Canadian Citizenship Ceremony
A friend of mine happens to be a film maker, and he happened to be at my Citizenship Ceremony. As a result: https://youtu.be/NGuVYa7Aajc/
Cub Scout Terminus
I don't much like going through my childhood memories. Too many times, I stumble across something deeply upsetting. Lately, a hoard of such reminiscences has been storming my consciousness, and the best way for me to work through them is to write them out in my blogs. I just recently tripped over this one, and with it came all the anger, frustration, and hurt that my fourth-grade self had apparently buried.
I used to love being a Cub Scout. Back then, the meetings and elementary school were the entirety of my social life. I loved the companionship, the field trips, the crafts, and most of all, learning. So it's rather a shame that I never made it all the way to Boy Scouts.
Our den mother had to stop den mothering for some reason, and so my mother selflessly stepped forward to take her place. Too late, she thought better of it and changed her mind. But by then she had committed to it, and so she was stuck. Unless...
My parents explained the situation to my young self, and made a deal with me. If I quit the Scouts to free Mom from her hasty promise, then they would do the things with me that I used to with my troop. I did *not* want to withdraw, but for my mother I reluctantly agreed.
Lo! Crisis averted! Life returns to normal for my parents, who then thought nothing further of it.
Their promise to me was immediately completely forgotten. Not once did we open my old Cub Scout book and work on any projects, nor attend any conventions of any kind, nor do anything social, nor visit museums, nor take field trips of any kind, nor actually do anything at all to fulfill their side of the bargain. Not once.
Looking back thirty-five years later, I've got to say that that's a really shitty thing to do to one's son.
I used to love being a Cub Scout. Back then, the meetings and elementary school were the entirety of my social life. I loved the companionship, the field trips, the crafts, and most of all, learning. So it's rather a shame that I never made it all the way to Boy Scouts.
Our den mother had to stop den mothering for some reason, and so my mother selflessly stepped forward to take her place. Too late, she thought better of it and changed her mind. But by then she had committed to it, and so she was stuck. Unless...
My parents explained the situation to my young self, and made a deal with me. If I quit the Scouts to free Mom from her hasty promise, then they would do the things with me that I used to with my troop. I did *not* want to withdraw, but for my mother I reluctantly agreed.
Lo! Crisis averted! Life returns to normal for my parents, who then thought nothing further of it.
Their promise to me was immediately completely forgotten. Not once did we open my old Cub Scout book and work on any projects, nor attend any conventions of any kind, nor do anything social, nor visit museums, nor take field trips of any kind, nor actually do anything at all to fulfill their side of the bargain. Not once.
Looking back thirty-five years later, I've got to say that that's a really shitty thing to do to one's son.
A Golden Surprise!
Interesting. I had no idea I was a member of the Golden Key National Honour Society, and have been since 1992 (which was probably my junior year at Georgia Tech). I found my invitation in that old pile of paperwork I've been going through, e-mailed them to see if maybe I'd accepted, and surprise surprise, I had!
Birthday Wishes
I've become fairly fierce in guarding the sanctity of my birthdays. But then, so are others in my biological family, so I don't feel particularly guilty about this behaviour. Since I've been alive, I'm the only person in my immediate family to have had it erased off the calendar in favour of others' priorities. Just off the top of my head I know there are at least three times this has happened, and I'm confident that I'd find more such incidences if I actually searched my memories.
Just as an example, the reason I drove from Toronto to Vancouver in just four days was because it was extremely important for me to spend my birthday with loved ones instead of alone travelling on the open road. That drive was hell, but the exhaustion was worth the celebration that followed.
There are people here in Vancouver who are beautiful inside and out, who wish to share my birthday with me. They love me, care for me, and respect me for who I am (as opposed to who they think I "should" be), and they *show* it in ways that have nothing to do with guilt trips, nagging, criticizing, berating, abusing, nor belittling. They encourage me to do what I need to do for me, then they help and support me with whatever *I* decide that may be. They encourage me to be myself, and have never dictated nor pressured me about what "myself" should be like. They've certainly never even suggested that I should hide my true self from anyone. These folks want to celebrate with me the day I'll turn 45 years old, not inconsiderately shove that occasion aside as if only a sappy fool would possibly care about such trite, sentimental bullshit. (Perhaps I am a sappy fool, and if so, I'm quite fine with that.)
