Back in late September , as my weekends on the beach were coming to an end for the season, I asked my friend Louie to take some candid pics of/for me, while I still had some summer color/tan, as it was the first time in many years I possessed a hue other than ‘pastey white boy’. Also, I wanted some pics of me since I’ve lost the weight and am trying to get more tone. I’ve made progress, but “Joe six pack abs” I’m not. While I don’t feel fat anymore, I’m not willing to go so far as to say I feel skinny. The last remains of the damned belly won’t go away.
All my life I’ve been self conscious of my body. I was an overweight child—not obese, but overweight. I had a belly. I had boy boobs. The first time I lost a good deal of weight was my sophomore year of HS when I got sick with a really bad ear infection. For the first time, I had a smaller waste than my older “hot” brother. (In 8th grade I was once introduced to someone as ‘the one with the cute, hot brother’. It’s something I’ve never forgotten).
When the SFm* told me he was leaving me, one of the reasons was, “I am no longer attracted to you.” If he was trying to find the way to cut me the deepest, and inflict the most pain and hurt with lasting effects, he found it.
After Louie took the pics, we went to his computer to view and select. I was looking at the pics with some amazement. “God, is that really me?” Subjectively speaking while objectifying the person in the pics, I said, “Wow, I have a nice ass! Who knew?” I haven’t lost touch with reality. I know I’ll never be posing for any calendars. My goal is to be able to be shirtless in the summer without feeling self-conscious.
Looking at photos is a lot different than looking at yourself in the mirror. The experience was a very affirming. The photos went far beyond their intended purpose.
*Stupid Fucking mormon
©wtf/rle
Showing posts with label autumm. Show all posts
Showing posts with label autumm. Show all posts
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
D-Day
Some anniversaries are celebrated. Some are mourned. Some are acknowledged or commemorated for the importance of the anniversarizing event. (Yes, I made up/verbicized a word (actually 2, I guess.)
September 23, 1989 is known as Denial Day or “D-Day" or more appropriately, the END of Denial Day. It’s the day I said for the first time, “I’m gay.” This momentous event occurred in a shrink’s office at the Student Counseling Center on Campus. I was scared shitless uttering the words out loud. Although John (my then shrink) would argue that it was hardly out loud. Getting there was a long arduous road, and the path that was ahead of me, following this utterance was equally as long and arduous, if not more so, although at the time, I thought the worst was over.
I had many years of self-loathing and hatred to overcome, indoctrinated by a church and religion purporting to be of “God’s love.” The message I received was that God loves everybody BUT me. I spent years praying for God to change me and “make me ‘right’”. While this wasn’t the solidifying event that led me to, as REM so perfectly sings, “Losing My Religion”, it was the solidifying event that caused me to rethink the concept of ‘prayer’ and the crock of shit that it is, used a bargaining chit to some favor doling entity (IMO) as proselytized by current day religions. I’ve had trouble with the “P” word ever since. The mere mention of it can make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, depending on who may be saying it.
I spent many years as an activist for GLTB issues in the church. This was in large part because the suicide rate for GLTB teens/young adults is at least 30% higher than for others in the same age co-hort. I wanted to effect change, make a difference, as I was nearly one of that statistic. The letters were written. The pills stockpiled. A friend unwittingly stopped me before I followed through with the plan. While never an easy topic of discussion, the passage of time makes it (the topic, not the action) less frightening. I fought within the church to keep other teens/young adults from being part of that statistic. Oddly enough, it wasn’t GLTB issues that eventually brought me to my current beliefs (or absence thereof) to Atheism. But that’s another story.
This story is about burning down everything which was the essence of who I thought I was or tried to be, and the Phoenix that arose from the ashes. I have a love/hate relationship with Autumn. As is fitting with my morbid sense of humor and nature, I like the endings--the death that autumn brings, the senescense. Halloween is one of the “High Holy Days” in the Fagdom Calendar. I’m one of few gay men who does not like Halloween. I spent so many years wearing my ‘masks’, that the last thing I want to do is pretend I’m something I’m not. I’m sure that the Autumn of ’89, plays heavily upon this irrational disdain of Halloween. But, it’s part of who I am in 2008—an out, proud gay man, with few regrets. ©wtf/rle
September 23, 1989 is known as Denial Day or “D-Day" or more appropriately, the END of Denial Day. It’s the day I said for the first time, “I’m gay.” This momentous event occurred in a shrink’s office at the Student Counseling Center on Campus. I was scared shitless uttering the words out loud. Although John (my then shrink) would argue that it was hardly out loud. Getting there was a long arduous road, and the path that was ahead of me, following this utterance was equally as long and arduous, if not more so, although at the time, I thought the worst was over.
