Meeting the folks

SMS, me to Dad: Hey Dad, What are you guys doing this weekend? Janek and I have been invited to a party [near home] on Sunday. So can I stay at your place on Saturday night?
SMS, Dad to me: Mum has something on Saturday, but I’ll be home. Of course you can stay.
SMS, me to Dad: Cool, thanks. When I have more details I’ll let you know.
SMS, Dad to me: Cool. Will J be staying here too?

This had me a little worried. Well, “worried” isn’t the right word, but I wasn’t sure how this would pan out. They know about Janek, Mum has met him briefly and seems to like him, but how would they go with us both sleeping under their roof? Together? Rather than have any awkwardness on Saturday, I gave Mum a call to find out what she thinks…

Me: Hey Mum, how’re you?
Mum: I’m well. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?
Me: Well I wanted to ask you about this weekend… How do you feel about Janek staying there? In my room, I mean.
Mum: Well how do you feel about it?
Me: I feel great, how do you feel?
Mum: I feel fine. (to Dad) How do you feel about Janek staying here? (quick silence) He feels fine, everyone’s fine, don’t worry.
Me: Good good. So when can we expect you?

We arrived late.

We had dinner, a simple chicken stirfry that I invented from left-overs that Dad really loved, and then watched a movie with them. Mum went to bed early; Dad watched another movie with us, as we snuggled up on the lounge. There was no awkwardness, no sideling looks, no whispers; they loved him, like I knew they would. And he loved them. So much so that he even sided with my mother during an argument on how best to cook rice. Though I was pissed off at the time that he wasn’t backing me up, since he’s seen me make rice this way hundreds of times, I was glad he felt comfortable enough to join in the jokey kind of argument.

As we were getting ready for bed Dad said “So I take it you don’t want me to make up Sister’s room?” I said no. He smiled knowingly and went on his way.

The next morning, as we leaving, I snuck into Mum’s room and did the whole “So now that you’ve spent more than a few minutes with him, what did you think?” thing in hushed whispers so that Janek wouldn’t know we were talking about him (though I do realise that by writing about it I am negating my efforts somewhat). She told me she really likes him, and that she’s glad I brought him to meet them.

I didn’t get a chance to ask Dad, so I sent him a text message tonight…
SMS, me to Dad: So what do you think of Janek?
SM S, Dad to me: I like Janek! Was going to ask how he felt about meeting the parents.
SMS, me to Dad: He was nervous as hell on the drive up but it dissipated quickly.
SM S, Dad to me: And… what did he say on the trip home?
SMS, me to Dad: I dunno… do you have anything specific in mind? He said he had a good time, you and Mum are really lovely etc.
SM S, Dad to me: No… that is fine. Just hoped that he felt comfortable being here
SMS, me to Dad: Oh yes, he did. Very much. Weekend was a huge success :-)

Meeting the new boyfriend

On Sunday I journeyed to the coast to stay with Lala and Cal for a week. Luckily, I scored a lift with Janek, and we went out to lunch with most of The Beach Crew: Lala, Tia, Bee, Bin and Alex.

It’s hard to say who was more nervous as Janek and I drove to the coast... When we got into the car after lunch, Janek clutched his heart dramatically and declared his heart was beating a mile a minute, so it’s safe to assume that he was as nervous as I was. For my part, I discovered that my nerves were misplaced as I saw Janek and my family get on like a house on fire.

As in all good Meeting-The-New-Partner scenarios, as soon as The Partner was out of earshot, The Presenter asked the timeless question: “So what do you think?” The response was, without exception, “I love Janek! He’s so lovely!” Another yay.

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?

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.

The family tree

Just by way of clarification, I thought I’d make a quick list of people who get a regular mention on this blog, because I do realise that my family (particularly) can be quite confusing to the casual bystander. This is not a list of people who are important to me, per se, it’s simply a list of people who have been mentioned on this blog.

Mum, Dad, Sister.
So to begin with, obviously, there’s Mum, Dad and Sister, the ones I live with. Sister and I have a pointedly love-hate relationship. Since coming out to my parents, in March 2007, things have become easier at home in many ways: I feel so much freer. Since my coming out to her, not much has changed except for the fact that she no longer harps on about “the homosexuals” and their unreasonable demands.

Pop
Pop, Dad’s father, has been a regular character on this blog, especially since his passing, as I’ve been dealing with my grief. He was my hero.

