My Rage Cage Arrived Yesterday. The Pin and locking mechanism are useful, but the pin has a very small pin hole for a small pad lock, and not large enough to accommodate the lock I had been using on my CB-6000. Last night I removed the pin entirely and used my main stay lock in place of the pin and lock system.
Today after work, I went by The Tire and bough a package of bolts and nuts, that would fit the pin hole, where the pin is inserted into the top of the base ring. I tightened a bolt with a couple of nuts in the pin hole to lock the base ring together, because the cage portion has an arm that fits onto the wings of the base ring (it fits together in two parts).
Once you fit the cage arm over the base ring, comprising the pin hole for locking, you have two interlocking parts that lock the device together, then you have to either use the pin and lock to lock the device closed, or like I did today, I am using a bolt and nut in place of the pin system.
I took my metal solder set and soldered the end of the bolt behind the nuts permanently sealing the bolt in solder.
Do you ever feel shortchanged in life ? Like one is not getting the whole story, or ALL of the TRUTH available ? Do you ever feel like the people you surround yourself with, or had surrounded yourself with were not being completely forthright with you ? Like they had the market on full disclosure and that you were not worthy of that full disclosure ?
Being Gay in a very Straight sober world has its PERKS, but it also has its drawbacks. I’ve been pondering this same truth about myself recently.
I sat with my sponsor the other day, and I shared with him my observations of people in our rooms here. Everything I said to him, about what has been my experience over the last eighteen years, he agreed with me. Because he has seen the same things with his own eyes.
A couple months ago, I changed up my game, and began attending a stand alone, closed men’s meeting, with a handful of men, I know well, and they know me well, because we attend other meetings together, and have been for a very long time.
One of those men, my new sponsor, I really enjoy sitting with him, because every time we sit together he tells me stories about his life. Usually, I leave home on a Wednesday night, uber early, so that I arrive at the hall, early, because I know my sponsor is going to be there. Which is where we began talking a couple of months ago. Talking more that we had been talking because of the spare time we have alone together to chat about life.
I used to hang around a group of long sober men, who, in reality, were not very sober, themselves. I used to go to Vermont with these men for step retreats. Being the only queer man in the sessions, nobody really engaged me honestly, and none of them desired to break bread with me either.
If you cannot break bread with me, I have no use for you.
For all those years, and even before, all my straight sponsors, save, just one, David, never gave me the full truth about alcoholism and The WORK. My step work was always cut short, incomplete.
Last year, when I sat with Noah, I chose to work with him, because I liked what he had to say, every time I heard him speak in a meeting. He knew what he was talking about, every time, with a conviction that was attractive to me. So I asked him to read me through The Book and The WORK.
I knew his sponsor, and he IS a no nonsense human being, who tells it like it is, every time, without fail. I loved that about him. So I knew Noah, got the very same truth, he would tell everybody else.
It was the first time, in all of my years sober, that someone told me the truth, and worked me through a full set of The WORK. He made me think, he asked me hard questions, and pushed me to grow up.
You can learn from many people in the rooms, no matter how long they are sober, if you listen well to them share, and you know just who they, themselves are working with.
I heard a lady share tonight, that “Sobriety, is cumulative. It is not just one thing that you do that makes the difference, it is all its constituent parts that make up the whole experience.”
She is right.
I read, A Lot. I pray as well. I read spiritual literature. I read The Book, and I work with others. I go to meetings, I do service. I do everything that was taught to me since the day I walked into my first home group here in Montreal. And I’ve been able to carry forwards that ritual work for all my years in sobriety. I still do the same thing I did eighteen years ago.
I make COFFEE !
I make coffee because I can get there as early as I want. Usually a hour or two prior to the first human being arriving. Because I know that if I build in that time, I usually get to have a one on one conversation with the first person who arrives as we drink our first cups of freshly perked coffee.
I got to have one of those conversations tonight, and it was fruitful.
The men I know, in the men’s meeting, tell me the truth. They are honest with me, because I try to be honest myself. I learn how to be sober, by doing what good sober people do. Good sober men are few.
There is a difference.
I know what I know today. And I know what I want for my sobriety now. Having thought about it over the past week or so. I’m tired of being short changed by men who think they are sober, but won’t tell the truth or give me all the facts, or give me true sober work.
I know what’s in the book. I’ve read it several times over. I’ve changed up my game enough to give me access to new men and women. Most importantly, the men at that men’s meeting on Wednesday.
If you feel like your sobriety has been short changed, there is a solution.
