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.

The Letter

On the one year anniversary of coming out to Sister, I received a letter from her... it contained a two page hand-written letter and a printout. The letter covered many topics, but the one that was most salient, considering the date, and most upsetting was this:

I have enclosed the reading which I told you about—email correspondence between Fr P [her parish priest in Melbourne] and a same-sex attracted Catholic woman—give it a read and pray about it, and maybe if there’s further questions more than answers speak to [our home parish priest].

The printout was an eleven page collection of emails, back and forth between Fr P and this woman; he explained Church teaching, she argued it, he replied to the arguments with more teachings and she replied to the extra teachings with more arguments. No resolution, no moral, just a back and forth argument between two people.

To say I was upset would be understating it in a big way. I wrote a reply to the letter that night, but I kept it aside for a few days because I didn’t want to send something off in anger and the letter was very raw. I wrote a second letter, while stoned, but decided against sending that one because it was very angry. A few days after that, I wrote the third and final reply and, feeling a little like Goldilocks (this letter is too raw, this letter is too angry, this letter is just right) I mailed it to her. Here are some excerpts of the letter I finally sent:

Hey Sister...

I got your letter on Tuesday but I couldn’t talk about it on the phone. It’s not that I don’t have things to say, it’s that I don’t know how to say them, or if I even want to say them, at least not verbally...

So here’s the thing. I thought we’d reached a détente, like an agreement to disagree or something. I know full well what you believe and you know what I think. Fr P’s emails won’t change that... I actually checked out his website and found another page of his about homosexuality so I know what he thinks about it all. Frankly I don’t see what the big deal is. I mean, why are so many Catholics hellbent on demonising, curbing and “fixing” homosexuality? What did gay people ever do to them? Is it any wonder our young gay Catholics are either leaving the church or worse still, committing suicide?...

You [and Fr P] don’t know anything about being gay, or the gay community, or the homophobia, hate and prejudice that we face each day. So it’s like all these people are talking, but they don’t know what they’re talking about...

The point of this letter is that I don’t want to fight. I don’t have the time, energy or strength. You will always win because you’re stronger than me, and I always hold back and let you [win] a little because I love you more than I hate your homophobic beliefs. I don’t think you realise the power you have over me. You’re one of a very small group whose “approval” (for want of a better word) means the world to me. Everyone else can go fuck themselves for all I care but it you that matters to me... I don’t want us to devolve into one of those siblings that never speak... but I can see it happening unless we come to some kind of accord...

This has to stop. I love you Sister. Despite what you think of me, and of what I do or believe. And I know you love me just as much as I love you. But I’m never going to be the man you want me to be, I can’t, so you’re going to have to love me as I am, for WHO I am and WHAT I am... I’m gay, Sister, just like God made me. Please try to accept that.

Te quiero,
Daniel.

It will be intersting to see what comes next.

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.

In denial?

In other news, I am questioning whether Grandma knows I’m gay, whether she is in denial, or whether she thinks it’s a phase. Sister brought this up during The Talk, since Grandma has asked her the other day if I have a girlfriend. On top of this, Grandma asked me what I’m eating now I’m living alone (worried for my nutrition no doubt) while I had lunch with her and Grandpa in the Queen Victoria Building. When I told her all the things I’m cooking, and on a budget no less, she nodded approvingly and said “You are well trained, you’re going to make a great husband one day!” I was about to say something like “Yes, I’ll make some guy very happy.” But there is a time and place to say these things to your seventy-five year old grandparents, and the Queen Victoria Building at lunch time isn’t it.

On Sunday afternoon I called Tía, who has had trouble with her heart of late, to see how she is. I caught her hurtling down the freeway with Bin in the car, so we all chatted with me on speaker phone. I told them about my Easter, which was pretty good actually, and soon the conversation turned to The Talk. “She will settle down when she’s older, honey,” Tía told me sagely, “these things come with age.” Talk of The Talk eventually lead to the question of Grandma’s comments: is she unaware, in denial or hoping it’s a phase? As I neared the halfway point of the sentence, I thought to myself “Dude, what the fuck are you doing talking about this with her? You know the reaction you’re gong to get!” Never one to disappoint, Tía proclaimed: “Well, I hope it’s a phase too, to be honest.”

