Lo que os voy a decir

My speech from tonight:

I only have a few minutes to squish in ten years worth of history and experience... So what I’m going to do is tell you a little of my story and give you some of my thoughts on life as a gay Catholic man and on how GLBT Catholics fit into the church. I’m not a theologian; I don’t know much about theology and I’m not that well versed in the Bible. And to be honest, a lot of what I believe originally comes from the minds of others that I’ve taken on board myself... But what I do know is God. And God is love; it’s as simple as that.

Growing up, we didn’t go to Mass regularly and I went to public school so it’s not like I had the whole Catholic School upbringing thing. But my mother’s parents are both European immigrants and we have the fairly stereotypical Catholic immigrant family, so we were taught about the Church and God, Jesus and the Pope, Mary and the Saints and all those wonderful people. So I have always believed in God since the cradle pretty much... I had a very happy childhood, my parents were (and are) wonderful parents, and although sometimes it was like World War III with my sister, we did get on most of the time.

So there was nothing remarkable about my childhood. Except that from a very young age, I started to look at other boys. When I was five, I had a crush on the male school captain of my primary school, though it was very innocent at the time, and I thought nothing of it because I figured everyone else had the same feelings. But as I got older I realised—as clichéd as it sounds—that I wasn’t like the other boys. I started to look at the other boys in the same way that the other boys looked at girls. At home, I was taught that homosexuality isn’t normal, though my parents have thankfully changed their tune on that one, so I pretty much denied my feelings even existed for all of my childhood and my teenage years.

I went to a Catholic youth group when I was 15 and it was then that I started a real faith in God, as distinct from a belief in Him. My faith deepened, and so did my preoccupation with being abnormal. I was hearing things like “being gay isn’t normal, you’ll never be happy, it’s wrong and it’s not good for you” in one ear, yet I still thought that guy looked hot in his swimming suit. I didn’t acknowledge I was gay at all—in fact I didn’t even use the word “gay” in reference to myself until in my twenties—but I used to pray for hours on end that I would be normal because I felt so dirty. They was something like “God, don’t let me be... ‘like that’... I just want to be normal”. I even tried to deny God for a while; I guess I figured that if I had to be gay, it would be much easier without God breathing down my back. But neither worked because in the back of mind I always knew the truth.

Nonetheless, while I still believed in the existence of God, I tried to put as much distance between him and me as I could, since I felt so dirty and sinful, so I stopped going to Mass when I was 18 and did my best to forget about the whole thing. After a long time I realised that my teenage prayers were answered: I’d prayed to be normal and I was normal. If I’d ever prayed not to be gay, and I don’t remember using that word but you never know, then the answer I got was a “no”. God will always answer your prayers, doesn’t mean you’ll like the answer. I was pissed off at this for a while... I had to get my head around it, I had to learn that it was ok to be myself ... to be gay.

I finally admitted being gay when I was 21, though I didn’t really tell anyone until I was 22, when I told some close friends and a few of my cousins. The first person I told was a close friend. She said “I know”. So I said “Well why didn’t you say anything then!?” “How do you start that conversation?” she asked. Slowly I started telling people in my life, and eventually I told my parents in March last year. It was your typical “Mum, Dad, sit down, I have something to tell you, I’m gay” kind of scenario. Dad said, almost immediately, “I don’t give a shit if you’re gay. You’re my son and I love you.” Mum took a little time to get used to the idea but they’ve both really supportive now. I told my sister in May last year. That didn’t go so well; we didn’t really speak about it for nine months but after a long night conversation we’ve reached a point where we can agree to disagree.

Anyway, last year some time, long after the whole coming out journey had begun, I reached a really interesting point... I had spent the previous ten or so years coming to terms with being gay and now I was ok with it and then suddenly I found myself in a spot where I had to come to terms with being Catholic. I started going to Mass again, because I really felt a yearning to go back, and although I didn’t feel dirty or sinful anymore, I wasn’t quite sure how I fit in, or how it all fit together. I started reading up on a few things, a few websites and books whose names I have now forgotten, and I started to piece things together

Friends often ask me why I keep going to Mass and participating in Church life, given the Church’s teachings on homosexuality... I don’t need to go over them too much, you all know what I’m talking about I’m sure. But the reason is this: I can separate my faith in God from the Church’s mistakes. I do believe the Church to be the representative of Christ on Earth, but being human-made, it’s flawed. It is, however, the best we’ve got. I guess I have a pretty simple way of looking at things. For me, religion isn’t about the rituals or the hierarchy. For me, it’s more spiritual: a connection between your deepest self and your Creator, not a bunch of rigid rules... “The Church” isn’t so much the hierarchy... the Pope, Bishops, Priests—who all have an important role to play don’t get me wrong—but “the Church” is the people who form the body of Christ... I go to Mass and participate in the Church to connect with God and with Christ, and with fellow believers.

Anyway this is how I see things... I believe we’re all created in God’s image. He made me exactly the way He wanted to make me. He made me gay. He also made me right-handed... and about a million other things. I believe that, since I was created this way, my sexuality is a gift, just like the other gifts I’ve been given. I don’t understand why God created me, or any of us, gay or why He created others straight, but who am I to question Him? I believe we all have the right to love and be loved in return, whether that’s a man or a woman or whoever. I believe that love is love, regardless of the gender of the people involved.

Being gay and Catholic is tricky... everyone seems to have an opinion... But ultimately, it doesn’t matter to me what anyone thinks of me or the way I live, the only thing that matters is what God thinks. My salvation, my hope, my life, my happiness—they don’t depend on any person but they’re all fully dependent on God. It isn’t anyone’s business what I do with my life, whether it’s who I’m attracted to, or who I sleep with; it’s between me and God... no one else.

I believe that God is a God of inclusion. Jesus ate with the tax collectors, He called the little children to Him, He said that “in my Father’s house are many rooms”. This is what tells me there is definitely a place in the Church for gay & lesbian, bisexual, transgender children of God. A priest joked in his homily once that God cannot count... because we are all number one in His eyes. He went on to say that Jesus told us that in Heaven, the last will be first and the first will be last. “Surely”, he said, “Jesus was talking about minority groups like us that are persecuted just for being ourselves, just for being different. This isn’t how it is supposed to be, we are all a part of this Church, flawed though it sometimes is.” I strongly believe that. It seems sometimes to me that “the Church” doesn’t want me or other queer Catholics around... but then I remember that God is a God of inclusion and of love... and I see that everyone has a place in the Church.

I believe that God is love. The Bible says that in black and white. So how could God possibly deny people who are, among a very long list of attributes, gay? Or lesbian? Or bi? Or transgender? That isn’t my God. God is love.