You just gotta do the footwork and find a meeting where there are long sober men and women who will tell you the truth.
I’ve been GAY a very long time. And I know most uber straight men don’t want anything to do with me, and I know that, by what they do, and what they don’t do, in front of me. If you have to overcompensate, and constantly piss in front of me and tell me how big your dick is, I don’t have any use for you.
My sponsor agreed with me on this the other day.
Even my Gay brothers in the rooms want nothing to do with me. Is it my backstory or that I am not a gay like them? I will never grow up to be a fumpy old gay man. I don’t dress like them, I don’t act like them, and i sure as shit don’t want whatever it is they have.
I sat in a room with all of them for fourteen months reading the Big Book, during the hardest emotional bottom I’ve ever experienced in sobriety yet. And in all that time, not one gay or straight man or woman, ever walked up to me and said …
I KNOW HOW YOU FEEL, LET ME TELL YOU HOW I DEALT WITH THAT.
These are the the most important life saving words an alcoholic has, because we have back stories. Experiences. Life Experience. In all its forms.
I’ve NEVER heard these words come out of ANY sober mouth, anywhere in this city, in ALL of my sobriety.
That is a shame.
Because it took a lady from New York to come here, talk to us, and share those words with us.
The Literature we read in every meeting, was codified into being when the fellowship began, and the meeting scripts and literature were finely tuned.
Being gay in A.A. has not been pretty. I’ve been told to leave meetings, and not come back, because some alcoholics found me “a human who was not condoned to sit in the same room with them.”
That caused a Slip back into drinking and drugs, that almost killed me.
When I moved to Montreal, that happened a second time, in a meeting in the West End of the city. I never went back to that meeting, and in as many years, I’ve never stepped into a meeting with any of those men and women, to this day.
Back when I first got Sober, there were dedicated GAY meetings. For Gay men. Even so, there were also dedicated meetings for the GAY Women. Over the years, as gay men died, I was and still am the only surviving man living with AIDS on the English side.
Over the years those gay meetings closed, because they could not be populated to sustain a meeting. And in the early years, LGBT men and women began to assimilate into Straight meetings, into general population.
I know, for a fact, that way back when, there were TRANS men and women, in the system. And I made sure I knew who they were, so that if I was present in a meeting, they knew that that meeting was safe to attend, that nobody was going to harm them or disrespect them, so long as I was there.
Many of those TRANS people have disappeared. I’ve not seen many of them in a number of years now. My folks on the spectrum, have more than alcohol in their stories, those making transitions, so forth and so on. Many of them went back out under pressure and never returned.
In the last year, we have seen the LGBT Spectrum widen. More than we had seen in as many years. With the broadening of the sexual orientation spectrum, the terms Gender Neutral or Non-Binary have become stock.
We have a handful of kids in this gender non-binary grouping. Along with the Gay men and women, and TRANS men and women.
The discussion at business meetings and Group Consciences has turned into fighting matches to AMEND our hallowed literature scripts to accommodate everybody in a meeting.
We’ve now reached the point where the words MEN and WOMEN have been removed from the preambles across the city. The word GOD has been removed to Higher Power, for those who do not even deign to say the word God in community.
AA Preamble. Alcoholics Anonymous is a fellowship of men and women who share their experience, strength and hope with each other that they may solve their common problem and help other to recover from alcoholism.
This is the way the script has been read for over 80 years.
We’ve now amended that script to say “People.” And Not Men and Women.
Tonight … Was a business meeting that got heated and contentious.
At the Group Conscience a couple of weeks ago, the issue of wording came up and the script changed, voted and with a majority of support is what we read right today.
There are two TRANS women in our group. They come tonight to the business meeting because they had a bone to pick, because they are upset the wording was changed with out THEIR approval or discussion.
They did not attend the group conscience meeting, so they did not get the opportunity to be dissenting voices to the changes.
They came tonight and wanted to verbiage to be changed BACK from “People” to “Men and Women, AND People.” Words were spoken, curses were offered as well. The discussion got very heated.
At one point, I put the motion on the table to change the verbiage back to Men and Women and People.
Sadly, our NON-BINARY kids were in the meeting. Those who offered the change to “People” at the meeting.
I put the motion on the table and we voted.
The motion was voted down. So the verbiage remains “People.”
Our two TRANS women left the meeting in tears, because they feel slighted that Men and Women have been removed from the script, and they, as trans women want inclusion as Men and Women stated in the original.
They left, after Myself and my friend Jim spoke to them. I was outside with one of our women, and Jim was inside with the other. We tried to smooth it over and talk openly and honestly.