I want to spend my birthday with the people who demonstrate almost daily with their actions that they love, care for, and respect me, not with those who merely say that they do and then leave it to me to fabricate a fiction that transmogrifies their actual actions (or lack thereof) into something approaching their claims.
I am spending my birthday at home in Vancouver with the fellas I love. That's where I belong on that day and on the succeeding weekend. That's what's right for me. That's what's right for us. And even if it's not right for anyone else on this planet, this year I am going to do it *my* way.
Just as an example, the reason I drove from Toronto to Vancouver in just four days was because it was extremely important for me to spend my birthday with loved ones instead of alone travelling on the open road. That drive was hell, but the exhaustion was worth the celebration that followed.
There are people here in Vancouver who are beautiful inside and out, who wish to share my birthday with me. They love me, care for me, and respect me for who I am (as opposed to who they think I "should" be), and they *show* it in ways that have nothing to do with guilt trips, nagging, criticizing, berating, abusing, nor belittling. They encourage me to do what I need to do for me, then they help and support me with whatever *I* decide that may be. They encourage me to be myself, and have never dictated nor pressured me about what "myself" should be like. They've certainly never even suggested that I should hide my true self from anyone. These folks want to celebrate with me the day I'll turn 45 years old, not inconsiderately shove that occasion aside as if only a sappy fool would possibly care about such trite, sentimental bullshit. (Perhaps I am a sappy fool, and if so, I'm quite fine with that.)
I want to spend my birthday with the people who demonstrate almost daily with their actions that they love, care for, and respect me, not with those who merely say that they do and then leave it to me to fabricate a fiction that transmogrifies their actual actions (or lack thereof) into something approaching their claims.
I am spending my birthday at home in Vancouver with the fellas I love. That's where I belong on that day and on the succeeding weekend. That's what's right for me. That's what's right for us. And even if it's not right for anyone else on this planet, this year I am going to do it *my* way.
Closure
I was first sent to a psychologist by a loved one after an unpleasant encounter with an acquaintance of ours. The acquaintance was under a lot of stress, and I don't believe that he was aware that he was taking it out on me. Given the circumstances, I couldn't respond the way I wanted. Instead, to keep things calm and peaceful, I agreed with things I didn't feel I should have agreed with and apologized for things I didn't feel I had done. To further complicate things, the circumstances were such that I couldn't tell anyone what had happened for over a week, so I had to keep everything about it bottled up inside me.
Even though I believe I handled the incident well, I was so troubled by it that I had flashbacks so intense that they kept me from sleeping nights. This surprised me, and I couldn't seem to get them to go away. Once I finally spoke to a psychologist, he told me that I needed "closure". And he had a nifty trick I could use to achieve it even though I couldn't talk about this to the person with whom I needed it with.
I had no idea that you didn't actually need the other person present to finish unfinished business with them! You simply imagine that they're in the room with you, talk to them out loud, and imagine their responses. It sounds ridiculous, but doing that just once ended weeks of not being able to sleep without a prescription-strength sleeping pill.
Honestly, brains need to come with instruction manuals!
Even though I believe I handled the incident well, I was so troubled by it that I had flashbacks so intense that they kept me from sleeping nights. This surprised me, and I couldn't seem to get them to go away. Once I finally spoke to a psychologist, he told me that I needed "closure". And he had a nifty trick I could use to achieve it even though I couldn't talk about this to the person with whom I needed it with.
I had no idea that you didn't actually need the other person present to finish unfinished business with them! You simply imagine that they're in the room with you, talk to them out loud, and imagine their responses. It sounds ridiculous, but doing that just once ended weeks of not being able to sleep without a prescription-strength sleeping pill.
Honestly, brains need to come with instruction manuals!
Ancient Anger
Moving from a two-story house with a full basement to a 1,075 square foot apartment is a lot of work, especially when you stubbornly don't allow yourself the luxury of renting external storage space. We've been making "should we keep this" decisions in priority order of greatest space reclaimed per time to make the decision. For instance, at first we weeded out furniture because in 30 seconds we could make a choice that freed up a cubic metre. Then we went to knick-knacks and books, then kitchen stuff, then wall hangings, then office supplies, and now we're down to ancient file folders filled with decrepit paperwork. Just one of these folders could take days to get through, and even if we ultimately decide to trash everything within it, we only recover a few square centimetres of space.