And love gives worth to all things... and it always wins in the end.

Ouch, it hurts my heart

I’m really getting very sick of the familial drama that seems to be befalling me left, right and centre. For the time being, I’m just avoiding Sister. Which is incredibly easy, because she appears to be avoiding me… I haven’t heard from her since The Letter. But to be honest if she calls I won’t answer it; I’d much rather deal with her in writing for the time being.

I sent out a text message today to some friends and family about the results of my recent glucose tolerance test and other various tests (which I’ll blog about in the next few days, once I have got my head around it all). Tía was on the recipient list. Below are the text messages that went back and forth between us:

Me, the original message, at lunch time: Went to doc. I have “reactive hypoglycaemia” which means low carb diet on top of yeast-free FOREVER :( I think I’m in mourning. Ever the saviour, Janek has read into it and has assured me it’s doable and once I get used to it not a huge deal but I haven’t been able to do any research yet. This should help with fatigue and general feeling like shit but not sure about effect on pain yet. Also suggested I quit smoking I said fuck off. So that’s my update. XXX

Tía, in the evening: I’m glad u r getting 2 the bottom of things. Painful but worth it yeah? Pobrecito [poor little thing] :( I hear u sobrino [my nephew]. XO

I replied, without thinking too much about the content. Since The Kiss, I’ve been on cloud nine... so I wasn’t thinking that I probably shouldn’t mention Janek to Tía because I knew she wouldn’t like the whole “boyfriend thing” and probably shouldn’t use smiley faces if I did (not that I plan on censoring myself because she, or Sister for that matter, don’t like it... but there’s a time and a place). But I did, because when you’re on cloud nine you do reckless things like that.

Me: Very painful but Janek found me sugar free chocolate!!! So that makes it a little more bearable!
Tía: Whos Janek?

I knew I’d reached the point of no return. The time lag between messages was much longer the second time... so I guess she was either freaking out or choosing her words. Since I had reached this point I figured no point fucking around...

Me: Janek’s my boyfriend :D
Tía: Ur boyfriend? Since when?
Me: Yep. Only a couple of weeks. Since the 6th.

Then she came at me with...

Tía: Ouch! It hurts my heart. It really is true! I was a bit like grandma although 4 diff reasons I think. I was hoping it was just a phase. I’m sorry Daniel I love u X

Now I ask you, what the fuck do you say to that? I mean I know what she’s getting at but the way she worded it was incredibly cruel. And if she didn’t mean to be cruel then she’s naïve if she thinks it doesn’t come across this way. Several things flashed through my mind (as I stood on the bus hurtling down George Street, no less, so I couldn’t even scream of punch any pillows), none of which I could actually send to an aunt. I threw the phone into my grocery bag, got off the bus and walked to where Janek was meeting me. I showed him the message and told him the things I wanted to write back with. He very pragmatically suggested they may not be the best approaches to take with her and calmed me to a point where I could reply...

Me: Why are you sorry? Because it’s true, because I have a bf or because u sent that message?
Tía: I’m sorry that I can’t celebrate with u. XOXO

Janek again talked me down from replying. At all. Which is good because I would have said something I’d later regret. So the silence list grows... Why is it always the ones you are close to?

Bare

Janek introduced me to a rock opera called Bare last week and gave me a copy of the soundtrack. The CD sat on my desk, unplayed, for several days before I finally got the time to listen to it on Thursday afternoon. It is the story of Peter and Jason, two boys living at the co-ed boarding school St Cecelia’s. Peter and Jason are clandestine boyfriends, trying to keep their relationship hidden from Jason’s jock buddies. It’s a touching, tragic story and the singing is sublime. Those who know me well know that a man who can sing makes my knees weak. I thoroughly recommend it.

This afternoon I had a lie down to calm the pain in my back and listened to the soundtrack on my MP3 player. As the story unfolded and the title track began to play, I felt my eyes sting with hot tears. Soon they were followed by sniffles and the rasping breathing of a good ol’ cathartic cry. I haven’t had a good cry in a very long time.

He also found a bootleg video, available here: Act I and Act II.

Sick cycle carousel, part 3

May will be upon us in one week. With May comes the nine year anniversary of my various illnesses and trials. Last year I wrote a rather difficult post, Sick cycle carousel, documenting the progression of my various conditions, depression, and to a small extent my coming out journey. Below is the next part in the Sick cycle series. You might want to read parts one and two.

It seems that the ending of part two was a little bit too optimistic. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy (and I certainly was at the time I wrote that) but I can’t really say I’m all that content anymore. My back has been a lot of trouble lately, I’m downing drugs at an alarming rate, and I’m still kinda upset about Sister’s attitude in The Talk.

January 2007
After the loss of Pop, life was less sunny. I shepherded in the new year with Liz in a quiet ceremony with sparklers, champagne and Roger Rabbit. I spent most of January with The Beach Crew at Cal’s parents’ holiday house up north and on the Central Coast. My health waxed and waned, I was still popping pain killers left, right and centre, but for the most part I was excited at the prospect of starting at Sydney Uni in March.

February-April 2007
I turned 23 on the first and on the nineteenth we celebrated Pop’s birthday for the first time without him. Then I started uni and met a lot of really intelligent people who intimidated me very quickly. I had classes on three days a week, and as a general rule I was able to make the journey to Sydney at least twice a week. I did well in both subjects, gaining high distinctions in both. I enjoyed my time but the extra stress, walking, and sitting up took a toll on my already fragile health. Many nights I felt trapped, a youthful spirit caged up in an aching, ailing prison of a body.

I met Kate in March and we quickly formed a close bond. Within no time I began to refer to her as my sister, and her son, Lance, refered to me as Uncle Dan. Along with Liz, whom I consider my sister also, Kate is one of my best friends.

The day after St Patrick’s day I came out to Mum and Dad, which was, as you can imagine, a huge burden off my mind. After some initial teething problems, Mum came around; Dad didn’t give a shit from the start…finally I felt more myself in my own home.

May-August 2007
As the realisation that coming out to Sister was inevitable dawned on me, I suddenly suffered a bout of migraines at a rate of nearly two per week. Dr KHS, whom I started to believe was loosing his touch, advised cutting pain meds to see if they were the cause. Within a week or so I knew this wasn’t the case and went back to the normal dosage, however the migraines persisted.
As well as being migraine-prone, I found myself becoming depressed. The reason wasn’t clear at the time but with the benefit of hindsight I can see that it was all related to the intense sense of foreboding welling up inside me about Sister’s reaction. I sought shelter from the migraines and the depression in sleep. I was also struck at about this time that I forget how it feels to be totally healthy. Having been sick for eight years at this point, my last healthy memory was at the age of 14.

