Born weird

CW: longread, russia, strong personal opinion, (+ full gallery unedited Milk bath by Kay Hues)

I was born in Siberia, in a town with 700 000 population, but so conservative that the word “bisexual” I learned somewhere in my twenties already in Saint-Petersburg.

While living in my hometown, I knew that there are gays and lesbians, and both things are “bad”, I knew that I didn’t fit into both, nor did I fit into “normal” teen society. I didn’t call them straight people back then. I didn’t have the concept yet. I just knew: I didn’t fit. I could feel it almost every day. 

Snowboarders accepted me somehow when I was around 12-13 and, damn, it was a great part of my life since then! I was I weirdo, but thanks to snowboarding – I was a cool one. Also hanging out with older cool snowboarders made me an unpleasant target for bullies. Not without my help of course.

Very early I learned to use reputation instead of actual fists and to anticipate the fight or start it first but on my own terms instead of ignoring or avoiding possible attacks on my weirdness.

Back then I hated it. The weirdness I mean. I WANTED SO FUCKING MUCH TO BE JUST NORMAL. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t understand why everyone is so serious and fixed on their gender roles.

Why should I date guys if I’m attracted to girls too?

Is it just me?

What happens if they know that I’m pretending to be one of them, but I’m actually not?

Why do I feel so much? 

The only thing keeping me sane throughout my first 16 years of life was traveling and my mom helping me to see the world. She was taking me to different countries and different places abroad. Not just to resorts and beaches, but to capitals, museums, flea markets, theatres, and other places where I could interact with different cultures.

The magical part about this kind of traveling was that I also realized quite early – weird is not always bad. The world is huge and full of different things.

I was far from accepting my own weirdness, but I could enjoy the weirdness of other people. And It was giving me hope. 

When I turned 17 I moved “to the cultural capital” as I liked to call it back then. It was 2003, and it felt amazing after the village where I grew up.

The bookstore on Nevsky had more than 5 kinds of gay magazines. No one gave a fuck. I was however very confused about my personal interest in gay magazines.

They WERE CLEARLY NOT MEANT FOR ME. Why was I so attracted then?

If I ever write a proper memoir, the chapter about my life in Saint Petersburg should probably be called:

ME, TRYING TO LIVE A NORMAL LIFE, AND FAILING AT EVERY STEP.

To some people’s standards, I could even call myself successful. I got my first flat. Then another one. I worked in the fashion industry and met some famous people. I had a relationship. Nice one to some people’s standards.

But I was utterly unhappy. It all just felt wrong.

Fake. Sad and pointless. 

As if I didn’t live my life, but someone else’s.

…

Photos by Kay Hues