Grandma, Grandpa and the Family-at-Large
Grandma and Grandpa are my Mum’s parents. They have four children: Aunt Agony, Mum, U1 and U2. In many ways we are the typical European immigrant family: always in each others’ pockets. As a child I thought all families were like this; it wasn’t until I was much older that I realized how unhealthy a setup we have so I’ve been trying to extricate myself slowly to a healthy distance. But I love them all dearly, despite their pissing me off on a fairly regular basis.

Rick is the son of Aunt Agony. Like his mother, he is abrasive and very difficult to be around. I don’t trust him. I feel deeply sorry for him, because I suspect he is deeply unhappy in his own skin.

For the sake of clarity, and because I was running out of pseudonyms, I named my two uncles U1 and U2 (think Bananas in Pyjamas), and their wives A1 and A2. U1 was married to Tía for 19 years, but he left her and their four children (Lala, Bee, Ade and Bin) for another woman, A1, with whom he now has a daughter, Zoe. Zoe is happiness and joy personified. U2, who is a complete enigma, is living with A2; together they have a son, my godson, Luke.

Although technically no longer my aunt, I still feel a special connection with Tía and find it difficult to reconcile the fact that U1 and A1 are now married, thus making A1 my aunt as well. I cannot relate to A1 as an aunt. When he left, I witnessed the devastation that was left behind and watched quietly as Tía and her children slowly grew into the people they are today. We all consider his leaving to be the best thin ever to happen to their family, despite the heartache it caused.

The beach crew
Lala and her boyfriend Cal have their own place, a couple of blocks from the beach, where I often stay during the holidays. They have two dogs that I have adopted as my own: Roxie and Olly. Lala and Cal are more like siblings than cousins. Bee, Ade (and his girlfriend Mary), and Bin (and her boyfriend Alex) complete The Beach Crew. We often hang out with Lala’s best friend, Amber and her husband Tom.

The state-of-mind family
That leaves Kate and her son Lance, Liz, Calla and Amy, who are the state-of-mind family. Kate and Liz are like sisters, often bearing the brunt of my bad days when I can’t take it out on my “real” Sister.

That’s about it for now… I’m sure I’ve forgotten someone, so I’ll you in later if I have.


The ones I live with
Now that I am living at uni, I have four housemates: The Optimist, The Space Cadet, The Accountant and The Guianan. The Optimist, so named because at 19 was ready to start learning before classes started, is a refreshing influence to on my jaded outlook. The Space Cadet needs no introduction; I avoid him at all costs. The Accountant I don't know that well, he keeps to himself; he always leaves taps running though which really really pisses me off. The Guyanan (formerly referred to as The Brit, however I have since learned he is from Guyana, not Brittain) lives upstairs.

¡Feliz Navidad!

Christmas is, by far, my favourite time of year. This year’s was the most perfect in a long time (except for one teensy incident which is a topic for another post, tomorrow).

During the week leading up to Christmas I was saying the age old mantra to myself—five sleeps till Christmas, four sleeps till Christmas, etc—and then it finally came!

My family celebrates on Christmas Eve. As a child this meant that I got my presents a full 12 hours before my friends at school. Now I see it as a celebration rich with family tradition and ritual. This year we had 25 people celebrating together at Grandma’s: my two grandparents, my parents, Sister, me, three aunts, two uncles, nine cousins and five partners-of-cousins.

Everyone arrived at Grandma’s, the doors to the dining and lounge rooms securely locked from the curious eyes of the little children, and we sat around and had a chat with drinks before dinner. As children we were not allowed into the room with the Christmas tree until the dinner bell was rung. Nowadays, most years Sister and I go down a few days before the 24th to set up the tree, the outdoor lights and the decorations, so some of the mystery has been lost for me, but the look of awe on the faces of the children makes it all worth it.

When the dinner bell sounded, we all assembled before the nativity, a fifty-odd piece scene carved and painted by my Grandfather, to pray. After the prayers everyone wished one another a Merry Christmas and my Grandfather read the Christmas story in Slovak, followed by the same reading in English by Rick. After this, everyone sat down to dinner, which was followed by the Opening of the Presents.

My baby (two and a half year old) cousin is a present opening machine. She opened every gift within her reach, whether addressed to her or not. We had a great night simply revelling in each other’s presence.