I had many years of self-loathing and hatred to overcome, indoctrinated by a church and religion purporting to be of “God’s love.” The message I received was that God loves everybody BUT me. I spent years praying for God to change me and “make me ‘right’”. While this wasn’t the solidifying event that led me to, as REM so perfectly sings, “Losing My Religion”, it was the solidifying event that caused me to rethink the concept of ‘prayer’ and the crock of shit that it is, used a bargaining chit to some favor doling entity (IMO) as proselytized by current day religions. I’ve had trouble with the “P” word ever since. The mere mention of it can make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, depending on who may be saying it.
I spent many years as an activist for GLTB issues in the church. This was in large part because the suicide rate for GLTB teens/young adults is at least 30% higher than for others in the same age co-hort. I wanted to effect change, make a difference, as I was nearly one of that statistic. The letters were written. The pills stockpiled. A friend unwittingly stopped me before I followed through with the plan. While never an easy topic of discussion, the passage of time makes it (the topic, not the action) less frightening. I fought within the church to keep other teens/young adults from being part of that statistic. Oddly enough, it wasn’t GLTB issues that eventually brought me to my current beliefs (or absence thereof) to Atheism. But that’s another story.
This story is about burning down everything which was the essence of who I thought I was or tried to be, and the Phoenix that arose from the ashes. I have a love/hate relationship with Autumn. As is fitting with my morbid sense of humor and nature, I like the endings--the death that autumn brings, the senescense. Halloween is one of the “High Holy Days” in the Fagdom Calendar. I’m one of few gay men who does not like Halloween. I spent so many years wearing my ‘masks’, that the last thing I want to do is pretend I’m something I’m not. I’m sure that the Autumn of ’89, plays heavily upon this irrational disdain of Halloween. But, it’s part of who I am in 2008—an out, proud gay man, with few regrets. ©wtf/rle
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Senescence
This is, I guess the 'dark side' follow-up to my NCOD posting on http://imablogaholic.blogspot.com/
REAL DEATH
It's autumn, the time of year when nature's cycle goes into 'death mode'. Deciduous trees and shrubs quit sending water and nutrients to their leaves, causing the color change, and dropping from the plant. That's the process of senescence. Non-botanically, it's the process of becoming old. (Merriam Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, 10th edition). I love autumn. I like the change of seasons. I even like the death. Yes, it's one of my odd quirks. It's the yan to life's ying. Though it has it's melancholy moments. Death seems to be around me.
Sunday, I was talking with my neighbor (and good friend). This week is the second anniversary of her father’s death. She’s a nurse. I was somewhat taken aback as to how hard it is for her still, two years later.
My Mom called me last night to tell me they’d just returned from the visitation of the father of one of my grade & high school classmate’s/friend’s. T was part of the ‘group’ that I belonged to from Jr. High on. Mom said she’d asked about me, told Mom to tell me she thought of me often. We’d kept in touch off and on, until she’d gotten divorced and moved away from the last address I had for her. I don’t know why she chose not to let me (& others) know she’d relocated. —Embarrassment? Shame? What I know is that I missed not knowing what was going on with her—even if only via the holiday updates. She’s the second one of our ‘group’ to have now lost both parents. Our group knew death from an early age. We lost a classmate to cancer in the 8th grade. Mom was like the Grim Reaper last night, regaling me with the death notices of another classmate’s mother, as well as two other people from the small town where I grew up. I’m reaching that age where this is going to become more and more common. I’m fortunate that I still have both parents living and healthy.
