Fruit Loop

Yeah, I've been called "fruity" in my day. I laugh at it now, but back in the day it bothered me. Suppose that what youth and immaturity is all about, fear and immaturity. At least my youth was.

At forty-four, I've learned to revel and delight in my "off-ness." As Alfred E Newman from Mad Magazine asked, "Why be normal?" Conformity is overrated. LOL.

I'm thankful in my 40s I've FINALLY come into my own and settled into my own skin. I'm happy and that's what counts!

Happy Birthday to moi...

Solitude

It's the last day of February, an extra day in February. I guess I should say something for the month huh?

I've been in a strange place and just haven't feel much like blogging. I have no opinions. No witty remarks. Nothing of deep personal interest going on. So rather that bore, I decided to take a hiatus. I still need time to collect myself, but I suppose when the spirit hits, I'll be back on the keyboard again. Until then...


-Ian

Any way the wind blows

Last week wasn't a good week. I'd almost say it was one of the worst for me. Things lately have been cropping up that I don't understand or am at a loss for explanation. I find myself confused and demystified by life and wondering where my place is in the grand cosmic scheme of things. Perhaps its a moment of mid-life crisis, but it feels isolating. Very lonely.I'm trying to focus on the positive aspects I have going on, but which each positive a thousand negatives rise from the depths of my memory and past and all I feel is a profound sense of shame. What's going on?

I'm not sure what triggered it, but I have some clue as to the solution. The solutions cuts to the core of who I am, or at least think I am, and I realize I need to do some soul searching. Then again, I also believe I know where the restlessness started...an innocence delving into fortune telling. A simple question returned by a very complex answer. I didn't like the answer. Perhaps that's why folks should stay away from the Tarot. Sometimes the answers you seek aren't meant to be revealed all at once. I know I'm rambling, but too is on my mind...

Self Censorship

Going through the the archives of the Axe, over the months there've been a few posts I removed, put in draft mode, because they were in my opinion too revealing. I suppose I'm having some second thoughts about deleting these thoughts? I mean they are significant in my development, but I've never been one for embarrassment.

Republishing these will put them back in Blog feed circulation. I'd much rather they stay buried, not live up to humiliation and the possible negative feedback. Then again... Sometimes a man has to stand up his fears in order to achieve his truest desires.

So what do I do?

Solo Dancing

What's good people? I know it's been a minute since I've penned a thought or two but things have been unusual on my end. Things worked aiight with the car. As anticipated, the was costly repai needed. Took care of it and I moved on without a second thought...

The next set of circumstances has been harder to manage. Doubt, fear, and almighty insecurity decided to become unwanted houseguest and I've been forced to look at the very issues I try ever so carefully to keep in check.

My esteem has taken a bit of a beatin'. Oh but - should rephrase and say my ego has. I'm going into reasons why; I"m far too embarrassed to explain, but I find myself wanting and demanding more than I've had previously. Call it a midlife crisis. Call it a stupid man finally trynna gain some sense, I dunno. All I know is I wake each morning and I don't like my environment! My min is putting me through changes to fix things and I won"t be at peace until it's settled.

Is this normal? I've never claimed to be, dance far too long to a different beat, and only when I realize I'm the only one hearing that tune how bizarre I must seem to others.

I need to dance with someone for awhile...

What Is It?

My blood is running ice cold and tiny pin pricks, shivers, are running up and down my spine. Butterflies are in my stomach, fluttering away, threatening to bring up breakfast. Oh Lawd! I'm trying to front; pretend there's nothing wrong. Oh far from the truth that lie is!!!

Tonight, my past catches up with me. Whether it's in a good way or bad way remains to be seen. Being home, I've been confronted left and right with old demons; issues long thought to be laid to rest. Guess not. Well, I'm a man now (in theory)... time to put the big boy undies on, put away those fears, and act like I got something swinging between my thighs. "Just Do It!"

Here's the reason for my trepidation. A good friend from high school turns 40 today. Recently we were lucky enough to reconnect through Facebook. Word got back through the old neighborhood I'm home and his moms caught up with me the other day. His family generously invited me to a large soiree they're having to celebrate this milestone birthday. At first, I was like "color me there" in my attitude. We hadn't seen each other for almost a decade, had fell outta touch. But then harsh insecurity reared it's head up from the depths.

"Yo Ian. Who the hell you foolin' Ain't nobody wanna see your faggot ass!"

That stopped me cold. Really? I've been keepin' low profile here. As I've mentioned being back home in parent's home, back in the old haunt, has been less than welcoming. Too many demons decided it time to take advantage of my sitch. "He's at a low point physically, let's attack him emotionally, then he's ours." Being back in my old home, my old childhood neighborhood, where so much negative shit went down, where some much of my young spirit was traumatized... well you have to gimme a lil leeway.

Here I have a great opportunity to reconnect, at the heart of the issue remains differences. Time to "come out" once again to somebody. Sigh. So tired of having to justify or explain myself. Unfortunately, Pat is on the long list of folk who don't know the deal. Now you're probably thinkin' to yourselves, "Oh please Ian, anybody who know you gotta know by now." True dat. Naturally, I go by that assumption too. Don't most people recognize by how I talk or my mannerisms, that I'm not batting for the Philadelphia Heterosexual Ball Club? Then again, people are prone to see what they wanna see.

What shouldn't be a big deal, is for me. I've never been one to deal well with confrontation, avoid it as much as possible. The subject of how I'm attracted to shouldn't come up, but I must admit, in a sports bar filled with heterosexual straight guys, not only do I feel awkward but also intimidated as well. On a whole, I generally prefer being around women and other gay/bisexual men. Old anxieties surface whenever there's prolonged exposure with straight men. I recognized most this anxiety comes from the sexual abuse, molestation and ridicule from childhood peers, and believe me, I've worked on these issues. I have. But then again, these are strange people in an unfamiliar situation. I'm nervous in the service, boys!

Oh and now I feel ashamed for feeling shamed. Internalized homophobia is such a bitch. And I don't deny having my fair share of unresolved matters concerning my sexuality, but life unfolds on a gradual process. What time it took you to get comfortable with yourselves is different from mine as will be different for someone else. Just support, lift, and edify one another as we go on this journey.

My ideal is not being surrounded in room full of most strangers. Yes, my friend Pat will be there, but then so will his wife, family, and a house of other friends, acquaintances, and associates. The demon of unworthiness is whispering in my ear, "You're stupid. You're a fraud. You're a faggot. They will laugh, judge, and ridicule you. You are reviled and unworthy to be here." I'm trying not to listen to those negatives. Gonna do my best to walk the walk and talk the talk. Gonna stare fear in the face, and as much as I wanna call to decline the invitation, I'm going...

Sigh. However, as people are prone to say, the Devil is a liar, and I'm not gonna punk out like that. Still, my fears abound. Cold, cold, COLD insecurities have always thrown monkey wrenches in my life, let it hinder me from blossoming, but no mo'! And what is there to be afraid of??? (I keep asking myself, but the nagging doubt is still there.)

Ian's Inquiry: So what do you do what doubt and insecurities step in the way. What solutions help you to find strength and courage to look fear in the face head on?

Kismet

Cosmic forces are aligning themselves my friends, the moment is so at hand I can feel it in my spirit. So scaredy cat got some cajones finally, eh? Well not exactly. The Fates are stepping in, taking care of business, giving me a chance to rescue my adulthood from Purgatory. Since being here in my family's home I've regressed into childhood head first. I don't like it!