After dinner I called my seven year old nephew, Lance, to wish him a Merry Christmas. I explained that my family celebrates on Christmas Eve, not Christmas Day, that we had 25 people here in the one house, all having fun and he asked "Are there any cute guys there?". I was stunned. Has his mother passed down a recessive fag-hag gene that we were unaware of? I answered that since everyone is my family I don’t look at them that way and quickly changed the subject. Of course, the truth is that yes, there were cute guys: Cal was there, of course, as was Bin’s boyfriend, Alex, who are both gorgeous; my cousin Ade has a rugged Latino look that is gorgeous too. And then there’s me. But apart from that, the men of my generation aren’t anything special in the looks department. Shallow, yes, but it was Lance who asked, not me, and he knows that there can be a disparity between outer appeal and true inner beauty.

Anyway, I went to bed slightly after midnight, feeling the luckiest guy around; even though I was in a lot of pain all night, on the constant (and sadly ever-increasing) drug carousel. Every four hours. I see the doctor on the 28th.

But I am one of the lucky ones with the gift of such a beautiful, if somewhat dysfunctional, family that I love dearly, despite its faults.

Merry Christmas to you all.

A charming phone call

The just rang. I looked at the little caller ID window and saw “Aunt Agony” and called out to Dad to answer the phone because I really wasn’t in the mood to talk to her. He answered and shortly after came into my room, proffering the phone in my direction. I sighed and said hello.

“Hello darling, how are you?”
“Terrible.” This was mistake number one.
“What’s wrong?”
“My legs are fucked.” Second mistake, which I tried to rectify by saying “I have a CT scan on Friday so hopefully that brings some answers.” I was hoping dropping the CT in would show her there was some level of mystery and seriousness. I don’t think it worked too well…

“It’s because you don’t move them enough.”
“Nooo… I move plenty and it makes no difference.” And it’s true. I do exercises and it makes no difference. If anything, I think I deserve an award for actually trying to exercise in pain rather than lying back and whining about it!
“Well it could be growing pains.”
“Ummm… I’m 23.” Besides, many doctors believe the elusive umbrella-termed growing pains to be early manifestations of fibromyalgia (as in my case) or other musculoskeletal conditions like arthritis etc.
“So? You have one last shot going on at the moment.”
“I don’t think so. This isn’t growing pains. Anyway we’ll see what happens on Friday and what the doctors say, hopefully can shed some light on all this.” I was going to mention the neurologist appointment too, because I figure that that, in combination with a CT, might appeal to her sense of basic empathy, but I decided against it because I just couldn't be arsed arguing with her any further.

I interrupted with “Anyway, what can I do for you?” in attempt to divert the conversation to a place were I wouldn’t be likely to tell her what I thought of her or her unwarranted and ultimately useless diagnoses and recommendations.

As the conversation wound up, she drove in the last nail with “Think positive thoughts, darling.”
“I do think positive thoughts, Agony, it doesn’t make much difference. The pain doesn’t change with my mood.” She chose not to respond, which was good because it would have lead into a whole other area that I really don’t want to discuss with her.

At the end, she told me she loves me, and we said our goodbyes. What I want to know is where the fuck do concerned relatives get their medical degrees/training/experience? Are these institutions of higher learning open to all, or only aunts and other assorted familial hangers-on?

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

Love at first sight

While watching TV the other night, the character said to his wife “as soon as I saw you, I knew I was going to marry you”. “That’s what happened to me, mate.” Dad said.

My parents’ meeting is a bit of a fairy tale romance, one I’ve always enjoyed hearing. I love the casual intimacy between them: the cuddles in the kitchen while doing dishes or welcoming kisses when one gets home. Our home has always been one that is full of love; we were always hugged, kissed, and told “I love you”.

It was October 1978 when they met. Mum was 21; Dad was 23—my age. Mum was staying with a friend of hers from uni over a weekend to do a group assignment . This friend lived across the road from Dad; her twin brother was Dad’s best friend and they had known him since early childhood, having gone to the same primary school and her brother having gone to the same high school. After a long day of study, Mum’s friend suggested they go out on Saturday night with some friends of hers, and that she would invite her friend from across the road—“you’ll like him”—I don’t think it was a set-up per se but that’s how it panned out. Dad said to the twins’ mother “I’m going to marry that girl”.

The next day, Sunday, Dad dropped in to the friend’s house to say hello. He asked Mum how she was getting home (on the other side of Sydney) and she said she was just planning on catching the train. He offered to drive her and they hit it off. Shortly after he asked Mum out for a date at a fancy restaurant and so began the love affair of a lifetime.

