For some bizarre reason, I posted the following to my account at Daily Kos. I mention that here to account for the strange references to politics and debate. (For I do not feel like rewriting it again.)
Grew up in a family which was more concerned about external appearances than internal closeness. The Catholic Church was seen as some sort of eternal score-keeper. The upper-class scene was the earthly score-keeper. I fit in until I could not do it anymore. I made it all the way to college without letting my family discover that my acts of pleasing them had changed from real to fake. I had “held my breath” for so long that while at college I desperately sought love and acceptance from fellow-students who were not up to the task of sustaining someone as needy as me. My sexuality continued to be confused. I had one girlfriend in high school, and one in college. Both relationships were sexual, satisfying, and co-dependent. At the same time I obsessed over relationships with men and male imagery. I never liked my body. Growing up it seemed the human body was the enemy of the mind/soul. Everything which my body told me was frowned on by authority figures in my childhood. My mother had disdain for my emerging masculinity in puberty and I had no father or other male role model. I managed to suppress or confuse most of my homosexual urges. I’m sure many of my friends at the time were awfully bewildered! All of my worries and stresses erupted in college, derailing my Ivy League education. I dropped out, attempted a minor band-aid, and re-enrolled. I made it another couple of years then dropped out again. I never finished, with about a year left incomplete. During this time I attempted intense therapy. My mother was invited in. She basically wanted the “old me” back, the one where I was devoted to pleasing her. It did not seem to matter that I said that was fake. To her that was the “the depression” talking. She felt sure that if I could just take the right combination of medications I would be terrific again. I was not sure if I wanted to, or if I could, be my old self again. My mind thrashed back and forth between possibilities, hope, fear, delusion — with very little guidance or anchor. Homosexuality still was not a major thought in my mind. Oh, I was jerking off to hot male images daily, thanks to the newfangled Internet, but that topic never fully emerged in therapy or in discussions with my mother. F’ed up, I know! But, there were enough other problems to cover, I thought. (“I’ll leave that secret shame for last!”) I tried to understand my childhood and my mother’s refusal to acknowledge reality, specifically her attitudes towards my father whom she left shortly after my birth. But basically I never really got anywhere in therapy with my mother — so unwilling was she to accept that there was a new changed me that we were giving birth to, one which would not always defer to her. She ended up blaming my female therapist. I suppose I should’ve seen that coming! All my mother’s thoughts were of finding the wonder drugs which would make me normal. (Perhaps that’s why I refuse to take drugs today and suffer along getting by only on my own flawed reasoning.) My mother continued to support me financially, so I stopped butting heads with her. I was despondent. I numbed the part of me that longed for comfort from her. We learned to be civil to each other and ignore the rest. She seems to have filled whatever emptiness she may feel with increasing religiosity. I stopped looking for God when I noticed that my prayers had gone from asking God to change me, heal me or fix me to just asking that he take my life. When I realized that the only prayer I had left was praying to die, I stopped praying. I did not immediately say I was an atheist — that took time and reasoning — but I stopped believing that God had something to offer me personally that day in my apartment when I vowed no longer to ask for deliverance. Don’t get me wrong, I still yearned for a passive death to relieve my suffering (and often still do). But I stopped asking for magic help from those unseen corners of the universe. [This account is not intended to be a full explanation of how my once real faith turned to atheism. I’d be happy to write that another time, but mercy! this is trying to be brief, remember?] In an effort to speed things up I will say here’s the rest: a few minor unfulfilling jobs, never finished college, never ‘got real’ again with mother, attempted relations with women but got less and less out of it, finally sought relationships with men in my late 20s, had two significant long-term relationships with men, inherited some money and had some financial stability, lost all the money in real estate holdings in 2008 & 2009. Throughout this time I have worked on relationships with others, which I’ve always found difficult. I have cultivated meaningful relationships where I can find them, which has meant my nephews and nieces and even seeking out a relationship with my father (which has been very difficult and also rewarding).
Phew!
Throughout all this time I have still been a person who is more unhappy than not. I’m not going to lie: much of my inheritance was wasted on fleeting indulgences which brought me momentary lift. I thought my “business-minded” partner had his eye on the long game. But real estate held dangers which he and I were too young to know about. Our adult lives had seen one long boom! Now it’s a bust. My boyfriend got tired of the pressure, the displeasure of living with a depressive. He’s gone, and much happier now. I can’t help but feel bitter that he stayed for the high life and left when the lean times came. And, hey, how about that inequality for gays?! Despite the fact our finances were combined (my mistake, obviously) I’m not entitled to anything he makes from now on.
I’m 39. I have accomplished little. I had thought that a long-term gay relationship was my biggest accomplishment in life, considering the attitudes I had started with. Now that’s out the window! But I can’t totally blame him and say it’s all about the money. It is a real drag to live with me. I know.
So… why on Earth did I write this?
Well, it’s my birthday and I’ll cry if I want to. (If I could I would.)
No, honestly, the real point of writing this was to show that the same story can be viewed multiple ways. It is relevant to politics and political discussion.
I cannot rewrite this story from my mother’s perspective, nor would I want to. But I do know enough about her to give what would be her view (for those who’ll never know me or her, just consider a very religious Southern woman of about 70):
Somehow I just know that her version of my life would revolve around that fact that I have rejected God and I have ‘chosen’ homosexuality. And that is why I can never be happy.
And it drives me nuts that there’s no way I can prove my version of my life and disprove hers. And that is the case when it comes to almost all important arguments. The two sides (or multiple sides) will never even agree on the fundamental premises. In my opinion her premises are flawed because I do not believe in a god and I think it’s an irrational basis to begin a discussion. Similarly, she sees me as deluded (wickedly so).
I know this long story is all about me and my personal experiences. But I have to believe that others can relate. As I said when I started Part I:
I am 38. By the time I finish writing this it will likely be the early morning hours of my 39th birthday. I’m not entirely sure what I’m writing or why. I have been unhappy for years. Honestly I would say I’ve been unhappy “forever” and then became aware of it. A life story can be told in so many different ways and I believe even one small story can have resonance for ourselves as a people and for politics. I’m not attempting to be grandiose when I say this; I’m pointing out that just as we view a family, a life, a conversation multiple ways so too every public interaction and policy.
some thinks gone wrong 