METAPHORIC DEATH
I was in grad school when I finally came out --to myself--when I finally said the words, "I'm gay". To take off on Dickens, “It was the worst of times. It was the worst of times.” That’s NOT a typo. I had begun seeing a shrink at the student counseling center on campus (with whom I credit my presence on earth). Integrity is a trait that has always been high on my list. I felt as though I had none. I felt as though I was a fraud. Even though all the things I’d been taught in church, and even through all the prayers to ‘fix me’. The feelings I had would not go away. I had emotionally, spiritually, and nearly physically “senesced. Something had to change. I had to accept who I was, deal with it or cease to exist. The latter came very close to being a reality. The unwitting intervention of a friend prevented that.
The metaphoric death of the closeted, faux me had to occur for the rebirth of the ‘true’ me to happen. While I no longer consider myself (nor would others) a religious person, I like to think that I’m a spiritual person. It really pisses me off that people think and use these two word as synonyms. But that’s a whole post in itself.
When I get nostalgic about autumn, there’s a tinge of melancholy, but mostly it’s gratitude that permeates my being. The autumn of 1989 was pure hell. But I walked, sometimes crawled, and sometimes was dragged through hell. I made it through and came out on the other side--the phoenix arising from the ashes in spring of 1990. I’m reminded of the death that had to occur in me before I could really begin living. The scorch marks and scars are still present, though mostly invisible to others, they merely reminders of the journey. I’m also reminded that dormant friendships can be revived. I’m looking forward to that possibility.
REAL DEATH
It's autumn, the time of year when nature's cycle goes into 'death mode'. Deciduous trees and shrubs quit sending water and nutrients to their leaves, causing the color change, and dropping from the plant. That's the process of senescence. Non-botanically, it's the process of becoming old. (Merriam Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, 10th edition). I love autumn. I like the change of seasons. I even like the death. Yes, it's one of my odd quirks. It's the yan to life's ying. Though it has it's melancholy moments. Death seems to be around me.
Sunday, I was talking with my neighbor (and good friend). This week is the second anniversary of her father’s death. She’s a nurse. I was somewhat taken aback as to how hard it is for her still, two years later.
My Mom called me last night to tell me they’d just returned from the visitation of the father of one of my grade & high school classmate’s/friend’s. T was part of the ‘group’ that I belonged to from Jr. High on. Mom said she’d asked about me, told Mom to tell me she thought of me often. We’d kept in touch off and on, until she’d gotten divorced and moved away from the last address I had for her. I don’t know why she chose not to let me (& others) know she’d relocated. —Embarrassment? Shame? What I know is that I missed not knowing what was going on with her—even if only via the holiday updates. She’s the second one of our ‘group’ to have now lost both parents. Our group knew death from an early age. We lost a classmate to cancer in the 8th grade. Mom was like the Grim Reaper last night, regaling me with the death notices of another classmate’s mother, as well as two other people from the small town where I grew up. I’m reaching that age where this is going to become more and more common. I’m fortunate that I still have both parents living and healthy.
METAPHORIC DEATH
I was in grad school when I finally came out --to myself--when I finally said the words, "I'm gay". To take off on Dickens, “It was the worst of times. It was the worst of times.” That’s NOT a typo. I had begun seeing a shrink at the student counseling center on campus (with whom I credit my presence on earth). Integrity is a trait that has always been high on my list. I felt as though I had none. I felt as though I was a fraud. Even though all the things I’d been taught in church, and even through all the prayers to ‘fix me’. The feelings I had would not go away. I had emotionally, spiritually, and nearly physically “senesced. Something had to change. I had to accept who I was, deal with it or cease to exist. The latter came very close to being a reality. The unwitting intervention of a friend prevented that.
The metaphoric death of the closeted, faux me had to occur for the rebirth of the ‘true’ me to happen. While I no longer consider myself (nor would others) a religious person, I like to think that I’m a spiritual person. It really pisses me off that people think and use these two word as synonyms. But that’s a whole post in itself.
When I get nostalgic about autumn, there’s a tinge of melancholy, but mostly it’s gratitude that permeates my being. The autumn of 1989 was pure hell. But I walked, sometimes crawled, and sometimes was dragged through hell. I made it through and came out on the other side--the phoenix arising from the ashes in spring of 1990. I’m reminded of the death that had to occur in me before I could really begin living. The scorch marks and scars are still present, though mostly invisible to others, they merely reminders of the journey. I’m also reminded that dormant friendships can be revived. I’m looking forward to that possibility.
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