A Weeping Willow in the Wind

Nikola Stankovic

by Nikola Stankovic

Story

As far back as I can remember, I have been uncomfortable in my body. I could feel the stares of others etching themselves into every centimeter of my flesh. I began questioning my every movement, every gesture, and even every wrong and misplaced breath. It always felt like my body was the object of intrusive gazes; both from strangers, but also my family. I could never escape them, no matter how hard I tried. Through the years I had to contort my behavior to fit the needs of the judgmental eyes, ones who would rather see me dead than happy. I tried to become what they wanted to see. I betrayed myself to please the shapeless and nameless crowds in hopes of somehow fitting in. I wanted to fit in so badly. Perhaps that is a universal experience – sitting on the precipice of what you imagine your life to be and choosing to jump into the waters of what other people have imagined your life should be. To this day I’m trying to undo the damage this has caused to my life. I have lost myself somewhere along the way. I have become a shell stitched together by the echoing voices of criticism telling me what I cannot possibly be – myself.

Queerness is then perhaps the imaginary potential, an urge to reclaim yourself amidst the voices of opposition. When people say how you should dress, act, move, speak – perhaps the only way to respond is to radically be yourself. A lesson I have started to realize when seeing those close to me being unapologetically themselves. I have had the incredible luck of finding my way towards people who are as incredible as any constellation in the sky. I have nothing but the utmost respect and love for each and every one of them, for they have shown me what acceptance and love truly mean. They are the embodiments of that star-like potential that exudes from them and transforms anyone who comes in close proximity.  

The fear of being myself, truly and authentically has been an ever-present companion in my life and an enduring struggle. Sometimes I just wish to be able to see with the eyes of those who love me; who have given me a chance to grow and evolve into the person I desire to be. I desperately yearn to be able to see in me, what they see. But it seems there is a fundamental disconnect there. Whenever they talk about me, it feels as if that is not the person I know; the person they describe is still a stranger to me. I wish so much to be able to feel the tender words they so generously send my way, and yet I cannot. I wonder if I am so fundamentally broken, so deeply hurt that maybe it isn’t even possible for me to ever know who I truly am. This thought scares me, unlike anything else. What if they’re wrong?


© Nikola Stankovic 2023-09-02

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