Philosophy of loss

I had a dream about Pop the other night.

I went to visit him at his home. When I got there he looked so sad. He asked me, "why don't you come to see me anymore?" I felt so guilty. I woke up and felt his absence. I have a photo of him on top of my television; I think of him everyday. I miss him so much that some days it hurts.

I just want to hug him one last time. I feel cheated.
So this is grief.

Nothing worth having ...

... comes without some kind of fight.

It's hard to explain the atmosphere here at home. In one sense nothing has changed; in another my revelation has become a bit of an elephant in the room.

Sister came home for lunch yesterday. On Saturday night Dad asked me "so are you going to tell Sister your news?" He had a Cheshire cat grin on his face. I just said no. "You thought you had more time didn't you?" he asked. "Yeh," I said, "I thought I'd have like three weeks or something, but even then I was going to see how things were at the end of the three weeks before making a decision." "Wise move" he said. I've been wondering what's going on in his head but, as ever, he isn't saying much.

Sister came and went; there was no sideways glances, no urgent whispering in the hallway, no discomfort.

Mum stuck her head into my room just after she'd left.
"So you decided no to tell Sister?"
"I was never going to tell her today."
"Oh?"
"The whole point of telling you and Dad separately was that you would both get a chance to get used to the idea. And you haven't."
"Yes, you're right, I haven't." She sounded slightly embarrassed. I smiled sweetly and tried to convey the sense that I wasn't trying to hurry her, that it was just a fact that she wasn't used to the idea yet. She looked a little less embarrassed and left the room.

Nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight.

Got to kick at the darkness 'til it bleeds daylight.

I noticed during the conversation last Thursday, Mum never used the word gay or any of its synonyms. Once she can give it a name, then I'll know she's moving somewhere. It took me years to say it to myself, even longer to say it aloud to another person. I don't envy her position at all.

I say all of this about my parents and their journey--one for which they had no choice but to participate--without judgement. In saying that Mum is having trouble accepting that I'm gay, I'm not saying it because I think she should hurry up or get over it. Although I do wish she would wake one morning instantly "over it", I know that it will take time. So I'm just telling it like it is, without judgement and without prejudice.

Dear Rachel,

After I put my tongue back into my mouth and wiped a tear from my eye, I decided to write a post dedicated to your comment on "The fallout". Usually I wouldn't give you the time of day, but you picked the wrong post to comment on. For the last month I have been anguishing over saying those four words to my parents: "Mum, Dad, I'm gay". "The fallout" was an emotional post to write for many reasons, not the least of which is that I hate seeing my mother in such a state of pain and confusion. I wrote what I thought was an honest and emotive piece of writing and you came along and chalked up the whole painful experience to self exploitation and telling the world about my sex life. That is not what it is about at all. Allow me to enlighten you, clause-by-clause.

Clarify this for me if homosexuality is about sex,

Homosexuality is not about sex. It is about love, attraction and identity. Sex is a by-product. Not all homosexuals are sexually active (I am not) just as not all heterosexuals are sexually active (my sister is not). Furthermore, in any given relationship, the sexual practices of homosexuals are as varied as there are couples--just as in the heterosexual bedroom.

should heterosexual couples flaunt themselves in public?

I strongly object to the word "flaunt". Is a man and a woman walking down the street hand-in-hand flaunting their sexuality? Many would say "of course not". Is a man and a woman kissing in public flaunting their sexuality? Again, many would say "of course not". I am one of them. If, however, the heterosexuals who bandy around words such as "flaunt" think that by doing the same things with my boyfriend that I am "flaunting" my sexuality, then so are they. Perhaps you are referring to the boys from the television show Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. Are their mannerisms, voices and/or demeanours tantamount to flaunting? Would you say the same of the mannerisms, voice and/or demeanour of a straight truck driver?

Some do, some don't

Either all do or all don't. You can't have it one way for heterosexuals and the other for homosexuals.

my point is that homosexuality has been around since the beginning of time.

This is one of the few things we agree on. It has been around since the beginning of time, and thank you for acknowledging that. The point you seem to miss here is that the stigma attached to it has not existed since the beginning of time; it is a far more recent invention.

They didn't need to exploit themselves they worked, they had their personal lives and life went on.

"Exploit" is an interesting choice of verb. Dictionary.com defines exploit as "to utilize, esp. for profit". I fail to see where the profit is in being one's self. I cannot see where the profit comes in. I am assuming that you think the very act of declaring one's self a homosexual is exploitation. But to what end? To get attention. To get the shit kicked out of you. Ask Matthew Sheppard's mother if the attention was worth it.

Furthermore, you have no idea how difficult it is to grow up gay. It's all very well to say that homosexuals should go on with their lives and leave everyone else out of it, however if they did so there would be no quality of life. Life for the sake of maintaining the staus quo isn't life. I'm not trying to appeal to your emotions nor am I being all "woe is me", all I'm doing is stating a fact: life is hard when you are taunted and bullied at school, told you're sinful and immoral at church and unnatural and abnormal at home. Suicide rates among gay teenages are just astronomical. I should know, I was very nearly a statistic.

Even in the early 60's everyone knew who was who.

I doubt that very much. I admit that I have only lived in the post-Stonewall society, when homosexuality is considerably more "accepted" than it was pre-Stonewall, so my conception of what things were like then is somewhat limited, but I would argue there was higher stigmatisation and hence lower numbers of people coming out and higher numbers of people hiding their true sexuality under the guise of a heterosexual marriage for dear life.

There was a certain amount of respect.

Again, I doubt that very much. Just because something was not spoken about does not mean that it is a case of the force of "respect" at work. I'd say it was more the force of fear.

I am not trying not to offend anyone, but I think this coming out as you call it is self exploitation.

This statement, more than any other, shows you have absolutely no idea what you are talking about. Firstly, everyone comes out for their own reasons and in their own way; some choose not to and some cannot. Personally, I chose to come out for two primary reasons: I was sick of lying to people I love and I was sick of the distance those lies put between us. I did not do it to say "look at me, look at me", nor to say "I'm a faggot and I hope that some day I can put my dick in some guy's arse". It was not a bid to gain attention. I would much rather this whole thing went away with a minimum of fuss.