This weekend set into play events stumbling towards opening the last closet door, and folks, it sure has been a bumpy ride. After this challenge, nothing else in my life will matter, because I will have overcome the biggest obstacle. But I feel sick this morning. Don't have words to begin to describe the trepidation running amok right now. The conversation is going down, and I mean, soon...

Happy Monday!!!

Seeing My Valley As A Peak

So what's been on my reading syllabus since coming home? Well, I'm struggling through E. Lynn Harris' Basketball Jones, half ass reading Iyanla Vanzant's Up From Here, and rereading Diana Gabaldon's Outlander. Oh yeah, and less I forget, also Brother Hill Harper's Letter to a Young Brother, which some could argue, I'm neither young nor a "brutha," since I'm almost 40 and peeps here in the old neighborhood think I long ago crossed the color line, never to return. My Blackness, or lack thereof, is a matter of interpretation depending on my associates at the time...Why black people gotta be so judgmental?!?!

I digress. Back to my literary adventures. Now, I wonder? Am I an oddball or what, but I have an uncanny tendency to read books backwards. I"ll truck along for so long, reading from the beginning, then I'll skip to the last chapter and find out the ending. After doing so, Ian reads the middle parts. I've never been one for suspense. Boy's gotta know the details NOW! Am I the only one that does this??? Perhaps that's why I'm having trouble reading Basketball Jones, I already now the ending (I won't spoil it if you haven't read it). Suffice to say, Jones is my least favorite of E. Lynn's books.

For a l'il bit of inspiration and motivation, I picked up Hill and Iyanla's jawns because I knew returning to the homestead would be an emotional challenge. The physical part, while taxing, has been the easy part. Dealing with my folks and the peeps from the old 'hood, has been the hardest part...Last Saturday night, the next door neighbors were smoking herb in their backyard, (you could smell the shit all around the block) That, and smoking cigarettes, and drinking alcohol. Umm, OK, I was unprepared for my own cravings for weed, nicotine, and alcohol would kick in with a vengeance. Old habits die hard. I haven't lit up a joint since I was, well...a considerable time ago... Not within the last five years! I don' judge people on smokin' weed. Too many do; that ain't my thang. Now, for your highly more destructive and addictive drugs, I do have a problem and will lecture you.

The agony! Last night I commented to Brother New York (Cocoa Rican) I've been sorely tempted for a cigarette since Saturday. Of course, I'm forbidden to leave the house under the "household convalescence rules," but you know I could charm my dear sweet younger sister to go grab me a pack. Wouldn't be nothing for me to sneak out in the back and light up in the dead of night. My folks, the warden and security guards, sleep like rocks. B.ut I'm hanging on in there. It's been a little over a month, whic is to be commended, and I will have my temptation. Boy will I! The power of suggestion is a cruel seductress... I have to remember to take it one moment at a time.

Hill and Iyanla were supposed to carry me through this tumultuous time. Unfortunately, neither author's works are holding my interest. Maybe I'm not just in the right frame of mind to handle Iyanla? And Hill is a good brother, but once I start reading him, inevitably, the comparison comes along as to why my life sucks so bad and his has reached stellar heights. Brother Harper seems to have obtained it all...sexy, talented, good writer, lawyer, friend of Barrack Obama (FOBO) . What I got? Two cats and a pocket full of lint!!! LOL.

Aw, don't listen to my negativity. Troubling me most is remaining here in my parents' home and being confronted with the demons from the past, living up to parental scrutiny, and attempting to be my own man, while relying on them for assistance. Issues. The first thing I'm doing once I get back up on my feet, literally, is going back to therapy. Happiness and I have had a strange relationship ever since I was knee high to the grapevine. I'm not sure why maintaining happiness has been a challenge, but I'm hoping to change my attitude, thereby, changing how I view happiness.

A relative purchased a copy of Peaks and Valleys by Spencer Johnson, the same author who wrote Who Moved My Cheese?. So far the book has been an easy read and actually inspiring. It's all a matter of changing one's outlook to change perspective, seeing your valleys as peaks, and vice versa. It's helping to an extent, and I'm grateful the seed is being planted. With perseverance, hopeful by summertime, I'll be in a much better place.

Ian's Inquiry: What book or books has/have inspired you to challenge yourself?

Tidbits, Part One: Smokeless & Eating

Note: I started this post eaaaaaaaaarly this morning when I wasn't in a very good mood. Be forewarned, I'm a bit bitchy, but purging some inner daemons!!! Just wait. I split this into two parts....

So, it's after three in the morning, and here I sit on the laptop, worried, tired, confused, stressed, and bereft. Why not go back to bed? Because I can't sleep. Or rather, because sleep is done with me. I sleep in weird intervals, usually its about three hours at a time, so your truly is up for the duration.

Following up with my earlier post from yesterday afternoon, 'tis true, I've been sad. However, not just, I've also been extremely irritated. Rotating between emotions for the last several weeks. frustration is boiling over. Things came to a climax Sunday after a discussion with Brother Jarrell on how hectic things at home have been. In addition, I have a tendency to heap the worlds problems on my own shoulders. The recent deaths of the young men who committed suicide, the young man found disposed in a garbage dumpster, and all the unfairness mainstream society is attempting to thrust upon the LGBT community, well my heart is just in a bad place.

To his credit, our blogging brother Corey is a saint. Or at least God sent, honest and trule. I had a meltdown on brother, enough so to scare even the most patient of Saints. Surprised dude didn't go running for the hills, but Mr. Jarrell has proven himself to be a reliable and trustworthy friend. Kudos for him.

Since coming home from hospital, my parents have cared for me so might heal better this go round. We wanna nip all this in the bud and be done with it. Btu things never seem to go according to plan, at least not in my life. My family has been supportive, but they don't understand the mess I'm experiencing. It's difficult being here, back in Philly, back home, relying on others again. I'm used to my independence, but that doesn't mean I can't ask for help, but rather I want the help that doesn't come with restriction, or price tags.

All the rules! I have to laugh here because it seems like I'm 15 all over again. Can't do this after certain hour, must do this before this particular hour, lights out at this hour... Are you serious?!?! I'm almost 40. If I want to read or talk on my cell, that's my business. If I surf the 'Net for more than an hour, which I tend to do because mobility is an issue, well that's fine. I'm not hurtin' you am I? Sheesh! Let's call a spade a spade, being here sucks. The old saying "You can't go home again" rings sooooooo true.

Not to sound ungrateful, I'm happy someone took compassion to help me, believe me. My folks are extending a generosity and compassion not many people would extend to their children who're almost 40. And believe me, I've read in-between the lines with some comments. I am a grown ass man, why the help can't I can't take care of myself, right? That subtle unstated sentiment looms heavy in the air, I know. It's not just my parent though, so let's give them a little slack. But my parents are well known for their criticism and constant remarks on other people's lives and what folk should and shouldn't be doing. Christ. Living here, life is constant examination under the microscope.

An example. Shortly before going in hospital, I decided now was as good of time as ever to quit smoking once and for all. It's a nasty habit and in the long run I'll be thankful. But the road hasn't been easy and I'm having cravings still after several weeks. Well, like most folks who quit, I've developed a lil bit of an appetite. Dear sweet "mumsy" has decided to lay into about my eating habits, questioning where do I put it all, blah blah blah blah.