I came out to Sister on the 27th of May. We never spoke of it in any meaningful way for ten months. The migraines stopped soon after. The depression, on the other hand, continued. I felt trapped by illness and circumstance, hopeless, locked in a constant battle between my heart and my head.

September-October 2007
As the pain in my legs got worse and worse, Dr KHS switched the anti-convulsant (which I take as it blocks neural pain signals in the brain). I had every side-effect that the package warned against. I was nauseous, my knees were constantly inflamed, I was dizzy, spaced-out and all-in-all did a fabulous Anna Nicole Smith impression. I felt like a lab rat. The pain did go away after some time but the side-effects were way too much to bear. I couldn’t function at all and ultimately after a fortnight I switched back. The pain came back, followed by the vicious cycle of pain-drugs-nausea-sleep-pain. The high dose of pain killers left me in a perpetual haze. To add insult to injury I picked up gastro at some point.

I outed myself to the Family-at-Large by a rather cunning plan involving step cousins, the FAL’s natural propensity to gossip, and Facebook. Finally everyone knew and I didn’t have to lift more than a finger.

We sold Pop’s house. That was difficult.

November 2007-February 2008
I went to a neurologist; it was a waste of a morning. He was an odd little man and he told me nothing I didn’t already know. I did, however, get some stronger pain killers which made like a lot easier to deal with. I also changed anti-depressants from an SSRI (which I had been taking since the age of 17) to a tricyclic, which blocks pain signals as well as stabilising mood. I changed pain killers again and finally had a winner. CTs and X-rays revealed nothing. I started smoking weed to help with the stabbing pain in my back and shoulders. It helped too, it was a lot of fun in fact, but all in all no cause was found, nothing really helped in any permanent way… and so it continued. I struggled to get my head above water for a time but after I found my footing with the tricyclic antidepressant, my mood did eventually even out.

February 2008 onwards
I moved to Glebe into a house full of strangers. The Space Cadet makes life interesting. The Optimist and I are becoming good friends. The Guyanan and The Accountant I don’t have much to do with. Though my depression seemed to be under control, I was suddenly gripped with anxiety at having to fend for myself.

The pain in my back and shoulders continued to get worse; I continued popping pills (and have made a few faux-pas while under the influence…). As I write this, I am doped up and as soon as the effects wear off I will be writing again. Last night I got no sleep. I’m going to a chiropractor or physio on Monday. Someone has to be able to do something.

Life has to be better from this.

Pissed, proud, moved, exhausted.

After all the drama and emotional upheaval of the last two weeks, I am a little frazzled and rough round the edges. For this reason, I’m going to keep this short.

Pissed. Last week I received an email from my Sister informing me that there was a public talk being held shortly about homosexuality and the church. I know the speaker; he’s a tool. A hypocritical tool no less, having preached chastity while having a boyfriend (figure that one out). And Sister knows that I feel this way about him. I tried not to let it get to me, but this didn’t last long. Soon I was well pissed off so I just clicked the little red X on the email, certain that if I replied to her I would likely say something I forget. So I’m not in a hurry to resume contact any time soon. What annoys me the most is that she has gotten to me, but I really don’t want her to know it. I don’t want my disenchantment at her to be mistaken for any disenchantment with regards to my beliefs.

Proud. However this week it is Pride week at uni; and there’s nothing like a little bit of fairy dust and spray paint to liven a boy’s mood. The pride week program is pretty full on, there’s definitely something for everyone. On Monday there was a self-defence workshop, and while I didn’t participate a whole lot, but in light of Lance’s concerns I made the effort to go to allay his fears. Last night we had “Coming out by candlelight”, an intimate evening of funny, touching, sad, and poignant coming out stories in good company (in a room whose capacity was well and truly ignored so it was a little muggy… and the melting plastic cups weren’t pleasant either, but you over look these things). This was followed by a trip to the graffiti tunnel to paint slogans and pictures on the walls with bright colourful gay paint. Good times.

Moved. On Monday night the drama society at school put on a special showing of The Laramie Project as a joint launch of Pride week and the Laramie Project. All I can say is “wow”. We saw one act, and to be honest I don’t know if I’ll make it through the whole thing when I see it next week.

Exhausted. And now I’m lying in bed with a fucken back brace on. Yes, my friends, you read that correctly. There’s nothing like a back brace to inhibit physical freedoms like, for example, being able to twist at the waist or bend over without crunching your stomach on straps. On the flip-side, there’s nothing like it to make my stomach look like I’ve been working out slavishly under my shirt. My back is fucked and I’m tired. Hopefully it passes soon.

Dinner

On Wednesday night, the night after The Talk, I had dinner with the parish priest. It wasn’t as a result of The Talk, it was actually organised just before Easter. Despite some disagreements on some fairly fundamental things, homosexuality chief among them, it was a great night.

He’s known me since I was fifteen; he has this uncanny and often totally inconvenient knack for being able to look at a person and surmise what is wrong and then manage to get them to spill all. And I cannot lie to the man. True, I cannot really lie convincingly to many people, but to him it’s impossible.

When I got in the car he asked how I was. “Frazzled.” I answered. Before I knew it I told him about the previous night’s confrontation. As I said the words I thought “What the fuck are you doing!!??” but he didn’t blink. I knew that whatever doctrinal issues he may have, he’d understand where I was coming from in terms of the overwhelming sensation of being sideswiped. “You know Dan,” he said “that whatever disagreements we have you know you can just say ‘I don’t want to talk about this further’ and we’ll move on to something else and it won’t affect our friendship.”

With that caveat in mind, we went over most of the issues that I had discussed with Sister and found, to nobody’s surprise, that he agreed with her on nearly all of them, yet strangely it was nowhere as hard to talk about it with him as it was with Sister. The one disagreement between his view and hers was that Fr said that being gay in and of itself is morally neutral and that any kind of sex (straight or not) outside of marriage is wrong, whereas Sister referred to being gay as a “sickness”.

All in all he seemed to treat me much more gently than Sister, and certainly with much much more of a sense of humour about things. But then he already knew; he knew I was gay before I did. I asked him, point blank, “you knew back then didn’t you?” He replied “Yes, I strongly suspected it. And I gave you so many opportunities to confide in me but you never fucken took any of them!” I laughed. The thing is I can remember a few occasions when I’d been on the cusp of telling him, but something always got in the way to prevent it. But what’s done is done.