Some of this stuff is from 1974. Some is from my high school years. Much of it is from university. Apparently after that I got better at organizing and disposing of stuff I no longer needed.
I've encountered a fascinating side effect of going through the older stuff. Huge, dense schools of childhood memories resurface as I'm thumbing through the dusty papers, which then swarm about my consciousness for hours or days afterward. And while there's nothing particularly bad about any of them, they're accompanied by powerful surges of anger and rage which don't seem to match any of the individual memories.
What in the Hell do I have buried in my subconscious?!?!
I am extremely worried. All my life I've used anger as a shield to protect myself from even worse emotions. When I get pissed off about something, it's usually because it feels better for me to be mad than to acknowledge that I'm actually feeling hurt or sad or afraid or whatever. So here I've stumbled across a behemoth cache of anger. What's underneath it? What's it protecting me from? And if I can get a handle on it and siphon it off, what's going to happen to me when whatever's imprisoned below is free to attack?
Some of this stuff is from 1974. Some is from my high school years. Much of it is from university. Apparently after that I got better at organizing and disposing of stuff I no longer needed.
I've encountered a fascinating side effect of going through the older stuff. Huge, dense schools of childhood memories resurface as I'm thumbing through the dusty papers, which then swarm about my consciousness for hours or days afterward. And while there's nothing particularly bad about any of them, they're accompanied by powerful surges of anger and rage which don't seem to match any of the individual memories.
What in the Hell do I have buried in my subconscious?!?!
I am extremely worried. All my life I've used anger as a shield to protect myself from even worse emotions. When I get pissed off about something, it's usually because it feels better for me to be mad than to acknowledge that I'm actually feeling hurt or sad or afraid or whatever. So here I've stumbled across a behemoth cache of anger. What's underneath it? What's it protecting me from? And if I can get a handle on it and siphon it off, what's going to happen to me when whatever's imprisoned below is free to attack?
"Blast" from the Past...
I've been weeding through stacks of paper from what now seems like lifetimes ago, and I came across a letter from my mother from near the end of our "Gay Wars", which I publically wrote about this past National Coming Out Day. The goal of that post, and also of this one, is to try to give the younger generations an idea of what that they do *not* have to go through in these more enlightened times. True, we have a long way to go, but I think this serves as an excellent example of the progress we've made in a very small amount of time.
Brief history: I came out to my parents and sister in 1991, and during that emotional conversation, I accidentally agreed to not come out to the rest of our family until after all four of my grandparents had died (all of whom were hale and healthy at that time). I realized my mistake almost immediately, and thus began a long string of arguments between me and my mother. She didn't agree to release me from that agreement until I told her I wasn't willing to interact with the rest of the family if I couldn't be myself when I did so. Thus this letter from her, and thus my coming out to everyone I was related to (for whom I had a mailing address) immediately after my sister's wedding in in May 1998.
Just so the letter makes sense: Cyndie is my sister, Ilene and Joe are my paternal grandparents, Sandie is my paternal aunt, and at the time I didn't live anywhere near anyone in my family.
I offer no commentary of my own on this letter, but would be interested in hearing others' opinions on it.
Brief history: I came out to my parents and sister in 1991, and during that emotional conversation, I accidentally agreed to not come out to the rest of our family until after all four of my grandparents had died (all of whom were hale and healthy at that time). I realized my mistake almost immediately, and thus began a long string of arguments between me and my mother. She didn't agree to release me from that agreement until I told her I wasn't willing to interact with the rest of the family if I couldn't be myself when I did so. Thus this letter from her, and thus my coming out to everyone I was related to (for whom I had a mailing address) immediately after my sister's wedding in in May 1998.
Just so the letter makes sense: Cyndie is my sister, Ilene and Joe are my paternal grandparents, Sandie is my paternal aunt, and at the time I didn't live anywhere near anyone in my family.
I offer no commentary of my own on this letter, but would be interested in hearing others' opinions on it.
30 Dec 97
Dear Bryon,
I've actually thought of almost nothing else since our conversation on Sunday night (28 Dec.). I think you're already aware of the fact that we really comprehend the dissension you feel over this impasse. Obviously, you can see both sides of the question, or you would have broken your word to us and revealed your lifestyle to the extended family anyway. Here are some of the thoughts I've had over the past 48 hours...