What is personal is personal

Again, you miss the point. You are correct in saying that "personal is personal", however you say it like that is a bad thing. As I said earlier, homosexuality is not about sex. If it were then you might have a point. But as it is about identity then things get messier. We live in a heterosexist world. That means that people see things in terms of the male-female binary. Not only do they see things in terms of male-female but they assume things in terms of male female. When a boy is born it is assumed he will grow up to marry a woman (or at the very least be attracted to one). If you had people making assumptions about your identity every day you would want to set the record straight too (no pun intended). Furthermore, there should be no need for coming out. It is the heterosexism of our society that necesitates it.

should heterosexual couples say that they hang from chandeliers before making love.

This statement comes in as a close second to the one above in which you demonstrate that you don't know what you are talking about. In the entire coming out process I barely touched on details of my sex life, and only then with very close friends, not with everyone. Heterosexuals do, however, tell the world the sex of their partner. Why am I not extended the same courtesy?

I think your her son first and foremost,

Absolutely. But last week I was her straight son and now I'm her gay son. The entire point of "The fallout" was that she needs time to adjust, more time and in a more profound way than I had realised on Sunday night.

being a respectable part of society is all that a mother can hope for from her children.

There is no question that being a respectable part of society is part of what a mother can hope for, but is it everything? My mother hoped for a daughter-in-law and grandchildren. Now she won't get that. The dream is dead for her.

I think a good mate of any kind is better then being in a bad relationship.

That's nice but I don't see the relevance to the case at hand.

As the mother of six, I love and respect my children for their differences not their similarities.

Presently, my mother does not love nor respect me for my difference at all. She wishes I was similar. By the sounds of it, you would too if you were in her situation. That does not mean she doesn't love or respect me. Despite her sadness and confusion I can tell she respects me for having the guts to come out to her and Dad. That said, Mum has always encouraged me to be myself, not to simply blend into the background of banality. I don't think this is quite what she had in mind but I am only doing what she has instilled in me.

I don't know who you are or how you found your way to my blog but I suggest you close your browser right now and not come back if you don't like what I say, do or am. You obviously don't know anything about the struggle involved in the coming out process or extent of heterosexist discrimination in Australia.

So thank you, Rachel, for reducing a difficult, emotional and life-changing situation down to "self exploitation".

You don't know me.

The fallout

This afternoon Mum and I had a talk about some important issues, about things that needed clarification on her part and things that needed to be said on mine. It wasn't a linear conversation like the one on Sunday night--we went off on tangents and were met with a few circles--so while I remember what was said, I don't so much remember the exact words.

On Monday night, while I was packing my bag for the next morning, she called out to me: "Are you glad you told us?"--"Fuck yes!"--I forget what she said next, which was, ironically, the most important part. She said something about feeling sad for me. She feels sad for the pain, anguish and depression that I felt growing up, sad that her own son was depressed enough to seriously consider ending his own life. It killed me that I had made her sad.

I initiated the conversation this afternoon because I needed to make it clear to her that I'm over it. I'm over the confusion, depression and angst of my teenage years. I needed to make sure she knew that I am not in any inner-turmoil anymore; I am happy.

In all the online how to come out to your parents guides I've read, they all say that the parent/child roles get reversed. I never realise the extent to which this would be true until this afternoon. I asked her: "When you said you felt sad for me being depressed and confused as a teenager, was it for the simple fact that I felt that way? Or was it because you didn't know and therefore couldn't help?"
"Both," she answered, "but I'm also sad for the future."
"Ok," I said, "well the reason I ask is that I wanted to tell you that I'm over it. I mean yes, it was difficult and unpleasant, but I've worked it out, accepted it, and I'm happy now. So if you're blaming yourself for not knowing and therefore not helping, please don't. I'm ok. I'm happy. I wanted to tell you that. So feel sad, but not forever. I know that this is all new to you, but for me it was years ago and I'm over it, so there's nothing to be sad about anymore".

I asked her to clarify "sad about the future". She talked about how hard life is being gay and the fact that she always envisioned me getting married and having children. I told her that it's like a death in a way--the idea of me that had has suddenly died and it will take time to grieve.

She said she kept asking herself how she could have not known. She genuinely had no idea. I said that sometimes people are just too close, to which she answered "well your father worked it out". I said "well, he had the odd inkling, that's not the same as 'working it out'", but she looked unconvinced. I think she feels betrayed. Betrayed by me for not coming out sooner, betrayed at Dad for not saying anything about his suspicions, betrayed at the universe for giving her a gay son.

She said that she doesn't know a single gay person. "If statistics are correct, and it's one in ten, then why don't I know any?" I said that you might know someone, you never know. She also said that she's been more aware of the mention of homosexuality since Sunday. A group of girls in her class were rating guys in a magazine, saying things like "he's hot; he's gorgeous; nah not him, he's gay". I told her how much that annoys me and about the SMS I sent to Mx.

The mention of the one in ten statistic led into the natural/unnatural and normal/abnormal concept. I explained that many people confuse the terms "normal" with "the norm". I explained that "the norm" refers to the average, to the majority--"right-handedness is the norm"--but that doesn't mean that the exception to the norm is not normal. There is a lot of evidence of monogamous homosexual coupling in many animal species (I read an article on it last year some time). I explained that the word homosexuality didn't exist until the 18th century; before that it a non-issue. Same-sex marriage was practiced in medieval Europe (which I read somewhere, but I forget where, so I was glad when she didn't ask for any proof).

Somehow the issue of The Plan came up. I told her that a lot of time and energy went into that plan and that Liz was pestering me every few days for weeks before it happened. This led to how hard it was to actually come out to them and, in turn, to the fact that although I didn't know what to expect, I did know what not to expect. I wanted to make it clear, at a time when her perceptions of what I am are totally shattered, that I never doubted that she and Dad would be anything less than loving and supportive of me, regardless of whether they supported me being gay. I tried to steer clear of the word "acceptance"; I know it's way too early for acceptance. But she is trying so hard, I can see that, and that is half the battle won.