Ultimately it was a very cathartic evening in which I was able to get off my chest a day’s worth of frenzied, pent-up frustrations. I was going to go into a bit more detail, but there isn’t really much point… it’s the same old topics, all of which I mentioned in the post about The Talk, so you can use your imaginations.

In the last week there have been some new developments which I’ll write about tomorrow...

The talk, part 2

And so the drama continues. This is the remaining part of the converstion I had with Sister on Wednesday night. As I said in the other post, I've basically constructed a dialogue based on memory fragments, so this isn't quite how it happened but it will give you the idea...

“Look, God created man and woman for each other… it’s a question of complementarity.” She said.

“Sister, honey, I don’t disagree.” He thought that perhaps he shouldn’t call her honey, since she would consider it a gay thing to do, but then he thought fuck it. “God created man and woman for each other, I totally agree, but as I was saying earlier Sister, don’t confuse normality for ‘the norm’.” He paused, then added, “You see marriage as a union designed for one man and one woman, they are the key players right?” She nodded. “I see it as love and commitment make a marriage, not a man and a woman.”

“Well yes, of course they do, but marriage is also about procreation,” she countered. He was happy she had gone down this path, in a way, because he had a smart answer. But he knew this battle would not be won using smart answers to nit-pick his way to the finish line.

“If procreation is a key element of marriage, then old people shouldn’t be allowed to marry if they’re over child-bearing age. Even younger couples who are known to be sterile shouldn’t be able to marry.”

She didn’t really have an answer to this, but he knew that in her mind he had only ‘won’ this round on a technicality.

“What shits me about the marriage debate,” he continued, “is the way everyone says it will destroy the family. I don’t understand why people don’t see that the family comes in different forms and that the nuclear family is but one of them.”

“I don’t deny that, but marriage is a special institution between a man and a woman. Gay couples are like heterosexual de facto couples.”

“But they’re not. In some ways they are, but the Human Rights Equal Opportunities Commission did a report that found fifty-eight federal laws that discriminate against same sex couples. Rudd promised to remove the discriminations as an election promise but the problem is he also appears to have promised the Christian lobby that gay marriage would not go through, yet the Marriage Act 2004 is one of the fifty-eight. Anyway the attorney general found another forty or so more so the Gay and Lesbian Rights Lobby and all kinds of organisations are fighting to have them all removed.”

She mentioned at this point that sometimes discrimination is acceptable, especially when it comes to matters of conscience. She brought up the case of a Catholic adoption agency in the UK that was forced to close because denying service to gay couples was now illegal under new anti-discrimination laws.

He lay dumfounded, croaking “Do you really think it’s better to close up shop and have all these children not receiving placement than to give a child to a gay couple.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Right.”

“Lets move on shall we? There’s no point discussing politics tonight, it’s not what you came here to talk about.”

She asked him if he had ever sought counselling with the parish priest. He said no, but he was a part of a group for gay Catholics. She asked about their doctrinal beliefs, whether or not they were at odds with the Church’s teachings. He said they were and explained he had found out about them because he’d seen them marching in the Mardi Gras parade.

Her eyes widened. “You went to the Mardi Gras?”

“Yes and no… I went to a friend’s place on Oxford St and watched the parade from his balcony. So I was there, I watched the parade, but I wasn’t down on the street with all the punters. I’d never have survived; I’ve never seen so many drunken people in one place.”

“What did you think of the whole thing?”

“It was amazing… so many people, so much positive energy. And yes, lots of drugs, lots of alcohol.”

“What kind of people were there?” she asked.

“You mean who was marching?”

“Yes.”

“Well there were ten thousand people marching… Each group or float has however many marchers, sizes change, but there were community organisations, political organisations, religious ones, PFLAG and all that… just about everything.”

“There were no, like, paedophile groups marching were there?” she asked, wincing a little. He couldn’t be sure if she winced because she was thinking about paedophiles or because he looked like he was about to hit her.

“What?” he stammered, incredulous. “No, Sister, there were no paedophiles, no necrophiles, nothing like that. How dare you lump me in the same box.”

“Well you know there are groups in Scandinavia that do that sort of thing. Sorry but I’ve never been before so how am I to know.”

“Use some fucken common sense.”

The conversation moved to the way in which he had told her he is gay. She resented the fact he had done it on the phone and basically dumped it on her while she was away at the leadership camp. She told him she was angry at him for a while for doing it that way, even though she understood why he did it. He explained that in hindsight, yes, could have been handled better but he had planned on doing it in person while she was home for the weekend but by the time he had psyched myself up for it the opportunity never presented itself.

“Did it really take that much psyching up?” she asked, sounding a little offended.

“Can you blame me?” he asked, gesturing around him. “Look I was scared of telling everyone, even the ones I knew would have no issues. But when I came out to Mum & Dad I always knew they’d never kick me out or anything horrible like that, and even though I was shitting myself about telling you I knew that you’d never stop loving me. Ever.”

“Oh good. I'm glad you know that.”

She asked how their parents had taken the news.

“Good. Dad didn’t give a shit, Mum took a little longer but it’s pretty good now I guess,” he answered.

“I don’t know if Mum is as ok with it as you think she is.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I dunno, I think she feels guilty… she’s made comments about whether she caused it or not.”

“But I don’t care if she caused it. What’s done is done. I mean I believe we’re born gay anyway, but you know what I mean.” He recounted the story of his discussion with their mother in which he told her that if she did feel guilty for not picking up on it, he was over the teen turmoil so there was no need to feel guilt anymore as it was no longer an issue.

“Well that’s important that you said that to her.”

Soon after this the summit ended: “It’s late, Sister, it’s like 4am and you have to be up in three and a half hours. We’re going to have to agree to disagree on this shit. You can send me the articles you mentioned if you want, and I have one to send you, and I’ll even read them with an open mind. But like I said it took me twenty one years to work it out and I don’t want to take steps backwards. Besides, I am about to piss myself.”

The talk, part 1

The following story happened to me late last night. It is not necessarily a true account of what happened or what was said; it is my interpretation of the drug-addled, sleepy memories of last night. It is not fiction; more an amalgamation of two hours’ worth of memory fragments, interpreted into narrative form.

The phone rang in the lounge room as Dan lay reading in his bed; he’d recently started a new novel and was finding it difficult to put down. He looked at his watch and read the time: half past one in the morning. He emerged from his room and hobbled to his parents’ room, knees aflame with pain, to check the call was not the herald of some horrible emergency. Sister joined him, sitting on his parents’ bed as their mother spoke on the phone. The call was for their father, who was away; a lady in the States who has miscalculated the time difference.

He returned to his room and resumed his novel. There was a small knock on the door.