Can you accept the probability that these people DON'T WANT TO KNOW who you satisfy your sexual needs with, or that you have chosen another man to be your spouse? If you inform the relatives of your gayity, you will force them to make decisions and take actions based on their beliefs. They have probably already assumed that you are gay anyway ..... who's the most interesting and provocative, the dancer with the flowing, gauze veil, or the starkly nude with nothing left to the imagination? If you allow them their imaginations, they can save face by NOT knowing the reality of your sexual orientation, therefore keeping the status quo and doing nothing.
If your inclination is still to let them know you have found your life's mate so they can gladly receive him, then be aware that you are opening yourself and Mike up to prejudice you have never experienced before. (It hurts more when people you love thrusts you out and ostracizes you... I remember!) And they will never know Mike on a personal level either to realize just how special he is. It is an abstract thought for them to grasp the fact that two same-sex humans can love, cherish, and honor each other in a marriage arrangement traditionally reserved for a heterosexual couple. They fail to see the luminous souls shining through the flesh and to realize that there was a time when we ALL were both male and female before we became entrapped in earthbound bodies by our own greed and lust. They don't have a clue.........
Bryon, they're old, sick, and tired. If you tell them this truth, it WILL change the way they think of you because they won't be able to look at you in the same way again. While your emotional needs are as valid as theirs, it would be a gracious gift on your part to leave them ignorant in this matter. Since you are on the periphery of their world, at best, can you understand that the very love they honestly hold for you would cause them deep pain and anguish because they would have to face the fact that "one of their own" doesn't conform to the same social mold they grew up with and follow to this day. It took Dad and me a couple of years to become comfortable with this knowledge, but Bryon, they may not HAVE a couple of years to adjust. How deep is your need? Would you feel diminished as a person if you didn't change their world forever? Can't you accept the love they have for you in their pure state of ignorance? How do you benefit after you have imparted this information to them? They already love you to the very best of their ability in the only way they know how - as family and blood. Where does your need for validation lie...and why?
I am requesting that you do not tell them before the wedding at least. It's already going to be a logistical challenge, without the added stress of answering questions or not getting spoken to at all during the time we will share in Vermont. Ilene and Joe will be there (even though Ilene stated to Dad last night that "it would sure be easier on everyone if Cyndie would change the wedding to N. C.!") Dad just told her 'It's Cyndie's wedding and she can have it where she needs to."
I find it interesting that you hesitate to confront any of the family face to face with the information. I am not challenging you or criticizing you, but as I try to study human nature, I am wondering why you feel a letter is better. I understand the need to get all the words right, but at least with Sandie, I wonder why you do not want to tell her in person. She, of all people, would not criticize you, but would probably give you great insight to the Elliott side of the family. (I will tell you that with the two boys, and lack of funds for a phone call, she may not have the time or money to answer you in a timely fashion if you choose to write to her.)
Once again, I do understand all the anxiety you had to work through to get to where you are now, and the great amount of self- acceptance and self- assurance you needed to become the person you are now. Do you still feel uneasiness when it really matters who you divulge your gayity to?
I know that as humans, we all need acceptance and love from the ones we love. I realize where you are coming from, and I would undoubtedly feel the same. I present this letter to you so you might once again weigh your benefits from this pronouncement to the extended family. You emotional state would be the only thing that benefits, if that. You have never enjoyed inflicting pain on anyone, no matter what facade you put up, and your sensitivity has always shown through towards the people you love.
Our choices, or lack thereof, by definition always close some doors to us, Bryon. My choice not to abort you 29 years ago gave me the best son any mother and father could have. Did I face social unacceptability...yes. Am I sorry...no. The ostracizing made me who I am today, and I would never change my decision. But there were some people who never accepted me, and never will. Pregnancy out of wedlock in the '60's had the same stigma that gayity does today. Was I sad that I lost some of the few friends I had and that I was thrust into a totally alien lifestyle to what I had hoped for myself? Yes, and I still am sometimes now. But the path God chose for me has been worth all of the emotional pain....I not only got Dad, who is one of the most decent human beings I have ever known, but I got you and Cyndie too. "It's all GOOD!", as Cyndie as been know to say.
