This blog was about going to France, until it wasn’t.
I changed its name to legallyswan, and then this blog was about going to law school, until it wasn’t.
Next, I gave the site a pseudonym, a garble of French syllables anyone would have to work hard to find.
I don’t think there’s any more hiding, though. I sense that my life is at a kind of impasse, a sharp fork in the road with an ocean between its dirt tines.
Last time I arrived here, I just sat down.
The time before that, I turned around and ran away.
But maybe this time, my agency has finally bubbled up. Maybe this time, I am brave enough to keep walking. I can finally accept the embrace of queer comfort, revel in the softness of saying enough.
Our society is a place of punishment and retribution, and I am weary. We are taught to punish others and even ourselves. Especially ourselves. But I can no longer flagellate myself on the world’s behalf, and I can no longer tolerate a masquerade of love. The age of damnation has come to an end; the age of domination draws to a close.
Bad things happen in the world, and there I am, walking right into the fire. Maybe I’m not surprised when I get scorched anymore, but the burns still ache and blister when I finally emerge.
I used to judge myself for those scars, even when I couldn’t remember the moments that I received them, even when I couldn’t explain the “choices” I made. I am working to dissolve my contempt, as it has healed me no faster. I am succoring that marred child, each and every day.
Why can’t I stop myself when I hear the crackle of danger? Maybe I deeply hope the flames will just consume me.
I thought I was done with offering myself as a sacrifice. I thought I had learned how to make myself safe. I thought, even, at times, that I had kept walking down the road.
But here I am again at the divergence of two paths.
There’s a queer sort of comfort in the déjà vu, in the aftermath of the chaos. I have been here before. The pain is expansive and I know I can bear it. The care I receive is not like on TV; it is eccentric, variable, and powerful. Queer healers of all kinds come toward me with outstretched hands.
I remember the times before my dissolution of normalcy. I remember when I could not find queerness offered as care. It was as if the world could barely touch me. I was not of this earth. My existence felt like a mistake.
Now the queerness of my human comforters heals me every day. Not all of them are queer in sexuality, but each of them practices their art in a way that departs from doxa.
I heal because I am held. As I heal, I am preparing to hold myself and others.
As I look through the summer haze towards an exciting September, another chapter commences for my blog, and for me.
Welcome to queercomfort.com, a space for kindness and consolation for those to whom the world is routinely unkind. This blog is a memoir of the ways I have been healing myself for the past four years, and it will continue to be that. But I want to continue to shift the focus to taking care of each other, to strategies for providing comfort in the communities where we exist.
The hellscape of late capitalism demands a queer sort of comfort. The mission of my life will be to offer queer comfort to my fellow humans, just as other healers have offered it to me. But this lifetime will also demand that I learn to accept the queer comfort that presents itself, to see past the discomfort of doing things a little differently for my own benefit.
It is an exercise in balance that demands my fullest attention.
Sending love from my orbit around your universe,