It's becoming increasing clear she has a long long road ahead of her on the path to "acceptance" and I didn't want her to feel she'd failed me any more than she has (not that I think she has failed me at all, but I have the feeling she feels she has failed me); I didn't want to sit there expectantly waiting for acceptance and have her feel pressure from me to do something she just can't do. She's still getting her head around such a huge, complicated concept.
"So you're pretty much set on the idea that this is it [being gay]?" she asked.
"There's no 'pretty much', Mum," I said, "this is it. I'm gay."
"But how do you know if you've never had a girlfriend? You could be attracted to men but it's just physical. You might fall in love with a girl. How do you know there isn't the right girl out there for you?"
"I just do, Mum."
"Did you ever been had crushes on boys at school?"
I told her I had had a crush on John at uni, trying to steer the conversation away from school because talking about the crush in high school is way too embarrassing.
"Ok Mum, it's like this. When you were my age, you had a dream of meeting Mr Right, didn't you?"
"Yes..."
"And did you think at the back of your mind 'maybe there's a woman out there for me?' You hadn't had a girlfriend either, so how did you know you couldn't love a girl?"
"Yes but..."
"It's the same for me."

I'm hoping that this chat, which was totally uncomfortable for me by the way, has started to chip away at her misconceptions and to solidify and rebuild her damaged sense of self-worth as a mother.

I'm hoping she'll start to see that being gay isn't good or bad. It just is.

I did it!

Tonight I came out to my parents. It went well. Although it happened less than two hours ago, the details are fast becoming fuzzy, so I thought I'd better get it down before I forget completely.

Sister came home today to spend the day and was driven back to the place she's staying by Dad at 8,30. He came home at about 9,15. So, after Grey's Anatomy, as Mum and Dad were sitting down to watch CSI, I took the plunge: "Mum, is it ok if we tape CSI? There's something I want to discuss with you." To my great surprise, she didn't ask any questions; she just turned on the tape, turned off the TV, and sat with her hands in her lap. Dad walked in and asked why the TV was off. "Daniel has something he wants to discuss." Mum said. They both looked at me. There was no escape.

"Well," I started, desperately willing my heart to stop beating so damn fast, "there's something I want to discuss, and I've been meaning to talk with you about it for a while now but for one reason or another the opportunities never really eventuated, and also I was kinda worried about your reaction, particularly Sister's, so I kept putting it off, but then she went on this course of hers and so this is the ideal time really." I stopped to take a breath. "Ok, so what I want to tell you is ... that I'm gay." Silence.

"That's ok with me." Dad said.
"How do you know?" Mum asked.
"How do you know that you're not gay?" I asked.
"Well that's different." Mum said.
"No it isn't. I mean if sexual orientation is core to your identity then you just know, you know. Just like you know you aren't gay." She seemed to accept that.

"How long have you known?" Mum.
"Well I guess I've always known in some way, certainly since my early teenage years, it was more a case of accepting it, which didn't happen till about 18 months ago."

"Have you met someone?" Mum again.
"No."
"Have you met someone before?"
"No."

"So you're worried about Sister." Dad. It was more a statement than a question.
"Yeh."
"Well is there any reason to tell her? If you meet someone then tell her, but until then there's no reason to say anything."
"But it's not easy to live with her when you're gay."
"Why?" Mum.
"Well, it's hard to explain, I just don't think she'll be happy." Dad nodded. "I mean she goes on and on about it. Homosexuals this, homosexuals that. You two probably haven't noticed so much because it's not an issue for you, but I think about it all the time."
"What kind of things does she say?" Dad. Or possibly Mum. I don't remember who asked this.
"Oh you know, about same-sex marriage, adoption, things like that."
"Well marriage is a thing between a man and a woman ..." Mum began, but I interrupted.
"Let's not go here tonight, ok?"
"Ok."
"Sister will be fine, you're her brother, she loves you." Dad.
"I know she loves me, and I don't doubt that she will continue to love me. But say, for example, I meet someone, she won't condone it and she'll make a point of not condoning it. She still talks about Lala and Cal living together out of wedlock."
"True."
"She's just not going to like it, that's all. And she seems to be on a crusade sometimes."

"So what about the rest of the family?" Dad. "What about your grandparents?"
"What about them?"
"Well I know it isn't a case of going down there one weekend and breaking the news, I suppose that you only need to say something if you meet someone and want to bring them to Christmas." Dad again.
Let me interrupt here to say what this means: that he is ok with me bringing a boyfriend to Christmas, a move which is fraut with danger at the best of times. This is a good sign.
"Well I know they suspect."
"Who does?" Mum.
"Uncle asked Lala 'Do you think Daniel's gay?' and then told her they've all been curious about it."
"Why would he ask Lala?"
"I assume he figured that she would know and would tell him. She didn't though. I mean she knew but didn't say much."

"So who else knows?" Mum asked. I was dreading this question.
"Well, all my friends, Lala and her siblings, Cal, Tia."
"Who are 'all your friends'?
"Liz, James, Calla, people at uni. Everyone really."
"So we're the last ones?"
"That's what Tia said."
"When did you tell her?"
"Last time I was down there."

"Are there any other choices you have made that you want to tell us?" Mum asked. I let the whole choices concept slide.
"No no. Choices like what?"
"I was afraid that you were going to tell us you were contemplating suicide again."

This lead into the reasons behind my depression in the past and the reason for the suicidal tendencies. Partly this was because of my illness and partly because of my confusion over my sexuality.

So in conclusion, Mum was totally taken by surprise. Dad was neither shocked nor unshocked. When Mum commented that she had no idea, Dad said that he had suspected it a few times but then not thought any more of it. As it turns out, these were suspicions that he hadn't shared with Mum, who was not happy at not being let in on his thoughts. Dad also revealed that the above Uncle had asked him in the past but he hadn't thought about it any further.

Mum was more upset because "it's just such a hard life." I just said "I know Mum, but there's not much I can do about it except make the best of it."

Obviously there was more to it than what I've written here, but these were the main points of conversation covered.

