DRIVE (Part 1)
PRELUDE
How long has it been?
A month? Two?
Well, I'm back by popular demand, even though I don't feel like being here. One of my kids brought a bug home and I was doing well against it until Sunday night when I rubbed one out and woke up the next day with a scratchy throat. But, JG is eagerly waiting to read something and I realize ever since I left the CTO I really haven't been doing much of anything, except enjoying the technological advancements in home entertainment via digital video recording.
So, there's nothing really new to report. Stuff has happened, but nothing I consider entertaining of having any worth mentioning here.
Therapy is progressing well, but it doesn't take much to know that I'm not my biggest fan. Still, it's nice to unload on someone other than this void they call a blog page. Dr. Shrinker still sits in her chair as I rattle on for forty-five minutes without stopping, but she does interject here and there to share a thought. The last two times I've seen her, I could swear she was dosing off on me. Her eyes start to droop and I wonder if she's listening to anything I'm saying. Of course, being who I am, I don't bother to get offended and just keep talking, hoping she’s getting everything. In my last session, I came clean about my same sex experiences, how they started and why. But she didn't seem interested in them. Instead, she focused on my racial prejudice against my own people and how that made me feel.
The one thing that sucks about therapy is, you spend all this time opening wounds, and they just stay open until the doctor decides to sow them shut again. I feel like shit after every session because it seems so pointless. I know what I am. I know why I am that way, but it won't change anything. Not my wife or my life. My "illness" is progressing to a point where I don't think I really care for a cure anymore because the "problem", if mastered, is more enjoyable.
One Saturday night, I sat up in my bed. The wife and kids were asleep and I stared out the window, painfully aware that I've never been loved by a woman in the same way that I love someone. I've also been the aggressor in my relationships, never the prize. Doesn't matter if I play hard to get or not, I'm always the one, the only one, to make a move. I can't describe the depths of despair I sunk to that night. I was ready to chuck my entire life down the toilet. The desire to find a woman who would love me the way I want was so intense I felt I was holding onto my family as if they were a ledge atop a two hundred foot drop and gravity was pulling me down with such force that I could almost feel my fingers losing their grip. I knew what I was feeling was wrong, some unattainable “unicorn” that may not exist. More so, I knew I didn't want to lose my family, not over this, some high school fantasy still unfulfilled. That didn't change what I wanted. It didn't stop my mind from imagining a woman out there, somewhere, who'd love me in the passionately. Someone who wanted me in the same ways I wanted her. Except, I wouldn't have to ask for it. I wouldn't have to beg. It would come like a flood or unstoppable hurricanes that I couldn’t shield myself from, nor would I want to.
I woke my wife up from her sleep. I admit it was a very selfish act, disturbing her rest after an entire day of motherhood just to berate her. Just to tell her how she failed me, threatening her with divorce. I'm a sick puppy, I know this, but there is a method. I'm not a cold son of a bitch. I keep thinking if I tell her these things, no matter how disappointing and hurtful, she’ll heart me. A light bulb will appear over her head and she'll finally see things the way I do. She'll transform into someone she never was to begin with and give me the selfish love I crave. But, it never works out that way. There's no epiphany, no revelation. She listens, and either agrees with me and considers divorce or says, "I told you so. You knew what I was like when you married me." Then, she’ll cry.
Confession time: I like to make my wife cry because it's one of the few times I actually feel like she loves me.
My wife is a wonderful woman, I know this, and she loves me. Somewhere in my gut I know that to. It's my head that can't accept it. No matter what she's done, no matter what she's sacrificed, what she's said, or any of the ways you truly prove your love for someone, there's still a voice in my brain that always speaks to me with doubts. I'm far enough in my therapy to know it's my own voice I'm hearing, doubting her love because I have no love for myself. Everything with me is visual. I have to see it to believe it. Worse, when it comes to love, it's physical. If you love me, you have to show it physically in very extreme ways. It's always a test to see how far someone will go for me? Ten years and two kids are nothing compared to her willingness to do something sexually unseemly just for me. If she doesn't, how will I know she loves me? When I tell her I don't think she loves me and she starts to cry, a piece of me is happy. I feed off it. It’s proof she loves me. The assuredness doesn't last long. Soon, I'm looking for another show of affection.