What do you say when you aunty says that to you? “Fuck off” was tempting. Though I talk tough when recounting these stories to friends, Liz & Kate chief among those who bear the brunt of my miseries, and sprinkle my hypothetical responses with expletives and all manner of invective, I tend not to use them in real life. This was no different. When recounting the story I said things like “I totally should have told her to get with the fucken programme”, but all I managed in the actual event was a terse “Thanks for being honest with me”, followed by “I wouldn’t hope too hard though…it’s not going anywhere.” She said something like “You never know”, and I told her in no uncertain terms, that I knew. I glanced through the window (I was on the front steps) and noticed the Optimist and his brother, having just emerged from their hungover sleep, were in the kitchen, likely hearing everything I was saying. But I thought fuck it, they’re in no state to judge me after the mess they left in the bathroom.

I emailed U2 to see what he thought about it all. His response was that while he is certain she’s been told, he wonders whether she has “taken it on board as truth or not”. That seems fair. And only time will tell, I guess, but I’m not looking forward to the next gathering of the Family-at-large; girlfriend comments are annoying when one is in the closet, but when one has gone to the trouble of coming out to everyone, they are totally irksome.

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.

Coming out gifts

I forgot to mention in the last post about the one year anniversary something that happened a few days after I had come out.

My dear friend Kate decided to buy me a coming out gift and her son, Lance, decided he should get me one too. They were out shopping and he asked her why they were buying me a gift. She told him that they are buying me something because I was very brave because I had just told my parents that I like boys and not girls like they thought. He didn't understand why it was so brave of me to tell Mum & Dad that I'm gay when to him it's no big deal at all. I told him that that was the best gift of all.

Incidently, he chose a book called "Little Miss Forgetful" for me. Kate asked if he was sure and he was adamant that that book was the one he wanted to give me. He knows me so well.

One year...

“Hey, Mum, do you know what Tuesday is?” I asked Mum on the weekend. Predictably, she had no idea. Even for me it’s hard to believe it’s been a year since that fateful night last March. “You don’t remember what we were doing a year ago?” “I don’t know Daniel, getting ready for Easter?” she guessed. “Not quite…” (big breath) “A year ago on Tuesday I told you and Dad I am gay.” “Daniel! You expect me to remember the fucken date do you? I was in shock for a week.” Mum laughed. I, on the other hand, have the date firmly stamped in my brain.

To celebrate I went shopping. I went to Broadway plaza and bought some nice new undies, two pairs of jeans and two shirts. It doesn’t sound like much, I know, but this is a boy who rarely spends money on himself, especially when it comes to buying new clothes. I was hoping to go to the bookshop to get a novel or a DVD as well to mark the occasion, but after the clothes shopping my legs were in no state for any walking or movement of any kind. So I did things the old fashioned way and bought it online instead.

There’s not much more to say except that 367 days ago I couldn’t conceive of my parents, Sister, family-at-large and everyone Knowing. And now they do, and the world hasn’t ended.

The cat is out of the bag

I'm feeling a little better, though still more drug-fucked than I'd normally like. Anyway I got this email from my uncle, who for the sake of clarity we'll simply call U2 (as opposed to U1, his brother, who I'll be talking about shortly in another post). I'm about to respond but I thought I'd put it out there. At first it came off very condescending but I've realised that that is just U2's way. Not to be condescending, just that this is how he writes and thinks. Maybe it's naievety maybe its a keen desire to keep the peace but I've chosen to take this as a heart-felt congratulations from a loving uncle. I'll post my reply below.

I'm still at Lala & Cal's but I'm going home on Friday. Lala and I just watched The Matthew Shepard Story and consequently balled our eyes out. Nice day together at home which does absolutely nothing for my history essay which is due next week!

Dear Dan,

It seems your cunning plan worked – I’ve let the cat out of the bag (as you probably hoped)!