All in all it went really well. The only remotely hurtful thing that was said was Mum saying "Well I'm not going to say congratulations or anything." They couldn't believe I was so worried about telling them. "It's not a huge deal" they kept saying. They fail to realise that it's life and death for me in a way. But there's time for education. I left for a cigarette break and gave them some "my child is gay, what now?" printouts from PFLAG's website.

"So. Who needs a cigarette?"
"Me." Dad, the staunch non-smoker replied.
"Mum? You want one?"
"No thanks."
Then Dad said "You got a joint?"

Sociology 101

I had my first sociology tute today. Three things stood out:

1. The tutor is the biggest fidgeter I've ever met over the age of eight. He couldn't stand or sit still. The entire lesson he was sitting on his haunches on a chair, rocking and balancing precariously, standing, balancing on one leg and sitting on the table top. It was exhausting just watching him.

2. The building our class is in has the feeling of a condemned shack that feels like it will collapse at any given moment for no apparent reason. Unsurprisingly, it is called the Transient Building. A quick google search revealed that it was built during the second world war to cater for troops away from home (more here). Not only does it look like it was thrown together by a blind recycling-junkie, it is chock-full of asbestos! This means it would cost a lot to demolish due to the risk to workers (although to be honest, I've always wondered to what "a lot" refers). I would submit, however, that the risk of asbestos exposure to students and staff would be significantly higher if the whole building collapsed under it's own pathetic weight. Maybe the university senate should think about that?

3. We did the inevitable introductory crap today--with a twist. We had to introduce ourselves to the person next to us and talk about our hobbies and the like and, since it is a sociology class, explain what we think is the most pressing sociological issue. The guy next to me was Luke. He was in his late 30s (I'm guessing) and seemed really intelligent. He enjoys sport and his most pressing issue was drug abuse among young people, specifically the reasons for which they turn to drugs in the first place. I took a deep breath, aware that he could probably pummel me through the floor, and told him that for me the most pressing sociological issue was homophobia, especially institutionalised homophobia. He nodded sagely. Turns out his brother is gay and he's in total agreement: the whole system of relationship recognition in this country is fucked (and not to mention an international embarrassment), Howard is a homophobic prat, right-wing christian fundamentalism and/or red-neckality (OK, I made that word up just now, he didn't it) is creeping into our government and he's convinced that it's not a choice (because let's face it, who'd choose to be vilified, discriminated against and hated?).

When it came time to introduce each other, he said "This is Dan; his most important sociological issue is homosexuality". It sounded like I was saying I had a problem with homosexuality. I was about to jump in and save myself when he added "and the discrimination that they face in day to day life". Lot of people nodded. My work was done.

So all in all it was a good day.

The sky is falling! The sky is falling!

Twenty minutes ago I was lying peacefully in bed, sleepily mulling things over in my mind (and by things I mean "the plan"), when I was jolted from my semi-conscious state by a rather unusual sound. It sounded wooden, clunky, scary, falling and wrong. I jumped. I tried to figure out what the sound could have been. Unfortunately, in my foggy state, my usually astute logical powers of deduction did not come easily. I turned on the lamp and saw nothing new. It occurred to me I really need to clean my room since the mystery noise could have been any number of things and with all the shit strewn all over the place I'd just never know.

I started to think laterally. No mean feat at this time of the night, let me tell you! It sounded wooden and clunky, I thought to myself. What in this room is wooden and clunky? ... Nearly everything. But not everything can fall ... I looked up at a small shelf, bolted to the wall above my bed. It didn't appear to be sitting properly. I put my face up against the wall next to it and looked at it side-on. I could see behind it. Wait a minute, I thought, this isn't right. I slowly drew back and realise the entire shelf was being held to the wall by two screws instead of the usual four; the top two had come undone and the whole thing was tilted forward at an unnerving angle. Above the very spot previously occupied by my sleeping head. Fuck! My shelf is falling! I felt a little like Henny-Penny.

I got out of bed and went into Mum and Dad's room. "Quick, Dad, I need a philip's head!" I said quickly. "Huh?" Dad said. Evidently this shelf was intent on ruining more sleep than just mine. "I need a philip's head screwdriver," I repeated, "my shelf is hanging off the wall and I need to do something about it before it decapitates me or something." He furrowed his brow. I tried to explain further. "Ok you know the blue shelf above my bed?" He nodded. "Well, it's screwed into the wall with those metal plaster-screw-fixed thingos, right." He nodded, this time slower. "Ok so the screw has come out of the metal thing in the wall." The nodding continued to slow.

I decided that perhaps an illustration was in order to properly explain the situation. I made my left hand into a cylinder and explained "this is the metal thing in the wall". I then inserted my right index finger into the 'hole' in the left hand, moved it in and out a few times and said "and this is the screw. It moves in and out." I stopped suddenly as it occurred to me exactly what I was doing.

Dad simply said "So it's fucked?"
"Yes. Fucked."

The formerly-bolted-to-the-wall shelf is now sitting on the floor where it can't unwittingly decapitate anyone.

Trapped

Sleepy: (adj) The state of being comfortably in need of sleep or rest, often characterised by uncontrollable yawning and the eyes gently closing in the way little kids' do when they need to go to bed. This state is comfortable, warm or pleasant; either a welcome relief at the end of a busy day or a minor inconvenience in the middle of the day. When sleepy, the mind may not work properly, or it may play tricks. One is still able to function in terms of their daily activities, with some diminished capacity (for example, they may be able to read a book, but may not take in what they are reading).

Exhausted: (adj) Physically speaking, totally fucked. The state of having so little energy that one can only slump themselves into bed and not move from the first position in which they lay, regardless of how comfortable that position is. This state is uncomfortable, unpleasant and at times a little scary. When exhausted, the mind either fails to work at all (resulting in failed attempts at even the most basic of daily activities) or it might race at 100km an hour while the body is incapacitated (resulting in the person being unable to sleep because their mind keeps racing, often with thoughts about how crappy they feel). It is possible to be exhausted without being sleepy; they are two completely distinct states.