I'm an asshole and I know what I'm doing is abusive. I told my wife to kick me to the curb after my second session. I told her what I was doing and why. How I felt and what matters to me. I told her she doesn't deserve this, what I'm doing, it’s abusive and she needs to get the fuck away from me before one of two things happens. Either, she gets numb to it and pushes me to find new extremes to get a reaction. Or, she'll leave me anyway, and it won't be pretty. Worse of all, I hate feeling like a jerk around her. I hate feeling like a rapist or some emotional puppy humping her leg just because I want some amount of affection that I think is normal. And, if it isn't I don't care. I still want it.
Two weeks ago, I hired an Argentinean artist to do some work for me and last week he finally sent me the sketches after writing or sending nothing since I paid him. The work wasn't bad, but so wrong, that I kicked diplomacy out the window and let loose on him in an email, basically telling him he was unprofessional and the work was dissatisfactory.
He sent me an email back, writing that I treated him like a child and he didn't appreciate my accusing him of doing bad work just to send me something after two weeks of nothing. These conditions are exactly why he insists on being paid half upfront, to compensate for "the hours of work an artist goes through" once a client cancels. I was livid. First, he has the nerve to write I was treating him immaturely. Then, he throws in my face that I paid half upfront, so if I cancel, I'm shit out of luck and he knows there's no way I'm going to track him down in Argentina over $40 American. He wrote that he would re-do the art in a different style, but by that time I didn't give a damn. I'd been through something like this before with another artist and there was no way I was doing it again. I wrote him to cancel the assignment and send back my money because the sketches he sent in no way constituted "hours of work." He responded and I still haven't opened it because I don't want to get pissed off. What would be the point? He got me. This piece of shit in Argentina got me. This is probably his whole scam, getting people to hire him, send half the cash upfront, then piss them off so they cancel the gig and he walks away with free money for dick work. He got me and I can't bring myself to open that fucking email because of it. Thankfully, Casey, the same artist who worked on my book’s chapter illustrations is able to do the job. I'm truly excited to work with him again. But, I know sooner or later I have to open that damn email.
I don't want to admit I'm sick, but when you start breathing hot carbon, you’re fucked. Still, I'm hoping for the best. The last thing I want to do is call in sick tomorrow. I feel lucky that I have a job that makes me feel that way. Like I'd rather come to work than take a legitimate sick day. Part of it is I'm still the new guy and it doesn't look good to take a day off so soon. The other part is this job isn't bad. I'd actually feel guilty if I didn't show up because it's not like there's a lot for me to do anyway.
END OF PRELUDE
Last night, I went out with my friend, Heller. We had coffees at a nice Santa Monica artsy coffee shop that made me wish I had my laptop. As with all my close friends, our conversation was deeper than the ocean and pretty dark. We talked about traumas, inner turmoil, and vehicular assault. After a while, I felt vulnerable enough to talk about my experiences with men. I'm very careful about that, especially when speaking to gay men because I’m afraid they'll think I was making a pass when I'm actually trying to get information and feedback from the best source. But, Heller being a brother to me, along with Doc and Fitz, I wasn't too worried. Still, I let the disclaimers fly during my "confessions."
I think I was 19 when I was first with a man and the decision was a conscious one, and at the time, pretty damn logical. My friends, Jon-Jon and Heller, both came out to me in high school. Where Heller and I drifted apart. Not necessarily because of his orientation, but it could have been part of it; perhaps, he was cutting the ties of his old life to best transition into the new. And here I was, an infected limb causing him pain and begging to be ripped off at the root.
But, while Heller and I drifted, Jon-Jon and I bonded.
See, I had no experience with homosexuals; I didn't even think they existed. They were no different than anything else I'd seen on television. They were "out there", but what were the odds I'd actually see one. I should also mention I shared the same belief in angels, demons, vampires, werewolves, and Spider-Man. When Jon-Jon came out to me, I really didn't know how to react after the initial shock wore off. I had no presets that told me to hate him. He was the same guy, different, but the same. So, I stayed by him because I thought that's what friends do. That's a very important part of this, let me repeat that statement: "I stayed by him because I THOUGHT that's what friends do." It's all about playing roles. In retrospect, I wish I’d been a more hateful person and told him to “Fuck Off!”
