” Seriously. Because I could look at that and see, for instance, that I was responsible, kind, a good friend.
      Note: This is why I am now a huge fan of giving sincere compliments and of thanking or praising people for the good they do.
    2. I had to make lists of my good qualities. I was sent home with a list of areas (physical, mental, social, etc) and told to list five good things about myself in each. It could be big things or small. Just…five. And I failed. I got maybe one or two in each, and those came after agonised hours of thinking and crying and belittling myself. In fact, most were phrased as “My mum says…” So, I got sent home with the same assignment, but with the clarification that I had to leave my mum out of it. For instance, “My mum says I have nice eyes” had to become “I have nice eyes.” Again, I spent hours agonising and struggling and crying. And I didn’t even manage one thing per category. And I know I spent time looking over the then-new list of external proofs. I took that in…My counsellor gave me praise for what I’d managed, and then told me to keep at it. And we checked in every appointment to see where I was on that list. Torture! But I kept at it. (Because I am a determined beast.)

    One logical twist (thank you, brain, for being logical underneath it all) that helped was this: I looked at the people who loved me. Especially those to whom I wasn’t related, because I felt like they had more choice. I concentrated on how great those people were, and then I asked myself why people that great would settle for someone as rubbish as I thought I was. They had options. They chose me. Or I asked if I really thought they were so dishonest that every kind thing they said about me was a lie. Did I really think these great people were actually liars. My brain sulked. It wanted to believe because it knew that liking myself would change things, and my brain clings to familiarity. Honesty can be hard.

    But I kept at it. I kept at it and it got easier. And when I found myself saying negative things to myself about myself, I made myself stop. I made myself revisit my lists.

    Like any human, I still have those moments when the negative self-talk creeps in. I make a mistake, a do a dumb thing, and I am naturally inclined—thanks to all those years of this being habitual—to start berating myself. But I choose to stop. I mindfully insist on thinking other things. I choose to tell myself the things I’d say to me if I were my friend and not me. (Seriously, that’s one of my favourite tips: talk to yourself and treat yourself as you would a good friend.) Because I am my friend. I even wrote myself a poem about that. And I like me. I would definitely date me. Befriend me. Trust me with my cat.

    Animated gif, Darryl from The Office says, "I would date the hell out of me"

    And I see sometimes the shock or resentment in people’s faces when I admit that. But I also swear that I see, when people suggest that this feeling is something I shouldn’t admit to, that they wish they felt this strongly about themselves.

    You know what? I wish it too. I really, truly do.

    I want you to go and get enough sleep (I will never stop extolling the virtues of consistent adequate sleep) and then start making lists and offering sincere compliments and thanks to others.

    Because I am my own biggest fan and I am not ashamed…I am bursting with glee and light!

    Cross-posted to the Not Ashamed section of my site (so that it’s all tidy).


    history not ashamed

  • Not Ashamed: Self-Hater

    Posted on by amber Comment

    If you haven’t already, please read the introduction post. That will give you context for this page.

    This one will be short, because:

    • I don’t want to dwell on this and feel bad.
    • I have touched on it in other posts, and am likely to do so in future posts.

    For much of my life, starting around age 11, I was a self-hater. Full on irrational loathing (that I thought was totally rational). Unable to admit to anything good about me even if there was proof more substantial than just my mum saying nice things. For example, I just knew I was stupid…never mind that I got good marks in school and was part of assorted academic competition teams. I would entertain a bit of smug satisfaction when, for instance, I got my grades. But that would somehow be swallowed by the howling storm of self-loathing within minutes. And every time I said good things about myself out loud all through my teen years, I was, in my opinion, lying. (And then I felt bad for lying…)

    What I saw in the mirror and what I saw inside me was…worthless, rubbish, unlovable, unworthy of love, and so on and so on and on and on and on. I was shocked when friends proved true or if someone liked me, but not shocked if I was treated poorly or unrequited in my love. Hurt, but not shocked.

    Think of the person or thing you hate most…the one you literally want to destroy and wipe from existence. That was how I felt about myself.

    And there have been plenty of times where I have gotten the sense that I ought to be ashamed to feel or have felt that way. Sometimes, those are even contexts where I’m pretty sure the person from whom I got that impression was actually trying to be encouraging. But those lost in self-loathing are delicate…easily shamed…quick to (without meaning to) twist everything to proof of their inadequacy.

    I am sad that I hated myself, but I’m pleased that I seem to have gained a little compassion and perspective from that.

    I am sad that, if any blame is deserved for this by other people, it will undoubtedly be aimed at some of the wrong people. (For instance, at my parents. Who truly did their best to love and nurture me and help me see myself as the awesome little monster I am.)