After some time, a month or two maybe, he was invited by Mum’s parents to dinner at their place. Dad was petrified. Being their grandson, this is a hard scenario to picture but I can see that my grandparents are incredibly intimidating to strangers, especially new or potential lovers of their children or grandchildren. Dad shuffled in, all “Hello sir, hello ma’am”, and ate dinner with them. It was a culture shock; he was brought up in the inner western suburbs by the “typical Australian” parents, her parents immigrants with their strange food, language and customs. After dinner he offered to make tea, in an attempt to impress them, and was given orders to make special herbal after-dinner tea for everyone. He emerged from the kitchen, five minutes later, with four cups full of milky mustard-coloured water—he didn’t know that herbal teas don’t need milk. They laughed and I think he finally let his guard down a little. In no time, he was part of the family.

A year later, Dad approached my grandfather and asked his permission to propose to my mother. On the day that was a year after their first date, Dad took Mum to the same restaurant and proposed. She said yes and, two months later, they married in a small church on December 29, 1979.

Of the four siblings’ first marriages (in my mother’s family), theirs is the only one to have survived.

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.

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 condemn me but told me “so what? I love you anyway” was a huge boost to my self-esteem and sense of identity. Slowly the list of “those who know” far outstripped “those who don’t”. When I began university last year I took the stance that I would tell people if asked outright. This proved to be unnecessary since most people worked it out anyway. I didn’t mind, and neither did they. At that time I reflected that I was living two lives—a gay one and a non-gay one (I won’t say straight because I’ve never been that straight anyway, but a non-gay one nonetheless). This dual reality wore on me, but I wasn’t ready to let my family in on my life so I put up with what I saw as the lesser of two uncomfortable situations.

“What did Sister want?” Mum asked after I hung up so abruptly.
“She wanted to ask me not to take communion tomorrow at mass” I replied, forlornly.
“Why not?” she asked, confused.
“Because I haven’t been to confession or mass lately, and she thought it would be ‘for the best’” I said, my forlornness suddenly replaced by wrath.
“So she thinks you’ve been out having gay sex and need to confess before communion?” Mum said.
“I guess so. It doesn’t matter, I’m not going.”
“But you haven’t done anything wrong!”
“I know.”

After telling Mum and Dad the Truth, Realty suddenly became more real. I felt a little exposed in those first few weeks, because suddenly they knew something so intimate about me that I had kept hidden for so long. But they were cool. Life was good. Now I just had to tell Sister and I could finally rest.

After hanging up I messaged Lala and asked her to call me as soon as she could. After half an hour the phone rang and upon my answering she said “what’s wrong sweetie?” I explained the situation, that Sister has presumed I’ve been out fucking random guys and as such was unworthy of communion. She commented that although Sister is attracted to guys, “she doesn’t go round fucking them, why should you?” We arranged part three of the great plan, The Exodus™. After The Chat™, which will take place on Monday, I should think, I now have the option of leaving here and staying with Lala and Cal, who have both told me separately that I am welcome there at any time at a moment’s notice.

I feel more at ease around the house, although nothing much has changed. I feel I could wave a rainbow flag proudly. Dad has refrained pointing out good looking girls when we’re driving, something that never bothered me to begin with, I think it’s kinda funny actually considering Dad is 52. Mum occasionally asks if I think some guy is good looking when he appears on the television but that’s about it.

I told Mum about The Exodus™ and while she understood why I was making such plans, she didn’t like it. “You are both part of this family, I won’t have one of you leaving because the other makes life difficult” she said. That touched me. She was not impressed with Sister’s insistence at my not having communion, “what business is it of hers what you do anyway?”.

Later in the evening, I asked her if she would drive me to the supermarket before they left in the afternoon.
She asked again if I would be going and I said no.
She asked why not? Why was I letting her dictate what I do?
I explained that it wasn’t a case of being dictated to, it was that if I went and received communion, Sister would get pissed. If I didn’t, then I would be pissed and I would sit through the entire service resenting her. I didn’t want to ruin what was, after all, her day, so I thought it best to avoid confrontation in public and let her have it when she gets home and asks why I didn’t come.

And now she knows. And it’s Real. And it’s True. And I’m being punished already. But I’m not being punished for something I’ve done, I’m being punished because of the stereotype of the fuck-happy fairy that Sister holds and applies to me. She should know me better. The reason for not telling her for so long was not because I’m ashamed to be gay, but because I thought that she would be.