We both failed at that.
They will come to the next business meeting next month and try again to raise the issue to put it to a vote to change the wording back to
“Men and Women, with the additional People.”
We’ve tried with difficulty to open the meetings to everyone and not single anyone out or intimate that Everyone is not welcome. That sexual orientation and identity are outside issues, and this is a meeting, and we do things one way and one way only.
We’ve been very accommodating to everyone.
But the Non-Binary camp is powerful and they want things the way they want it, and they don’t want to bend and see that the trans community is just as welcome as they are, and that if we are going to amend the literature as they would like, we have to accommodate everyone equally.
I posted earlier today about my head space this morning. it only got worse as the day progressed. I’ve been uncomfortable all night long. And even spending time with people I love, did not ease the discomfort.
I’m still stuck in my body.
There are things we get to talk about with our friends, those things could be any topic, for any reason, and my friends would listen. There is only one person who has been brought into the Fidelius Charm. There is nobody else, in on the charm.
He has challenged me to become the best version of myself. Which is why he is within the Charm.
And I’m not sure I should bother him, at the moment, because I know he’s filled with his own anxiety about the end of term and the amount of work he has to pump out in the next ten days.
What I have left, is pouring myself out here, and recording how my days are going, from one day to the next. As my daily routine goes forward, knowing what I know at this very minute, being around my friends makes me a little uncomfortable.
I have good friends, mind you, who would never question anything I tell them about me, because they all know me, very well. Sometimes better than I know myself.
I’ve added another layer of who I am to the mix, a few days ago.
On a separately Other track …
I was told tonight, by a good lady friend, that, certain doors have not opened up to me, on one arc of my story, so she told me to just put one foot in front of the other, until that particular door opens.
Because Sobriety does not have a destination …
Making choices, putting a plan into action takes certainty, or a little bit that sounds like certainty. You don’t know if the plan, will flourish in the future, so all we can do is put one foot in front of the other, and stay in our days.
Where have I heard that little gem before ???
Sobriety, and Life in Sobriety is about the day you are in, and even the moment you are in, right now.
Any choice you make in sobriety, is tempered by how well you deal with a twenty four hour period. And when you can’t talk about what’s going on with you, you need to figure out where you are going to drop your thoughts, which is why this platform exists.
For the longest time, this was about my readers. I posted content for my readers. But that tack changed when Brene Brown became part of my life.
This week, I decided that I was no longer drumming for readers or support from the outside world. I decided days ago, to spend my writing time, working on me, in open community.
I had to reconsider what this blog functioned as. BRAVING this blog, the way it was, was no longer tenable.
Now, I turn the attention off of others, and onto myself. For better or worse. I don’t have any gay friends, inside or outside the rooms. That means a no go, for open discussion on just about anything not relatable.
After yesterday’s technicolor dream and the prophetic nature of the message, I followed through to the end this morning.
I had researched my quest last night, and decided to go with my local seller, Priape and save some serious cash, on the exchange and shipping from the U.S.
The man who works in the fetish shop in the basement was there when I arrived. I’ve known him for over 18 years. We’ve been friends since the day he started working at Priape, and we’ve become good friends. So he knows all about me and my fetish likes and dislikes. Because he’s the one who sold me on every purchase I’ve ever made in the shop.
That is a good contact to have.
I learned a long time ago, when I moved to Montreal, that in Montreal, sex is a common subject. It is not taboo, and the fact that I said yesterday that there are sex shops scattered all over the city, speaks for itself.
In the Gay Village, Priape is our flagship store. We’ve kept that store open in the darkest of times, when at one point the shop had been sold, and they were going to just shut it down for good. We, the community, had other plans. We got the store re-opened and it rocks the community.
When I worked for Todd back in the 90’s, the bar was a hard core fetish bar, serving the leather community. Right up my alley. But Todd knew I had a dark side, and he kept men and myself apart, on purpose. Because he knew I could get into serious trouble if left to my own devices, which is why Todd took me in and forbade me to engage, and forbade the men in the bar to ever touch me, Period ! Those rules saved my life.
Because I can tell you honestly, that some of the hard core leather men who were sick (then) took down many of my younger friends in my age group. They got them addicted to drugs and alcohol, then infected them with AIDS, and all of them died in the end. I was the only young leather man left standing alive, when all was said and done.
Hundreds of people died. And I survived them all.
Moving to Montreal, I attempted to break into the community, that took a lot of work, but in the end, I failed because of the two solitude’s. If you did not speak French in a mostly French neighborhood, you were finished.