Now, I should mention that I am a thicker brother. It's in my genes. Unfortunately, I didn't inherit the "tall" traits from my mama's people and got stuck with the heavier, big boned genes from my daddy's Southern peeps! Frag! Hard to believe this child here started out life at less than 6 pounds when I was born.

Life has been a struggle to maintain an appropriate weight. It's oh-so-damn-easy to fall off the wagon, but I don't wanna be grossly obese or not cute anymore, so I do my best to work on things. Besides, you know gay men are more shallow than a little bit, so I'm not trying gain anymore girth than necessary. To that end though, I will ashamedly admit, I do have poor self-image, reinforced by the voices over 39 years how I was too this or too that. Tends to work on a guy af'er while. dealing with the residual negative self-esteem issues from childhood hasn't been fun in life. I don't enjoy discussing it. That's part of the reason why you probably won't see too many pictures of me on this blog. I simply hate how I look...but that's an even longer story.

To be completely forthcoming, weight issues are a hot mess with me. It's a colossal pain in the ass. I manage to go workout or exercise, but the shit has never been anything but a burden, never fun. And to that end, I recognize I will never look like a model, never have washboard abs, or be the one turnin' head. Such is life. Like the best of us, I take it in stride until somebody gets up in my grill about things, then, "Houston we have a problem."

Whenever anyone questions or challenges my behavior involving weight, foot, or eating, I get defensive or withdrawn, depending on where my head is at. And yeah, I've been known to stop eating too. Don't mess with the bulimic behavior too much though. (That scares the crap outta me, but shallow, sick part of me thinks I'd rather be a thin and sexy than some vile vilified hog.)

Dealing with post operation stress, the craving for nicotine has increased tenfold. All I wanna do is escape into the backyard and toke on some toxic chemicals. Yeah, I know smoking is probably the worst of habits, but it was my thang. I do and don't miss it at the same time. I don't miss running to the convenience store in the wee hours for a pack nor the price of a pack, but I do miss the tranquil comfort it gave, even if I did smell like an ashtray. At least I never smoked in the house! That was my rule. If I wanted a damn thing bad enough, then come snow, sleet, cold, dark of night, warmth and heat of summer, outside on the deck I was...

All Cried Out.

Alright, admit it. All you gay men older than a minute, you who were teens or later in the 80s, remember this song, Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam's All Cried Out? Don't play dumb! You know you was right there, transfixed by the radio at night, sangin' the hell outta this song at some point. Every body had their urban contemporary slow jam hour back in the day. For Philadelphia, we had Power 99 FM's Quiet Storm Hour, airing about 9 o'clock.

Come on, admit it! Didja sing Lisa's lyrics or dude's part in the song? My cousin Rica and I usually would be over one or the others' house every night, doing our homework all late, listenin, doing more singing than completing our lessons. Rica and her brother, my cousin Stephan (blogged about him before) were my closest allies in high school, so we were pretty tight. I miss them so much some days (In case you forgot Steph died, and Rica decided to move to California. haven't seen her in years.)

Shoot. Are you like me? Do all those lyrics come rushing back whenever you hear 'em? They sure do pour moi. Remember all them sappy love melodies? Each one takes me on the Amtrak back to the the "Me Decade." Right on back to high school all over again. Yeah. Songs like Me'lissa Morgan's Do me Baby, Shirley Murdock's As We Lay, Dianne Reeves' Better Days, Gregory Abbott's Shake You Down, and who could forget The Force MD's Love Is A House? Damn. Takes me so back...

I'm not overly fond of today's music, although I do have some favored artists like Mary J., Mariah, Alicia, and Keyshia. But for me, most music today is trashy, tasteless, trite, sleazy, and skanky. It has no depth, no meaning. Just glorified porn in music form. Folks have lost their edge. The songs in the 80s, while not the best lyrically, were romantic, deep. Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm just that much closer to 40 after all...

Ian's Inquiry: What song or songs take you back to those so-called "glorious" days of high school?

The Unconditional Truth

Blogger note 2/15/2009: I am reposting this after careful consideration. Post was removed due to critique and I felt I needed to re-evaluate this. Been awhile. But what I wrote is what I was feelin' at the time...C'est la vie.

There are days when the words flow out of my mind, through the keyboard, and onto the blog. For the last few days this hasn't been the case.

I'm suffering from a case of writer's block and face an inarticulate moment. I dunno how to place my thoughts, with feeling, on the blog, and not sound so childish, elementary, and emotional. True, there are my inspirational moments when I can convey everything rattlin' around upstairs eloquently. Today, try as I might, each word resembles a child's reader.

Phttt! This is bullshit. I will do my best to blog my inner conflict.

Since Saturday, my mind and heart have been battling over self-esteem and security. Sunday, I simply bottomed out and needed to just wallow in misery and cry until I could regroup. My parent's visit last weekend, while enjoyable, was taxing. A deep funk settles in days after their visits. Each time I'm around my mum and stepdad, I regress. Their skepticism and disapproval weighs heavy on my soul. Too often, I find myself carefully choosing my words, fearful of being chastised or lectured by them when they're around.

A parental visit is such an ordeal. When they come, beforehand, I go through a whirlwind to clean my house, make sure nothing offensive is out, and present myself for inspection. Not overly concerned about my lifestyle "tastes," I usually just hide my copies of The Advocate and take down the naked black men postcards on my refrigerator. I do, however, draw the line taking down the artwork hanging on the walls. That shit is a pain to rehang and level again. Oh brother please!

Additionally, if you think I have the time or the inclination to hide all my books by multiple gay authors, oh honey, no! I'm not havin' it! If questions arise, good! At last! I can go on, finally, and live my truth. This routine is irksome and really addresses unresolved shame.

So why not just come out to your folks, Ian?

Easier said than done. Given my mother's displeasure and hurt at my father's own sexual proclivities, saying something about my sexual misadventures would drive her well over the edge. It would only exacerbate the complex relationship I already have with my mum, which at best, can be described as tedious. I can only imagine the look of hurt, scorn, and disapproval; the whole sense I let her down. The last thing I need in my life now is more ridicule and scorn. Aw, Hell no!

What helps me to get through, is that on some level, she has to know. My mother just hasn't come to terms with dealing with a same gender loving son. One could even argue, to a point, she still has a son interested in women, just not 100%. I occasionally date and sleep with women (and yes I'm always upfront with them. Fortunately, I know more than a few bisexual women). Pondering "coming out" to my parents brings nauseous angst. It's the last closet door yet to be opened. With good hope and faith, I want to have that conversation sometime this year. Just not now.

Sometimes, I catch my folks staring at me with vacant discordant eyes, like they're trying to analyze my manhood. I'm not sure if this equates to them questioning my sexuality, but definitely my masculinity. My neighborhood back home would call me "soft" or a "punk ass." Sadly, I've heard these worlds come out my parents' mouths before. There is some real negative energy flow on the topic of male homosexuality. Oh they've no problem with gay women, but gay men? Mmt nmm. Not in our family.