Jon-Jon dragged me to every gay place imaginable, from coffee shops to bookstores. I even sat in on some gay and lesbian teen meetings and people were amazed that I wasn't gay myself. I was a straight guy sticking by his friend no matter what. I became "The Golden Child", the first nickname I ever had that didn't have anything to do with my ass or some creative manipulation of my first name. When I turned eighteen, Jon-Jon took me to a gay club, Studio One. My first time ever at a club and it was a gay one. I loved it. I'd never felt so free in my life. I remember it took a while to get on the dance floor, I was so nervous. Once I did, I was dancing all night. The most memorable and impressionable thing was the acceptance I felt all around me. I was a fat kid, girls had rejected me at every turn, but in that club were people who, for whatever reason, liked me. In that space, I was cool. Jon-Jon would go on and on about how well I danced. I'd close my eyes and go into "the zone", unbuttoning my shirt, throwing up my hands, screaming and dancing to the music. Anyone who knows me knows that's a pretty big deal.
I've always been ashamed of my body hair, but it was a gay man who was the first person to ever see my chest hair and respond positively. To girls, it was disgusting. I've always disliked raising my arms for any reason because I'm afraid I might smell bad. That little quirk was born during the years living with my father when I fell victim to puberty. My father always uses deodorant and, well, deodorant just isn't strong enough for me.
On the first day of high school orientation, I was especially ripe. You could smell me from down the hall. And the teens to my right and left knew all too well who was stinking. The principal addressed the freshman class, asking who was from certain nearby elementary/junior high schools. When he said mine, I kept my arm down. Another classmate of mine from the same school started goading me to raise my hand. When I refused, he grabbed my arm by the wrist and yanked it upward. When I looked at the boy to my left, who was holding his nose, I tried to bring my arm down, but the guy kept it up. Finally, I said: "I don't want to raise my hand!" And the boy next to me, holding his nose, said: "He doesn't have to raise his arm...damn!"
I knew I had a problem with odor. But, I thought the solution was adding more deodorant. I'd pile so much on it would foam, my pits would get sore and the skin would peel. It wasn't until maybe the second year that I discovered antiperspirant and that seemed to help. But, to this day, I'm paranoid about my body odor. I heard my mother once say that when people rub their noses, it's because something stinks. Now, every time I'm next to someone and they brush there nose, sniff, or do something like that, I think I might smell and I'm offending them. Doesn't matter that I showered. Doesn't matter that I'm wearing $5 antiperspirant so strong I can skip a day, or that I haven't dropped a sweat bead. The minute their hands go to their face, in my mind, I stink and then I do sweat because my primary physical response to stress and anxiety is sweating. What a conundrum, huh? I'm afraid I stink, which makes me sweat; pushing my antiperspirant to its limits so sooner or later I will indeed stink. Thus, I was given the name: "Dr. Sweat."
Getting back to it, I was on that dance floor in that gay club, dancing my ass off and feeling completely free for the first, and perhaps, the only time in my life. After that, it became a drug. The more Jon-Jon and I went out the more accepted I felt. The more free I felt, the freer I became, at least in "Boys' Town." Jon-Jon and I would walk hand-in-hand or I'd have my arm around him like he was my girl. We'd sit in a coffee shop, his head on my shoulder and my arm around him. It was fun. It felt great. Because I was straight and everyone knew it, I felt free and still accepted. But then, things began to change.
I wish I could remember why or how, but after a year or two of going to Boys' Town non-stop and began to dislike it. I think it began to bother me that everything surrounding me was gay when I desperately wanted a girlfriend. Maybe it got boring. I don't know. But, there came a time when Jon-Jon would ask me to a club and I’d refuse. Didn't do much good though. Jon-Jon has always had his way with me mentally. I've always found it hard to tell him what I really thought or how I truly feel about things, especially homosexuality. He would guilt me into going and once I was there I was in the zone all over again. Some exciting things happened in those days. Like the time Jon-Jon went to visit his mother in San Fran, but when he came back he didn't go home. He'd been gone for days before his father, who hated me, called my house, asking me to find him. And, I did. That was cool, very pulp noir.
TO BE CONTINUED
How long has it been?