I wanted to email you to let you know that I whole heartedly support your decision to openly be who you think and feel is you. To tell the truth I’ve pretty much always though you were gay and I’ve also suspected that your CFS may be related to your suppression or denial of what you probably always felt but may not have always acknowledged to yourself or openly to others. The mind is a very power thing and it can influence your body in many powerful ways. Who am I to tell you what may or may not be with you – but I can’t help myself, it’s one of the [family] traits as you’re well aware. Ok, I’m off my soap box now.

I’ll not pretend to know what you’ve gone through to get to this point. I can imagine all sorts of things and they all point to how courageous and brave you’ve become. Being a bright, my belief system sees no ‘sin’ or ‘abnormality’, but I know that not everyone sees things the same, so you can count on me as a supporter.

So, congratulations to you on this milestone in your life.

U2

My reply:

Howdy U2,

Well you’ve figured me out. That was the plan, and it seems it worked like clockwork. But to be honest it’s not like a lot of thought or preparation went into it, it’s just that I’ve gotten to a point where I don’t give a fuck who knows or what anyone thinks anymore and this was the easiest way to get it out there with minimal effort on my part. So while I don’t give a fuck who knows, it’s so much easier when everyone just knows and I can get on with more important things. That, and the whole “sit down I have something to tell you” scenario never goes well and I just don’t have the strength to do it. Mind you, of all such experiences ultimately they all turned out well, with the possible exception of one, and I just couldn’t imagine doing a major expose on my life to the entire family when it’s really no one’s business and I suspect that it would be more of a deal to them than me anyway.

When I said “I don’t give a fuck” it’s just that I got to a point, like with anything, where the hype and the hubbub got way out of control and I realised that there was really nothing particularly to be scared of in people’s reactions (or lack of in some cases, which was actually a little trippier for me than the teary or angry ones) and I just stopped caring about the reactions and started focusing on actually living life rather than reacting to it or reacting to other people’s reactions to my life.

So yeh. Thanks for the email. I was never “worried” about you or A2 though, although “worried” isn’t the right word. But you know what I mean. I’m still kinda drug-fucked from the Tegretol so bear with me ok. I did the whole self realisation thing ages ago, so long I can’t even remember when exactly, a few years anyway. Way too late at any rate. I won’t go into the nitty gritty of why it took so long, if you want to know I’ll tell you another time. And while I don’t think suppression or denial of self caused CFS it certainly made it worse and contributed to the depression and the suicidal self-harm shit but I’m over it now.

And thanks for the congratulations, although the truth is I don’t feel very brave a lot of the time… I feel a little slow-witted sometimes (Tegretol not withstanding) for taking so long. In that it literally took a decade to get here. But I’m here. Confidentially, when I told Mum (many many months ago, or so it feels anyway, I forget the exact date, early this year at any rate) she was very upset that I had done all of this alone but the fact was I was over it by that stage, I’d done the crying and the banging my head against a wall and I’d got it out of my system. But it was all new for her, and that she was upset over issues I’d long since buried. And I had to get used to that.

Anyway just wanted to clear that up… “I don’t give a fuck” has such a harsh tone to it and while I do still mean it, I don’t mean it absolutely.
You’ll have to forgive me, I’m still very cloudy and totally clogged up from hayfever. Some people see glorious spring days, I see pollen counts.

So thanks for the support. Talk to you soon :-)

Dan

My life, up to the minute

Sooo many things to write about. The problem with me is having the time to blog and the motivation to blog. They happen often, but rarely at the same time. So here we are, playing catch up.

On Friday night I ventured forth Sydney-way to a cocktail party at Gus and Adz’s place in honour of their American guest, Jon. I met many great people (most of whose names have been instantly forgotten, unfortunately) and I was so disciplined that I didn’t drink more than a single drop of alcohol, which is to say I had a teensy tiny drink that is barely worth mentioning. This was a feat slightly muted by the fact that I smoked a lot, however smoking isn’t mind altering and therefore much less reprehensible in my book. It was a great night despite the massive shockwaves of pain that hit me at around 3 am for no apparent reason; I’m talking the kind of pain where it hurt everywhere on my body when I lay still, and hurt even more when I moved. Consequently, I had very little sleep and felt like rat shit the next day, but it was totally worth it for a good night with good friends.

