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11:55 p.m. - July 11, 2004
Good, this is good
In person Iím often described as articulate and eloquent, a confident, evocative speaker. This may be true only because of the care I take to be so, to wrap myself in words and flowery descriptions and hold in my hands the glories that are rationalism and pure logic, the most expedient mechanism by which I force people to stand their distance. Inside Iím a mess, with bits of language competing for attention and fighting for selection, like a swarm of sperm heading towards the egg Ė first one in wins the prize! Ė and I see how at first glance the two appear as polar opposites when really, articulation and mutable discourse are next-door neighbors between which I hide away. Even here in my private journal Iíve lost myself, have become critical when I upbraid myself for the distinct lack of polish - what hodgepodge is this, you should be ashamed - or direction - what is the point of writing? - because I censor what I write, disregard how I write, and finally donít know what I write.

First step: Lock journal. Make decision regarding readers: Enhance anonymity via censorship, or relinquish my comfort via honesty?

Second step: Honesty, honesty, honesty. This is my journal, damn it, and not evidence submitted by the prosecutor highlighting my shortcomings. My journal is an amicus curae, it is my amicus and Iíll say what I want.

Third step: Re-establish the comfort and joy I took in writing for myself.


I came across a website dedicated to men who have experienced sexual abuse. An entire organization and I wanted to scream, to howl, when I realized what Iíd found. Iíve been searching and hoping, not for a magic wand to make everything disappear but for a place I can call my own, a country of my own. Not a temporary abode on the borrowed ground of today-I-feel-good or today-I-feel-like-shit-because-last-night-I-dreamed-of-the-Bogeyman, but my place where nothing needs to be said because itís common knowledge. No need to smile and make good so people donít think Iím stubborn and insisting on dwelling, no need to draw attention as an excuse to talk about the things burning me up. Home. My own place where the common currency is that we are all men who were humiliated and have no place of our own, no bedrock for a stake or a pier for our boat. I began to cry when I read a post about wanting to hug and be hugged, but not allowing the possibility, forever ducking and holding people at bay. Post after post, eloquent and solid in the message hitting home, I am not alone. I am not alone. I am not alone. DO YOU HEAR, I AM NOT ALONE. DO YOU HEAR? DO YOU? I AM NOT ALONE. I AM NOT ALONE!

Writing privately I can cry and howl all I want and how often have I wanted to, how much at this moment when Iím safe behind doors in the dark to dare him to come and I will watch him as he slithers my way. One day I will laugh and drive the stake through his head and claim victory, but I donít want to be alone on the battlefield, having exhausted my compatriots and those who would stand with me. Scorched-earth as a military stratagem has never failed beyond the immediate short-term and it sure as hell isnít working for me now. It is a shame to admit my fantasies of killing him, of making him suck my dick and pissing on him, to humiliate him the way he did me, of killing him for having killed me. I howl because there is no way to take my three years of god-awful pain and reduce it to a final act of revenge and I just cannot forgive and forget. I want to burn myself into his skin the way heís in mine, I want him to feel the heat of shame and sickness when somebody touches him as a friend or lover, I want him to long for closeness and the drink of water offered by a lover, only to have it be vinegar. I want all this, and more than anything I want to forgive him, I want to look in his eyes and say you may have forgotten, you may have a beautiful wife and children, but my name is Jason ----- and you lived next door to me at 40077 in Pleasanton, and when you were 19 and I was 8 years old you molested me. I watched you masturbate with my underwear and one day I climbed the fence and followed you into your house where I explored your body, and how quickly that innocence was perverted when you held me down and fucked my ass and stole from me my universe. Three years you used me as a reward for helping me improve my soccer skills, for the lie you told my parents about helping me learn to speak English because I stuttered, for living next door to you and not knowing any better. And you are a sick man. You are a sick sick sick man and I know you have not forgotten and I am being heard.

I must learn to listen first. Listen to the hum under the soil, hear the thump! thump! of the seasons changing, look around and say it is a good day today and take part. I do not live in a terrarium looking out. For too long Iíve pressed my face against the glass in awe and jealousy and thought that was the best I deserved. Well fuck that. Iím not a tourist and I demand a place, I have a place. How odd. Since that time my best defense was to keep moving, to eliminate ties, forego connection when all along I should have dug in and refused to move. I did nothing wrong and I donít have to run. You donít have to run, Jason. You are a beautiful person, you are smart and intelligent and you donít have to budge.


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