But I made some good connections in the process. The men at Priape became friends, who did not judge me because I did not speak French.
The Male Chastity fetish was born a couple of years ago. I watched it rise on Tumblr and within the limited Leather Community I was following online. After the dawning of this little denial of sex began to rise, the straight community took hold of it and ran with it.
The race to build the Best Mouse Trap began.
There are many companies that claim to have the best product. And since that dawn, I have watched the evolution of it grow exponentially. I know my personal sellers. Some ran well with it, where others, only dabble here and there.
Friends of mine, here in Montreal, engaged in this kink. I knew this because they told me so. I was kind of jealous that my friends had better sex lives than I had.
Truth … 17 years ago, when my husband was diagnosed as Bi-Polar II Rapid Cycling and the drugs were introduced to his body, over the ten months they dosed him with the myriad of drugs they were trying to see if they worked, at the end of the line, the man who went in, was NOT the man I got when he came out the other side. Our sex life all but died. We’ve not had sex, but maybe twice in the last 17 years. So fuck me now.
Let’s just say, that if I want to jerk off, I can. And there is nobody who is going to see or stop me.
Over the last little while, I’ve been in conversation with my friend, who shall remain nameless. He knows my situation, because he has his own.
I went to the shop and got my device. My friend showed me how it worked, and how it went on. I came home and wow, what a nightmare getting it on, but once it was on, it wasn’t coming off.
It isn’t a denial in full, until you give your keys away to someone who will hold them for you, for whatever period of time, until you want them back.
I had to get rid of my keys today.
I made the call to my friend, and we met for coffee and had quite the conversation. Because I told him, he was part of the dream last night. We talked honestly and openly.
I handed him my keys and told him that I did not want them back until the end of the summer when he comes back into Montreal for school. Now I am fucked until at least September. There is no going back now, I did not keep a back up key here, because that would be a temptation to cheat and unlock the device early.
He is going home to Alberta after this term, so he won’t even be here, to give me the keys back, even if I wanted them. He will have them on him. So I am doubly fucked.
But he agrees that knowing he’s holding those keys, will seriously remind him that he is also in the same boat as I am. Because he has the same issue that I do. So he knows he can join this challenge if he wants to. But just holding the keys, right now, is enough a deterrent to interrupt the cycle.
Lockup began at 11 am this morning. And will run, until at least September.
In the years 1986 – 1987, I spent that year, in a college seminary in Miami. The sainted priests of my home parish really thought I had a calling to the priesthood. They worked very hard at my formation prior to entering the seminary. Altar Boy, Eucharistic Minister, so forth and so on.
I loved the Pastor, Priests, and the many other people who served my parish so dutifully and loyally. We were a family. And I was safe. When I needed help the most, in my most desperate hours of illness, after I was diagnosed, the men of my parish really stepped up their games for me.
I really had nothing to loose, entering the seminary. My parents were going to get rid of me, and not have me under their roof any longer, that was good for all of us. I would no longer be abused mercilessly, but on the down side, I would have no support from home, except the parish priests.
I was two years out of high school, having completed a year’s scholarship at the community college. But I was destined for greater things.
I took all my tests and psychological exams. And I guess I passed well, because I was in, that fall. It was a learning curve for sure. The residence was located above classrooms of the main building, with double occupancy, Murphy bedded rooms. You were not alone at any point, unless your room mate was in class or off campus.
A retinue of priests were housed in the building with us, on each end of the building. And it seemed all was well, but something was just not right, all around.
I had not come out of the closet, because I figured that If I made it, I wasn’t going to have to worry about my sexuality because I would be serving Holy Mother Church. Not that being gay was top of mind, because it really wasn’t. I had eyes into ministry and I was singularly focused.
The other odd thing was that many GAY priests, and priests who had been diagnosed with AIDS, or had other parish issues, were sent to our school, to either teach, or be in ministry positions to the class in residence, and say mass every day and on Sunday.
Gay WAS a thing. It DID exist. Right in front of me. Nobody talked about it, but it was clear and out in the open, if you knew to look for tell tale signs of homosexuality. I had pretty good GAYDAR then.
There were three Catholic institutions that were located on a plot of land, who shared common outside space and school precincts. There was Christopher Columbus Boys High School, St. Brendan’s across the green space from our buildings. And the Seminary.
Out back of the three sites were baseball, and soccer fields. A communal pool, that was fenced in, and a perimeter road that circled the high school and the seminary grounds. We spent nights after dinner walking that circle, night after night.