Time will tell if I was right.

I did it, act two

After much discussing, planning, rehashing, fretting, and the stomach upset from hell, The Plan™ has finally come to fruition. I told Sister that I am gay at 10:30pm on Sunday night.

I had decided, upon advice from the ever-insightful Nicki, to do it over the phone so as to give her a week away to digest the information before she had to “face” it in person. The added bonus to this situation is that should she have a total meltdown, she could do so away from me so that I wouldn’t have to bear the brunt of it. After consultations with a few people it was all mapped out: I would tell her on Sunday or Monday night over the phone, wait a week for the danger to subside, deal with any arguments from Sister upon her arrival home the following week, and then flee to Lala and Cal’s to escape her objections to my “chosen lifestyle”.

In all the planning that went on, and there was a lot, it was never ascertained who would be making the call. It was the one, albeit rather crucial, detail that no one thought to entertain. By about 9:30, I was starting to think that perhaps she wouldn’t be calling. While this would usually be a welcome turn of events I was forced to try calling her mobile at a little after 10pm. She rarely answers these days because her mobile phone is usually in her room so I hung up and waited for her to call back.

Suddenly I became very dizzy and a little nauseous as I felt bats flying around my stomach; I felt a tide of acid rise in my stomach, threatening to burn a hole through it into my chest. Two swigs of bi-carb water later, I lay in bed and waited. The phone rang. It was her. Thank goodness for caller ID. I called out to Mum to answer the phone, because I knew that if Sister needed to talk to Mum and/or Dad about anything, it would be best that she did it first. Twenty minutes later I was handed the phone. Had I known that being so magnanimous would result in twenty minutes of agony, I might have thought twice.

I took the phone, exchanged a loaded look with Mum, and went outside for a cigarette. I sat on the chair outside and made small talk with Sister for ten anguished minutes. “So, any other pressing news?” she asked. “Well, since you mention it” I said, willing my head to cease spinning, “there is something I wanted to discuss with you.”

Knowing that this would end very badly if I didn’t sit down soon—likely in a rather spectacular episode of vomit and unconsciousness—I sat on the dirt of the driveway, my back against the back wheel of Mum’s car, and tried to breathe evenly. “You see I did want to do this face-to-face” I began, hoping that I would be forgiven this one little white lie for the sake of both our sanities, “but I guess this is the next best thing”—breathe, Dan, breathe—“so yeh, I’ve been meaning to tell you in person but ...”—come on, you’re so close!—“but, well, what I want to tell you is that ... I’m gay.”

“Oh ok” she said, shocked. But not disgusted. This was a good sign.

“Yeh” I said, aware that I probably should give her a chance to at least begin thinking about approaching the task of digesting such a monumental piece of news

“So what does that mean?” She asked. After my mind stopped going “Huh?” at the top of its little voice, I voiced my confusion: “What do you mean ‘what does that mean’? It means what it means.”—Right Dan. Clear as mud. “Well ...” she began, clearly choosing her words carefully, “you have these same-sex attractions ...”—more thinking on her part, more reeling on mine—“but are you going to act on them?”

“Yep.”

“Ok. What do you think God thinks about it?” This is more what I was expecting. “Well ... I think it’s ok because I was made in His image” I said succinctly. “Well it’s true that we are all created in His image, but that doesn’t make everything we do right”. I was going to point out that there’s a difference between being and doing, and the dizzyingly circular logic of you can’t have sex outside of marriage, but we can’t get married so we have to have sex outside of marriage, but you can’t have sex outside of marriage, but I decided to pick my battles and leave this for another day.

After a lengthy silence, which was probably all of five seconds long in reality, she said “you know I love you, right? No matter what, I’ll always love you.” The acid in my stomach subsided; the bats flying around in my stomach took to their perches; the dizziness abated. I always knew that she would never, ever, stop loving me but I always feared it nonetheless. I said “I know, Sister, I love you too”. I explained that I realised this was a huge shock to the system and something she would want to think about and pray about. I suggested we call it a night and would discuss this further, if she wished, when she got home. She agreed, told me again that she loved me and hung up.

I slumped down, totally relieved, utterly exhausted, and lit another smoke. It was the first breath of fresh air in a long time.

Comfort

It occurred to me last night that the sound of my mother snoring like a rhinoceros with blocked adenoids is one the most comforting sounds in the world.