A month? Two?
Well, I'm back by popular demand, even though I don't feel like being here. One of my kids brought a bug home and I was doing well against it until Sunday night when I rubbed one out and woke up the next day with a scratchy throat. But, JG is eagerly waiting to read something and I realize ever since I left the CTO I really haven't been doing much of anything, except enjoying the technological advancements in home entertainment via digital video recording.
So, there's nothing really new to report. Stuff has happened, but nothing I consider entertaining of having any worth mentioning here.
Therapy is progressing well, but it doesn't take much to know that I'm not my biggest fan. Still, it's nice to unload on someone other than this void they call a blog page. Dr. Shrinker still sits in her chair as I rattle on for forty-five minutes without stopping, but she does interject here and there to share a thought. The last two times I've seen her, I could swear she was dosing off on me. Her eyes start to droop and I wonder if she's listening to anything I'm saying. Of course, being who I am, I don't bother to get offended and just keep talking, hoping she’s getting everything. In my last session, I came clean about my same sex experiences, how they started and why. But she didn't seem interested in them. Instead, she focused on my racial prejudice against my own people and how that made me feel.
The one thing that sucks about therapy is, you spend all this time opening wounds, and they just stay open until the doctor decides to sow them shut again. I feel like shit after every session because it seems so pointless. I know what I am. I know why I am that way, but it won't change anything. Not my wife or my life. My "illness" is progressing to a point where I don't think I really care for a cure anymore because the "problem", if mastered, is more enjoyable.
One Saturday night, I sat up in my bed. The wife and kids were asleep and I stared out the window, painfully aware that I've never been loved by a woman in the same way that I love someone. I've also been the aggressor in my relationships, never the prize. Doesn't matter if I play hard to get or not, I'm always the one, the only one, to make a move. I can't describe the depths of despair I sunk to that night. I was ready to chuck my entire life down the toilet. The desire to find a woman who would love me the way I want was so intense I felt I was holding onto my family as if they were a ledge atop a two hundred foot drop and gravity was pulling me down with such force that I could almost feel my fingers losing their grip. I knew what I was feeling was wrong, some unattainable “unicorn” that may not exist. More so, I knew I didn't want to lose my family, not over this, some high school fantasy still unfulfilled. That didn't change what I wanted. It didn't stop my mind from imagining a woman out there, somewhere, who'd love me in the passionately. Someone who wanted me in the same ways I wanted her. Except, I wouldn't have to ask for it. I wouldn't have to beg. It would come like a flood or unstoppable hurricanes that I couldn’t shield myself from, nor would I want to.
I woke my wife up from her sleep. I admit it was a very selfish act, disturbing her rest after an entire day of motherhood just to berate her. Just to tell her how she failed me, threatening her with divorce. I'm a sick puppy, I know this, but there is a method. I'm not a cold son of a bitch. I keep thinking if I tell her these things, no matter how disappointing and hurtful, she’ll heart me. A light bulb will appear over her head and she'll finally see things the way I do. She'll transform into someone she never was to begin with and give me the selfish love I crave. But, it never works out that way. There's no epiphany, no revelation. She listens, and either agrees with me and considers divorce or says, "I told you so. You knew what I was like when you married me." Then, she’ll cry.
Confession time: I like to make my wife cry because it's one of the few times I actually feel like she loves me.
My wife is a wonderful woman, I know this, and she loves me. Somewhere in my gut I know that to. It's my head that can't accept it. No matter what she's done, no matter what she's sacrificed, what she's said, or any of the ways you truly prove your love for someone, there's still a voice in my brain that always speaks to me with doubts. I'm far enough in my therapy to know it's my own voice I'm hearing, doubting her love because I have no love for myself. Everything with me is visual. I have to see it to believe it. Worse, when it comes to love, it's physical. If you love me, you have to show it physically in very extreme ways. It's always a test to see how far someone will go for me? Ten years and two kids are nothing compared to her willingness to do something sexually unseemly just for me. If she doesn't, how will I know she loves me? When I tell her I don't think she loves me and she starts to cry, a piece of me is happy. I feed off it. It’s proof she loves me. The assuredness doesn't last long. Soon, I'm looking for another show of affection.