Questioning my own mannerisms, well, lately even I deliberate over my masculine worth. Not that I equate sexuality with manhood, I don't, but I do have my "grrrrrl" moments, something I agonize over. In order for me to come forward about my personal truth, I need to be 100% secure in myself. Regretfully, I'm not there yet. Some internalized homophobia lingers and it annoys me beyond measure. I'm sick of dealing with these issues and having to jump through hoops!

At 38, I didn't anticipate living in the shadows with my family. I wanted my life well established and confident. Can I live my life without approval from others? Why do I have to have everyone love and like me? Isn't my own self-acceptance enough? Obviously not.

I've always sought the need for countenance from others. Given how my childhood unfolded, so many mixed messages were instilled in me. Fear and self-loathing dictated many of my actions through my teens and young adulthood. In my 20s, I thought I'd finally reached the limit and let my soul fly. Simply, I got tired of pretending to be someone I wasn't. Yet, whenever I'm around my folks, I turn into a sycophant, agreeable little child, afraid to stand on my own decisions. I feel too embarrassed to be myself around them. I won't assert myself.

I confess, that with my parents, I still attempt to be the dutiful responsible son. The possibility of losing their love and support frightens me. I'm not sure I could handle the rejection. Factor in my own intense loneliness I've been feeling of late, and you got a fine mess going on. My existence would be pointless. Just brand me the son who tore the family apart. I've been able to deal with ridicule and laughter from strangers and friends, but not from my family. Underneath it all, I'm just a little boy who is seeking unconditional love.

Even with the rebellious periods in my life with careless and reckless sexual behavior, denigrating vice with alcohol and drug abuse, I always knew the limit, never pushed the envelop beyond my parents' final reproach. I've attempted to live my life as loyal, compliant, and worthy to continue to gain their love. Each action, each word, each desire, when reviewed, has been weighed against my parents' approval. It's been a delicate balance. Believe me, I heard enough times from both my mum and dad, "stop with all that white people mess!" whenever I showed interest that didn't meet their proper black standards.

Race issues in my home growing up was always complicated. Even though my mum is biracial, my stepdad isn't and there never was any question to being black. No floundering. Period. Be black or be nothing at all. As I've gotten older the attitude has relaxed, but I see them pushing the same message on my niece. Bryanna, who goes to a Catholic girls school, has mostly white girls as her peers. Naturally, she's picked up on some of those "white people" mannerisms and speech. Poor child! I've caught more than once my mum and dad cuttin' eyes at each other or sounding under their breath. I usually throw sister-girl a life line and talk with her. Being a linguistic chameleon, I can act and "talk" white with the best of them. Too, thank God, my niece is learning French so we have conversations in either French or Spanish where she can be herself. My parents speak neither language.

'Anna has this much going for her though, she's gonna be straight. At 13, she's comin' into her own, puberty wise, and boys have just entered on her radar. Unlike her older cousin, Tomas, and me, her uncle, she escaped the family homosexual gene. With my nephew, there is a straight line of gay or bisexuality in my family... my dad's dad, my father, me, and then Tomas. So you can't tell me being gay is a choice. It's genetic. That's conversation for another blog post, however.

Messages about being gay cropped up from time to time in my youth. Those lectures were never pretty. Once my mother found pictures of men under my bed and I got the lecture of a lifetime. "Don't you feel mixed up and confused?" You'd thought I've committed some crime! So I learned to dance around sexuality in my teens and threw myself wholeheartedly into girls. Fortunately, the sexual molestation stopped right around 13 or abouts, therefore I wasn't acting out homosexually, so the sexual lectures were few, far, and in-between. Thank the Lawd. Till this day, I try my best never to use "mixed up and confused" in a sentence. It brings up too painful memories when I do.

In my 20s I learned to hide my shit very well. My rage at having done this is astronomical. Why did I live for someone else? If only I could've accepted myself sexually, had unconditional support, my journey would've been so much easier. Instead, I suffered at my own hands for many years. I didn't come clean with myself until I was 26 and well invested in therapy. I came "out" in my personal life at 29 once and for all, which also ended my marriage. (Another post for another day)

I ask myself, with regard to my parents, is my masculinity really on trial for being same gender loving? Is there something deeper to the issue? Of course, I know there is. It has everything to do with unconditional love and approval. Beneath it all, I'm that wanting little boy. I don't feel loved. It explains why so many of my relationships with men (and women) have been so dysfunctional, so unfulfilled. It explains why I constantly put others before myself, because I just want that love, and by giving my all, I hope others will give me the love I've been searching for..

To my parents' defense, they don't know the broader picture of everything I've lived. I doubt very much they're aware of what my brother-in-law did. It's dubious he'd be alive if they did. My stepdad, even though he wasn't our biological father, treated us like his own. Dad was very, VERY protective of us. I've never uttered a word about Emilio's part in my molestation. My mum knows about Stuart, my father's boyfriend, but she doesn't know about my grandfather, Emilio, the babysitter incident, or anybody else. Those are secrets, I hope to keep.

I've had to live with difficult decisions, many made out a necessity for self-preservation. Now, as an adult, I find myself only wanting and desiring a cohesive me. I want to be healed, happy, and living my truth. I want to delight, be glad, and accept who I am in the years I have left. No more time for misery.

OK. So what does that mean? Living my truth? How do I accomplish this and maintain integrity without compromise and self-sacrifice? By being honest with myself and others, I suppose. But for me, the "others" doesn't include my parents. Yet. Worse case scenario is I lose my family. It something I'm not prepared for, but...

God Grant Me The Serenity To Accept The Things I Cannot Change
Accept The Things I Can
And The Wisdom To Know The Difference
Amen

By withholding vital information about myself, they're missing a part of me. They've missed the few decent relationships I've had with guys who could've been a part of our family. We don't have a bad family, it's just as effed up as er'rybody else's. To live my truth, I need to grab life by the balls, stand up to fear, and just accept me as I am (I hear Mary J in the background folks).

To be complete, acceptance might come at a cost, but without any reservation, I need to love myself unconditionally. I need to, me, myself. Accept all those things that have placated me over the years; racial integrity, sexual orientation, desirability, intelligence... all that I have to give. Until then, I'll continue to feel incomplete, always having to hide my true self. Have I been hiding in cowardice? Probably.

Sigh...

I've put way too much out there again. So before I bring this looooong post to a close, I thank you, whoever you are, for taking the time to read this. I'd like, if you feel so inspired, if you're an "out" gay person with your family, to feel free to email or comment on any suggestions you might have for me so to achieve resolution to my own situation.

Yo! Especially my fellow black gay/SGL brothers out there! More than a few of you know and understand exactly where I'm comin' from. How did you get through??? Help a brotha out! LOL

This was perhaps my most challenging post to write to date. I started this a little after 9:30 and it's now 3 o'clock!!! Revision, revision! Proofread, proofread! Again, thank you for reading and remember to live your own personal truth, whatever it may be.

May the Creator give you special blessings, now and always.
-Ian

Come Undone

"The problem with pulling at the loose, untidy, threads of our past is, often we end up unraveling and destroying the tapestry of our soul."----Anonymous

Been contemplating my past lately. My post on Stefan touched upon other unresolved childhood trauma I keep sequestered in the back of my mind. Drama usually too painful to deal with. But as I indicated yesterday, I want to open up the closed rooms of my soul. Air myself out. Let light where darkness is, and become whole.