    I am sad that self-hatred, whether it’s the total loathing I felt or it’s a smaller beast, seems to be such a normal part of the human (particularly the non-white, non-male, non-upper class, non-cis, non-heterosexual, etc) experience.

    Yes, you should love you. But, if you don’t, that’s okay. I mean, I hope you will someday soon. But don’t feel bad about feeling bad. That sounds like a vicious shame cycle.

    In fact, if you feel bad about feeling bad, I guess that’s okay too. I honour your right to feel what you feel and, again, hope that, someday soon, you will feel less bad.

    But you are not a bad person just because you don’t love yourself or don’t see your awesome parts. You are just someone who doesn’t love themselves or see their awesome parts yet. Yet.

    I hated myself. And I’m sad about that, but I am not ashamed of it.

    Cross-posted to the Not Ashamed section of my site (so that it’s all tidy).


    history not ashamed

  • Not Ashamed: Liberal

    Posted on by amber Comment

    If you haven’t already, please read the introduction post. That will give you context for this page.

    So, let’s start out with some graphs, provided by The Political Compass site (which is handy for seeing where you fall and where the parties in your election fall (they stick to the UK General Election and the US Presidential Election and a few other large ones). It is probably an interesting read for people who care about politics, no matter where they fall on the compass.

    Here’s the general chart, though you can find a more detailed explanation on the site:

    liberal1

    Here’s one that shows where some historical figures fall:

    liberal2

    And this red dot is me, per the results I got taking their test:

    liberal3

    I know that political things are divisive, and I know that plenty of people I love don’t fall anywhere near where I fall. But here’s what’s behind all my answers, which I feel like those who disagree might at least not think is as horrific as they will find me after this post:

    I believe in love and light. I believe that all of us, whether we are poor or rich, whether we own companies or scrape by, no matter our religion or class or any of that, ought to take care of and be good to each other. That people should be supported in becoming their best authentic selves. That nobody ought to go hungry or be homeless, that everybody ought to have the option of an education and a healthy life.

    I do believe that there need to be some limits and that having someone(s) leading the whole thing makes sense. I’m not an anarchist. But I put people above corporations and individuality above conformity. Even if your individuality leads you to seem pretty normal.

    For those loved ones who are in a very different part of the graph, don’t freak out. I’m the same person you loved and who loved you before you read that what you feared was true. I am definitely fiscally and socially liberal. And so, so not ashamed.

    Cross-posted to the Not Ashamed section of my site (so that it’s all tidy).


    not ashamed

  • Not Ashamed: Night Owl

    Posted on by amber Comment

    If you haven’t already, please read the introduction post. That will give you context for this page.

    And now for something a little lighter. Or darker, I guess. Because, y’know, night time. Creature of the night! Night owl.

    Owl bobs its head and declares "Owl Power!"

    I’m not an insomniac. I’m a night owl.

    I’m not a wannabe vampire. I’m a night owl.

    My circadian rhythms have spoken! And, sure, being a night owl can be handy for the rockstar thing and the pale thing, but it obviously puts me at odds with the normal world, produces some complications, and seems to lead to (what I consider) unwarranted mocking and resentment.

    People make a lot of assumptions, including a certain loved one who spent years telling me I just wasn’t disciplined enough. Or the many people who think that me waking up at noon is a luxury and I’m lazy. (It’s not; I’m not. I get the 8-9 hours of sleep I need, that’s all, and then I’m stupid busy and don’t even really find time for video games any more.)

    But I can tell you that my body temperature confirms my night owl-ness. Really, you can use your body temperature and some mindfulness to figure it out.

    And my creative rhythm also confirms it. Not that I wouldn’t stay up late to obey the muse, even if I were a morning lark or day walker or whatever you call normal people.

    I don’t think you sunlight kids are less cool. But you’ll have to wait until a little later in the day for me to be awake enough to be legitimately reassuring on that point.

    baby owls acting cute

    To go a little serious:

    • I think a number of people I’ve known, though not all, who seem to suffer insomnia have been trying to force themselves into circadian rhythms other than those their body naturally has. This includes people who stay up late because it’s just what their friends do as much as it includes those forced to sleep the hours their job dictates.
    • Sleep is really, really important. Really. Science has proven it (and said so much about it that your cultural disdain of it is really kind of stupid). My life experience has proven it (in dramatic ways). Get sleep. Figure out your rhythms and honour them. Magic!
    • I might, in fact, have some resentment that, in this day and age, everyone is still expected to cram themselves into the same sleep cycles.

    So, be whatever kind of bird you need to be. Just don’t call or text before noon. (Okay, really, don’t call. I’m never awake enough to love that…)

    Cross-posted to the Not Ashamed section of my site (so that it’s all tidy).


    artist's life not ashamed

  • Not Ashamed: Pale

    Posted on by amber Comment

    If you haven’t already, please read the introduction post. That will give you context for this page.