“Yes...” he called out.

“Are you awake?” the knocker asked.

“Yeh, kinda.”

The door opened and Sister entered; her demeanour tentative and unsure. “Can we talk?”

“Umm...” Dan stalled, trying to decide if he wanted to talk to her at this late hour. He glanced at his watch and saw it was nearly two o’clock. “Fuck it, what’s on your mind?”

“I’m worried about you,” she stated, sitting on the edge of his bed. “I’m worried about you and I want to talk to you about it. We have been avoiding this for nearly a year now and I really think we should discuss it.”

“Is this a gay thing?” he asked wearily, “It’s two in the morning.”

“Yes,” she answered with a nervous laugh.

Dan sighed. “Ok then, shoot,” he said as he tried to get his knees comfortable. He took some pain killers and waited for her to continue. His mind was reeling. He’d been waiting for this conversation for ten months, rehearsing it in his head. He had done reading, formed arguments.

After years of internal turmoil they all fled his head in the wake of the advancing attack.

“Well,” she began, choosing her words carefully, “I guess I’m worried about you reading those novels and watching movies and TV shows that show homosexuality as normal. I’m afraid that it’s going to normalise it for you and that you’re going to ultimately end up unhappy.”

“Right. Tell me, what do you think of it? How do you think homosexuality, or any non-hetero sexuality for that matter, fits into reality?”

She exhaled. “I think that man and woman were created by God to marry, have children etc...” She took a breath. “I don’t like the word ‘gay’ anyway—”

“Well ‘gay’ is a political distinction, I’ll give you that, it’s more than attraction or orientation... it’s an affirmation of identity.”

“That’s what worries me about you. You’re reading these books and seeing it as normal, identifying as ‘gay’ and I don’t want you lead down the wrong path. I don’t think that being gay will ultimately make you happy and I don’t want you to end up unhappy.”

“It is normal, Sister.”

“But it’s not. Same sex attraction, which I think is a better term for it, it’s...” she thought for a second, “it’s intrinsically disordered. That’s what the Church teaches.”

His heart sank.

She explained her reasoning. Catholic teaching holds that having desires for the same sex is ‘disordered’, but that the simple fact of them isn’t sinful or morally wrong. Acting on them, on the other hand, is. He listened, trying to formulate a rebuttal, but the late night and the pain killers were wreaking their havoc on his ability to form a convincing argument. He lay there, nodding, as she spoke. When she finished there was a silence.

“It’s easy for you, Sister, to tell me that same sex attraction and being gay, or not being straight for that matter, is intrinsically disordered. You’ve never lived it. You’ve never thought you were dirty or sinful or wrong or disordered.” He took a breath and steadied his voice. “All I’m saying is that it’s easy for you to right me off as disordered and accept the Church’s prevailing wisdom in this area, but let me tell you about my life growing up...”

“Ok.”

“When I was five, I remember having a crush on the male school captain. It was a childish crush, it wasn’t overly sexual but I remember looking at boys and being attracted to them.”

“Yeh, but—”

“Please let me get this out in one go. It’s not easy to talk about so I just want to get it said.” She nodded and he continued. He explained that at age five, he didn’t think it was wrong (he used air quotes around the word) or right for that matter, it just was. By the time he was in upper primary school, everyone said he was gay and they were merciless in their taunting and bullying. He was called horrible names on a daily basis and it began to chip away at his self esteem. By the time he was in high school he was still being called a faggot on the playground. She winced at the word faggot but after all these years of being called faggot, the word didn’t phase him at all.

“I didn’t realise it was that bad.” She said, quietly.

He continued that in eighth grade he had a crush on a girl and his world of internal turmoil plunged further into chaos. Then he got sick. At the time, he thought it was some divine punishment for not being ‘normal’. All this time he never could admit the possibility of being gay... but deep down he knew he wasn’t normal, not like everyone else. He went to the Church youth group camp and his health went downhill really really quickly. He didn’t understand why he felt closer to God yet got sicker and sicker, and these feelings about boys didn’t go away. He got very depressed. It started out just a black depression, like nothing mattered and nothing would ever be fixed again. He developed a crush on a friend of his, a guy, and that confused him even more. He didn’t see it as a crush at the time but the benefit of hindsight is 20/20 vision, isn’t it?

The depression deepened until he just wanted to die. Death was so much more desirable than the confusing life he found himself stuck in...abused on the outside by people at school, and on the inside by himself. It got to the point where he cut his wrists and arms to bleed the sin and dirtiness out of himself. He didn’t want to bring up these things, they are not something he enjoys discussing, but he wanted her to know how desperate he was back then...to know that he thinks about these times every time he showers and sees his scars. Her calling same sex attraction ‘intrinsically disordered’ did not affect him, but others were saying it to him at the time, and he didn’t want her to be one of these other people to someone else.

He summed up by saying that by the age of twenty-one he realised it wasn’t sinful, nor dirty, and that God loved him... he had been desperate for God’s love and acceptance throughout his teenage years and had finally gained it.

“Yes but just because God loves you doesn’t mean that everything you do is acceptable.”

“I agree.” He said. “My point is, Sister, that it’s easy for you to tell me that my sexuality is intrinsically disordered because you’ve never had to deal with discovering the hard way that it isn’t.”

At this point in the proceedings, he explained his stance: that sexuality is a God given gift to us all, that homosexuality and bisexuality are natural permutations of human sexuality (and as such are not ‘disordered’), that just because something is not the norm does not mean it is not normal, that Jesus never said anything against homosexuality in the gospels, that the Church’s teaching is damaging to so many souls and that it has fed hatemongers’ discriminations and vile actions, that love between two men or two women has the potential to be just as deep and fulfilling as that between a man and a woman, that love and commitment make a marriage not the genders of the participants.

They argued the points in terms of the Church’s doctrines; he was tired and couldn’t form very convincing arguments to counter her points.

“Look Sister, it’s late. I have a better explanation than ‘it feels good therefore it’s ok but you’re going to have to wait until I am more awake, ok?”

She agreed and changed tack.

There is more to this story, but I am exhausted. Emotionally and physically, so it will have to wait for tomorrow.

Conversion therapy and other acts of lunacy

For the first time in a long time I looked at my counter’s stats this morning. What interests me about the stats is the search terms that bring punters to my blog. Usually I have a quick giggle at the weirder ones (such as “shorts pissings”, “why gay.com slows computer”, “4 foot fibre optic virgin mary”) or I sign over the ones that make me sad (“my life seems empty”, “sick of this s[h]it life”), but on occasion I find one that gets me really mad. And l found one such search term this morning, about three quarters down the page that got me intrigued, and a little bit mad: “conversion therapy places”. [I warn you now, this is a heavy post so if you’re in a light mood I recommend reading this another day.]