I'm placated by the past. Who I am, choices I made, avoidance and defense mechanisms, often leave me wanting. It's difficult to put the emotions into words. I'm still getting over shame, but residual embarrassment lingers. Torn and separated from the ones I loved, the community I struggle to have embrace me.

Sometimes the isolation is way too much to handle, like I'll never be accepted. My sexual orientation and my relationship to my family, my culture, and my faith, have faced schisms and challenges. I'm angry about it. Ashamed about it. I don't feel like I belong. Like I'm not black enough because I'm same gender-loving. Well, there's more to it than that, really.

I'll give you the back story in a moment. In my life I've been afraid of the scorn and judgment cast from the Black community. I've been called "boojee," arrogant, a sellout, a snob, a wanna-be, Oreo, blah blah blah...and it irritates me. Do you even know who I am? Know the struggles I've dealt with? Just because I don't fit the mold of what you think a Black man should be doesn't make me any less of one. Sadly though, some of my guilt comes from believing those very same things about myself. Some days I do feel like "imitation black man."

If you're an "out" gay, bisexual, same gender loving, or however you identify yourself, Black man or person of color, I applaud you. You've made a choice to be who you are regardless of what others might speak against you. Unfortunately, I'm not that courageous. My entirely life has been a role of subservience. It's been conditioned given the situations of abuse, but nevertheless, subservient. I'm not proud of it. I tend to do things to please others, to keep the eye of judgment away from me. I don't like being the center of attention, less scornful words come my way.

Being a queer, homo, yadda yadda yadda, has been not easy for me. Too many friends and family I know strongly believe being gay is a weakness and a sin. If you're Black and gay, well, you're not even a real man. These thoughts have been ingratiated since I was a child. A whole heap of issues stem from this negative message.

For a long time, I exiled myself from my culture, my God given heritage. The shame and the pain, the reluctance to deal with harsh words and judgment were too much. High school and College years were a bitch and a half. But I did, I suppose, what was necessary for survival. Why though? Why hate your community, and further, Black men, your straight brothers? Are you that self-loathing?

Not self-loathing. I've been scared. You'll understand.

I've never had any problems with Black women. Like their white counterparts, sistahs love a gay "husband" just as much. The Black women in my life have been mother figures, sister figures, best friends, who've kept me anchored. I'm thankful for them. The trouble in my life comes from trusting and feeling comfortable around straight men. Men of all walks of life bothered me, but brothers (both Black and Latino) have terrified me. It wasn't racist, but self-preservation. Again, you'll understand my point of view.

My adult life has resolved much youthful strife, but I'm a work in progress. I've been in therapy since the early 90s, particularly after my meltdown coming home from grad school. Today, I live my life and am healing. I can trust and feel comfortable in the presence of men, especially my brothers. But early on, "they" took something from me. Too much wasted time was spent being fearful.

Regular readers know I was sexually abused as a child. I've blogged about it previously. I'm not sure if I've ever spoken on who the perpetrators were. It's tough because one was my paternal grandfather. I don't discuss the situations too much. It cuts too close to home. The biggest shame, however, comes from the first time I was ever attacked.

I have two sisters. My younger sister "S" and I are close. The case is not the same with my older sister "P." I dance around the issue when people ask about her. "She's an evil bitch," is my usual response. We haven't talked in many years. I avoid her like the plague. All our burnt bridges stem from childhood, when her then boyfriend, now husband, Emilio and along with a group Black boys cornered me one day after school and forced me to sodomize them.

Translation: they jumped me and I had to suck their dicks. Plain and simple. To add insult to injury, "Sissy" knew about the incident, but denied it happened. That's reason why I have no contact with her. She married him, that mofo, knowing what Emilio did. She denies it and pretended it never happened. Bitch.

Feelin' me?

My rape happened when I was a little younger than Hester's son Robin's age. He's 10 now, so I was probably 8, 9 or 10 years old. I was used to the verbal abuse. Faggot, queer-bitch, fat faggot, Fat Albert, were all common derogatory remarks used in my presence. As I said, I got used to it. When the neighborhood punks attacked, I honestly don't think they gave it a second thought. It was just them "smellin their piss" as my mom would say. They got off on the power trip and my subjugation. I wasn't afraid of them up until that point. I could deal with the name calling, but forced to give head? Come on. I was no older than 8 or 9! This was the 70s. Children still had some innocence about the nature of sex. What did I know about blow jobs? I was just a little boy, dammit! Why would they do this to me? Further, why would the man, who supposedly loved me like family, loved my sister, do this to me?

Good question. If you got an answer, holla back at me.

My mother wasn't around as much as she shoulda been. She was a struggling, single parent, trying to make ends meet, so often in the afternoons she'd be at work. Remember my generation, Generation X, is the latch key kid generation. P and I are five years apart in age. It was deemed she was responsible enough to watch us until our aunt came over. Nanna Mae usually got there somewhere between 3-4, just in enough time to catch "her stories" One Life to Live and General Hospital.

(Surprisingly, I have no recollection where Stephan and Hawka were. I think they were still living with their dad in South Carolina. I honestly forget.)

Unharmed by incident, the doors to my sexual nature had been unlocked. Aside from being pushed around a bit, held down against my will, with some scrapes and cuts, I was alright. Emotionally I was a mess. I didn't cry over it, but was more than confused. I got home, feeling dirty, embarrassed, and ashamed, I told P what occurred and the BITCH DIDN'T BELIEVE ME. She denied it, couldn't possibly see how Emilio had any involvement in some faggoty bullshit like that.

That caused tension between us. Soon after my mother hired a babysitter, Laraya. She showed me her pussy one day after school and asked if I wanted to touch it. Feeling there would be something wrong with me because I really didn't want to, I did anyway. Laraya was the first girl I had sex with. Looking back, that event doesn't phase me as much, although it was just as much abusive as what Emilio et al did. I guess a part of me has bought into that was normal, for boys and girls to touch each other like that. I had no clue what I was doing, what the ramifications would be later. That's the gist of my first sexual experiences, both abusive.

Emilio attempted to apologize, but that situation got out of control. Another time cropped up where he tried to get me to suck him off again. By that time I learned to have a pair of balls and say "no." Our relationship has been terse ever since. My resentment towards my sister and bro-in-law has never gone away. I'm not certain it can.

With regards to the other neighborhood boys, I steered clear of them as best as I could. Cee Cee, Lee Lee, Larry, and Vernon were all persona non grata with me. I couldn't escape Emilio though. He was forever at my house dating my sister. They got married in 1983. Fortunately, they eloped, so there was no large wedding to attend. Thank God!

This whole time frame was horrendous. I began acting out and my grades slipped. Other sexual awakenings were dawning. Another smaller sexual encounter happened with a classmate, and I was just a monster from it all. My mother couldn't handle me. She tried family therapy, but I was so damaged. I'm not sure she knows what all exactly went on then. My family is good at keeping secrets.

The complexity of everything was severe. Tired and frustrated with attempting to cope with an out of control child, my mother gave up and away I was sent packin' down I-95 South to live with my daddy. More episodes of abuse, verbal, physical, and sexual, would occur there, but I managed to keep out of trouble and suck it all up.

