今日吃瓜

“I鈥檓 here, I鈥檓 queer: get used to it.鈥�

This is a way I often introduce my arrival at social gatherings due聽to the fact that I am both a) proudly under the LGBT umbrella and聽b) socially awkward.

聽Is it an original or funny statement?聽Not really, but it鈥檚 a way to break the ice before I lurch towards the聽bowl of chips and desperately look for a dog to bond with.

People visibly cringe when I identify as queer. My psychiatrist聽would furrow his brow and shake his head.

鈥淭his is not a nice word,鈥� he would state, tucking his very expensive聽fountain pen into his very expensive velvet suit jacket.聽鈥淎re you聽sure people use that term?鈥�

My cousin commented on a photo I posted on Facebook, as part of a project supporting聽the Safe Schools initiative, whereby I stated I was a proud queer woman. He was聽incredibly uncomfortable with me using that word. That word.

I am incredibly lucky to be able to state my queerness openly and with pride. I have聽been spat at, and called a 鈥渄yke鈥�, but I have never truly feared for my safety in these聽situations.

My sense of safety is a real privilege compared to others in the LGBT community, in聽particular trans folk. Much of this is due to the fact that I am white, cis and 鈥榮traight-passing鈥櫬�(whatever that means).

I also owe much of this privilege to the men and women before me who helped fight聽stigma and demand equality. The word 鈥榪ueer鈥� was most likely spat at them as an insult,聽as ferociously as the actual saliva that was spat at me when I was holding hands with聽my girlfriend.

When I first realised I was not heterosexual – a fact that came to me in my early 20s – I聽felt my identity shift. Who am I? What am I?

After seeing a film with my oldest friend, I came out to her.

鈥淚 think I鈥檓 gay,鈥� I announced, and promptly began running down the street because聽I was unsure how to answer follow-up questions (as I mentioned before; socially awkward).

But 鈥榞ay鈥� didn鈥檛 sit right with me. What if I happen to meet a male-identifying person聽and fall in love with them? If I鈥檓 a woman, and my partner is non-binary, I鈥檓 not technically聽a lesbian… am I?

The language and labels surrounding both sexuality and gender identity can be incredibly聽complex and nuanced. Am I not just鈥� me? This confusion swirled in my head聽for several months until I landed at queer.

I used to refer to myself as a lesbian because I felt like I was one. In a sense I鈥檓聽straight, I鈥檓 lesbian, I鈥檓 bisexual, I鈥檓 all of those.

So why queer, as opposed to bisexual/pansexual/lesbian/other? I like the ambiguity that comes with queerness.

For many people identifying with labels is incredibly empowering and helpful in shaping their identity, but for me I fully embrace the fluidity. Queer is open to interpretation and I like that.

I鈥檓 still a queer woman if I sleep with a cis man. I鈥檓 still a queer woman if I never have sex again. I鈥檓 queer when I鈥檓 working, walking, wanking.

Queer embraces the different and celebrates diversity. Queer can be genderqueer, bisexual, trans – a magical collection of people who may have felt abnormal their whole lives. I probably haven鈥檛 earnt the right to call myself queer but I am incredibly thankful and mindful of those who stood before me and fought for this right.

IRL vs URL

I would never pretend to speak on behalf of the queer community but I felt more welcomed into online queer spaces than in real life queer circles. I was told to act straight at a gay bar because the manager 鈥渉ates lesbians鈥�, and received an abusive message on Facebook from an old acquaintance when I posted I was going to Midsumma.

She incorrectly assumed I was a 鈥渇ag hag鈥� and made it very clear that I was not welcome. I went to Midsumma despite this confrontation, and had older women grab me and ask 鈥淎re you really gay or just here with friends?鈥�

When I tentatively signed up to Tinder and selected 鈥榞irls only鈥� I was met with several messages that I look too straight. If they鈥檇 only seen my denim shirt collection and Google search history (鈥業s Poh from Masterchef a lesbian?鈥�) maybe they would have changed their minds.

I felt excluded from the gay and lesbian community when I was coming out, and it was rough. I had never felt accepted and now here was yet another group of people rejecting me.

I was too straight for the lesbians, and too queer for the straight folk.

Clubbing was never really an option in finding a community. I鈥檓 not a party animal – the fact I use the term 鈥榩arty animal鈥� gives you an indication of my preference for a blanket and cup of tea over nightclubs and West Coast Coolers (is that still what the cool kids drink?)

I rarely leave the house to socialise due to chronic mental illness. I used to be embarrassed that the majority of my social interactions were online or via text but not anymore. I feel lucky to have found friends that accept me for who I am and how I am鈥� which is usually in bed alone with my laptop.

I have found acceptance and safety in online queer groups, predominantly on Facebook. People post photos of themselves, and their partners, and discussions range from the ordinary to the explicit because guess what – we aren鈥檛 an autonomous group. Breaking news: queer people are all different! One of my favourite threads is about visibility and 鈥榪ueer looks鈥� – I love scrolling through the photos and seeing confident and proud queer folk owning their bodies and presenting as they feel is true to themselves.

Online spaces for queer women and even a meme group specifically for us queers have helped me feel like I have a community. My best friend is queer and lives in a different state to me, we talk every day. My queerness has become a huge part of my identity that I wholeheartedly embrace.

I love being queer. I have a people; a pack: I finally belong.

Deirdre Fidge is a queer Melbourne-based writer and comedian. She writes regularly for SBS Comedy and ABC鈥檚 The Drum and has been published in Daily Life, Archer Magazine and The Vocal. You can follow her musings on Twitter at .