There are two reasons for my taking comfort in such an otherwise unpleasant rumbling sound. One speaks of my true romantic nature, my inner-child, my inner-vulnerability and of the fact that I, like most gay boys, am a total Mama’s Boy. The other is purely practical.

When I hear her snoring in the dead of night, I know she is here; I know that I am safe because my Mummy will protect me. When I was a boy I was terribly afraid of the dark, I never felt particularly safe alone in my bedroom with all the potential baddies out there in the night and no one but my teddies to protect me. It was Mum who sat with me, aged 2 and a half, and explained that there is nothing to be afraid of; when the lights go out, everything stays the same except we can’t see it. Presumably I took this under advisement because I don’t remember any further incidents of night terror until we moved house when I was 7, at which point I was convinced I could hear “robbers” traipsing through the house in the dead of night. Although I’m no longer afraid of the dark, and no longer hear enigmatic robbers in the house at night, it is still comforting to know that she is there should I need her.

On the other hand, the sound of snoring indicates she is asleep and therefore my parents are not having sex. While I’ve passed the stage where the thought of Mum and Dad doing it is “eww grose” it is still nonetheless unpleasant. This is particularly relevant considering my life is becoming increasingly nocturnal (due in large part to the migraine medications containing a good hit of caffeine). Most nights I go outside for a smoke at least once after Mum and Dad have gone to bed, and to get outside I have to walk past their bedroom. They sleep with their door open, so you can see the huge potential for embarrassment. Whenever I get up, I walk slowly through the house, waiting for a tell-tale sound of the state before continuing confidently down the corridor to the front door.

Usually it is only after a few steps outside my bedroom door that I hear Mum snoring like a freight train on a collision course and know that all is right with the world.

Who am I?

Maybe it’s the migraines, maybe it’s the pain killers, but I am feeling very introspective today. It occurred to me that my “about me” needed some updating so I started writing a list of things to describe who I am. By the time I got to number 46 or so, I thought I may as well go the whole hog and try for 100. I hope it isn’t as self-indulgent as these things can often be.