I knew, after while, which of my classmates were gay. That was pretty apparent to me, at least, yet I asked no questions. EVER.
It was common knowledge that gay priests were in residence with us, and nobody batted an eye over that. The first rector of the institution had issues with the drink, and they sent him away to rehab. Which incensed me to no end, and I lobbied long and hard to get him back.
He was replaced with a papal wannabe Rector Andy Anderson, who thought himself Divine. And pranced around and acted like he WAS the pope, when he was in public and when he said mass. I hated Andy Anderson with every fiber of my being. I hated his sanctimonious attitude and his pride and arrogance as a priest.
HATED HIM !!!
Several of my classmates were sanctimonious pop tarts who walked around like they were above everyone else. Many years later, MANY years later, I turned on the tv once, and saw, one of my sanctimonious classmates saying mass on television. I was revolted for sure.
During the day and on Friday we had assigned chores every week, like mowing the grass on the quad, cleaning the house and the chapel, and odds and ends jobs.
One of the jobs we had during the day was serving the high school next door to the seminary, since we shared common space and their cafeteria. We served lunches and took care of the cafeteria. But I noticed that several of my upper classmates were passing notes to many of the boys as they came through the lunch line.
It was not kosher at all …
One night as I walked the quad after dinner one evening, I was behind the school, walking past the baseball dug outs and IN the dug out were several of my classmates having sex with kids from the school next door.
I averted my eyes so as not to notice, and kept walking. I was sure, I had seen what I had seen. Not long after that incident, I was approached by several of my classmates who made it perfectly clear to me that I should never tell anyone what I saw. They confirmed to me what it was that I did see, by telling me to shut up and keep quiet.
Or I would pay a price.
Each week we had spiritual direction, with a certain priest we had chosen to see on a regular basis. And I kid you not, it was like sitting in front of an inquisitor. The first question, every time I sat with my spiritual director was this … “Did you touch yourself this week, and how many times did you touch yourself ?”
Spiritual direction took a backseat when it came to sexual information.
Now, even if I had masturbated whenever I could get away with it, I’m not saying I did or I didn’t … I wasn’t going to give that priest the sexual satisfaction of hearing about “If I touched myself, and how many times I did so.” In essence, I lied to his face …
And I think to myself, you know, “Masturbation is a far lesser sin, then fucking kids in the dug out out back of the school after dark.”
But I didn’t ever say that to anyone.
Many years would pass, after my unceremonious expulsion from the seminary in the Spring of 1987. I was told by Rector Andy Anderson, that I was not ONE OF THEM, and that I did not pass my yearly review as a seminarian, so I had to go.
That unceremonious expulsion sent me on a tirade about God. I was terribly angry at God for a long time. I had later come out of the closet and was at one of the major gay watering holes in Miami one night, when five of my classmates walked into the bar, and hung out and drank and cruised like the other gays in the building.
But They Were Seminarians, Still in Formation at the College.
The Church today is facing the biggest problem of its life. Sexual abuse in the church by priests. They used to say that a homosexual man could not be ordained into the priesthood. After I left the seminary, they purged, or attempted to purge homosexuality out of seminary life.
I don’t think they succeeded.
Because when I was in that seminary, most every single priest in residence was GAY, or had AIDS and was GAY. And half of my classmates were GAY.
Over that year we hosted two retreats for prospective men who wanted to come into the seminary. A couple of them made it in, but after helping them unpack and sort themselves out, I knew it would not work for them, and they later were dismissed.
I NEVER had a gay issues in my home parish and the men and the priests who served my home parish were upstanding, respectable men with integrity and morals. All of them, were great men to me. I would never speak a bad word about any priest I knew growing up.
It wasn’t until I hit seminary that that all changed for the worse.
I studied Religion and Theology at Concordia University here in Montreal, and one of our Monsignors was one of my instructors. At the end of term I had to write a 40 page prospectus. I wrote on the care of the LGBTQ community, and how the church could facilitate that. He then offered me a place to work in the diocese when I graduated.
I did not get the job, and the offer was rescinded.
Because I was GAY.
The church is not perfect, by any stretch. And Gays, do exist in the church today and priestly abuse is a FACT, which the church has turned a blind eye to for decades and decades. Because of the culture of silence and coverups, by the highest men in the curia and the papal offices.
Decrees can come from Rome by the hour, but the farther you are removed from the center of power, the more diluted the order and the less the orders can be enforced by local Bishops and clergy. The farther you get from Rome, the Bishops around the world control the diocese they administer.