Saturday and Sunday are now but a blur in the windmills of my memory, days in which I attempted (with varying success) to tie up a few loose ends of homework. I subsisted in a drug-fucked haze. Let’s leave it at that.

On Sunday I did, however, take the next step in The Plan™, adding my “step-cousin” (for want of a better description) to my facebook friends list. All of my cousins (except Rick of course, who I can’t stand, and who can’t stand me) already know I’m gay and now, after I sent her a facebook message, so does she. This means it will soon spread around the Family-at-Large, who, I am given to understand, have been discussing the matter with some interest for some time now. I realise it’s not the best way to do it, but frankly I’m over it, suddenly my being gay is (at least in the sense of coming out constantly) no big deal, so I just want it over and done with; it’s a quite liberating feeling.

Monday saw a trip to uni and lunch with my cousin Bee in the city. It was a beautiful day, 25 degrees—spring is totally on the way and I can’t wait for it! In the cold my legs really ache so I get excited every year when things begin to heat up. And then today, at about 5 pm, I went outside for a smoke and I could smell spring, the sweet fragrance of new birth was everywhere. But don’t think that the irony of my going outside for the express purpose of smoking is lost on me.

This afternoon I told Mum, briefly, that I had added the “step-cousin” to facebook and what that meant in the larger scheme of things. She didn’t quite understand why I was telling her, but I just said that she will probably get a call from Grandma when she returns from overseas, so to be prepared. We were driving to pick up Sister at the time, and she said I had better tell her. I asked if Sister had said anything to them about “it” since her return from the course three months ago. She hadn’t. On the way home from the course, she was upset that I had told her over the phone, in a way that she couldn’t really answer back to. She also apparently remembered the “rotten things she’d said” to me (Mum’s words, not mine) and was upset about that too. So it remains a big rainbow elephant hovering over us constantly. We were driving back home after having picked her up and Mum said “well go on then, tell her”. I told her the situation. She asked if I should not tell my grandparents in person. I said I can’t, that the whole sit down, I have something to tell you situations are too draining and rarely end well. “You don’t have to tell me that” she said. Ouch. Time will tell I guess.

And that, my friends, is my life, up to the minute.

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.

Giant rainbow elephant in the room

Since the whole retraction incident, not a word has been spoken between Sister and I about “it”. In fact, “it” wasn’t even addressed then; “it wasn’t that” she said.

The whole thing has become, at least for me, like a giant rainbow elephant in the room: it’s there but neither of us will acknowledge it. There hasn’t been much cause for acknowledgement, to be fair, however before I came out to her she was always talking about “the homosexuals”. The homosexuals want to get married! The homosexuals want to adopt children! What rubbish. Since I came out, she’s said nothing.

To be honest, I’d rather just have it out and get all the preconceptions out of the way so we can go forward instead of stagnating where we are now. When I say preconceptions, I’m talking about preconceptions held by the both of us; I am well aware that while I have suspicions of what she thinks about “it”, I don’t know for sure. What it boils down to is that neither know what the other is thinking or feeling about “it”, so there are bound to be preconceptions.

The thing is, I don’t want to have to be the one to bring it up.

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 the coat rail when my parents or sister walk past. The only ones yet to officially open the closet and behold the rainbow coat I now wear is the rest of the FAL. I know it will happen soon—on MSN I’ve been plugging the GetUp campaign, which means certain family members will see it and finally put two and two together before scuttling off to tell everyone as fast as technologically possible, European families being second to none in the efficient transmission of juicy information stakes.

But I don’t care; I’ve let go of the coat rail, shed the grey conservative manly coat (which, I should add, is an illusion anyway) and am beginning to step out into the big bad world, finally colourful, fabulous, and free.

Retraction

I haven’t disappeared, nor has it been necessary to put The Exodus™ into action; I’m still at home but I’ve been procrastinating in a big way rather than studying for an exam on Tuesday next week.

