1:11 p.m. - January 23, 2008
Lollipop, lollipop
I just can't hit the submit registration button for the Weekend of Recovery. What if it's a hokey, new-agey trope? What if it's a bunch of guys sitting in a circle bawling their eyes out? What if I freeze up and sit there mute while others talk? What if what if what if what if
what if it doesn't work for me? It's difficult to open up and be vulnerable with people, to put myself out there, make my needs known to others. But I'd rather be quiet than be someone who broadcasts his needs to the four winds, or be one of those public self-pitying figures. I pity and wallow but in privacy and only when the door is closed and can rest the outside me. I don't know how to ask for, accept, or give help; when amid the hurting and vulnerable I shut down because I don't know what to say, think, or do. A comforting hand on the back will never come from me not because I don't want to but because I don't know how, or when, to offer - so I don't. It's almost like while I can be affected by others I take it all in but nothing comes out, which probably makes me appear cold and unfeeling when it's quite the opposite.
what if the things I hope for don't happen?
It's so simple, really. I was bought for the price of a Disneyland lollipop brought back by the next door neighbor and I went willingly.
Why is it that I was a whore then but struggle with intimacy now? Dumb question, I know, but I envy those people with similar backgrounds who can sleep around and fuck with ease on the outside, can be touched and touch as long as the drugs or self-hate (despair?) are potent. And me, it's like I've gone the other way, where being touched or touching a man just causes more hurt than it's worth. And yet I want it so badly, yearn to feel comfortable with another. What they say about people who condemn the excesses of the so-called gay lifestyle is true: I judge and condemn because I'm jealous, bitter, and angry.
The price of a Disneyland lollipop.