The farther away Bishops are, take more latitude in enforcing Papal decrees and laws. What happens in Rome, does not necessarily happen in North America or Latin America, or in any other far flung location, removed from the seat of Holy Mother Church.
We know who were abused, we hear about it very often. Pope Francis needs to be decisive and stern and certain with punishment and prosecution.
There is no room for men of the cloth who abuse boys and girls.
Watching coming out videos today, bring back certain memories and invoke certain feelings, about my own story.
I traveled to the South Shore last night, for a meeting at the famous Beaver Rehabilitation Center. Over the years, I’ve heard some old timers tell stories of their time there, and a particular nurse who worked there until about a decade ago. On the way the driver of the car, told me her stories of that famed nurse, Joan.
I learned a few more things about new friends last night. Which was nice. and I also learned that the car driver’s sobriety date is the SAME as mine.
December the 9th … She in 1987, me in 2001.
But back to where I am at the moment. I’m kinda sad.
Like I said above, I watched a new coming out video from a young man on You Tube. And I wrote to him, that his story was the most honest, tender and loving story I had ever heard. Coming Out is a daunting proposition.
He faced his trials and in the end he had success. His friends came round, his mom came round, and his sisters came round, eventually.
And I think … People are who they are. And I was and am powerless over people, places and things. The other night we talked about “Acceptance.”
I wonder, why people say the things they do, why they act the way they act, and why the world went sideways when I was a kid. I’m gonna be 52 in a few months and I think to myself, what a waste of time and effort. I really believe I was sold a terrible bill of goods.
People treated me so unfairly. And never gave me the opportunity to speak my words and defend myself. It was better to push me away and shut off my light and silence my ability to speak, rather than hear what I really have to say.
Coming Out, I was sold a bill of goods. I was told certain truths. And I ran with that delusion, until it did not serve me any longer. And I’ve written in the past, quite recently, The life I really wanted and desired, never came to fruition, and in the end I got the life, I got. It wasn’t necessarily the life I wanted, but it is the life I got.
I’m not sure I would have changed the life I have, or the way it played out, because life is good today, and I should not be resentful or bitter about not getting or getting.
We spend inordinate amounts of time sitting in meetings, listening to our friends, or people we think are our friends. And it still makes me wonder about people, when I hear some of the things that come out of their mouths.
And I think to myself, WHY ?
An entire section of my life is non-existent. An entire family of people have nothing to do with me, because of choices I made. But really, I was gay, and gay was abominable, so I had to move away from home, because I was pushed away.
THEN they blamed me and said it was all my fault. That I was the cause of all of their problems. When I was the one who got away from a very abusive situation, and people. I got out for my own good, my own safety and my own sanity.
So Fuck me for self preservation.
So many years have passed and nobody seems to care that I am alive or have a life or have words to speak to certain people. And I find that wasteful today. I think that people have just gone down a rabbit hole and never came back up.
People have a choice. And I wonder, why people made the decisions they did, because at this point in my life, I see the wasted opportunities, the wasted years and years of punishing silence.
Why because I was Gay or later, was diagnosed with AIDS?
I had two coming out experiences. The first was much happier than the second. Because when I came out, it was on my own terms, in the location I wanted, with the people I wanted to be there, when I made my entrance into the gay community of Orlando.
I think to myself, that certain people in my life did what they did and they said what they said and they chose the line they were going to follow, for better or for worse.
I lost on all accounts, because an entire group of people walked away from me, and left me on my own to survive. Thank God, Todd was there, because if it wasn’t for him, I would have died many years ago.
I just think it is utterly so sad that I am where I am, still asking the same questions I asked decades ago. All I want is to speak, to tell my story to people who don’t want to know me. To explain the what, where, why, and how. On my own terms, in my own voice.
But people don’t or won’t deign to stoop to my level and listen to me. I am just not that important. And there is just too much water gone under that old bridge.
I find that utterly sad. It just makes me so sad and sick inside.
My father went to his grave, never knowing me. never speaking to me, and never allowing me to say what I needed to say to him before he died. And that was his choice, not mine. My mother is going to same way, and so is my brother.
None of them want to know. Or want to listen.
So Fuck me for self preservation
Time is a precious commodity, once wasted it can never be regained.
My maths teacher, in 9th grade, used to write this sentence on the black board before every test or exam. And I remember those words till today.
So many people have wasted too much precious time. That we’ll never get back. Time is of the essence.
God is in control. And maybe it is better that way.
Because I surely don’t want to make these kinds of decisions.