4.4.22 

Strength

I’ve always been told I’m strong.

Close friends and strangers have heard my story, taken my hand, and told me how strong I was for enduring, for making it through. I used to be proud of this title. Now I am weary of it.

The strength they speak of is emotional strength, spiritual strength, not the stubborn will of my body, not the fortitude of my arms. No matter the routines I run through, the way I build my body, the hardiness of my soul is something everyone compliments first.

I have always been the strong one. 

As a child, I found myself playing the role of the protector. My temper pushed me to defend another, pushed me to take up arms for friends who could not fight their own battles. In fourth grade, a boy with blonde hair and a thin frame shoved Storm in the chest. Storm collapsed, her asthma constricting her airways as she struggled to stay conscious. My shoes crunched against the afternoon grass, my spine wound tight. I stood between her and the blonde, towering over the shorter child. I hit him in the chest, made him stumble back several steps.

Leave her alone.

He lashed out, clawed at my neck and arms, tore my skin where he could get purchase. I grabbed his wrists and threw them aside, shunted him back. My words came out as a growl, a warning.
Don’t touch her. 

I have always been a guardian.

In seventh grade, I made two friends. I clung to them in this new city, new state, new school. My novelty wore off week two of classes, where the rest of my schoolmates began to ignore me. During recess, I found myself sitting on the curb, watching the others gossip, swing, say nothing when I spoke. My solitude offered an easy target to those adept in crafting rumors, spinning the lie that I went on dates with a boy I considered a friend. The story came with further attention. Upperclassmen began to antagonize me about how easy I was, if I would go out with them, too. Laughter rang through the cafeteria as I buried myself in my sandwich, as my friends sat beside me and pretended to hear nothing.

But then words spilled about those I considered close – how Lee was too dramatic, how Dani was a bitch. The beast in me that slumbered during attacks against my own personhood awoke then. She defended my friends tooth and nail, drew blood with her words. She bristled and stood in the line of fire so the only two people in my life that cared about me would not be harmed. 

In eighth grade, Dani closed a door in my face, and Lee joined the others in saying I was more ignorant than the mud caked to her shoes. 

I have always been stalwart. 

My tendency to shelter my chosen few did not falter, even in the face of betrayal. Even when I found myself undefended. Battered and bruised from moving the bull’s eye onto my own chest, I limped into high school to find myself vulnerable to attacks from my own relatives. As they pressured me to be straight – to be a good, pure, christian girl – I sought safety in school clubs where I could talk openly about my queer feelings. I believed that gathering to be an armor, I believed them when they said our names would not leave that room. I believed them when they told me I was safe.

But they lied. They told my parents. And I began to plan my walk off a bridge.

I have always been a shield when no one else would be one for me.

I learned through the years how to harden my skin, how to take my protective energy and focus it on myself. I learned to become my own champion, a savior my inner teen deserved but never got. I am used to fighting battles that step forward to challenge my worth, and I am used to sparring alone. 

I have come to find that reliance on others is a hindrance, and I have stopped expecting protection from those who claim they love me.

This does not mean that others in my adult life have not stepped forward to skirmish alongside me, to help me up when I’m knocked down, to wipe the blood from my lips and offer me back my blade. This is not to say that my chosen family has not been a saving grace as I stepped away from my birth one. But it is to say that I am unequipped to deal with the concept of someone making me feel like I might not need to touch the handle of my sword each time something steps forward to threaten me. I am used to withstanding a blow to the chest, spitting blood, and being my own paladin. 

For twenty-seven years of my life, I scraped by in survival mode, carrying a broadsword and deflecting what I could, tending to the wounds of what I could not. I sought security in friends who still made space for me, allowed myself brief moments of rest, expressed my hurts and challenges and received the encouragement needed to limp back out into the world. These moments lingered for the length of an exhale, and came once every full moon. 

Safety stands as one of the most important feelings someone can offer me. To be able to shed the breastplate, the gauntlets, to set aside the chainmail and sit in a peaceful stillness, away from the battlefield. I long for days I can share a cup of tea, where I can sit inside during a storm, where I can lay beneath the blankets with someone I do not fear will harm me. I long for a time where I find shelter in someone for more than just a blink. I never considered the possibility of finding both safety and protection. The idea never occurred to me as something I could ever discover. 

When an uninvited man climbed into the trunk of my car and you turned the corner to see him next to me, you told me there would’ve been issues if he got any closer. You expressed the irritation of us being treated like attractions at a petting zoo because our relationship was many men’s fantasy. You held my hand and squeezed it when you told me I was strong.

I did not dislike hearing you tell me I was strong. I did not find myself wishing I didn’t have to be – because with you, I could relax. With you, I felt I could leave my armor at the door. I felt like I would not need to rush for my weapon should someone make me uncomfortable. You were there with me. For once, I felt like I found someone who would step out to face our foes before I had a chance to do so myself. 

I felt safe. I felt protected. I felt like I did not have to be my own defender. 

It feels like falling, being safe. It feels like I have leapt off the edge of a rock and am plummeting towards a large pool. The breeze carries the scent of ferns and maple, stirs the surface of the water. Upon my lips is the taste of yours. I know when I crash into the space below, I will be swallowed by the warmth of something new, something amazing. I know that the leap itself is scary, and the fall can be frightening, but I do not fear what will come when I find myself diving below the crystalline facade. I know I will come back up for air, for my armor sits on the shore, and my blade is left unattended. Their weight will not drag me to the bottom. I will not drown.

You are strong, love. I thank you for this space to let me swim in these new emotions for you. When your enemies appear within the treeline, I will be the first to clamber out to face them – for when mine challenge the home I have made for myself, I know you will do the same.