I'm an asshole and I know what I'm doing is abusive. I told my wife to kick me to the curb after my second session. I told her what I was doing and why. How I felt and what matters to me. I told her she doesn't deserve this, what I'm doing, it’s abusive and she needs to get the fuck away from me before one of two things happens. Either, she gets numb to it and pushes me to find new extremes to get a reaction. Or, she'll leave me anyway, and it won't be pretty. Worse of all, I hate feeling like a jerk around her. I hate feeling like a rapist or some emotional puppy humping her leg just because I want some amount of affection that I think is normal. And, if it isn't I don't care. I still want it.
Two weeks ago, I hired an Argentinean artist to do some work for me and last week he finally sent me the sketches after writing or sending nothing since I paid him. The work wasn't bad, but so wrong, that I kicked diplomacy out the window and let loose on him in an email, basically telling him he was unprofessional and the work was dissatisfactory.
He sent me an email back, writing that I treated him like a child and he didn't appreciate my accusing him of doing bad work just to send me something after two weeks of nothing. These conditions are exactly why he insists on being paid half upfront, to compensate for "the hours of work an artist goes through" once a client cancels. I was livid. First, he has the nerve to write I was treating him immaturely. Then, he throws in my face that I paid half upfront, so if I cancel, I'm shit out of luck and he knows there's no way I'm going to track him down in Argentina over $40 American. He wrote that he would re-do the art in a different style, but by that time I didn't give a damn. I'd been through something like this before with another artist and there was no way I was doing it again. I wrote him to cancel the assignment and send back my money because the sketches he sent in no way constituted "hours of work." He responded and I still haven't opened it because I don't want to get pissed off. What would be the point? He got me. This piece of shit in Argentina got me. This is probably his whole scam, getting people to hire him, send half the cash upfront, then piss them off so they cancel the gig and he walks away with free money for dick work. He got me and I can't bring myself to open that fucking email because of it. Thankfully, Casey, the same artist who worked on my book’s chapter illustrations is able to do the job. I'm truly excited to work with him again. But, I know sooner or later I have to open that damn email.
I don't want to admit I'm sick, but when you start breathing hot carbon, you’re fucked. Still, I'm hoping for the best. The last thing I want to do is call in sick tomorrow. I feel lucky that I have a job that makes me feel that way. Like I'd rather come to work than take a legitimate sick day. Part of it is I'm still the new guy and it doesn't look good to take a day off so soon. The other part is this job isn't bad. I'd actually feel guilty if I didn't show up because it's not like there's a lot for me to do anyway.
END OF PRELUDE
Last night, I went out with my friend, Heller. We had coffees at a nice Santa Monica artsy coffee shop that made me wish I had my laptop. As with all my close friends, our conversation was deeper than the ocean and pretty dark. We talked about traumas, inner turmoil, and vehicular assault. After a while, I felt vulnerable enough to talk about my experiences with men. I'm very careful about that, especially when speaking to gay men because I’m afraid they'll think I was making a pass when I'm actually trying to get information and feedback from the best source. But, Heller being a brother to me, along with Doc and Fitz, I wasn't too worried. Still, I let the disclaimers fly during my "confessions."
I think I was 19 when I was first with a man and the decision was a conscious one, and at the time, pretty damn logical. My friends, Jon-Jon and Heller, both came out to me in high school. Where Heller and I drifted apart. Not necessarily because of his orientation, but it could have been part of it; perhaps, he was cutting the ties of his old life to best transition into the new. And here I was, an infected limb causing him pain and begging to be ripped off at the root.
But, while Heller and I drifted, Jon-Jon and I bonded.
See, I had no experience with homosexuals; I didn't even think they existed. They were no different than anything else I'd seen on television. They were "out there", but what were the odds I'd actually see one. I should also mention I shared the same belief in angels, demons, vampires, werewolves, and Spider-Man. When Jon-Jon came out to me, I really didn't know how to react after the initial shock wore off. I had no presets that told me to hate him. He was the same guy, different, but the same. So, I stayed by him because I thought that's what friends do. That's a very important part of this, let me repeat that statement: "I stayed by him because I THOUGHT that's what friends do." It's all about playing roles. In retrospect, I wish I’d been a more hateful person and told him to “Fuck Off!”
