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.
No, it’s not the fear of cherries, but the fear of happiness.
I think I might be suffering from this a little bit.
After coming out, feeling ready, willing and able and tumbling, I realized that there is a deep-rooted uneasiness within me when it comes to potential pleasure or happiness.
I think I know exactly where it comes from.
Whenever I experienced great happiness in the past, it always seemed to be followed by great despair. So I have developed this strange belief that in order to avoid heartbreak, I must avoid being happy.
The result is depression. A self-inflicted condition due to a state of mind.
I am just becoming aware of this now. It’s quite disturbing. I’m not sure what to do.
Whenever I realize something, I write it down. This is how I give it a form and shape. I find it easier to tackle after it becomes visible, observable and describable.
Cherophobia: aversion to happiness. There is some of it within me.
I’m sure the universe will take care of it. If this is something that should be kicked out of my belief system, then let the butt-kicker step forward. I welcome him. Or her…
Don’t know what’s happening
What will tomorrow bring
The birds keep on singing
As if loss was nothing
Let’s never forget
That birds have bird brains
Playing like a cassette
After a hurricane
My world falls apart
All my hopes are gone
There is no restart
Nothing to hang on
Why go to bed
Why even wake up
Just to eat bread
And later clean up
Sitting here waiting
What will happen next
Tired of thinking
Of me and my ex
Let’s start over
Don’t feel like dreaming
Why should I bother
Something will happen
I can’t imagine
That this is the end
I just need a friend
But please let it be
Not a love story
My heart is broken
And dead already
Life is a mystery
Death is my destiny
Might make me happy
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?
Who is pushing you?
Who is pushing me?
I have been so used to being pushed, that the day it stopped, I felt something was wrong. So I turned around to have a look at the person who had been pushing me all this time.
Who are you, pusher?
This reminds me of a post I published recently, entitled The Inciter. Plus another one entitled Brave Submissive in which I wrote that I was going to report him/her. I don’t think I reported this person yet. I’m still afraid. Why am I afraid to report him?
Let’s investigate my fear.
First of all I must ask myself: Am I afraid of the pusher? No. The answer is no. The pusher gives me what I need. I like him. Without him I’d be lost. But then who am I afraid of?
See, he’s pushing me again! He’s the one who asks me these unpleasant questions. Always asking why I do the things I do, why I think the way I think, why I feel the way I feel. He’s pushing me toward self-discovery. But why does it trouble me? Don’t I want to discover who I really am?
Yes, but today’s subject is the pusher himself. It’s not about me this time, it’s about HIM! Or her. I don’t even know if he’s masculine or feminine! Actually I do. He/she is both.
Let’s start by giving him/her a more appropriate title, other than “pusher.” This is where I become uncomfortable. I don’t want to pronounce this title. I hate the word. But I have to say it. It’s going to be the last word I type on this page.
Why do I hate the word? Because it means everything and it means nothing. That’s right, it’s such a meaningful and meaningless word. Yet this word is his title. It can be replaced by similar words which mean the same thing, but this one word is the shortest, simplest and truest of all.
I intend to report you. Yes, this is what I’m going to do. Since this is the only freedom I have left, I am going to take advantage of it fully. Which reminds me, by the way, that you once said I was a reporter. So this is what reporters do. They report. Then here is my first report.
I’m not angry. Do I sound angry? Maybe I am a little. I don’t even know how I feel. I’m shaky, I know that. I feel like something is going to be released, finally. My insides are trembling. Nervous, that’s the word. I feel nervous and I don’t even know why.
There is so much I want to say, I don’t even know where to start and I don’t even know who to address. Who am I addressing? You, the one I intend to report or the reader? Both, because I’m making it public and I know you are reading it too. You read everything I write.
Two reasons to be anxious: you and the reader. But first you. The fact that you are letting me report you. How bizarre. Why does it feel so unsettling? Because I’ve never spoken of you so overtly before. You have been my secret for such a long time and I’ve only spoken of you enigmatically.
Now I’m about to speak of you very bluntly for the first time. No more mystery. No more poems. No more parables. Just the plain truth, as raw as it gets, even if I’m afraid of how it might come out. I want to do it.
I need to do this. The time has come. No matter how hard it is and how much I shake and fear. I’m tired of keeping it bottled up inside, it’s driving me insane. Although I know I’m going to sound crazy to some. I don’t care. I’m not doing it for anyone else. I’m doing it for my sake and probably yours too… beloved goddess.
I must admit that I have been in denial most of my life.
What is it that you deny, Daemon?
It’s not an it, it’s a person. I’m denying someone. I’m denying my lover.
Because I’m afraid.
Afraid of what?
Of the consequences.
Who would reject you?
Why would they reject you?
Because the love I have for you is forbidden.
Why is it forbidden?
Because we live in two different worlds.
So it’s a forbidden love.
Yes, there is a song by that name.
Sing it for me.
Just one kiss from your lips was all it took to seal the future.
Just one look from your eyes was like a certain kind of torture.
Just one touch from your hands was all it took to make me falter.
Just one smile on your face was all it took to change my fortune.
Just one word from your mouth was all I needed to be certain.
Forbidden lover, are we supposed to be together?
Have we sealed are destiny forever?
Daemon, how long will you remain in denial.
Am I in denial right now?
No mister… you are nailed!