Ahh, Gender.

16 Apr

I was explaining to a coworker that I don’t believe in gender as a concrete thing. The conversation began when she said something I found offensive and I explained that to her.

What I’m pretty sure they heard (based on their reaction and how they started treating me”:

“Hi, I’m Bryan, and I’m a homosexual.”

She wasn’t mean or anything, she just clearly thinks that I am into guys.

My sexual identity is not something that I generally discuss with any but a select few people. It isn’t that I’m shy about it; if asked a direct question, I’ll answer truthfully. I just don’t think it’s something of consequence. Whether I’m attracted to women, men, any combination thereof or in-between, has no bearing on my humanity or my ability to function as a member of society. 

Anyhow (for the most part) I’ve been celibate for five years. It’s probably a good thing. 

Look.

28 Mar

I didn’t start this blog to rant about my problems or the realizations I’ve been having about where the problems came from. 

I’ve been feeling better than I have in a long time. Yeah, I’m sad sometimes, and I am in a ridiculous amount of pain whenever the weather shifts or I’m on my feet for too long, but it’s all getting better. 

I’m working on some silly little drawings that I hope to sell for a few bucks each. I’ll try and post a few of them in the coming days. 

27 Mar

I haven’t been doing a lot of thinking lately. It’s been nice, but it has to end. I’m not at my best when I’m not making a point to reflect regularly. I get crazy spacey.
I sort of know what I’m doing for the first time in a while. It’s still going to take time, but at least there’s an attainable goal on the table.

Simpler Times

27 Mar

I was sixteen and my feelings for two girls were the most confusing things I had ever had to approach.

The first I have mentioned before and will undoubtedly mention again. She was gorgeous, and talented, and we had bonded over children’s literature and crappy upbringings. I had known her for several years, and for the first time in my life, I loved someone that I felt loved me in return. It terrified me. Alien emotions will do that.

That second girl is what made things confusing. Again, she was gorgeous, and talented, loved to read. She was smart. Like, really smart. The first girl wasn’t stupid-don’t get me wrong-she just wasn’t spectacularly intelligent. We weren’t especially close at the time, but I fell a little bit in love with her. The way I felt about her was unique. The love wasn’t really romantic, or platonic, or familial. I confused it for romance, though, and called things off with One due to guilt. A mutual friend informed Two of my feelings because I was young, and timid, and a bit of a coward. She did not feel the same and told me so with a long hug after school. We remained (and do remain) good friends.

It was Two that convinced me, some months later, to resume my relationship with One. Neither of us knew that One would eventually undo me. How could we?

Anyhow, I’m writing this because of a realization I had recently concerning my interactions with people. Sometime after it became clear that Two and I were not meant to have a romantic relationship, she wrote a note in a sketchbook I had. She wondered why my hugs felt different, if it depended on the situation.
I didn’t feel any differently towards her. I still thought she was one of the greatest people on the planet. I still do, but apparently something had changed.

The point is, I used to hug people. A lot. Close friends would get lingering hugs and maybe a kiss on the cheek. I don’t do that anymore.

I spent a great deal of time trying to recall when that shifted, and it kept coming down to when One left. I just stopped that kind of contact. My primary form of physical contact with other people is a high five.
High fives are awesome, but It concerns me that I shifted because I don’t really know why. Was it painful for me to have any prolonged contact with another person? Was it just that I only wanted that from one person?

I won’t ever know. The ‘why?’ doesn’t really matter. It has been a long time since I held any body but a child in my arms for more that two seconds. No embraces of friendship or romance.

Even my few sexual encounters were incredibly impersonal. There was no kissing. There was no holding, before or after. It was fuck and run. Which makes me feel dirty to think about.

Today, I don’t need that person to hold. I think it would be nice to find someone to share those strong, romantic feelings with, but I don’t need it. I’m not even sure I want it.

Aside 27 Mar

I’ve held off on posting this because I wanted to have a couple of posts to publish directly after this one. It’s not that I’m afraid of people reading it, I wouldn’t have posted it if I was.
I just want to make sure that the people that read it have at least a small amount of interest in myself and my well being.

March 4, 2014

Like most of the people I know, I had a pretty shitty childhood. I’m fairly open about it. I’m not shy when it comes to talking about my mother, or my brother, my father, or most of scarring situations that I was involved in. In my adult life, there have been a couple of traumatizing events, but about those I am just as honest and willing to talk (at times, too willing). The woman that I put too much faith in and let ruin my life, and the guy that got the wrong idea when I was desperate for comfort in the wake of that woman.

There’s only one thing I won’t openly speak about, and I don’t even really know that it actually happened. Memory is funny like that. I don’t know if it was my scout master, or an orderly at the behavioral health center I spent a few days in, or whoever. I only recall the situation and that it made me feel dirty, and used, and just wrong. That’s it, a hand and a feeling. It’s no more clear than that.

I’m so unclear about everything though. I only actually remembered this when I was 25. The recovery of a negative memory didn’t surprise me; I have a lot of my youth blocked out and things periodically surface.

I’ve read all about how our memories are so seldom accurate. How we recall an event is more shaped by how it made us feel than what actually happened.There’s something called confabulation where a memory with no basis in fact is shaped by the mind without intending to deceive others. I don’t know that this isn’t the case; all I am sure of is that I do remember it.

It was recently brought to my attention that I make comments concerning this topic on a fairly regular basis. I don’t like that. It’s something I think about from time to time, but I was surprised that it worked its way through. I had no idea that I mentioned the topic so often, and apparently in ways that are sometimes wholly inappropriate. It’s weird and uncomfortable for the people around me. .

I don’t think this has actually affected me in a monumental way. Most of my emotional issues are manageable and traceable to certain things within myself. I can catch depression on it’s way down and keep it at bay, I know when to isolate myself, and I know when to be around the right people. I have a list of places that bring up bad memories, or good memories of bad people. I avoid those places, and I work through the pain that’s associated with them, when possible. I have made incredible strides. I think I’m a good person. I refuse to blame myself for the pain of my youth, and, while the hurt is still present, it does not control me.

And it doesn’t make me special. I am not looking for sympathy. I know enough people with a similar trauma to know that I’m doing comparatively well and that I will be more or less unscathed with time; I’m not a danger to myself or others, I don’t enjoy torturing small animals. I am compassionate, empathetic and strong. I may have once been a victim, but I am no longer. I won’t continue to let my past control my future.

But being told that I so often bring up the topic in question reminds me that I’ve made no progress in that area, or at least less than I would like to think. Maybe I’m just so desperate to talk to somebody about it that I don’t even catch myself letting the words slip out.

I’m writing this because I need to. I’ll save it in my draft folder until I feel that I’m ready to share it with the world.

Not Sure

14 Mar

I wrote something a couple of weeks ago. 
I’m not sure when I’m going to post it, but I will eventually. It’s sensitive information. 

Image

Well…

2 Mar

I’m growing, I think.

Now I just really need to start producing more silly drawings like this one.

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