And, I guess I'll just leave it at, that my darling son. I am truly sorry for the turmoil you must find yourself in, and I'm sure you will work it out for the best. Give thanks every day that a wonderful soul like Mike has attached himself to you and loves you for who you are. I honestly thank God every day for Dad, and you and Cyndie, and for the fact that we are all old souls who are happy in this particular lifetime. WHAT MORE COULD WE ASK FOR?
Call me when you get this and have read it over a few times. We love you and wish you well.
Mom and Dad
Disproportionate Disappointment
It came as a surprise to me to discover that the people closest to me, who cared the most about me, perpetually feared disappointing me. If something that I was looking forward to didn't happen, regardless of reason, I would become extremely disappointed and sad. So much so that it would also sadden my loved ones, especially whomever had to bear the bad news.
Why is my disappointment so extreme!? Since this affected people I love, and since I was already seeing four different shrinks to help me cope with Jim's stroke, I decided to talk to one of them about this to see if I could do something about it.
In response, I was handed a homework assignment. In my childhood, had I suffered some huge disappointment? After chatting in depth with one of my close friends about it, I thought we'd tracked down the source incident.
But when I reported back to the shrink, it didn't feel quite right. It didn't seem to fit as neatly as it should. Apparently the shrink agreed because he lead me along another path of memories, and we thus quickly stumbled over it.
"Gosh, it seems so obvious now that *you* say it. Why didn't *I* ever think of this before? Oh wait a minute, I know that one. It's because I don't like remembering my childhood, and so I can't make the associations."
If you had a past wherein you lost every single thing and every single person who ever meant anything to you, how would you react to things that appeared on your horizon that you believed could possibly come to hold value to you? Would you be afraid to have any faith in them because you were used to every such thing spontaneously vanishing from your life, or would you voraciously latch onto them in a desperate hope of filling some of the emptiness that myriad previous losses had created? How would you react when someone new became important to you? Would you be too afraid to let yourself get close to them because everyone else you've ever gotten close to had been ripped out of your life, or would you crushingly grip them in an effort to keep them from suddenly exiting your life, too?
A long, long time ago I was an "army brat". Until I was in high school, we moved every one to two years, and so did everyone we ever met. And even high school had a guarantee that I was going to move again upon graduation, so it only afforded me four years of consistency. Every friend I ever made, I knew from the start that I could lose them at any time with only a week or two notice due to one or the other of us moving. Every friend I ever made, I knew from the start that at best we'd only be friends for up to two years. Throughout my entire childhood, everyone I came to care about got pulled out of my life, and I just had to internalize the disappointment, sadness, and grief. "Big boys" weren't supposed to show their emotions, and certainly not cry! So all of those emotions are still buried inside me now, intermingled amongst the memories of the first two decades of my life. There are an awful lot of those emotions, and collectively, they are an incredibly strong force within me.
Possessions were the same way. With every move, much of our stuff was broken or lost or just outright stolen. For instance, every single one of my childhood toys vanished when I was 8 in our move from Italy to Virginia. To value an item meant risking more pain, but I frequently did so anyway, and ended up with a whole lot of emotional baggage as a result.
Similar to all this were lost opportunities. Any local place I wanted to visit, I had to do so quickly or I'd lose the chance with the next move. Anything I wanted to do with anyone had to be done before one of us moved. But of course, as a kid I didn't have much say-so in where I got to visit and what I got to do, so I watched despairingly as chance after chance after chance slipped away with absolutely no control to seize any of them.
Apparently, I have had it. Every opportunity I wish to indulge, every person I get close to, every possession I come to like, I latch onto with a steel grip while feeling terrified that I'm going to lose them anyway. Every place I live, I nearly kill myself trying to visit local attractions before that next move that my mind is sure is just right around the corner. With every plan that falls through, every possession that's broken or lost, every friend or lover I can't stay tightly close to, a lifetime of coagulated disappointment, sadness, bitterness, and grief rises up and washes over me, instantly destroying my mood and leaving me depressed for days, if not weeks. It's a struggle to get it all reinterred. But of course, it's then poised to overwhelm me again when the next minor disappointment comes along.
Thank gawd for shrinks.
So what in the hell am I supposed to do about all this? I certainly can't change my past. I can't even remember all the friends and things and opportunities I lost in my youth. I can't find all those memories, much less try to deal with each of them one by one.
