Someone reached out to me on Instagram last week with a really lovely note about The Secret Garden and how my blogs about my gender journey have had an impact on him. I blog so infrequently for many reasons I have spent many blogs going over. Mostly I wonder if anyone is actually reading these damn things or if I’m just yelling into a void. But the truth is that if just one person gets something useful from something I say, or is impacted somehow, then it’s worth it.
I try not to weigh in on major cultural or political moments because generally I know someone else has already said what I might say and said it better. That said, I know everyone has their own voice and unique take, and mine is just as valuable as anyone else’s. But sometimes I feel like the internet has created a population of people who think they’re the foremost authority on every god damn thing. And if there’s one thing I’m learning as I get older (aside from the knowledge that everything is starting to ache), it’s that I know very little about most things and my opinion isn’t a necessary addition to the din.
Also, I put undue pressure on myself. It’s a side effect (I think) of winning a Tony at 11. Subconsciously I believe that everything I put into the world needs to be award-worthy. I have gotten better about that. Inevitably, over thirty years of acting, I have put out lots of content that isn’t award-worthy. And I’ve survived. So, I’ve relaxed a bit on my self-expectations. But, when it comes to my writing, I suppose I worry that if every individual piece isn’t terrific, I’ll lose readers. For example, if this is the first blog of mine that you’re reading, your eyes have probably started to glaze over and you’re thinking about googling cat videos. I see you.
But then I read blogs from people who have thousands of subscribers and are making money hand over fist just from blogging, and generally speaking the content is…not award-worthy. At all. And I think, this is what people want? I’ve written endlessly about my refusal to become a mommy blogger. Firstly, “mommy” is not my primary identity. I don’t think I’m good enough at it or doing anything innovative enough to warrant multi-weekly posts about diaper comparisons, or preschool research, or what form of non-violent, gender-affirming, vegan, free-range parenting I’m subscribing to. Who cares? You do you, I’ll do me, and (most likely) never the twain shall meet.
Not to mention the fact that people pay money and spend time watching other people play video games. I’m aware that most people aren’t searching for Pulitzer-winning material. So, I should maybe just chill out and post more and not worry that my writing isn’t exactly Virginia Wolfe level, but that maybe one or two people might see it and go, I feel seen. And that should be enough.
Speaking of which, if you ever are moved by my blog, please feel free to share it on your socials. And throw me a line to let me know that you’re there. It really does serve as motivation to keep writing. Not to put that job on your shoulders. But, the job is now on your shoulders…
We have officially moved back to L.A. Over the four years since we left, I lived in 13 different places not including the eight-month tour of The Humans in which we visited 12 cities. Kurt suggested that we just tell people we spent the last four years travelling. It makes us sound very fancy and not at all like parents who were struggling to make ends meet and shuttling their son back and forth across the country four times in four years. I have largely lived out of suitcases for four years, and as I write this, I am looking at three suitcases on the floor that are in need of my attention. For someone who has moved as many times as I have, you’d think that I had this shit down to a science. But I loathe unpacking and will put it off for as long as I possibly can.
Kurt and I are back to sharing a bed. Our goal, eventually, is to have separate bedrooms, but for now, this is what we can manage, and we felt it best that our six-year-old have his own bedroom. Kurt knows that I’m struggling with the idea of being a queer person who is stuck in what is essentially a straight, monogamous relationship. He has made it clear that he sees me and has no intention of planting a flag in me. So, this is my life right now. I love Kurt very much. And I have come to terms with the fact that I am bisexual (after initially coming out as bi when I was 12 and then struggling with it until now), and am very much interested in having another relationship with a woman, but 1) I don’t have time for dating and 2) What woman over 30 is going to want to date me in my current situation?
It’s okay. I’ve had a good run.
In other news, I am feeling some major FOMO while the Queer Liberation March is happening today in NYC. I really wish I were there. It feels like an important moment in the LGBTQI+ movement and I’m missing it.
Notes from the Road
Part Eight: Cleveland
Yesterday was no good.
I haven’t been sleeping well. I’ve been getting to sleep past 3 a.m. and spending the few hours of sleep I do get tossing and turning. Even with a beer and a Xanax, my brain is like, “Psst. Psst. Hey. Hey, you. Hey, Daisy. What are you going to do with the rest of your life? Let’s figure that out right now.”
I haven’t unpacked. I used the fact that I only have four drawers in my room as an excuse, but why would I need more than four drawers? But also, the drawers are under the platform bed, so, you know, bending down. Instead, my three suitcases are just overflowing everywhere. That’s my solution.
I’ve just kind of given up with Cleveland. I think when it snowed a couple days after we got here I was like, that’s it. This is the winter of my discontent and it will never end.
Yesterday was Ryan’s birthday. I bought them an early birthday present before we went to Palm Springs, and I sent them copious amounts of cheese and accoutrements for their party the night before, but I hadn’t mailed their card, yet, and I think I was feeling generally awful that I couldn’t be there with them.
I try to be respectful of Ryan and Sam’s time when I know they’re together. Very early on, Ryan and Sam came to see the show when we were still in Seattle. After the show Sam went home, and Ryan came out for a beer with me. Sam realized she was disappointed that Ryan hadn’t come home with her, and she let Ryan know that. I couldn’t drive Ryan home fast enough. I practically threw them out of the car. I know there’s not a hierarchy, but I try to imagine how I would feel if my partner’s partner kept wiggling in on my time with them. So, generally when Ryan and Sam are together, I try to back off, and generally that’s completely okay. It’s comforting for me to know that Ryan has someone there, especially because I don’t live in Seattle and I have no interest in being there for someone 100% of the time.
Also, we were texting yesterday afternoon, and I knew they were planning on a hike, but it was getting late in the day, so I asked about it, and Ryan said they got a late start, and I instantly thought, THEY WERE HAVING AFTERNOON SEX! And I wanted to pull my comforter into the closet and curl up in a ball and never come out.
This, again, is out of keeping with my usual feelings. Normally I’m like, fuck away! But for some reason, yesterday it hit me different.
I took three melatonin last night. So determined to fall asleep at a reasonable hour, was I. And somewhere around 11:45 I realized I felt awful that I hadn’t called Ryan. I kind of tried to reach out and felt weird about it. Ryan, in typical Ryan fashion, was like, Hell yes! I’d love to talk! And the next thing I know it’s 3:30 in the morning and I’m wiping drool off my face and looking at texts from Ryan that are like, Hey, I’m home! … Baby? … Oh, I guess you’re asleep. I got up to pee and tripped over a sneaker I’d left exactly where I’d taken it off.
Yesterday was no good.