Trying To Find My Word

There is a certain word that I find repulsive, and that is concerning.

There’s nothing wrong with this word or its definition, it’s more so a personal reflection that makes me feel this disgust. In fact, it is a word that defines me, but the word, that which leaves a distasteful pallet, just sounds, well, gross. Trashy and tacky to my tongue, leaving the question as to if it’s really the word or if it’s that I am repelled by myself. If I am truly repulsed for being such a harmless word, then what can I do to gain pride in being this, taking satisfaction in knowing that it defines me? Unfortunately, as I sit here writing this, admitting it to myself, the repulsion takes over. What if I could find a new word to replace this? Would that make it any better? Could it be, by writing this, by the end, that I will no longer feel this way?

I’ve tried to find a replacement for this word of trash. To manufacture a new definition or construct a new vocabulary for myself in relation to this word. Through much internet scouring a list was compiled, but still, I just can’t get it right. Ambidextrous doesn’t fit, though if I try hard enough, I can write well with both hands. An electrical device compatible with alternating and direct current, or AC/DC, that can’t work. Should I even state the obvious? That’s already been redefined by rock music. It’s too late to claim that as my own. I am not a flower with the same stamens and pistils, so monoclinous is out of the question. If I tried to make that work, I might have people thinking I have mononucleosis, or I’d mispronounce it as monoclitorus. I must admit though, monoclitorus does sound like a fun word, but because I can’t even say clitoris in public without blushing that’s out of the question. That is, however, I step closer to my new vocabulary,

I’m determined to find a word that fits. It’s got to be around here somewhere. Androgynous, gynandrous, intersexual, ambisexual, epicene, should I continue? Maybe if I say, “swing both ways,” as if that isn’t tacky enough, you’ll get the hint. Has the word I have been dancing around been made clear? Tiptoeing as to not wake my mother up. My mother, who doesn’t even know me at all. I don’t think she even cares to take the time to, or maybe she is just scared of what she will find. After all these years she has never really taken the time to get to know her own daughter. Years of Bible shaming, with all the silence forcing me to keep this secret word of disgust to myself. If I replace the word with mother, that is what I’m repulsed with, not the word itself.

Is it even important to label myself? If I can learn to be honest about who I am, if I can feel good about knowing myself and being the best me that I can be, should it even matter? The truth is I don’t like labels of any kind. All I see are people. I am a person, not a man or a woman, just a person. A person attracted to people. I can’t say what type of people I’m attracted to because it’s just never really mattered. Every man I’ve ever dated looks nothing like the other, and every woman looks nothing like the next. Trans or cis or whatever it doesn’t matter to me because I just see the person. If you want to label me as pansexual you can, but if my mother found out I’d shamefully deny it. If I could remain free of a label, I think I may have found what I have been looking for, but I must find acceptance in myself. I can work on that, but I cannot say that it is truly okay. I’ll remain a work in progress, getting better one day at a time. Labels might be for you, and that’s okay, because you do you boo, just let me be free to do me.