Yesterday I felt terrible. I lay down for a nap at around 5 and felt that old trapped feeling coming back. This trapped feeling, I should point out, is completely different to the feeling of being trapped inside some existential prison of not being out to the family. This is a physical prison; this is being trapped inside my own body. Readers who have (or have had) ME/CFS/fibromyalgia or who have ever suffered a migraine will be nodding their collective head right about now. For those of you who haven't experienced these things (and be thankful you haven't, niether is in the least pleasant), I'll do my best to describe it.

I lay down, got comfortable. Well, as comfortable as I could. I wasn't particularly sleepy; I was exhausted (see definitions above). I lay there, unable to move (a lot like being pinned beneath a concrete block), thinking about how I got myself into this mess. It would appear that the 9am lecture plan was not a good one after all. The rationale was noble, I even felt ok on the day, but the aftermath is just too much. The worst part about that trapped exhaustion is being aware of it. I couldn't fall asleep because I wasn't sleepy, I couldn't move because I was exhausted, and I couldn't turn my fucking mind off!

I was going to write this post last night but the whole abnormal thing came up and took precedence. This post was a lot better in my head. So much going at the moment.

Abnormal

A fortnight ago I was unnatural. Tonight I am abnormal. Abnormal and pissed.

Mum and I are watching Everwood, our new favourite show; Mum in the loungroom and me in bed (the loungeroom is next to my bedroom so we can call out comments to each other). There was a story line of a fifteen year old boy, Kyle, who was socially awkward, moody and had no apparent interest in girls. Sound familiar? Like me perhaps? So Ephram, the boy's piano tutor/mentor/friend, thinks he might be gay.

"Is it gayness?" Mum asked.
"Is what gayness?" I asked.
"Kyle. Is he gay? Mum asked
"Just watch and see."

The show continues. Ephram talks Kyle into asking out the hot girl and then Kyle goes on the date. The girl starts drinking and tries to grope the poor boy, who gets uncomfortable and calls Ephram to pick him up. The next day, Ephram talks to Amy (his on-again-off-again girlfriend) about the whole thing. The thrust of the conversation was that Ephram was wrong to force Kyle to ask the girl out, that he was being a homophobic jerk, and who cares if he's gay anyway? There's nothing wrong with it. Ephram goes to Kyle's place and finds him in bed, crying:

"There's nothing wrong with being ..." started Ephram.
"Don't say it. Don't say that word. " Kyle interrupted.
"...gay." Ephram continued.
Kyle doesn't want to be gay and thinks that if he doesn't want it strongly enough that it will all go away (wow, this kid is me). Ephram tells him it doesn't work that way. It's normal. If you go on denying it you'll be miserable.

"There you go," I called out to Mum. "If you're just patient then you'll find out what happens when it happens!" Mum and I have this private joke about her always asking me questions when I know what happens.
"What a shame." She said.
"Huh?"
"I thought it might be this."
"Well then why did you ask?"
"Because I didn't want him to be gay."
... silence ... (wracking my brains for something to say).
"It's so sad and hard. Such a hard life. And what Ephram said was wrong. It's not normal."

Two words I hate--normal and they--spoken by my own mother. You might wonder why I hate these words so. I hate them because they allude to difference, to an "us and them" dichotomy. If being heterosexual is normal, then logically everything else is abnormal. The same goes for illness or disability. If being able to walk unassisted is normal, then logically not being able to makes you abnormal. When describing people in these groups--the abnormal, disabled queers--the pronoun they is used. There is separation from the speaker. Whether they mean to or not they are creating distance, telling the listener that they are not different. The show continued as I stewed a little.

"Don't let anyone ever tell you that being gay is normal." She called out, a kind of post-script to the last conversation. I think I made some non-committal noise; I was too busy not believing my ears to formulate any actual words. She continued: "I'm not saying that they're not wonderful people, but they're not normal. I mean it's not like 10% of the population are left-handed, sexual preference is at the core of your identity."

Third word I hate: preference. It implies that non-heterosexuality is a choice. I don't think I need to elaborate on this one.

So anyway, where does this leave the whole grand plan of outage? Fuck, I'm confused. To be honest I still have the resolve to go through with it, so it's not like I'm going to give up. I'm just acutely aware of the difficulty I'm going to face. I'm also mad. Who the fuck does she think she is? Dictating normality. I also feel like shit after a long week. My legs feel like they're full of water, I'm tired, my eyes ache and my head hurts.

Maybe I should print out a picture of five guys fucking and leave it on the coffee table. It'd certainly save time and preparation.

Adventures of an enunciator

Disability services at uni has given me a copy of a program called Dragon that transcribes what I say into the computer. I spent a good deal of last night "training" it to my voice. There's been a few mistakes, mostly of the innocuous variety (say instead of see) but one in particular has stuck out in my memory (fellate instead of select). I have to keep training it to my voice so that it can accurately transcribe a dictated essay when assessment time roles around. This way, I can "write" my essays and assessments without actually writing (and, in turn, not wear myself out too much). It's very exciting. The thing I need to learn is to enunciate a bit better. This is not speaking slowly necessarily, just accurately. The program isn't stupid, it just doesn't come equipped with mumble-decryption technology.

In other news, I have now successfully completed my first week of tertiary study. Yay me.

This morning I (technically) woke at 6:15. I didn't gain full consciousness until about 6:25. I got up at 6:30, dressed, and was out the door by 6:40. It was still dark while all of this transpired. I was on the train, before I knew it, by 6:55. I caught the train at this ungodly hour so I could get to uni this morning to get there in time for my 9am sociology lecture. I actually arrived on campus at around 8:30 and made a bee-line to one of the many union coffee outlets for a shot of caffeine. Five minutes after ordering, my coffee was ready. The woman said "next one is on the house because it took so long", so I wonder if she'll remember me when I front up bleary-eyed on Tuesday morning next week and demand a free cuppa. More importantly, I wonder if I'll remember.

Both my lecturers are great, the subjects are really interesting, the textbooks are really heavy (though thankfully not required to be toted around to all corners of Sydney with me), the theatres are comfortable, the coffee from the above mentioned union store is amazing (if a little tardy), the people are friendly, the boys are (for the most part) hot, the trees are green, God is in His heaven and all is right with the world.