Jon-Jon dragged me to every gay place imaginable, from coffee shops to bookstores. I even sat in on some gay and lesbian teen meetings and people were amazed that I wasn't gay myself. I was a straight guy sticking by his friend no matter what. I became "The Golden Child", the first nickname I ever had that didn't have anything to do with my ass or some creative manipulation of my first name. When I turned eighteen, Jon-Jon took me to a gay club, Studio One. My first time ever at a club and it was a gay one. I loved it. I'd never felt so free in my life. I remember it took a while to get on the dance floor, I was so nervous. Once I did, I was dancing all night. The most memorable and impressionable thing was the acceptance I felt all around me. I was a fat kid, girls had rejected me at every turn, but in that club were people who, for whatever reason, liked me. In that space, I was cool. Jon-Jon would go on and on about how well I danced. I'd close my eyes and go into "the zone", unbuttoning my shirt, throwing up my hands, screaming and dancing to the music. Anyone who knows me knows that's a pretty big deal.
I've always been ashamed of my body hair, but it was a gay man who was the first person to ever see my chest hair and respond positively. To girls, it was disgusting. I've always disliked raising my arms for any reason because I'm afraid I might smell bad. That little quirk was born during the years living with my father when I fell victim to puberty. My father always uses deodorant and, well, deodorant just isn't strong enough for me.
On the first day of high school orientation, I was especially ripe. You could smell me from down the hall. And the teens to my right and left knew all too well who was stinking. The principal addressed the freshman class, asking who was from certain nearby elementary/junior high schools. When he said mine, I kept my arm down. Another classmate of mine from the same school started goading me to raise my hand. When I refused, he grabbed my arm by the wrist and yanked it upward. When I looked at the boy to my left, who was holding his nose, I tried to bring my arm down, but the guy kept it up. Finally, I said: "I don't want to raise my hand!" And the boy next to me, holding his nose, said: "He doesn't have to raise his arm...damn!"
I knew I had a problem with odor. But, I thought the solution was adding more deodorant. I'd pile so much on it would foam, my pits would get sore and the skin would peel. It wasn't until maybe the second year that I discovered antiperspirant and that seemed to help. But, to this day, I'm paranoid about my body odor. I heard my mother once say that when people rub their noses, it's because something stinks. Now, every time I'm next to someone and they brush there nose, sniff, or do something like that, I think I might smell and I'm offending them. Doesn't matter that I showered. Doesn't matter that I'm wearing $5 antiperspirant so strong I can skip a day, or that I haven't dropped a sweat bead. The minute their hands go to their face, in my mind, I stink and then I do sweat because my primary physical response to stress and anxiety is sweating. What a conundrum, huh? I'm afraid I stink, which makes me sweat; pushing my antiperspirant to its limits so sooner or later I will indeed stink. Thus, I was given the name: "Dr. Sweat."
Getting back to it, I was on that dance floor in that gay club, dancing my ass off and feeling completely free for the first, and perhaps, the only time in my life. After that, it became a drug. The more Jon-Jon and I went out the more accepted I felt. The more free I felt, the freer I became, at least in "Boys' Town." Jon-Jon and I would walk hand-in-hand or I'd have my arm around him like he was my girl. We'd sit in a coffee shop, his head on my shoulder and my arm around him. It was fun. It felt great. Because I was straight and everyone knew it, I felt free and still accepted. But then, things began to change.
I wish I could remember why or how, but after a year or two of going to Boys' Town non-stop and began to dislike it. I think it began to bother me that everything surrounding me was gay when I desperately wanted a girlfriend. Maybe it got boring. I don't know. But, there came a time when Jon-Jon would ask me to a club and I’d refuse. Didn't do much good though. Jon-Jon has always had his way with me mentally. I've always found it hard to tell him what I really thought or how I truly feel about things, especially homosexuality. He would guilt me into going and once I was there I was in the zone all over again. Some exciting things happened in those days. Like the time Jon-Jon went to visit his mother in San Fran, but when he came back he didn't go home. He'd been gone for days before his father, who hated me, called my house, asking me to find him. And, I did. That was cool, very pulp noir.
TO BE CONTINUED
posted by QABBAL at 1:51 AM
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