Palliativity 105: Dysphoria

dysphoria :/

I grew up with people asking me, “what are you?”. I got used to it. I eventually learned not to play that game. To answer is to agree with the underlying assumption that I am the anomaly; an object of fascination that should be hunted, stuffed and installed in the great-room curio of a Victorian naturalist.

I was told that I’m half Japanese and half Jewish. For the observer, this genetic algebra equated to a whole person in their neat and tidy world. I wasn’t put in a box. I was sliced in half; subdivided and subjugated, and yet I carry twice the heritage and just as much angst. I wish people could deal with me as I am— instead of where I need to be filed.

I’ve received the same type of treatment when I’m in treatment. My humanity is something rarely touched on. I am my affliction. My name is Miss Diagnosed.

I have been defined by many labels; prepackaged for mass consumption. My identity is pending investigation. We waive all responsibility if contents are damaged in transit;
Used-like-Broken.

I won’t apologize for my existence. I am proud to be complicated.

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