The Power of Having a Lovely Fucking Day
In the face of increasingly dire transphobia, I’m learning that joy can help me survive
For most of my life, whenever anyone wanted to compliment me, they would call me “strong.” It was the go-to piece of praise, from everyone — parents, partners, bosses — and I got sick of it. I wanted to hear that I was smart, funny, kind, insightful; “strong” wasn’t a compliment. It wasn’t even a choice.
When people called me “strong,” what they seemed to mean was that if I decided something was bearable, I could bear it; if I decided something needed doing, I would get it done. “Strength” like that isn’t strength. It’s pain tolerance. Lifting that couch will fuck up my back, same as yours, but I’ve decided that it’s okay for my back to get hurt. Addressing this conflict will hurt my feelings and make me sad, but I’ve decided on sadness, because the alternative is putting up with bullshit. Both outcomes are bad. I get to choose which one I prefer.
Anyone could be strong that way, if they chose to be. Everyone would be strong, if they had no other options. If you are presented with a life-threatening situation, your choices are to be “strong” or to die, and most people will do what it takes to avoid dying. I did what most people do. I lived.