The trick, apparently, is to just wait for the emotions to come up on their own. Every current disappointment lures them from subterranean hiding places, so they're actually much too easy to find. Then instead of trying to stomp them back underground, I just let myself feel them. When they wash over me, I am to go swimming in them. "Emotions just want to be felt," the shrink told me, so once I do that, I've satisfied what they want and they thus go about their business and leave me alone forevermore.
I've been trying to do this. It feels like drinking from a fire hose. There's just so much of it that's been waiting so long to be felt. One little disappointment saddens me for days, and it's difficult to let myself continue feeling it while trying to not let it affect my interactions with co-workers, friends, and loved ones. But I notice that each time it's easier. Each time there are fewer emotions available to wash me away. Each time is less and less overwhelming. I still feel sadness and disappointment appropriate to the situation, but it's getting to be more proportionate each time.
In fact, my biggest disappointment now seems to be that it took me so long to figure out how to deal with this problem. But I hope that by finally doing so, I've made the remaining two-thirds of my life a much happier place for me and everyone I care about.
Why is my disappointment so extreme!? Since this affected people I love, and since I was already seeing four different shrinks to help me cope with Jim's stroke, I decided to talk to one of them about this to see if I could do something about it.
In response, I was handed a homework assignment. In my childhood, had I suffered some huge disappointment? After chatting in depth with one of my close friends about it, I thought we'd tracked down the source incident.
But when I reported back to the shrink, it didn't feel quite right. It didn't seem to fit as neatly as it should. Apparently the shrink agreed because he lead me along another path of memories, and we thus quickly stumbled over it.
"Gosh, it seems so obvious now that *you* say it. Why didn't *I* ever think of this before? Oh wait a minute, I know that one. It's because I don't like remembering my childhood, and so I can't make the associations."
If you had a past wherein you lost every single thing and every single person who ever meant anything to you, how would you react to things that appeared on your horizon that you believed could possibly come to hold value to you? Would you be afraid to have any faith in them because you were used to every such thing spontaneously vanishing from your life, or would you voraciously latch onto them in a desperate hope of filling some of the emptiness that myriad previous losses had created? How would you react when someone new became important to you? Would you be too afraid to let yourself get close to them because everyone else you've ever gotten close to had been ripped out of your life, or would you crushingly grip them in an effort to keep them from suddenly exiting your life, too?
A long, long time ago I was an "army brat". Until I was in high school, we moved every one to two years, and so did everyone we ever met. And even high school had a guarantee that I was going to move again upon graduation, so it only afforded me four years of consistency. Every friend I ever made, I knew from the start that I could lose them at any time with only a week or two notice due to one or the other of us moving. Every friend I ever made, I knew from the start that at best we'd only be friends for up to two years. Throughout my entire childhood, everyone I came to care about got pulled out of my life, and I just had to internalize the disappointment, sadness, and grief. "Big boys" weren't supposed to show their emotions, and certainly not cry! So all of those emotions are still buried inside me now, intermingled amongst the memories of the first two decades of my life. There are an awful lot of those emotions, and collectively, they are an incredibly strong force within me.
Possessions were the same way. With every move, much of our stuff was broken or lost or just outright stolen. For instance, every single one of my childhood toys vanished when I was 8 in our move from Italy to Virginia. To value an item meant risking more pain, but I frequently did so anyway, and ended up with a whole lot of emotional baggage as a result.
Similar to all this were lost opportunities. Any local place I wanted to visit, I had to do so quickly or I'd lose the chance with the next move. Anything I wanted to do with anyone had to be done before one of us moved. But of course, as a kid I didn't have much say-so in where I got to visit and what I got to do, so I watched despairingly as chance after chance after chance slipped away with absolutely no control to seize any of them.
Apparently, I have had it. Every opportunity I wish to indulge, every person I get close to, every possession I come to like, I latch onto with a steel grip while feeling terrified that I'm going to lose them anyway. Every place I live, I nearly kill myself trying to visit local attractions before that next move that my mind is sure is just right around the corner. With every plan that falls through, every possession that's broken or lost, every friend or lover I can't stay tightly close to, a lifetime of coagulated disappointment, sadness, bitterness, and grief rises up and washes over me, instantly destroying my mood and leaving me depressed for days, if not weeks. It's a struggle to get it all reinterred. But of course, it's then poised to overwhelm me again when the next minor disappointment comes along.
