So I decided to test my coming out with one member of my family, the one I am closest to.
I told this person that I was bisexual and that I had found someone online that I was interested in. I said that I had made plans to meet that person face to face within the next week.
The reaction was worse than I expected. She had a panic attack, didn’t sleep that night and called in sick the next day. Finally I was able to reassure her a bit and this is what she said to me:
“You can do what you want with your life, but I don’t want to hear about it. Anything that has to do with your bisexuality, I don’t want to hear about it because I will never understand it. You can talk to me about anything you want, but not about that. It makes me panic and it makes me sick. I love you and I cannot stand it when you say you want to meet new people, possibly for sex. Nothing could hurt me more. I am here for you, and you can do what you want with your friends but don’t tell me about it. I don’t want to know because it hurts too much.”
I was surprised to hear that this person does not want to know anything about my sexuality and my private life. I actually thought she was interested in me, but it is clear that she is not interested in this part of me. And maybe it’s a good thing. I feel free now. Free not to come out to my closed-minded family.
It also makes me question the maturity of Christian heterosexuals. The fluidity of their own sexuality scares the hell out of them. Just like it used to scare the hell out of me.
If they wish to act as if sexuality does not exist, fine. I can do that. So if they ask me what I’m up to, I shall say this: “I’m meeting new people. Nothing sexual can happen because sexuality does not exist. It only exists between a man and woman who are married. Anything outside of this is sickening, perverted pornography. Keep your blindfolds, I don’t care, but I’m walking out because I had enough of this shit.”
They won’t know what the hell I’m talking about. But I will smile.
My father said he would kill me if I ever turned homo. I was 14 years old. I wonder how much this has affected my sexual development.
That evening I swallowed half a bottle of aspirin. I knew they were painkillers. I was not in pain. I think I was foreseeing the pain that was to come.
I didn’t know much at age 14. I knew practically nothing of personal identity and even less about sexual orientation. I was simply me. But I learned something important that day: A homo doesn’t deserve to live.
I didn’t think I was a homo. I hardly knew what the word meant. In my teenage mind, the word homo meant “like a girl.” I was a boy. So to be “like a girl” was abominable.
I could have been a thief, a liar, or even a murderer, and my father would have forgiven me. But if I was gay, I deserved to die — to be killed by my own father.
To be bisexual was even worse. That was the ultimate disgrace, the most perverted thing on the face of this earth.
I was bisexual.
The mark of infamy was on me. I didn’t deserve to live and I didn’t deserve to be happy. And if I was to ever succumb to my sexual desires, it would be the end of me.
I don’t think I ever got over it. Even now, decades later. My father is dead. I am free but I am not. He left something in me. The mark of infamy. I wish I could pluck it out.
How can I be bisexual and proud?
I AM proud of myself. But I am not proud of myself in regards to THEM — my family. Bisexuality is not something to be proud of according to Christianity.
God, I feel so unsure. It’s like I can’t take control of my life. Maybe I don’t trust myself. That’s it, I don’t trust myself! I don’t trust my feelings. I don’t trust my desires and my urges. I feel that they were put there to mislead me.
My own feelings want to mislead me. That’s horrible! How about my mind? I don’t even know what to think. I want to drink. Get drunk. Pass out. And die, yeah!
This afternoon I took a nap. I fell asleep. I dreamed that I was walking inside a warehouse. Then I must have stepped on something because I was electrocuted. I was being electrocuted and I couldn’t move and I thought: “I’m overpowered and I’m going to die, finally!” And I was happy. Then I woke up.
I wasn’t dead. I never seem to die. Why does death always elude me?
Does my life have something to do with you, cloaked man? I don’t think you can help me. I doubt I can help you. I’m not sure anymore. I don’t trust anything. I feel paralyzed. I should make a move but all I want to do is make a no-move. Just sit here and wait. For someone to come.
But no one will come. I even disconnected the phone. I don’t want to hear it ring. I’m not going to answer anyway. I’m tired of these fake connections. I need the real thing. When I feel like this I don’t want to talk to anyone. I couldn’t talk anyway. My throat is numb. My voice has been disactivated. I’m not even sure I have a breath.
I am lost because the meaning of things was removed today. Does this ever happen to you? Nothing has meaning. Maybe I’m dissociating again. Or derealizating. The environment, the thoughts and the feelings seem unreal. Where’s my reality?
Maybe I’m just lonely. If someone would knock on my door, it would surely bring me back to reality. I need to be touched. Maybe shaken. Maybe slapped in the face or kicked in the stomach.
“What you need is a big strong hand to lift you to your higher ground.”
Now I’m channeling Madonna.
No, I’m not confused through the action of a narcotic drug.
I’m simply in my own space.
I’m spaced-in, not spaced-out.
Well I am both: In my own space and out of other people’s expectations.
Since Friday, I can’t access my email, facebook and Youtube. I’m getting this message: This domain is blocked due to content filtering.
Thank goodness I still have access to my blog.
Tomorrow I’m returning to my main residence and hopefully I will have access from there. But today, I am locked inside myself and my blog.
