11:10 p.m. - January 12, 2003
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
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.