My public transport experiences today were interesting. The people you meet on buses trains are really amazing. On the bus on the way to uni I made my way to the four seats at the front of the bus that face each other (the ones with a little sign on the window saying "Please vacate this seat for elderly or less mobile passengers") and attempted to sit down next to a guy in his early-to-mid twenties who was sitting sideways across two seats with his bum on the aisle seat and his massive backpack on the other. I sat on the window seat, in the foot of space left over after his backpack was taken into account, and wriggled to get him to move over. The rude bugger didn't move. It was only the early time of morning that prevented me from saying something.

On the train on the way home this afternoon, I was sitting down, minding my own business, reading one of the Howard-hating university publications that seem to be standard issue around campus when a guy walked down the aisle looking for a seat. I had a double seat to myself, with a photocopied article occupying the aisle seat, so I picked up the article so he could sit. "Thanks man," he said, "what you reading?"--"It's just an article for uni," I said.--"What are you studying?"--"Linguistics."--"What's that?"--"It's the study of how language works."

He was in his early twenties, smelt of cigarettes and whisky and had two mates in tow. It was around midday. We got talking about how he'd finished school at year 10 after getting Ds and Es (up until this point I didn't know that there was such a grade as E in Australia), how he is now an apprentice chef and how he loves rap and R&B (which, incidentally, I hate). He showed me an ipod shuffle that he'd bought that day and asked how easy it was to get music from CDs to the ipod. A station down the line he saw a girl on the station that he recognised. She was, as he practically shouted to the entire carriage, hot. She joined us and halfway through the trip cottoned on to the fact that we had just met and couldn't believe we were chatting so comfortably after just having met.

Throughout all this, an elderly gentleman (read: old fart), with the biggest nose I've ever seen on another human being, kept turning around in his seat and shooting disapproving looks at us. I don't know why, because with the possible exception of the rather graphic description of the hot girl and my new friend talking about a recent HIV test, we didn't really say or do anything offensive.

So all in all, it's been an interesting week.

Yesterday was my first day at uni.

Both lectures were of the "here is what we'll be doing" variety with very little substance. This was great because I didn't have to think much at all. Tutorial classes start next week so we'll see how all that goes as far as thinking goes.

The campus seems to be getting smaller, which is excellent. At first it seemed a gaint maze of quaint old (and some not so quaint, more just plain ugly) buildings; now its just a maze of buildings. Now that I've learnt my way around I've realised everything is fairly close. The only obstacle now is the abundance of stairs. I hate them. My legs hate them. I need to learn where all the lifts are.

Well that's about it really. I'd write more but I just woke up and I'm not feeling particularly creative. I'll leave you with yesterday's non sequitur cartoon:

I may hate you sometimes ...

... but I'll always love you.

Sister has gone to a three month residential leadership course for World Youth Day 2008. This means I can breath easily for the first time in a long time.

This song, I may hate you sometimes, by The Posies sums up our relationship beautifully. The problem with any relationship like the one between Sister and I is that it is so multi-dimensional, so multi-faceted, that it cannot easily be explained. Nonetheless, I'll give it a try.

Here we are, only been a couple of years, maybe longer.
Yes it's true, I'm no good at being the strong man, you're stronger.
But I think maybe you should take a good look at my feelings.
Can't you see I'm another one just like you, a human being?

While she's always been difficult to live with, it's only the last few years that she's been on the religious warpath. She's always been a force in this household, stronger than me by far. In many ways I am at the bottom of the food chain in this house. Usually I don't mind, to be honest, because everyone leaves me alone to do my own thing. The problem with this setup is that when I do try to assert myself, it often takes Mum and Sister by surprise. Mum and Sister always, for example, ask Dad and I to get them things--a glass of water, a piece of paper, a pen--even when they are closer to the object in question. Dad and I are the servants in this house. I could be lying in bed, resting and watching TV, and get called upon to get a drink because Sister doesn't want to get up off the lounge. I've tried to explain the disparity in this arrangement but she always gets shitty with me. So I just do it, to keep the peace. Similarly, I try to explain my point of view on more existential questions and she either doesn't get it or brushes it aside. Take, for example, the time that I stood up for gay marriage: Sister has the pope on her side, who can argue with that?

I don't want to have to sacrifice to have to get along
I don't ever want to be the one to say I'm wrong
I may hate you sometimes, but I'll always love you

So often times I just relent and say "Yes, sister, you're so right, what was I thinking? That gay people should get the same rights as everyone else? How stupid of me." I feel like a traitor to myself and to all of the gay Australians fighting for equality, but at least I won't be arguing in circles for an hour. She seems unable to see new points of view at times.

What did you say? It's so hard for me to remember what you meant.
How did it happen? Was it preconceived or a complete accident?
I still recall we were once happy together, smiling faces.
But things have changed and now you're only happy when I remember where my place is.

When we were younger we weren't a picture of perfect siblinghood: we fought over little things like any siblings do. I called her ugly, she called me stupid. We loved each other fiercely: I protected her at school when she was teased because her teeth were crooked and she let me play with her teddy bears. There are still vestiges of that childhood connection today: she is a strong advocate for ME/CFS, constantly informing her friends about it, selling merchandise to raise money for ME/CFS charities and freely giving her time to the ME/CFS Society. There's no question that Sister is a generous and compassionate person, it's the other dimension of Sister that I don't like.

I don't want to have to live up to your expectations
I don't ever want to be the one to end relations
I may hate you sometimes, but I'll always love you

That dimension is that she expects me to be like her: to believe her beliefs, the way she does, and to do things the way she does them. If I take something out of the oven using a tea-towel instead of an oven mitt she will tell me I'm doing it wrong, I should use an oven mitt. The irony is that one of the few things we have in common is our attraction to men yet that commonality is not going to be accepted with open arms. I recognise that I am part of the problem here. She expects me to believe as she does because I haven't given her cause to doubt that I do believe what she does. After years of lies and half-truths, digging myself out of this hole isn't a simple process.