I followed the link to the search engine page and found that the link led to an entry from many months ago where I was talking about using two cross-over network cables together (which effectively makes one straight-through cable and renders them useless). Liz made the comment that you shouldn’t try to make things straight (thankfully her grandmother, who was in our presence, didn’t get the joke) and I said in the post that this proves conversion therapy is a crock of shit. Boom-boom, end of story.

I’ve actually done quite a lot of reading on the concept of “reparative” and “conversion” therapy. I use the quotes around the words because I think they only apply very loosely to the reality of conversion therapy and the misery it brings with it. Before I came out to Sister I looked into it because I thought there was a very real possibility of her insisting I seek out this kind of “help” to “cure” my homosexuality. I was lucky and she has never preached to me on the issue. I think it’s partly because she knows I have read so much on these things that she’d have a hell of a fight on her hands, but even so I do respect her for leaving me to live my own life, when it clearly goes against many of her beliefs.

I wasn’t so much angry that someone had come to my site hoping to find information on conversion therapy—they surely would have taken one look around and then left quick smart—but after seeing some of the other links on that search page, I was more pissed off at the mere existence of these lunatics. Ironically, my discussing it will only ensure it happens more often.

Five pages caught my eye, four (long) articles and a blog entry. The articles (for anyone who is interested) are: Mission Impossible: why reparative therapy and ex-gay ministries fail from the Human Rights Campaign, Conversion Therapy Revisited: parameters and rationale for ethical care by NARTH (National Association for Research & Therapy of Homosexuality, who set up their organisation under the guise of a reputable charity with the express purpose of promoting conversion and reparative therapy…a bunch of crap-merchants if I ever I saw one), Deconstructing Reparative Therapy: an examination of the processes involved when attempting to change sexual orientation from the Clinical Social Work Journal, and “Reparative” Therapy: whether parental attempts to change a child’s sexual orientation can legally constitute child abuse from the American University Law Review.

The blog entry was about a sixteen year old kid who had been sent to an ex-gay group called Love in Action against his will (another bunch of crap-merchants, you can tell straight away by the name; google them if you want a fun look at whacky fundamentalism), who published the rules of the organisation on his blog. The links to his blog are now dead, since this all happened in 2005, but I was able to track down a copy from elsewhere on the net, and I also found this really interesting blog post about Love In Action and how love and hate play out when it comes to these things. I also found a wholly annoying article outlining LIA’s stance on what homosexuality is and how it needs to be cured.

The last article boils being gay down to ineffectual upbringing and/or some kind of failure on the part of the father or mother. I didn’t read the entire article; I ended up skim-reading it because it made me so mad. The thing is though that the ineffectual upbringing outlined in painful detail in this article doesn’t fit in with my experience of growing up. My father wasn’t distant and was always there as a “male role model” in my life. My mother didn’t smother me or overdo it with her “feminine influence”. I don’t fit the mould of the religious-right’s definition of what makes a homosexual. That gives me hope. It gives me hope because it means there must be other exceptions to their “rules”, and after a point they will no longer be rules anymore.

So that’s all I’m going to say on it. I realise I haven actually said anything substantive, that I’ve merely given a list of files and articles to read, but I figure there isn’t much I can say on the subject that hasn’t been said in those articles I read this morning. If you’re in a hurry and don’t have time to read them, or if you don’t want to read them (which I totally understand cos they’re big and long and depressing), here’s the short version:

Being gay is not a choice, it is innate. As such conversion therapy is a false therapy peddled by the neo-con religious right which seeks to change a person (whom they believe is not innately gay, but an individual who suffers from same-sex attraction, which is seen as unnatural and due to an inadequate upbringing in some way) from being a homosexual to a heterosexual through dubious psychoanalysis, sheer will power and prayer. It is denounced by all major psychological bodies around the western world as being an inappropriate therapy in any circumstances.

Questions and answers

Campbell posted this in response to my post about God, Religion and Being Gay.

Be patient to all that is unsolved in your heart
Try to love the questions themselves
Do not seek for answers that cannot be given
Because you would not be able to live them
And the point is to live everything
Live the questions now
Perhaps you will then
Gradually
Without knowing it
Live along some distant day
Into the answers

Thank you, Campbell, it meant more than you can know.

I trust in God, it’s as simple as that

This post has been a long time coming. I haven’t spoken about God, the Catholic Church or my faith much on this blog (partly because I know that many readers don’t share that faith, partly because it is so private, and partly because I am still figuring it all out), but in light of recent events and some things I’ve read recently, I guess now is the time. So. I am Catholic. This is part of the reason it took me so long to come to terms with being gay, I don’t deny it.

But I’m getting ahead of myself here. Let’s start at the beginning. Sister and I were never dragged to church kicking and screaming as children like our parents were. We found God on our own. Despite not going to church as a child, I always considered myself Catholic, I just didn’t know what it entailed exactly.

Fast forward to 1999, the year I became ill, a year filled with uncertainty, depression and anxiety over my identity and place in the world. I was fifteen. I went to a lunch-time Christian group, ostensibly non-denominational but in practice fiercely Pentecostal (the friend I mentioned in the post “Insidious” also attended the group). One lunch time we were discussing differences between the denominations of Christianity and it turned into an open slather forum on what was wrong with Catholicism. As I didn’t know much about the church, I struggled to refute their accusations of heresy. My self-esteem and sense of self shattered, I decided to go to mass that weekend. At the mass there was an announcement about a weekend for youth that was being held at the parish in a month’s time. I put my name down. I went. I had a great time.

It was at this weekend that I “found God”. It wasn’t as glittery as Damascus, but it was sufficiently euphoric nonetheless. It was also at this weekend that I caught the flu, which ultimately lead to my ME/CFS.

Over the next two years, I went to mass and to the youth group and I learned about God, Jesus, Mary, John-Paul II and the whole crew. I was confirmed at 16 in 2000. It was around this time that the question of sexuality reared its ugly head. I knew I liked boys, I didn’t want to, but I did nonetheless. God knew I did, despite my best efforts to hide it from everyone, even Him. We were given a copy of the Catechism of the Catholic Church, which says this on the matter:

“Homosexuality refers to relations between men or between women who experience an exclusive or predominant sexual attraction toward persons of the same sex. It has taken a great variety of forms through the centuries and in different cultures. Its psychological genesis remains largely unexplained. Basing itself on Sacred Scripture, which presents homosexual acts as acts of grave depravity, tradition has always declared that "homosexual acts are intrinsically disordered." They are contrary to the natural law. They close the sexual act to the gift of life. They do not proceed from a genuine affective and sexual complementarity. Under no circumstances can they be approved.” (CCC 2357)

At this point, I was really confused.