Thank gawd for shrinks.
So what in the hell am I supposed to do about all this? I certainly can't change my past. I can't even remember all the friends and things and opportunities I lost in my youth. I can't find all those memories, much less try to deal with each of them one by one.
The trick, apparently, is to just wait for the emotions to come up on their own. Every current disappointment lures them from subterranean hiding places, so they're actually much too easy to find. Then instead of trying to stomp them back underground, I just let myself feel them. When they wash over me, I am to go swimming in them. "Emotions just want to be felt," the shrink told me, so once I do that, I've satisfied what they want and they thus go about their business and leave me alone forevermore.
I've been trying to do this. It feels like drinking from a fire hose. There's just so much of it that's been waiting so long to be felt. One little disappointment saddens me for days, and it's difficult to let myself continue feeling it while trying to not let it affect my interactions with co-workers, friends, and loved ones. But I notice that each time it's easier. Each time there are fewer emotions available to wash me away. Each time is less and less overwhelming. I still feel sadness and disappointment appropriate to the situation, but it's getting to be more proportionate each time.
In fact, my biggest disappointment now seems to be that it took me so long to figure out how to deal with this problem. But I hope that by finally doing so, I've made the remaining two-thirds of my life a much happier place for me and everyone I care about.
Haircut Fun!
That was the most amazing haircut I've ever had.
Last month, I accompanied Jim to his local barber shop, and watched as he received a fantastic cut. Afterward while walking to his home, I confided to him that I felt a little envious. I'd been trimming my own hair for well over a decade, and I missed the sensation of being the focus of a barber's attention. "Oh! I have clippers. I'll cut your hair next time you need it." This cheered me immensely.
Then the stroke happened, and the idea fell completely out of mind.
Last week, I casually groused that I was overdue for a self-trimming, and Jim offered to do it for me this weekend. I paused and thought about it. He's regained a lot of control over his right hand, so he was *probably* capable of it. And this would actually be good therapy for him. So I happily agreed.
Come time for it, he sat me on a shower bench in front of his bathroom mirror. I'm a nudist and I feel at home at Jim's, so of course, I was already naked.
"Put your right hand behind your back."
Huh? Oh. This is going to be a *fun* haircut!
He tied my arms behind me at the wrists, reached around me from behind, and punched me in the nuts. Hot diggity! A few more warm-up punches to the chest and a few more to the scrotum, and then he seriously set about cutting my hair. It was every haircut I'd ever fantasized. A naked barber, intentionally brushing significant bits of himself against me, the promise of more to come, and of course, the relaxing sensation of having someone work on my hair.
Once trimmed, Jim instructed me to go lie down in his walk-in shower, which was a touch painful because my wrists were still tied. He loomed over me a moment, then caught me completely off guard by kicking me in the crotch. Okay, *that* hurt. So he did it again. And then pissed on me for good measure.
I was very very happy by the time he untied me so I could shower the hairlets off of me. That was the best haircut I'd ever had, and I hope its a good example of future ones. Better yet, it was just the foreplay. Once I dried off, we got down to the serious sex.
Cheers!
Last month, I accompanied Jim to his local barber shop, and watched as he received a fantastic cut. Afterward while walking to his home, I confided to him that I felt a little envious. I'd been trimming my own hair for well over a decade, and I missed the sensation of being the focus of a barber's attention. "Oh! I have clippers. I'll cut your hair next time you need it." This cheered me immensely.
Then the stroke happened, and the idea fell completely out of mind.
Last week, I casually groused that I was overdue for a self-trimming, and Jim offered to do it for me this weekend. I paused and thought about it. He's regained a lot of control over his right hand, so he was *probably* capable of it. And this would actually be good therapy for him. So I happily agreed.
Come time for it, he sat me on a shower bench in front of his bathroom mirror. I'm a nudist and I feel at home at Jim's, so of course, I was already naked.
"Put your right hand behind your back."
Huh? Oh. This is going to be a *fun* haircut!
He tied my arms behind me at the wrists, reached around me from behind, and punched me in the nuts. Hot diggity! A few more warm-up punches to the chest and a few more to the scrotum, and then he seriously set about cutting my hair. It was every haircut I'd ever fantasized. A naked barber, intentionally brushing significant bits of himself against me, the promise of more to come, and of course, the relaxing sensation of having someone work on my hair.