Do you think you could treat me
Like somebody special
I can't be everything to everybody
Could I at least be something to you?

Few people have the ability to make me feel like shit like she does. Perhaps this is because I love her so? I'm a people-pleaser; I don't want to talk myself up too much but I do think I am a pretty selfless person. I'd much rather help others than help myself. In some ways it's a strength, in others it's a flaw. She treats me like a child. If I spill a glass of water she'll yell at me, "Daniel, be more careful!" She doesn't see that a spilt glass of water is no big deal. You just mop it up and get on with life.

Don't look so surprised, I'm a little smarter than every other weakling.
Say no more. I know exactly what you're going to say without you speaking.
A familiar phrase. I've heard it said often before, "Please forgive me"
Don't be a fool, If I can't live with myself how could you live with me?

Sister often realises she has hurt me after the fact, and asks for forgiveness. I always give it. I have no problem forgiving her, that is what you do for people you love. I just wish she would learn from her mistakes; she is always seeking forgiveness for the same transgressions. She doesn't seem to learn. But then all humans are like that, creatures of habit. I know her so well I can predict her reactions to nearly any situation. Most, that is, except the most important one of all--my coming out. I have no idea what she will say or do. I can imagine several possible scenarios, but I can't ever decide which is most likely to happen.

Now that I'm filled with emotion you're dispassionate
You only live for yourself while I live to regret
But don't ever think that I could easily forget
Because I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't
I said that I would but now I know that I won't
And the chance of being right is looking kind of remote

So what to do? If I come out she will react badly. If I don't come out, I will be living in this prison of lies forever. Until recently I was willing to just let it go, tell her nothing and live in a state of semi-peace with her. But I've realised that that won't serve anyone. She will be clueless and I will be anxious all the time. It's time to grow up and be selfish for once. I need to get out of this prison of my own making and start living life for myself for once.

I may hate you sometimes but I'll always love you

So what it all boils down to is that I love her and hate her at the same time. But that's not entirely true, if I'm honest, is it? I don't hate her. I hate her actions, her beliefs, her way of doing things. I hate the way she treats me. I love the way she loves me. We are just so different that friction is inevitable. Something has to give though, and soon.

I may hate you sometimes but I'll always love you

So the plan is this: come out to Mum and Dad while she's away and then (hopefully) come out to Sister with their support once she returns. I've always wanted to tell my parents separately but I've never had a chance before. This is my golden opportunity.

No matter what happens, she will always love me. Maybe that's the problem?

More name that tune.

"I feel like a quote out of context, withholding the rest so I can be for you what you want to see."
Story of my life really.

"I will paint my picture, paint myself in blue, red, black and grey. All the beautiful colours are very meaningful."

"She came all the way from America, she had a blind date with destiny. And the sound of Te Awamutu had a truly sacred ring. Now her parents are divorced and her friend's committing suicide."
Reminds me of my best friend from high school, Lin. This was her favourite song.

"Your cruel intentions won't solve your problems, everyone's gotta get bottomed out in the long run and those are the times you need love."
Reminds me of last year, listening to music on the bus on the way to uni.

"She gets grumpy when she doesn't come. She says 'hey boy, you get all the fun'."
Reminds me of cooking dinner for Pop when I stayed with him last July. I had just got this album and had it playing in the kitchen.

"There's never a wish better than this when you've only got 100 years to live."

"Sara, you're the poet in my heart. Never change. Never stop."

"Give me peace within my time, turn my water into wine. Every little thing's alright when you come around tonight. I'm not feeling any pain cause you take my pain away and I dedicate my love to only you."
Reminds me of driving home one night with Liz. We had this song on repeat the whole way home.

"Tell me do you think it'd be alright if I could just crash here tonight? You can see I'm in no shape for driving and anyway I've got no place to go."
Reminds me of glanduar fever in 1997.

"Where are my angels? Where's my golden one? Where's my hope now that my heroes have gone? Some are being beaten, some are being born and some can't tell the difference anymore."
Reminds me of my depression in 1999.

"Today I finally overcame tryin' to fit the world inside a picture frame ... You should have seen that sunrise with your own eyes; it brought me back to life."
Reminds me of going on holiday with Tia in 2002 to the beach. I'd just bought the album Any Given Thursday and had it playing non-stop.

"I wish I had a river I could skate away on. I wish I had a river so long, I would teach my feet to fly."
Reminds me of the guy I was in love with in high school.

"I picked on ya, I picked on ya Sonya, I picked on ya Sonya, cause Sonya I had a crush on ya."
Reminds me of Liz.

"Here by my side, an angel. Here by my side, a devil. Never turn your back on it. Here by my side, it's heaven."
Reminds me of staying at Lala's and watching Queer as Folk all day.

"We'll ride the wave, you sail further from home. Wish I could find a place much deeper than this room."
Reminds me of painting.

"Black comes out clear, smashed on the pier. Stop stalling, I'll piss on everything that you own."
Reminds me of early high school; I wasn't very happy then.

"Everything’s so blurry and everyone's so fake and everybody’s empty and everything is so messed up."
Reminds me of driving down the F3 freeway with Lala, this song on repeat and full-blast all the way home.

"She was one in a million, so there's five more just in New South Wales."
Reminds me of Lin, singing this at the top of our lungs at school.

Insensitivity

After spending the night at Liz's place, I returned home this afternoon and told Mum the story of Enzi's last night. She said "I'm glad you weren't there to see that, it sounds horrible". I agreed, although I would have liked to say goodbye. I said that although I wasn't there, it was my blanket that comforted him as Tia held him. She asked which blanket I was talking about and I said "you know, the pink woolen one that used to be on my bed; I gave it to Tia when I got my double bed".

All she could say was "What!? That was pure wool. Why did she use that one?"

"Because it was the nearest thing she grabbed", I said. "Well couldn't she have used an old sheet?" she replied. "Mum", I said, now upset, "her dog was dying, do you think she stopped to think about what sheet or blanket she used to comfort him while he was in pain? No one has old sheets lying around in their bedrooms in case of messy emergencies!"