I was hoping to write to a blogger friend this weekend but I can’t.
I can’t even send a Happy Mother’s Day message to my mommy.
A wrongdoer manipulated my life, like an abuser experimenting with a youngster. He turned me into a wild animal. I’m the product of someone’s playful mischief. Aren’t we all?
My body is a defective vessel — a vehicle which will expire. Something or hopefully someone will come out of it alive. A different dummy shall step out of it and face a new reality.
But right now, what am I to do? Be gloomy? How can I not be. I’m this weird creature, controlled by even weirder ones. There is no way out. Or is there? I must wait for the metamorphosis to occur. I wish the process would accelerate. Is suicide the answer?
Is killing my body unnatural? So many do it. Has it become the norm yet? We all do it gradually. Life does it naturally. I can make myself sick physically. It’s easy. But I stubbornly keep my body healthy. Why? Maybe because it hurts when I don’t.
But now my soul hurts. Is it better to have a hurting spirit? Having to drag this body along is painful. And when it dies, what kind of body will I be given? Who will decide? Maybe I will be able to choose. My angel said he could shapeshift. Wow!
I can’t wait to have a shapeshifting body.
My dominant plays god. That’s what he does. My evolution would happen naturally if only he would let it be. But he wants to play divinity. Prick. And I’m stuck under his authority for a while. Like I have a say in what I let my children do. But kids grow, and sooner or later we lose our authority over them. It’s a liberation process. How long will this go on regarding this Daemon? Does it depend on me or on him?
I am enduring but not so patient. Let go of me, bitch!
So I ended up here, in this environment. But still, he has a hold on me.
Let go already, thickheaded control-freak!
The highway that leads to the city flooded on Saturday:
So I took an alternative route which was also flooding:
This is what part of the city looks like this morning:
My house is safe because we are on a hill.
When was the last time I panicked?
I think it’s when I imagined myself reconciling with my wife and then the two of us making love.
After I had this thought, there was a pain in my stomach. I felt my guts twisting. My intestines turned to mush and I had to run to the bathroom. This is what happens when I panic.
I don’t quite understand because it was not a bad thought. Maybe this shows how much our relationship has deteriorated. Or maybe it shows how afraid I am of getting close to a person I don’t trust.
Is this what survivors of abuse call a trigger?
I ask myself: Do I have any friends? Aside from family members and excluding blog followers or followees, do I have any real friends?
The answer is no.
A real friend to me is someone whose presence I value to the point of feeling sad and torn at the thought of their death. There is no one in my life at the moment who fits this category. Therefore I must conclude that I have no friends.
I feel ashamed.
How did it come to this?
I know: marriage.
I spent the last 17 years of my life trying to maintain the friendship I had with my wife, and in the end it failed. Or maybe it didn’t. We still talk to each other. But our relationship doesn’t meet my above definition of “a real friend.” I don’t feel sad or torn at the thought of her death.
Maybe there’s something wrong with my definition. Is it too extreme? Is it normal to have become so unattached to people? Maybe it comes with age. I don’t know, I’ve never been this old before. I am older than I have ever been and my life came with no instructions manual. So I’m not sure of anything.
I wonder if there is a point in life where it becomes impossible to make real new friends. It seemed easier when I was young. But as I get older, it’s even difficult to imagine. I have so much baggage. The people my age have so much baggage too. How could I start a fresh new friendship while carrying so much baggage?
The fact that I’m an introvert does not make the prospect look any brighter either. Having online friends is probably the best I can hope for. Who could tolerate my presence face to face? It would take quite a special person. I wonder if anyone would really enjoy being close to me.
I’m like the guy in the photo above. My face is a computer monitor that has been switched off. It reveals nothing of what is inside. No data is visible. It’s just a blank screen. And I’m so sensitive, it’s like my body is covered with buttons. Who knows what would happen inside my central processing unit if someone would push one of my buttons.
If I had a plug I would pull it out of the socket.
My ego has been begging me for attention. He wants to be recognized on my blog! (asshole) He thinks that he’s so important and that his life matters. He’s arrogant and emotional. He’s also mortal. But I’m stuck with him.
Anyway, I thought I should give him a post and let him express himself a little bit. Let’s see what he comes up with.
I introduce you to Denny, my ego:
– – – – – – – – – –
I want to tell you about me. You have to see what I look like. So I gathered some photos from my album and here they are. I’ll start at the beginning.
Here is my first school photo.
I was 6 years old and in grade one:
I was intelligent, shy and very cute 🙂
Then I grew up and became an adult.
Here is my first passport photo when I was 23:
Then I got married and had two kids.
Here is a photo that was taken after the birth of my second child, when I was 30:
Then I got divorced and remained single for 4 years.
At age 37, I decided to get married again.
Here is a boudoir photo of me which was taken shortly after the wedding:
Then I kept getting older and had two more kids.
Here is a photo of me at the cottage, when I was 47:
I don’t want to tell you how long ago that last photo was taken. What I want is for you to continue thinking that I am intelligent, shy and very cute.
Thank you for watching, and thank you Daemon for allowing me to show off on your blog.