Get your own
 diary at! contact me older entries newest entry

11:10 p.m. - January 12, 2003
I used to believe, wanted to, and the sour taste leaves me wanting
I've said it before, how much I abhor and dread this need to write about it, and when I do the egress is a torrent, unmanageable and confusing and there is little to be gleaned. I see two-fold goals: To detatch from and objectively analyze events and while maybe not forget them, file them away where they can do no harm. On either account I'm floundering. How to write without becoming a docudrama, a Jerry Springer episode? Yeah, so everybody's been sexually abused today, who gives a fuck?

The thing is, I do. I'm angry at myself for giving a fuck and angrier still for being angry. I'm ashamed of my reticence as well as the distate I have for the reticence. I'm confused and don't know the nearest exit route and if you know me at all, then you're aware how disturbing this is for me. I'm inured by excuses and finger-pointing and the time has come for a map of some sort, one that is less likely to be a yellowish brick road and more of a Muirish trek if I allow for it. In the absence of understanding and answers I want an escape valve and label box Dealt With. And yet I recoil from the urgency and shame I feel for wanting to examine closer these childhood events, feel hemmed in by what seems to be the the symbol of an age, similar to the peacenik sign of the 60s, the punk hairdos of the 70s, the fluorescent neons of the 80s, the mass consumption and quick disposal of the 90s until we've reached the Everybody is a victim plateau and isn't that so? Yesterday's paper claimed 1,500 priests are involved in the Sex Scandal of the Milennium and all hyperbole, yellow journalism, and marketing needs aside, I want a time out, a breather. I'm sorry, but being exposed to a genital does not constitute sexual abuse any more than seeing a Calvin Klein advertisement; sitting on somebody's lap, while surely awkward and uncomfortable, does not engender suicide and claims for redress 30 years later. I'm sorry, but it is not the same thing.

It can't be, can it? It's nauseating because the more I hear about the Catholic church and its priests and lawsuits emerging all over the country, the less security I have in confronting and dealing with my own experiences. I do not want to pat myself on the back and say It's okay Jason, because you were sexually abused as a child, as if exculpatory statements become mantras and prayer wheels on hilltops, the clickety-clack that lacks substance. And yet maybe my experiences, as unordered as they are, lack substance too. That's not true; if they were unsubstantial then I wouldn't be as affected as I am, and maybe that right there is the exculpatory sentiment I despise.

I'd like to forget it all and the more I tried, the worse things became; the more I confront and deal, the worse things are becoming. Lose - lose, no draw or rematch allowed. The whole is more than a tidy catalogue, an Excel spreadsheet: In Column A, manifestation; in Column B, cause, paired like an archaeological record. Fear of closet doors with shit that happened in a closet. Sexual intimacy with power relations. Distrust with Disneyland lollipops offered at a high price. Powerlessness with being used for someone else's pleasure. Fuck it. Why think of it tonight? That's part of my strategy, avoiding such thinking at night when I can't see past the windows.

It was once that the outside was confident, full of bravado and good-looking, a chance-taker and flirt, knew what he wanted and took it. The oyster was his. And now I'm ebbing away, drawing myself closer and closer and further from everything I once was and I think if only I come to terms, deal, get a grip, I'll be okay and dig myself out of this hole. I don't believe that any more.


previous - next


about me - read my profile! read other Diar
yLand diaries! recommend my diary to a friend! Get
 your own fun + free diary at!