After the watershed, I stopped going to mass. I felt unwanted and unvalued. Four years later I finally admitted I was gay. But I still didn’t know where this fit in with my faith in God and religion, so I did my best to ignore it. It didn’t work. I finally worked out that they are two separate issues: faith is private, religion is public. Two years later I’m still working it out.

So where does that leave me? I believe in the God of love, yet my religion continues its campaign of hate against my gay, lesbian, bi, transgender and intersex brothers and sisters. I read a recent interview with Anglican Archbishop Desmond Tutu:

He said the Anglican Church had seemed “extraordinarily homophobic” in its handling of the issue, and that he had felt “saddened” and “ashamed” of his church at the time.
Asked if he still felt ashamed, he said: “If we are going to not welcome or invite people because of sexual orientation, yes.”
“If God, as they say, is homophobic, I wouldn’t worship that God.”

The Catholic Church is much the same, maybe even more so. I agree with what Archbishop Tutu says. I do not worship a homophobic God.

I still don’t know how it all fits together, to be honest, but that is what faith is: belief despite doubt or trouble. At the moment I’m waiting to be put in touch with a friend of Kate’s who is a gay pastor; I’m hoping he can help me connect the seemingly unending string of contradictory connect-the-dots. But, the way I see it, we mere mortals can’t blame God because there are other homophobic mortals working for him, purporting to speak for him. I often think “it must be nice to be so assured” when I hear Sister and the “unknowing homophobes” spout their rubbish and hate. But the point is I believe in God’s love more than I reject the church’s hate.

I trust in God, it’s as simple as that.

Insidious

Yesterday I had lunch with a friend that I haven’t seen or contacted since the messy ending of high school. I’ve known her the longest of my friends, except Lala, since second grade in 1991.

It was interesting. Considering the length of silent time that had passed between us, and the circumstances of our last contact, I was a little nervous. Although the great watershed of 2001 didn’t involve her at all, I withdrew so totally from the world in 2002 that I didn’t contact her at all until facebook brought us back together. But then she didn’t contact me either, so I guess it’s a wash.

We met and hugged when we saw each other for the first time—and it was a real hug—and soon the conversation turned to my coming out. She didn’t make a big deal about it, saying only “Oh yes, I ran into Calla ages ago and she mentioned it” and asking how it went with my parents and Sister.

I explained how it happened and how “It” hasn’t been spoken about between Sister and I since then despite speaking of it loudly and often before I came out. “What kind of things did she say?” she asked. “Oh you know, always saying things like ‘the homosexuals want to get married, the homosexuals want to adopt, isn’t it awful’. Stuff like that.” She nodded in comprehension as I spoke. “I mean I don’t know what you believe about all this,” I added, thinking suddenly that I hate it when people talk to me about politics or religion and assume that I agree with them. The conversation progressed and I found myself asking her, “So what do you think about all this then?”

She paused before answering, choosing her words carefully. “Well,” she began, faltering. “Look,” I said, “tell me what you really think. Don’t worry about upsetting or offending me. Whatever you say you’re not going to change my mind, I’m not going to change yours, and we’re both old enough to agree to disagree.” She smiled and told me that, like Sister, she doesn’t believe same sex attraction to be sinful, but she does see same sex contact as sinful. I was expecting this so I rolled with the punches and asked her to continue. She admits she cannot fathom how difficult it must be, for which I thanked her, but that God knows what is best for us so just because humans can come up with logical conclusions and justifications, doesn’t mean it’s actually good for us. This, too, I was expecting. I had previously made the point that I don’t believe Christianity to hold the patent on marriage, since it existed before the time of Christ. To this she she responded that just because marriage existed before Christ doesn’t mean that it wasn’t created by God and revealed or explained through him. I had to agree but of course it could very well be that this is not the case, rather (as I feel) that it was created by God for loving couples, not genders or sexes.

The conversation progressed and mentioned that she had two friends who “had struggled with same sex attractions”. One, she said “doesn’t do anything with guys…for now” (she added the “for now” in as an afterthought, as if she didn’t think it would last for long), the other has overcome these desires and is now in a relationship with a girl. I fumed, but I said nothing. Since then I’ve thought of a million responses but I was totally lost for words upon this revelation.

On the way home I mulled over what had been said. I felt such sorrow for the poor boy who has deluded himself into thinking that being gay is something to be ashamed of or something to be corrected. As many of you know, acknowledging that one is gay is hard, accepting it harder still; I felt for the poor boys and girls, men and women out there who go from acknowledgement straight into correction and suppression mode. I felt for the men and women they get involved with in their quest for heterosexuality. I felt for the children that are born into these doomed relationships. I don’t deny it can be done, to a point, if one discounts the psychological damage done—self-denial with enough vehemence must surely work in some cases—but I absolutely reject the entire “ex-gay movement” ethos nonetheless.

I find it repugnant that so many powers-that-be in Christian churches advocate this kind of inhumane quasi-therapy from their exalted pulpits. I find it repugnant that many adherents to Christianity believe homosexuality to be a pathological problem, something that needs to be cured. They base their homophobia on the Bible, on science of anatomy, on reason, on anything they can find; and all so that they can hate and discriminate against queer folk with a clear conscience. Basic relationship recognition is dismissed as “special treatment” when they fail to recognise that the present system is the selective one, not the proposed amendments in which any two people marry.

So that’s it. There’s no need to write about it any further, I think I’ve made my stance clear. It just makes me so sad that such insidious homophobia exists, all without the person even knowing it.

Cause the bible tells me so

Saw this on Paul's blog and found it very compelling. What do you think?

Research

I have a feeling that Sister is trying to draw me into a discussion/debate on marriage, more specifically that “marriage is for one man and one woman to the exclusion of all others yadda yadda yadda”, or, at the very least, she’s doing research for same.

A week or so ago we were getting ready to go to uni and I noticed she had a green shopping bag full of books. I have this book bag that Nicki gave me that is much easier to carry, especially when it’s full of books, so I offered it to her. I was going to just transfer the books myself so I looked in the bag and they were all about “Christian marriage”. I put them back and offered the bag to her in person and she gratefully accepted. Nothing more was said.

To be fair, these could legitimately be for a uni assignment of hers. The cynic in me thinks something slightly less innocent is afoot. I soon forgot about it anyway.

