NC

28 Jun, 2025

I realized that my identity had changed after ten years of contentedly existing within a label. There was very little fanfare in the private office of my mind. I, currently am standing in it in front of the five filing cabinets. It's expected for you to assume they are labeled with a word or two in the little slip of paper on the front. They're not. Regardless, the contents inside are organized. I know the location of the file exactly at the moment I need it.

I stare at them unsure of where to begin. Some folders need to be pulled and stored away in a separate, grey metal box where they can happily live without much disturbance. Files where I no longer place an extreme importance. They're not bad memories, but rather they don't apply to my life any longer.

It is a neutral gratitude to place them away. Only their concept remains of importance now. Nonconformity of a kind.

A new nonconformity entered my office a few months ago. I was terrified after a second visit.

There’s no secretary or doorman. It’s an office with obscured windows on the street. No hours posted. The office is open against my will. Rather, it’s my will to keep the door unlocked.

For the first visit, it entered cautiously and kindly.

“I believe you’d like to look at this again. It’s been some time since you’ve looked over it.” It said, with my voice. “It’s probably been a decade. A lot has happened since.”

We both knew I needed to see it again.

I received the weightless document willingly, placed it on my desk and didn’t reply. It left.

I did this time lock my office door and sit with a small glass of plain vodka pulled from underneath my desk. I gulped it down and began to read.

What I read were authentic words from an individual who had written this document. The title is brash and prideful. I thought that when I was reading it now. My opinion remains in the immediate present. Regardless of it’s self-stroking declaration I read it through. Perhaps the body of the work actually applied to me.

But being who I am, I sought out criticisms against it. I flipped a page and there were the various opinions of self-declared individuals in the intimate knowledge of the topic. Personal and lived experiences from current times and past.

Fascinating. The author no longer identifies with the label but the document remains as a piece of the history. Debunked, disregarded.

While I share the opinion that it’s importance is misplaced I won’t disregard it as a writer. What an awful and destructive habit we humans have to do so. Written words are the motivations for this flesh. Yours too.

One page was flipped after another until I began participating in writing communications with others about the topic. I sought out more information, more personal experiences, more cultures and subcultures until other responsibilities took my attention away. Studying, working, feeding, washing, dressing, playing, dancing, exercising and sleeping. Months pass.

In between the bodily maintenance I reflected and assessed myself. I flicked through my cabinets carefully.

Memories of loving and sleeping with the wrong people. How violating. Moments when I lingered on some bodies and their expressions. Curious. Admiration.

I pulled those folders and placed them in two separate piles. One for hiding and the other for further examination. They both sit on my desk as with anything so complex it needs processing time.

I don’t think of myself as an emotional person. I haven’t been one since childhood. Since then, it was survival and it is now. It is an active choice to recognize joy and accept it...somewhat.

The second visit

It walked through the unlocked door. I wish I had nailed it shut with plywood. I wish I had placed a concrete wall in front of my office. Anything to keep it from smiling at me with relief.

“Well! You’ve been productive! I congratulate you. It looks like you’ve made more space for me.”

It was the sensible thing to do. I didn’t do it to warmly welcome a new, aggravating nonconformity when my cabinets were already settled. I placed in a sixth one. There was no getting rid of memories. My office can easily accommodate it but the clutter and my self-annoying habit of fussing over lost space.

I was in mourning, sitting on the floor and despite my visible distress, time continued on, the body was asking for food. And It kept talking.

“Sorry to say that you’re starting over. But didn’t you feel it coming? You’ve always had a sense of dread in the realization that I would appear with the clear truth.”

Fuck you.

“We haven’t always had a positive relationship, but at least it’s been neutral for us. And besides, you love it when I bring something back for you to categorize and ‘figure out’. You’ll benefit through your hard work.”

I brought the pain of violation upon myself when I didn’t learn my boundaries soon enough. I am an animal hellbent and convinced survival is the only matter to matter. What the fuck do you mean human animals can be happy?

Cherophobia, is a phobia where a person has an irrational aversion to being happy.

Currently, I’m swallowing a tablet of clonidine to finish this post. My heart is knocking my chest. Because to state that I am seeking a future where I can savor joy … is the nightmare of my existence.

Despite my pure fears I am newly nonconforming in the true sense of myself. It’s here.

Yes, very much so I’ll enjoy perusing media that shows me what I am now and scribbling along in my real commonplace book. I’ve wanted to find my self desperately.

But any happiness will be entirely hidden within the walls. Quiet.

I’ve always believed there was a stinking sinkhole beneath my office.