Once trimmed, Jim instructed me to go lie down in his walk-in shower, which was a touch painful because my wrists were still tied. He loomed over me a moment, then caught me completely off guard by kicking me in the crotch. Okay, *that* hurt. So he did it again. And then pissed on me for good measure.
I was very very happy by the time he untied me so I could shower the hairlets off of me. That was the best haircut I'd ever had, and I hope its a good example of future ones. Better yet, it was just the foreplay. Once I dried off, we got down to the serious sex.
Cheers!
Okay, that worked a little *too* well...
At the moment, Jim has very little control over his right hand and arm. Obviously, it's important for him to practice using them so that maybe he can get some use of them back. To this end, I came up with a little ploy...
When I'm with him, I accompany Jim into the bathroom to help out as needed. Yesterday, he did a good job at forcing his right hand to participate in the process of washing and drying his hands. He then turned towards the door to leave, and was a little confused when I stood in the way and gave him a challenging look.
I turned my arms palms-up, then made my hands into fists. "Do this," I commanded. It took some effort, but he did. "Now, with your right hand and only your right hand, punch me in the balls." I then swung my own right arm upward between us, just to be extra clear. It took a few attempts, but he got his arm to the point where he could swing it appropriately, but he always stopped short of actually connecting with my crotch. "I can't do that," he said with a pleading look in his eyes. He meant, he didn't want to hurt me. I stared at him harder. "Yes. You can."
You know what? Jim's got a *lot* of strength in that arm. Oh my god.
Several minutes later, we were both back in his hospital bed. He indicated to me that, in the drawer immediately to my left, there was a bar of chocolate I could gnaw on if I wanted. So I twisted away from him towards the drawer and yelped. The sneaky fucker racked me again. What happened to him not wanting to hurt me?! However, I was hell-bent on quality chocolate, so I uninterruptedly continued my mission of retrieving it; an opportunity Jim took complete advantage of. By the time I could turn back towards him to glare meaningfully, candy bar in hand, he'd popped me several times.
"You cheated," I said in a slightly strained voice. "That was your left hand. Right hand only." So he hit me again with his right fist.
The rest of my day was a series of surprise bursts of pain, each followed with the calm explanation of, "It was my right hand!" Most of these originated from my boyfriend, but my husband wanted to join in on the fun and contributed several sneak attacks of his own. I'm not sure why his aim is so good with an activity we've never done before...
The good news is, at this rate, Jim will have complete use of his arm and fist back in no time!
When I'm with him, I accompany Jim into the bathroom to help out as needed. Yesterday, he did a good job at forcing his right hand to participate in the process of washing and drying his hands. He then turned towards the door to leave, and was a little confused when I stood in the way and gave him a challenging look.
I turned my arms palms-up, then made my hands into fists. "Do this," I commanded. It took some effort, but he did. "Now, with your right hand and only your right hand, punch me in the balls." I then swung my own right arm upward between us, just to be extra clear. It took a few attempts, but he got his arm to the point where he could swing it appropriately, but he always stopped short of actually connecting with my crotch. "I can't do that," he said with a pleading look in his eyes. He meant, he didn't want to hurt me. I stared at him harder. "Yes. You can."
You know what? Jim's got a *lot* of strength in that arm. Oh my god.
Several minutes later, we were both back in his hospital bed. He indicated to me that, in the drawer immediately to my left, there was a bar of chocolate I could gnaw on if I wanted. So I twisted away from him towards the drawer and yelped. The sneaky fucker racked me again. What happened to him not wanting to hurt me?! However, I was hell-bent on quality chocolate, so I uninterruptedly continued my mission of retrieving it; an opportunity Jim took complete advantage of. By the time I could turn back towards him to glare meaningfully, candy bar in hand, he'd popped me several times.
"You cheated," I said in a slightly strained voice. "That was your left hand. Right hand only." So he hit me again with his right fist.
The rest of my day was a series of surprise bursts of pain, each followed with the calm explanation of, "It was my right hand!" Most of these originated from my boyfriend, but my husband wanted to join in on the fun and contributed several sneak attacks of his own. I'm not sure why his aim is so good with an activity we've never done before...
The good news is, at this rate, Jim will have complete use of his arm and fist back in no time!