11:27 p.m. - April 21, 2003
At risk of appearing odd, immature, and socially retarded, I want to know if all, most, a few, or no other men beside myself experience the airplane hard-on. Every time I fly I carry my blue hooded sweatshirt to cover my lap because without fail, I develop one of those achy hard-ons that last for far too long, off and on Ė or Viagra-like on Ė for the flight duration. I was thinking most guys have this reaction but maybe not? I cannot be the only man affected by the vibrations and reprise the junior-high school mantra, Go down, please go down before I have to stand up. This is a sincere query that should be addressed.
The things I think about.
I am listening to classical music turned too loud and it is the drumming of the bass that comforts me tonight.
After two one-on-one sessions with my therapist and one group meeting of those involved in the study, Iím ready to call it a day and give notice of disillusionment and departure. That sneaky, counter-productive flee-adrenaline and the familiar pattern of developing cataracts to dodge uncomfortable issues collude, and quickly I wonder isnít the oblique preferable to the maieutic? I am frustrated that Dr. Indy doesnít play supplicant games, doesnít beat around the bush and instead brandishes the dagger and inquires, Do you recall the first experience of oral or anal intrusion? after asking about my Easter weekend. I understand the nature of a psychological study that intendss to collect ontological data and hence is more therapist-driven but doesnít she see how my tongue dries up and I lose my voice when she asks such questions? They are in-my-face and I prefer to evade and gloss and I cannot help but wonder if her theoretical orientation is CBT and what surprises may greet me down the road. In simple terms Iím afraid, more afraid of being afraid than fearing her questions. Does that make sense? And here in this paragraph my defenses are up, Iím relying on the structure of technical, non-emotional terminology, thinking without really thinking.
I see that I donít know how to talk about these things, donít know how to relieve myself. While her questions hurt they are a goosebump thrill, somewhere inside my head thereís a gust of air and I do not know how to tell her to ask me many questions one after another and overwhelm all my defenses so we can get down to business. The real business.
I mentioned this journal and she was intrigued, having read about blogs recently and sheís asked me to review some of the things Iíve written and attempt to discern patterns or specific issues or thoughts. Iíve never read my own archives though if I want to, I can likely recall the generalities of each entry. But here I roam like a drunk bum in an alley, never moving in a straight, coherent line on any issue. My writing is like coruscant Morse code, a slate of nothing punctured by bright flashes of lucid, if poorly developed, thoughts. Even here I donít let down my guard and that is what I yearn to accomplish here and generally. Most of the time I donít let down my guard to myself, censoring or obliterating thoughts before Iím aware of what I thought, catching vestigial glimpses and saying to myself, Mind over matter. How silly.
Does writing about my dream of funding research into sexual abuse of boys invite vulnerability? Does admitting out loud that I feel called to divinity school make me more of a hypocrite than I already am? As much as I feel ashamed and embarrassed about people knowing my business I want to set up a scholarship for art therapy students to study what happens to boys Ė yes, boys, because theyíre overlooked and forgotten Ė and tell them about what itís like to be me and looking for therapy and encountering so few therapists competent to address the issue that itís enough to want to crawl into the woods and die like a forgotten chick a few days past Easter. Damn it, Iím important, do you understand? Eh. Probably not. I donít, either. Iím not really a misanthrope, Iíve just given up on myself. But I donít want people to give up on me. I want to be asked questions, pushed, prodded, I want to crack and breathe. I want to be able to gain and understand perspective, put things in order, be able to distinguish me from me, know whatís a part of my personality and what isnít. Like being shy; am I shy because thatís me, or because I always feel dirty and inferior around people, something I know came from that whole experience.
Again, I ramble and make little sense.
I am sad tonight, not an afraid sad or a morose sad, but a worry sad. I worry I will find an excuse to stop seeing Dr. Indy, I worry I wonít find an excuse. I just have to keep reminding myself that I donít want to be like I am now next year, the year after, however long my span will be.