1. I pretend that it doesn’t matter to me, but the truth is I do care what people think of me.
2. I feel sorry for Aunt Agony and Rick; they seem so unhappy and it breaks my heart.
3. I enjoy helping people, but only if they are willing to help themselves.
4. If I could change one event in my life, I probably would do it; I just wouldn’t know which to change.
5. I genuinely don’t understand people who are threatened by love between two women or two men.
6. I enjoy smoking, but I regret having started.
7. I didn’t get the real meaning of ANZAC day until this year.
8. I don’t cry often, but when I do I really cry.
9. I yearn for independence, but I miss being a child.
10. I am more a cat-person than a dog-person.
11. I believe in love at first sight, simply because it has happened to people I know.
12. I had a crush on my (female) art teacher in year 9.
13. I am not scared of spiders, snakes, rodents or insects; they just piss me off.
14. I hate being treated like a child by Sister and my mother.
15. I think I look good in brown and blue.
16. I think I could pull off wearing a pink shirt, but I’m afraid to try.
17. I’ve never broken a bone in my life.
18. I genuinely don’t understand people who believe that same-sex relationship recognition is a “special right”.
19. I had two ingrown toenails removed when I was a teenager and had a panic attack each time.
20. I can go from being secure to being wildly insecure very quickly.
21. My favourite colour is bright blue, but more on the aqua side of blue.
22. I can’t help but hate pumpkin and green beans.
23. I like Tía’s pumpkin soup recipe better than my mother’s.
24. I like Grandma’s chicken livers.
25. I hate that people use “gay” as a derogatory term, but don’t often speak up when I hear it.
26. I was most afraid of coming out to my aunt, Tía, because I was afraid of her rejection more than anyone else’s.
27. When I was little, I wanted to be a “tattooist”.
28. I loved Astro Boy when I was a kid, but I rented it on video as an adult and thought it was lame.
29. I am a little scared of Sister’s reaction to my being gay, but not as much as I used to be.
30. When I was five, I thought the (male) school captain was hot.
31. Bad use of grammar infuriates me.
32. I love reading good poetry, and secretly wish that I could write good poetry too.
33. I generally believe myself to be a good writer.
34. I generally believe myself to be a good person.
35. I carry a photo of Luke, Sam and Zoe in my wallet.
36. I truly believe in marriage, just not as a political wedge or as an elite institution, yet I respect others’ decision not to get married.
37. I can’t help but believe in God.
38. I can’t help but believe in the Catholic Church.
39. I saw my first porno magazine at the age of 10.
40. I don’t drink much, but when I do I don’t know when to stop.
41. I had a crush on Cal when I first met him.
42. I hate it when people say things like “I’m not homophobic, I just hate gays”; I would much prefer that people owned their homophobic, racist or sexist ideas.
43. I feel like the black sheep of the family.
44. I believe in the concept of “the family” being important, even though I feel stifled by my own.
45. I hate Macs, if for no other reason that their mice only have one button.
46. I love reading a good novel on cold winter nights.
47. I can knit, and I’m pretty good at it.
48. I genuinely believe my mother had no idea that I was gay; I don’t understand how, but I believe it.
49. Even though I’m 23, I still have teddy bears on my bed.
50. I genuinely don’t understand people who think that God hates me, simply because I am gay.
51. A good male singer makes my knees weak.
52. I am generally attracted to blonde surfers or dark Latino men.
53. For the first year or so, I only looked at straight porn. It didn’t occur to me that gay porn existed (or that I would like it).
54. I often wonder what life would have been like, and what I would be like, if I wasn’t sick; I wonder if I’d like myself.
55. I prefer summer to winter.
56. Increasingly, I’m ashamed to be Australian.
57. I am ¼ Spanish, ¼ Slovak, 3/8 Australian and 1/8 German; I identify more with Spain than with Slovakia or Germany.
58. I love to laugh so hard it hurts my stomach.
59. I am proud of Sister’s achievements, even though she does a lot of things I don’t agree with.
60. I wish I had a brother.
61. I am afraid of never getting better.
62. I am afraid of being alone.
63. I am afraid of having access to Luke, Sam and Zoe denied me.
64. I am afraid of the end of the world.
65. I say things without judgement; if I say “that shirt makes you look fat” I mean it as a statement of fact, not as a comment on your worth.
66. I often wonder if people love me as much as I love them.
67. I get really, really disappointed when people say they will call me and then don’t.
68. I believe in the ideal of “turn the other cheek”, but often thirst for vengeance.
69. I am comfortable in the knowledge that people who use God, the Bible and religion as a basis of hatred will get their just deserts.
70. I love Australian slang like “wig-wam for a gooses bridle”, “you’ve got Buckley’s”, “pearler” and “no flies on you”.
71. I generally believe myself to be fairly good looking, but some days I feel so ugly.
72. I generally believe myself to be fairly intelligent, but some days I feel so stupid.
73. I can’t listen to Mr Jones, by Counting Crows, without a stab of pain.
74. I vividly remember meeting Luke for the first time, but I cannot remember meeting Sam or Zoe that well.
75. Even though I’m 23, I still enjoy cuddling up with Grandma on the lounge when we watch TV together.
76. I am often embarrassed by my memory problems.
77. I try to forgive people; I think I do a pretty good job at it.
78. I am loyal to my friends and I expect nothing less in return.
79. For a long time before I accepted my sexuality, I considered myself bi even though deep down I knew that was a lie.
80. I feel comfortable swearing in front of my parents and grandparents.
81. I don’t pray as much as I’d like to, or as much as I think I should.
82. I was always good at maths but hated it.
83. I generally believe myself to be a good cook, so I don’t understand why baking cookies is beyond me.
84. I’ve lived in two houses in the same city my entire life.
85. I’ve never been overseas; the only places I want to go are Madrid, to the church in which my grandparents married, and to Rome to see the Pope.
86. I considered Pope John Paul II a third grandfather.
87. I felt personally betrayed when my uncle left my aunt for another woman.
88. I have a high pain threshold for generalised pain, but a low one for localised pain.
89. I don’t really have a favourite food.
90. I love playing monopoly, even though I’m not very good at it.
91. When I get depressed I just want to sleep and forget.
92. Of all the people I know, my grandma has the best laugh.
93. Of all the people I know, my pop has (had) the most amazing mind.
94. Of all the people I know, my cousin Lala has the biggest heart.
95. Of all the people I know, my friend Liz is most like me.
96. I love the beach but hate the ocean.
97. I probably swear a little too much.
98. I have no qualms with using the word “cunt”.
99. I wish I had the kind of skin that tanned easily, instead of burning.
100. I don’t really have a favourite band, TV show or movie; I have lists.