Too, in DC, I ran into the same scorn from black boys. I became a favored target among the kids who lived in my grandmother's neighborhood. My dad lived in an affluent Georgetown neighborhood, but my Grammama lived in SE DC, in the Anacostia section, for a few years. Those were some rough street kids. She and Pop Pop eventually moved closer to Bolling Green Air Force Base, in SW DC right off of I-295, where Pop Pop was stationed. Life got a little better after they moved, but not by much. Military brats, and I was one for little bit, are nasty children and can be just as mean as street thugs. I got called faggot more often than not.

Through the years the reconciliation has been tedious at best. However, time does heal wounds. I can now embrace my fellow Black brothers and have learned forgiveness. Through the course of therapy, I had to take away negative projections based on the actions of a few rather than the whole. Not every black boy was mean to me. Not every Black man is going to hurt me. Still, as a child, adolescent, and young adult, I had to work through this fear and irrationality. A handful of ill-mannered children, do not represent the larger populous.

Today, I'm blessed with many good, solid relationships with black men. Ones where trust is freely given and accepted. There are times where I still get a little fearful and uncomfortable, but overall, my 30s have been a "welcome back to the fold." A Homecoming. I've gotten better. That's what's important. I never once, though, felt hated towards my race for what happened to me. Please don't mistake fear as hatred. I just was terribly, terribly afraid. I didn't have a strong support system to "toughen" me up. I didn't know other gay Black guys (my age) until my mid 20s. Had I had, maybe today would be a different story.

I have not, nor do I think I can ever forgive Emilio. My life changed significantly due to his actions. When he apologized, he told me he was just" going along with the boys." Um, excuse me dude? Weren't you like 13-14-15 years old? You were old enough to stand up to the peer pressure! Old enough to defend your future brother-in-law, your family. Instead, you dropped the ball and I'm left burned with horrible memories and experiences. It's no wonder why I struggled and denied my sexuality for so long. Incest, often romanticized by some gay men (regarding twins brothers) is not remotely attractive. It's sick, twisted, and perverted.

There more to be said, but I'm drained . Time to go to bed though and get a clearer head. I will finish up tomorrow. I've plenty more to say on this, but this post already has gotten waaaay longer than I anticipated.

-DT

I Gotcha Your Back!

Got an email from a reader questioning why there's been lack of men posts lately. Where are all the missing men?!?! Hmph. Missing? I didn't know anybody was missing.

No, seriously. There's gonna be changes to how I conduct myself on this blog. I dunno, I want the blog to seem more "mature." I am almost 40. Really, dontcha think I need stop actin' a fool? LOL.

I'd like to concentrate more on issues going on within. Last week's "Coming Out" post got me thinking. I've been in avoidance mode much of this year. I'm embarrassed at my immaturity and silliness. The Axe is going to transform to reflect my inner spirit. Time to raise the bar a little.

I'm not happy with the person I've become. Time to work through issues. If therapy has taught me anything, confronting our fears head on diminishes their power over us. By sharing with y'all, I hope to expose my irrational weakness, thereby, gaining strength and power over them. I need to reconcile my past before I can progress merrily with my future. Weilding The Axe is gonna to be my vehicle to get me there.

Huh? Yeah, uh-huh. Sure. Whatevah Ian. What about the hot men photographs? Mmm 'K?

Fret not! I'm not turning into some curmudgeon. Yes, I'll still have social commentary and observations on celebrities, television, books, music, movies, and what not. That's not gonna change. Hey, "sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't." Eye candy will also continue be exhibited, it just won't be the primary focus. Pictures added to posts are meant to emphasize mood and thought. If you, the reader, however, happen to have a beatification experience from the photographs, more power to you!

If you're looking for full frontal nudity though, that ain't gonna occur much. For searchers for the beauty of nekkid men, I suggest checking out Chocolate & Salsa. There's photographs aplenty, mostly nudes, of gorgeous men of color.

Lastly, please keep reading the Axe. Share your thoughts and leave comments. As we go on this venture together, I'd like to hear back from you. It's not a prerequisite to comment, but feedback, both positive and negative, help me to further clarify. You know, like am I deluding myself? Plus, comments let's me know people are reading.

As always, I appreciate your time.
-DT

The Rear View Mirror

Inspired by both Greg's and Aaron's touching posts, I decided to join the fray, and throw in a part of my own "coming out' story. It's funny how Greg and Aaron's posts came in sync with thoughts going on in my head lately.

As you may or may not know, the 20th anniversary of my high school graduation is fast approaching. Hmph. It'll be just another day, I suppose. Yet ,with how life has been this year, I find myself reflecting on the things that have been, both the good and the bad. Don't worry. I haven't gotten maudlin over getting older. Sure, like the commercial says, "life comes at you fast," but the journeys I've been on had enriched my life. Positive or negative, for what they're worth, have made me the person blogging before you now.

The paths you take, no matter the distance you've traveled, some things, some people, will always be close at hand. Like you never left. I heard a song from 1988 on WINK 104 the other day and had to laugh. I remember when the song was playing in regular rotation 24/7. It brought back memories, things I've done, people I haven't seen in ages. People ike my cousin Stephan.

My Aunt Nanna Mae's oldest son, Stephan (pronounced "steff-on" Please. Never, EVER, call him "steeeven") was one of my best friends in high school. Two years older than me, we used to hang out together often and do those things high school students were known to do in the 80s, cut class, go to the Mall, smoke cigarettes or pot, drink beer, talk about stupid shit and our future. From time to time his sister, my cousin "Darktomahawka" would join us, and we'd be the invincible three!

Those two were integral to keeping me sane back in da day. Many an afternoon I'd forgo going home to visit Nanna Mae's to hang with them. Our fun, innocent by today's standards, was defiant and aggressive, if not risky. Our little community was close knit and just about everybody we knew in the area knew er'rybody or went to one of the seven Black churches in our section of town. So, somebody did have an eye out. You knew it wouldn't be long for somebody had dirt on you! We almost never got caught. The few times we did, we'd be on "punishment" for a few days, then start actin' up all over again! We never learned. LOL.

We were so stupid then, I sincerely have a grin on my face now thinking about it. We'd often skip school to head down to South Street or the shops on 69th Street. 69th Street had all the good deals on clothes then. We'd buy those ridiculous two-tone pants or the stupid suspender pants, which you never wore up around your shoulders. Or there were the Adidas or Kogol or British Knights apparel Steph and I would waste our money on! Damn.

Oh, how God blesses fools and the innocent. Drunk off our asses or high from all the marijuana smoked, we'd ride SEPTA, all loud and obnoxious, daring anyone to challenge our defiance. We'd go all over Philly and neighboring areas. It was probably the greatest, and most cherished, memories I have from that time in my life.

Most of this time period was during my sophomore and junior years in high school. I wasn't having the easiest of times either. The year before, I'd returned to Philly after living several years with my father in Washington, DC. I came back changed and scarred. The DC years proved to be the most challenging in my adolescence. The sexual abuse was at an all time high. I'd become introverted and had started gaining weight. Yet, I managed to get decent grades in school. This was a condition set by both my father and mother before it was even considered I could return to Philadelphia.

I was so drained. I was fighting emotions and feelings I didn't understand. I felt lost, hopeless, and defeated. I was tired of living the "boojee" lifestyle and felt set apart from the Black community. Attending private schools with stuck up snotty politician kids, I wanted in the worse way to get back to the people I understood, even if they wouldn't accept me. I just wanted to go home, back to the 'Hood. Sure, I knew it'd be tougher than my little affluent neighborhood in Georgetown, but I couldn't anticipate it being any worse either. I had needed a sense of community, like I belonged to a niche. I never felt that living in DC.