    I want to handle this carefully, because I’m talking about skin colour. The importance we humans place on skin colour isn’t particular to just one country, nor is it particular to so-called white people (where did we come up with these inaccurate colour names?). For something that does not impact our capabilities or capacities, we put a lot of stock in it. An inordinate amount. For something that people can make very few choices about, something that’s coded into their DNA, we sure treat people poorly, as if punishing them for those choices they didn’t make. So, as I am about to talk about my skin colour, I want to make something clear: racism is not acceptable. It is rubbish. And, to the extent I can manage to be mindful of and shake off my societal programming, I endeavour not to be racist and not to add to the problems of those whose skin colour gets them way, way more trouble than mine has gotten me. (This is not a post to call for pity or to suggest that my experience is anywhere near the worst. Not at all.)

    When I say good things about the colour of my skin, I am absolutely not saying negative things (or even implying negative things) about your skin colour. Your skin colour does not and should not influence my opinion of you (though I reserve the right to be shocked if it’s poorly-done-self-tan orange and you are trying to pass it off as real tan). And so, whilst I am not here to talk about racism today, I want to pause to say “yay for whatever colour your skin is!” and to make it very, very clear that my love of my skin doesn’t even in the slightest imply that it’s better than yours or that you should want your skin to be the colour of mine or that any skin colour should gain anyone privileges. Okay?

    Honestly, as an apparently-white girl who has surely benefitted from white privilege, I am beyond-hesitant to talk about racism other than to say it’s wrong and bad and all the stuff I’ve already said. When it comes to racism, I’d much rather read the many things written by people who haven’t had white privilege. I want black voices and brown voices and red voices and yellow voices and any other colour voices to be heard and to be supported. Even writing this up has me feeling very concerned that I’m going to say something stupid. If I do, please forgive me. And, if you have the patience, I promise I try to be educated and to see truths and will continue that self-education as I am pointed at relevant essays and books and such.

    Going to take a deep breath now and talk about my skin, hoping I’ve clearly communicated my intent and my stand point on inequalities based on, among other things, skin colour.

    So, my skin. I am pale. Really pale. Pale enough that even lightest makeup colours in almost every line I’ve tried have been darker than my actual skin colour. Pale enough that I once had a teacher call me out for breaking dress code based on the white tights I wore every day. (I was not wearing white tights.) I’m one of those who, with little exaggeration, calls herself translucent.

    And this skin burns easily. Wow. Really easily. The one time, and it’s a long story but has nothing to do with not liking my skin colour, I tried to carefully give myself little bits of sunlight in successively longer intervals…it didn’t work. I went from pale to burnt and back to pale. Yeah, pale and it’s not going to change.

    Plus, skin this pale shows every little red spot or blush or eyebrow in need of tweezing. Not to mention that you can see where the hair will be growing in within minutes of shaving (because, yes, naturally dark hair).

    Which is to say that, this skin of mine comes with some issues. Plus, other humans of assorted other colours of skin like to share their negative opinions about my skin colour. More than one (many, many more than one) have had plenty to say to make sure that I know that my pale skin is deserving of insults, that it’s unattractive, that I should feel bad about having it. I had one employer who told me that I had to wear blush because I was too pale and it bothered customers. And that was probably the nicest thing detractors have said.

    I’m supposed to strive for a healthy glow (aka not pale, preferably lightly tanned and with a blush on my cheeks). If I’m lucky, for a night out, I might be able to get away with absolutely flawless porcelain skin (with blush). But even that shade is usually based on the lightest in current makeup ranges and a little darker than I am naturally.

    Again, I’m not saying the rubbish I’ve dealt with is anything near what people on the receiving end of racism have dealt with. Nope. But I’ve definitely had it made clear by a goodly number of non-alternative people that my skin was something to be ashamed of. And media has taught me that, even if I love this skin, I need to be self-deprecating and at least express some shame in the form of apologies for blinding you if you catch a glimpse of my leg or apologies for being difficult if I prefer to stick to the shade and spare myself the chance of a burn. My skin is a maintenance issue and a joke and, oh my, I’m so sorry. (I’m not sorry.)

    And I’m not ashamed. Expecting anyone to be ashamed of skin colour is absolutely, entirely wrong. Wrong. And so I hope that you are not ashamed, no matter your skin colour. And if you’re one of those haters, even if you’re sure you’re entirely not racist but you just think my pale skin is unattractive, keep your opinions to yourself. I am not ashamed of my pale skin. Any shame I might have related to my skin colour would have to do with being ashamed of actions I or anyone arguably of my skin colour (aka white people) have taken that were racist. That’s the only room I have for skin colour-related shame.

    Cross-posted to the Not Ashamed section of my site (so that it’s all tidy).


    not ashamed