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11:45 p.m. - December 15, 2003
Stream of consciousness is poor journaling
After the group therapy I came home Ė home! Where else could I go? Ė and attempted to organize, control, my thoughts and they are like imps rebellious and causing hurt and I do not know where to go. A literal uncertainty over a literal location so with lights off I sit in the corner of the living room between the couch and the wall and sit for little more than an hour until I feel warm and that things will be okay. I do not understand how I drove home, quiet streets, bridge, more quiet streets.

Tonight at therapy there was a paper clip on the carpet atop what Iíve decided is a lily pad and vectors and overhead lighting being what they are the glint was directly in my eyes for the duration. And tonight was about how past events influence shape determine, are, current relationships. I listened to *Genteel Aristocratic Fellow talk about his loneliness and search for companionship, how emotional intimacy has eluded him all these years and in his early 60s time, likelihood, chance, is running out because after the heyday of the 1970s there are few gay men his age and prospects is slim. So I listened and kept my eyes on the paper clip, packed away my white picket fence and minivan, two dogs in the backyard, a wife and children. Beating myself up over failing to achieve goals is fruitless when I can emulate ancient revolutionaries and raise a new banner or star, state new goals and pretend what isnít wasnít and begin counting anew. The longer I kick myself because Iím not who and what I planned to be is to take after *Genteel Aristocratic Fellow, an amiable guy seeking succor after having played too long. And immediately that voice pops up, But you donít play and I canít figure that out, either.

I do things to convince myself Iím worth hanging around. If I didnít, I donít think Iíd make it. Iím unsure what this means or if it makes sense anywhere outside my head. Iím becoming smaller and smaller and all I do is work so I can support my projects and tell myself Iím a good person because I help people pay for college, eat daily and attend school in Kenya and Bangladesh, send kids who were abused to summer camp. Iím nothing but a checkbook and my worldview, the way I am, is held together like a pledge card attached to my feet. I hate what I am, what Iíve become, hate how I feel guilty for buying a DVD on sale but write my tithe to church without a thought. I donít feel thereís a way out and how American is that, seeking definitive answers and road maps rather than making the best of whatís around you, suffocating. I donít know what Iím saying. No more writing in the dark or SoC.

We talked relationships and The-Therapist-I-Donít-Like-Much pressed about Spec and I thought for a moment, said I gave up my plans and Dana and the white picket fence because he believed in me when I didnít believe in myself and this is why I yearn for him in equal measure to being afraid, because it was another reason to hang on and try to make it. Yeah, heíd say hateful things and do hateful hurts but Iíd overhear him telling friends I was the smartest, the cutest, a big heart, funny and hard-working, sweet, and I donít believe these things, never do, reject compliments out of hand because I wonder what is wanted of me you know, butter up then injure.

This is not normal. I am not normal other than everybody feeling the way I do once in a while. Three of the group members brought the newspaper clippings from the poetry reading in and I was angry that they know my last name, know my dark damp secrets and how easily I cry, how inarticulate I am, how cold and cut off, angry that they took pride in my poetry and they donít even know it. If just for one brief moment, like the time between beats of hummingbird wings, Iíd like to see me through a new lens because it would be like taking a gasp of air. And The-Therapist-I-Donít-Like-Much said in the short time heís gotten to know me, he sees I give myself 1% of the credit I deserve and if that is true, why donít I believe it? I reject it out of hand almost as if I take pride in something or joy or satisfaction even it becomes polluted and distasteful so I avoid it. Maybe this colors my perceptions towards Ryan II and his endless stream of compliments and his interest in me. I am suspicious yet want, wary yet intrigued, brave and cowardly all at once.

Told them how Spec would begin fucking me and then wouldnít stop when I asked and sometimes begged him to and heíd laugh or say knock it off or get over it, how heíd become angry because the day before week before minute before I wanted it, then all of a sudden didnít and that makes made me a cocktease. I donít know how to interrupt break this cycle, you know? Do I pull away from people even more, especially with Ryan II for example, until I get things together or do I slog away frustrated and anxious and scared and drag people, such as Ryan II, on the mindless headfuck roller coaster that is my head? It is about trusting people and letting them in and when I do things go bad, ergo, donít do it but when I donít I feel even worse and when I do, I feel alive and hopeful and thrilled thrilling and then have my nightmares and canít sleep, feel guilty and . small and pull away. Over and over and over and Iím wondering, when will this be over.

Another want I want: Someone I can talk to, and who wonít mind if I cry and wonít make me feel stupid and bad when I do, but someone flesh and blood and I hate feeling needy so I take it all back.


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