Waiting for me when I did move back were Stephan and 'Hawka. The three us were tight and I'd quickly developed an intense, special bond with Stephan. He was the brother I never had. Steph was one of the neighborhood guys you didn't mess with and who people respected. He was taller than I, built like a brick shit house, and embodied everything masculine and Black I wanted to be. Yet, he was nurturing and kind. He protected me, often coming to my defense when others would speak unkindly or call me faggot or queer bitch or spread ungodly rumors about me. When Steph was around, I felt safe. Secure. Comforted, like someone really did care about my well-being. He taught me how to defend myself and how not to put up with other people's bullshit.

During my senior high school years, Stephan was the balm I needed to heal. Between late elementary/junior high school and high school. I'd suffered greatly. My sexuality was stirring, even if I wasn't too keenly aware of it. I dated girls. Did the guy things boys were expected to do and I lived my life as I lived it until I left for college in fall of 1988.Thinking of Stephan reminds me how close we were. I honestly don't know where I'd be with him today, if not for him.

By the time I was a senior, I'd settled down, and was prepping myself for college. I did rather well in high school, except for math, which has never been my forte. (Don't think I was out smoking up joints all the time. N-Please! My mother, I'm sure knew it happened occasionally, but she woulda beat my ass into oblivion had it transpired more than what it had.) I graduated a hot and humid June evening in 1988. Two months later, I left for college with the sky as the limit.

Fast forward life six years. Summer 1994. I'd had just completed a disastrous first year in Graduate School. Life was falling apart all around me. I was heavily drinking, smoking pot, dropping acid, skipping classes, and having careless, unprotected sex. I did some harmful stuff back then. I was still having sex with women, but by this point, men had entered the equation. Oh Hell! Lots of men! I was fucking around with any guy I could get my grubby hands on. Guys, who I couldn't remember their face or name if my life depended on it. My friend DoJo had introduced me to gay life and I was living the LIFE to the hilt. It was bad. Really bad.

Unfortunately, I made too many unwise decisions. One of the guys I slept with, will be forever etched into my memory. Why? Simply for the fact because he was the boyfriend of a very good friend of mine, someone I betrayed very badly. To my credit though, said "man" was gay curious and sought me out on several occasions. I'm not making excuses or tryin' to justify it. Betrayal is betrayal nonetheless. I'd done my friend wrong. W-R-O-N-G!

The guilt was driving me insane and I became more and more reckless, either drunk, high, or both a significant amount of the time. What many people from my life then don't know, including Hester and EJ, is the extent of how dangerous things really were. I don't think anyone knows the whole story. Sure Hester and E.J. know the details about what they saw, but there's a back story I've been reluctant to discuss.

They both knew by this point I was out sleeping with guys, but what they don't know are the who, where, or how often. I don't talk about it. Neither of them, thankfully, has asked for specifics. We tend not to broach the subject. We're all cognizant of our destructive paths years ago. MTV's "The Real World" had nothing on us. The stories we all could tell...definitely would be a page out of a Bret Easton Ellis novel.We're all adults now. All that is just in the Rear View Mirror.

But back to then. One night, I couldn't take the guilt anymore and I confessed my sins to my friend. Call it the calm before the storm. All HELL broke loose a few days later. One weekend night I was engaging in the typical substance abuse, when the room literally turned on it's ear. Somehow, the all the drugs and alcohol I was doing caused an induced psychosis and I had a meltdown of the worst kind. It was frightening. I don't remember most of that night, just bits and pieces, but from what people tell me, it was the single most scary event we experience together.

I had to be hospitalized for three weeks in the psychiatric unit.

Now at the end of that venture, you might think I'd admit defeat and go home, right? Ppht! WRONG! Like any addict, I jumped right back into the lifestyle and continued my crash course to destruction! The insanity continued for a few more months before the denounment finally came. I don't remember what happened, but when the party was over, home to Philadelphia I went.

This period in my life was one where I truly walked in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. God does move in mysterious ways. Since I'm in confession mode tonight, I'll step up to the plate and also say this. It was also during early'94 my drug use escalated beyond pot and acid to cocaine. I'd started doing it with a mutual friend, whose name I WILL NOT MENTION. To complicate matters further, we were occasional sex partners. Had I continued to live in the apartment in grad school, who knows what the dire consequences could've been?

Back home, with my tail between my legs, I was left with this incredible, overwhelming, sense of guilt. I'd damaged more than a few valuable friendships. Some irreparably. Stephan had the wherewithal to sense something wasn't quite right, ferreted me out the house. I'd been miserable and holed up in the house for days. We ended up in Valley Forge National Park, a favorite place of ours to get hammered in high school.

Why he chose to take me there, I don't know. Maybe it was for the serenity of it. Valley Forge is very peaceful at night. Relaxing. We didn't drink or smoke any herb, just talked. My life was in shambles and I was feeling suicidal. I hadn't talked to my parents about my college escapades. To this day, they think it was because I got mixed up with some bad pot. Please. Try alcohol, pot, coke, and 3 other illegal narcotics....but I digress.

I finally ended up confessing to Stephan. I mean, I told him everything. EVERYTHING. Not just what had happened in college, but the sexual abuse that had been going on from age 6 to 14, my sexual confusion and eventual sexual fuckfest, to the drug and alcohol abuse. After I told him everything, he gave me that look that usually signified he was pissed off. I wasn't sure if my cousin was going to throw my ass out the car or kick my ass. I had just told my, very heterosexual, cousin I was sleeping with guys. How was he going to react? How was he going to deal with having a "punk" in the family? I was scared as shit. Oh God! What's he gonna tell his mom? For that matter, my mom?!? I was 24 and I hadn't a penny to my name. I couldn't afford to be out in the street!

Stephan was quiet for a loooong time with that look on his face. He looked so angry. I'll never forget it. Finally, and I remember these words almost exactly, he said something.

"I thought I taught you better than that." Huh? What? I asked him to repeat himself. Steph did.

"As said, I thought I taught you better 'an that!" I was confused, but I listened. He reached over, I still thought he was gonna haul off and hit me, but he grabbed me, kissed me on my forehead, and gave me the biggest, tightest hug, I've ever experienced. At this point, I broke down, and lost it. I mean lost it. I cried in his arms for about 20 minutes non-stop. Perhaps the most vulnerable moments in my life, it was the balm I needed.

Stephan explained then how he knew, before I knew or acknowledge it, I was queer. And you know what? He was cool with it! I was his family and he loved me. That's what he meant by his question. We were tight. We were boys. Nothing should ever come between you and your boys, right? He loved me. He promised not to mention a word to anyone or my folks. He kept his promise. I wish I had been able to walk out of the closet once and for all that night, but I got back in not longer afterwards.

A few months later, I got my first professional job and moved away. Stephan was a blessing in my life when I really needed someone to depend upon. I still haven't told my folks yet, but I hope the moment will be as tender as it was when I told Stephan. I doubt it will be given how religious my family can be. I'm not exactly sure on their position on homosexuality, but it can't be good.

For those of you who don't know, my father was also bisexual (no he the one wasn't molesting me) and my mother had a tough time accepting her husband was queer. Can you imagine her grief when she learns her only son is too? To add insult to injury, imagine the pain she's gonna feel when she also learns my 22 year old nephew is gay! Eek! Let's hope the both of us don't come out the same day, week, or month!!!!