Then last night, as I lay in bed reading, there was a timid knock on the door. Usually, once I’ve officially “gone to bed”, she doesn’t bother me unless it’s absolutely essential. This is probably due, in large part, to the fact that the last time she knocked and then immediately barged into my room after I’d “gone to bed”, she caught me red-handed (pardon the pun) masturbating. I don’t know who was more shocked or mortified. Since that day she always knocks, waits for an answer, and then enters when invited. Interestingly, since then she has never interrupted me, even though if she had have done I would have had a chance to cover up. But I digress.

Then last night, as I lay in bed reading, there was a timid knock on the door. I invited her in and she said there was something she needed printing but had turned her laptop off. She told me the name of the article—in Latin—and I googled it. It was a Papal encyclical from the 1930s about “traditional Christian marriage” and would be about 30 pages when printed. I was about to get up and put paper in the printer for her to print it but she said it didn’t matter, she didn’t need it for tomorrow, it wasn’t essential. “Well what’s the bloody point then?” I thought, but I held my tongue. She said goodnight again and went back to bed.

I got up and went outside for a smoke. I got thinking. Why would she ask me to look up this article if she didn’t need it, unless she wanted me to read it? If that was her rationale, it worked; my curiosity got the better of me and I had a quick look through it. It made no mention of the evils of homosexuality, but it did extol the virtues of one man, one woman, two-point-four kids and a house in the suburbs. I closed the browser and continued reading Ian Roberts: finding out by Paul Freeman.

With all that has been happening lately, I just don’t have the time, energy or inclination to take the bait.

But it has got me thinking nonetheless. I have to say, while I don’t like that she is constitutionally opposed to something in which I believe strongly, I appreciate that she appears to be doing some research into the issue (albeit incredibly one-sided research) and not resting on the laurels of “it’s wrong and evil and I won’t hear any different”. Although it will doubtless lead her to the same conclusion, it’s the thought that counts. I mean if she was ready to write me off for being gay she wouldn’t bother trying to “win me back”, so to speak. The other night, while talking to Mum about something (to which I was paying no attention) I heard her say “it’s like Daniel, I could never disown him as a brother…for whatever reason”. I’m not quite sure what she was talking about but it proves my point nicely.

The fact remains that “it”, for the time being at least, is a taboo subject. I’m not altogether upset about that, nor am I surprised. Lately I’ve been feeling rotten, physically and emotionally drained, and I just can’t deal with theological battles at the moment.

Letting go

For the last week I’ve been feeling awful. The mix-up with my medications last week has left me in a constant state of crappiness. I’ve spent the last week in bed in a perpetual drug-fucked haze. Funnily enough, it’s at these times when I have the Deep Thoughts. I sit in bed, tongue lolling out of my mouth, alone with my muddled thoughts, running off lines of dramatic and eloquent prose in my head—as Deep as ever thoughts were—which are promptly forgotten before they can be written down here.

This week has been a week of letting go. It’s something I don’t do easily, nor (as recent events will attest) consciously. Dad and I went down to Pop’s house this week to continue on the massive clean-up. My aunt and uncle are still living there, the house becoming more and more empty as Pop’s things are either distributed among his flock or sold. He was a pack-rat (as my long suffering mother reminds me: I must have gotten it from him); there is so much stuff.

Three months ago, I reflected in a letter to Pop:

As an abstract concept you are still here with me. I still love you; I always will. No amount of death or distance can take that away from me. Even in some small tangible way you have left vestiges of yourself here; you're on top of my television in a blue frame and on my filing cabinet, being held in place by two butterfly magnets. Your house is full of your life. But as an object (as opposed to a concept) you are gone. It does my head in thinking about it. Like poof, you just went away. Now all we have are relics and memories.

Packing boxes of books and maps, destined for ebay and eventually new homes, scattered to the wind like a spent dandelion flower, I felt a jolt of sadness as I participated in this ritual of deconstructing a life. But then, quite out of the blue while I was listing the items on ebay, the sadness was replaced by another feeling. I can’t think of an adequate adjective to describe it other than saying it was the feeling of “letting go”. If I had have been doing this three months ago, every book I picked up would have wounded me as I remembered its connection to Pop.

Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am home again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am whole again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am young again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am fun again

Tomorrow, the 9th of July, is the anniversary of my Grandma’s passing in 2003. I remember the funeral as a white dreamlike haze in which memories are at the same time blurry and starkly vivid. I didn’t cry before the funeral—in fact I didn’t cry until right at the end when my aunt read a poem and said (and I remember this part with startling clarity) “now it’s time to let go”. I realised as I saw that cold coffin at the front of the chapel that never again would I kiss her goodbye as I left her house, that I would never feel her warm touch. And I lost it. I let go, let it out, let the floodgates open, and began my grieving then and there. With Pop it was different. I don’t know why it’s panned out this way but I didn’t start letting go at the funeral. Nor anytime soon after. I swam in my grief, enjoying the slick feeling of almost drowning.

I still miss him—I always will—but the keen longing has disappeared, the happy memories bring a smile to my face and only a glimmer of sadness sits on the horizon as I bask in the glory of him in my memories.

Tomorrow is also the anniversary of the first real post on my blog. I wrote one on the 6th of July which basically said “here goes nothing” (and is now used as a post in which I put all the images used on the website). The post of the 9th, “three years ago today”, was about my Grandma. I remember typing it in Pop’s glacial lounge room, my frozen feet in football socks atop an oil heater, the grass green shagpile oppressing my vision of rooms beyond. So much has happened since that day, namely my coming out, but it’s more than that: I have learnt to be comfortable being me.

Back then, the thought of telling my parents, sister or the family-at-large that I’m gay filled me with such dread. I had only told Liz, Lala and Cal six months ago, so I was still getting accustomed to them knowing. In a way I was clinging to the coat-rail of my closet for dear life; truth, after all, isn’t truth until you tell someone else about it. While I could be myself around my closest confidants (I should say more myself, because I still wasn’t comfortable with it), I was still hiding myself around the FAL. Now, I’m sitting in bed watching Queer as Folk with the volume at a reasonable level rather than the clandestine viewings complete with earphones as if I were watching some extreme hardcore smut. I can’t tell you how liberating it is. I feel so free.

At that time, the doors of the closet now propped open slightly, I clung to the coat rail, wearing various coats in shades of grey (straight) in public. I had admitted I was gay but I still kept a careful eye on my wrist lest it go limp, and I made sure that I sprinkled my speech with the manly interjections mate and dude rather than the more flowery fabulous and sweety. As time wore on, and the doors to my closet remained permanently propped open, I let go of my cushy closet with its various straight coats. No longer do I cling to