When Sister arrived home on Sunday night, I went out to greet the car. She walked up to me wordlessly and hugged me, tightly, for a long time. When she let me go she said: “I don’t want to make you more upset but when I asked you not to take communion it wasn’t because of that” (presumably Mum and Dad filled her in on the reason for my absence), “it was just that anyone should go to confession if they haven’t been to mass in a long time, me included, it wasn’t because I thought you’d done anything specific. I’m sorry.” She was crying and obviously quite upset for having upset me so. I told her I forgave her (and I had) and silently beat myself over the head for jumping to my own conclusions.

Since then things have been the same. There has been no proselytising, no questioning, nothing much really. While I’m overjoyed at the lack of such unpleasantness, I’m aware that it will have to be dealt with at some point, for both our sakes. It occurred to me the other day that we are both labouring under misconceptions regarding my being gay; she asked me on the phone when I told her “what does that mean?” and I thought that she would be much more militant (for want of a better word) in her coming to terms with all this. So, she is probably wondering many things and I am definitely wondering what she’s thinking about it.

So for now life goes on as normal. I’m trying not to procrastinate too much and actually get some study done which is why I haven’t been posting much. Once the exam is over, next Wednesday, I’ll be travelling northward to the Coast to stay with Lala and Cal (whom I really miss, I haven’t seen them since March) for a few weeks, including a trip to the North Coast to Cal’s parents’ holiday house with family and friends. That should be fun, ten “adults” (aged between 16 and 25, and I use the term loosely), our friends’ two kids (aged six months and two) and one puppy, all squished into a two bedroom holiday house. I’ve already “bagsed” a bed; Lala promises a “reserved” sign, laminated with gold trimming, will be made for me so that no one else pinches my bed. Joys of being disabled; you get automatic bedding when staying in a house with 12 people and only enough bedding for seven.

And with that, my friends, I must leave you and attempt to start studying.

Reality and truth

This week I’ve been riding the wave of freedom that comes with finally unburdening one’s self. I’ve been reflecting on Reality and how Reality doesn’t seem real until one talks about it aloud.

About two years ago I had just admitted to myself that I am gay. I had admitted it was the Truth, but I certainly didn’t like the idea. I didn’t want to be a pansy, or a fag, or a homo, or a fudge-packer, or any other derogatory name you care to say. It was real but as I hadn’t told anyone, there was an element of plausible deniability; I could push thoughts about my aberrant sexuality to the back of my mind and pretend to be “normal”, whatever the fuck that is.

Sister called today for the first time since I dropped the bomb last Sunday. She spoke briefly to Mum and then asked to speak to me. I took the phone with a little trepidation and placed it to my ear.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hi” said Sister, “how are you?”
The usual pleasantries followed and I felt more at ease.

After telling Liz, Eryn, Lala and Cal, it got a little more complicated. I had finally begun to like the idea of being gay; being gay was, after some time, actually quite fun. Gone was the notion of plausible deniability, however; while I could walk around blissfully in denial, those four knew the Truth. There was no turning back and no hiding. The journey towards Truth and Reality had begun, however I hadn’t told my family, those closest to me (if not emotionally speaking, then at least geographically) so it was still rather unreal.

Tomorrow, Sister comes home. There is a special mass at the place where she’s staying, followed by dinner, and we have all be invited.
“So”, began Sister, “are you going to have communion at mass tomorrow?”

This took me totally by surprise. I always get communion at mass—I am Catholic after all. But it’s more than that—I don’t get communion because I have been programmed to do so by virtue of my being Catholic. I get communion because I believe it to be the Body of Christ. It is my right as a Catholic and I choose to accept it.

“Of course I am” I said, wary and confused.
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” she asked. I could see where this was going, although I didn’t quite know how it was going there.
“Ummmm, yes. Why not?”
“Well you haven’t been to confession lately, or to mass, and I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“So?”
“Well I just think its better if you don’t.”
“Sister, I’m not going to not get communion.”
“I just think it’s best if you don’t. Do it for me can you?”
“Fine. Bye.” I hung up.

After the good reactions from those closest to me (emotionally, not geographically), I felt more confident in telling other people. I was fearful of some macho display of homophobia so the fact that the guys (particularly) in the inner circle didn’t