Sadly, my cousin died a few years back in a car accident. He was a year younger than I am today. I miss him terribly, but I know somewhere, he has definitely earned his place in Heaven. He was definitely the lynch pin that got me through the 90s. While he's in the rear view mirror of my life, I'd like to think of him as riding along in the passenger seat those days I'm alone and by myself.

Anyway, thanks for reading this long ass post!

Napoleonic Reflection

Something is in the air I can't quite put my finger on. There's trepidation and uneasiness in my spirit this evening. Why? The last few days, barring the Pennsylvania Primary results, have been wonderful. I got to spend time with family and friends. The weather has been beautiful. I feel physically better than I had. Plenty task that were left unresolved are finally getting completed. So what is the problem, huh?

Perhaps my spirit is restless and unsettled due to my television viewing habits Wednesday and today? Yes, last night I watched the Phillies lose to the Brewers; a game the Phillies had been winning until late in 7th inning. Carly, unjustifiably, was booted from American Idol (Brooke who screwed up massively and Jason who was just plain horrible, remained!) The season finale to Torchwood, left me feeling incomplete and disturbed. And Ugly Betty? The ensuing fiasco over Betty's birthday and the developing love tension between her and Gio left me more disquieted.

OK... Ugly Betty did have a few highlights! Seeing Marc rummage through Daniel's (actor Eric Mabius) underwear drawer, pulling out a pair of sheer black briefs, was priceless. Also, Gabrielle Union as Wilhelmina Slater's (Vanessa Williams) even more evil sister Rene, is superior! The tension between those two is delicious to a fault. Loved it. Love it!

After Betty, I wouldn't allow myself to get sucked into Grey's Anatomy, so I finished reading "The Voyage of the Dawn Treader" by C.S. Lewis instead. Completing that installment of the Chronicles of Narnia did nothing to improve the situation. In summation, the evening was kinda "blah"...

Perhaps the catalyst started this afternoon as Hester and I engaged in a heavy conversation about the Status Quo of life, dating, and marriage/partnerships. Since breaking things off with Napoleon, my love life has been nonexistent. I'm not complaining. Things have been more relaxed and life has been magnanimous since he's gone. But our conversation regarding what one should or should not put up with in a relationship left me slightly deflated. How much does one endure for love? At almost 40, my firm belief is never to put up with anyone's shit. If you can't even devote some of your time to me, then you'll get none of mine. I'm tired of suffering through foolishness.

Hester and I have been through misadventures in love and relationships of semi-epic proportions in our past! I'd like to think she has moved on to bigger and better things, being married and all, but me? I've been there, done the marriage thing, and the shit didn't work out. To the next level, my misadventures in boyfriends, have also been less than spectacular situations. Eek! Been down some paths that if only I could hit rewind, hell even delete, I wouldn't make the same mistake twice!

The virtues, or lack thereof, of marriage are beyond my comprehension. The majority of my friends are either divorced, divorcing, or in loveless marriages. The majority of my friends in relationships, both gay and straight, are miserable, or dealing with endless drama and selfishness on the part of their partners. I reclaimed my independence earlier this year. Learned the tiniest bit selfishness, every now and again, isn't so bad.

Most of my friends are givers and will give of themselves until there's nothing left. Many of my friends have partners who are more than willing to absorb, suck up, and drain everything, leaving their partner/spouse/mate bereft and devoid of hope. Is this what it means to be in a relationship? And what about sex?!?!

There's nothing wrong with a healthy sexual encounter with your partner. Sex is an integral part of a relationship. But what happens when there's too little, none at all, or too much even? I love a good shag, love it! But let's be for real. I'm not at an age where I can go nonstop 24/7 anymore. There's nothing wrong with my stamina, but fucking can get old after all. There has to be some emotional connection. In my friends, and not too long ago with myself, there's a great disparity when it comes to sex. Either the relationship is based all on sex or there's just that Platonic status quo. The "roommate" mate/spouse syndrome. Again. Been there, done that, sold the rights, was a best seller, moved on.....

What I've learned since exiting my teens and 20s, is getting drunk, high, and having meaningless sex at the drop of a hat, does not make a well-rounded individual. At least not for me. I need someone with a moral center; someone I can connect with on a emotional and spiritual level, yet still have earth moving sex! Hester and I compared our war stories. She totally supported my decision in leaving Naps. Lady Miss T, the same. Reflection reminds me of my own failed nuptials, solidifies the whole "single" status lately. They both know me, perhaps better than I know myself. Each knows my heart well, knows the sentimental creature inside who needs balance.

Mind you, I'm not content with being alone, but for now, perhaps it's a good thing. I'm rediscovering myself, getting to be friends with myself, and learning to love myself even more. Self-respect has always been difficult for me. I've allowed many a partner, men and women, dominance and control in my relationships. Not because I'm a doormat, but because I'm giving caring, and compassionate. I tend to care for others greater than I do myself. I've often neglected my own needs over someone else.

Case in point, Napoleon.

In those quiet still moments, his presence lingers. My home echoed from the residual of our doomed friendship, doomed one-sided love story. Naps left clothes, toiletries, sheets, books, CDs, you name it, here. He never asked for it back. I didn't want to deal with it any longer and unceremoniously threw it in the garbage without second thought today! Normally I wouldn't do such a thing, but since he had stolen large amounts of cash and never returned borrowed items, including a $300 pair of dress shoes, I felt justified. It put a finality to it all. There's nothing left of him here.

I don't miss him, but do miss companionship. A dysfunctional relationship is still a relationship. Yeah, loneliness is a bitch and a half. Shit! It's a bitch and a GOOGLE. But you know? I'd rather deal with my own emotional discord than a selfish partner's.

Don't mistake this post as being maudlin. It's not. It's an observation and me working through things because of the current romantic void. I'm not in denial or being needy. Wholeheartedly, my decision to stop my dysfunctional connection with Naps has been the best life affirming decision made to date. Removing that evil from my life has increased my self-worth, -esteem, and integrity ten fold. I did a courageous thing. I invested in myself. Kicking deadbeat boy to the curb, strengthened me.

Despite adversities, I bless each passage with the men and women I've dated. Why? Because without those experiences, I wouldn't have grown. I learned from each endeavor. What are my limitations, what will I accept, what will I tolerate... through those failed commitments, I learned patience, tolerance, the value of truth, honesty, compassion, and trust. I know what the real McCoy is worth. The day I meet "the one," who ever that'll be, I'll appreciate the genuine article so much more with my current self improving process.

If you're fortunate enough to have a partner in your life, take a moment, and give them something special today. It doesn't have to be anything major, just a small gesture demonstrating your love for them. Something as simple as a smile, a neck rub, or telling them they're beautiful. It's the little kindnesses which make all the difference. Being a sentimental person, I remember all the stupid inane things my partners did to cheer and move me when I was down. Believe me a small bit of affection, appropriately given, is so meaningful and goes a long way.

In the end, your blessing will bring a million fold in reward.

Sorry. I didn't mean to get all mushy or sappy. The flux of emotions has got me under a spell. I'm missing something. Again, I'm not complaining. I believe God has a great blessing in store for me, I just need wait on Him.

-Darktomahawk