So it seems the old FAL insensitivity gene is alive and well in my mother.

I hope I don't turn out like this.

Goodbye, little boy

Tia:
I was woken at a little after three on Friday morning by a clunk sound. I turned on the lamp and saw my twelve-year-old puppy hobbling along my bedroom floor, towards the door. He had been having trouble with his back legs for some time, lately they collapse from under him. I scooped him up in my arms and carried him to the yard, where I sat him in the grass so he could go to the toilet. I carried him back to my bedroom and lay him in his bed.

Enzi had been unwell for a few days before that night. I took him to the vet for a check-up some time earlier in the week. The vet confirmed that he had arthritis in both back legs and one of his front knees, and told me his heart murmur was at 5.6 (last time it was 2). She told me that if he coughed I should bring him in immediately as this was a sign of heart failure. He had a chronic infection in his ears which needed antibiotic drops (which he hated) and a skin irritation from a bite which he had scratched red raw.

On Thursday, after the first appointment, I noticed he was still in pain. His back legs still collapsed now and then. He coughed. I called the vet and made an appointment to see her the next day at 8.30 a.m. She explained he would need to be there all day so that he could be sedated for scans and x-rays, and so that he could be monitored.

Soon after I lay him down in his bed, he started coughing. I called the on-call vet and explained the situation, that I was very worried for my little boy. She said that I could meet her at the hospital and that she would be able to make him comfortable, but that she couldn't do much until someone else came to assist.

He tried to get up and walk but couldn't. I went to him and held him, stroking his head and ears and telling him that everything would be ok. His breathing was becoming laboured; I knew his body was shutting down and he was dying. I wrapped him in a blanket my nephew Daniel had given him and woke up my son, Ade, and my daughter, Bee. I wanted them to have the chance to say goodbye. My other two daughters, Lala and Bin, were at Lala's house. His head was jerking to the right every now and then. I whispered in his ear: "Darling, I love you, but you have to let go".

He stopped breathing, his eyes glazed and staring at an unknown point behind me. Suddenly he gasped and the laboured breathing continued. Please Lord, take him home, end his pain. I held him tighter and kissed his head. I watching his face through my teary eyes and saw nothing. His breathing stopped a second time. Again he started to breath. "Darling I love you, let go", I sobbed.

Blood and saliva oozed out of his mouth; white froth from his nose. His breathing slowed and stopped. We waited for another gasp, but nothing came. His neck loosened and his head fell to the side; his tongue slackened and fell out of his mouth. There was bodily fluid everywhere. I never knew death would be this messy.

It was a quarter to five when my baby boy left this world.

I debated calling Lala and Bin but didn't want to scare them by calling at that time of the morning. Ade and Bee convinced me to call; if they were away they would want me to call them. Lala, Bin and Cal drove over straight away to say their goodbyes. It struck me that Bin, who turns 18 this April, has spent more of her life knowing Enzi than not. The only dry eyes in the house that morning were Cal's.

Once the vet had opened, Ade and I took Enzi there. The cause of death was heart failure. The vet offered to bury my boy and I accepted. I was about to leave and I had the urge to ask "may I say goodbye one more time?" The lady said, "of course, take all the time you need". Ade and I went into an examination room, where we found Enzi on the table, bundled up like a baby, seemingly asleep. I kissed his forehead and cried. We only stayed with him for five minutes; I knew I would stay all day if I didn't leave then. As Ade and I walked into the waiting room, I could see the faces of the waiting clients; they knew what had happened to us.

Bee sent Daniel, my favourite nephew, a text message on Friday morning. He loved Enzi as his own dog so I expected to hear from him immediately. By Saturday afternoon I still hadn't heard from him so I decided to call him. He didn't answer his phone so I left a message.

Dan:

"Hi Darling, I'm just wondering why you haven't called to see what happened with Enzi. Anyway give me a call when you get this."

That was the message I got this afternoon from Tia. I was going to call her on Saturday night, to give her a chance to breathe and get used to the idea. When Pop died, I didn't want to talk to anyone for a few days; I didn't even tell anyone except Liz for a few days to give myself a chance to breathe. I told Tia that I wanted her to have some time to herself, like I needed when Pop died, when I called her back. She told me the story of Enzi's last hours. I didn't cry although I suspect that Tia thought I would.

That night I sat down to write a post about my little boy, Encito, but the words wouldn't come. I decided to write about his last hours from Tia's perspective in an effort to try to detach myself from the pain he must have felt. By the time I sat down to write, I had forgotten a few small details of the story so I made them up. In a way it worked, writing from Tia's perspective, but on the other hand it made it worse because it seems a little cold now. But death is never warm.

Goodbye, my little boy, my little Encito.
c.1995-2007

Name that tune

I got the idea for this from Lou the other week and thought I'd give it a go while I'm waiting for Liz to pick me up for a video night. These are songlines from my music collection.

• And I know I choose to be, yet I feel I'm a captive of it. I make love to it, but I hate it.
• Is it getting better? Or do you feel the same?
• Praying for love in a lap dance and paying in naivety. Oh, and isn't this exactly where you'd like me.
• Sometimes it's never quite enough. If you're flawless, then you'll win my love.
• Today the retard speaks to me and now I have it all.
• You got to cry without weeping, talk without speaking, scream without raising your voice.
• So kiss me hard cause this will be the last time that I let you.
• Memory fuses and shatters like glass. Mercurial future, forget the past. It's you, it's what I feel.
• Picture yourself in a boat in a river with tangerine trees and marmalade skies.
• Vagando por las calles mirando la gente pasar, el extraño del pelo largo sin preocupaciones va. (Wandering the streets watching the people pass, the strange guy with long hair goes without any worries.)
• The beauty of desire is shamelessly inspired. God, it’s overwhelming me.
• Dont the hours grow shorter as the days go by? You never get to stop and open our eyes.
• Me muero por conocerte, saber lo qué piensas, abrir todas tus puertas y vencer esas tormentas que nos abatir. (I'm dying to know you, to know what you think about, to open all your doors and conquer these storms that want to take us down.)