Note from 20 years into the future:
This post was originally posted and hidden behind a locked entry on LiveJournal, accessible to select friends.
I don’t reveal personal feelings as much online anymore, but I’m not ashamed that I once did.
I also look back on this and chuckle at the effort to set up a selfie and capture a miffed expression! Also that brown beard! That twenty-something unblemished skin!
– CG January 25, 2023
“I am immature.
I have empty shallow relationships with people.
I am ashamed of myself.
I hate being gay.
I am an idiot.
I am wrong.
On my deathbed none of my friends will be there because they will be with their husbands and children, because what im doing is sinful.
In the end, they will never approve of me as a human being.
It’s a fact.
The straight people won’t give a shit. And why should they.
I am not capable of love.
I will end up alone.”
These aren’t my words. These are what I was told, before I was given an ultimatum. Did I want to continue to build a relationship or not? I chose the latter. Who would want to be involved with someone who said such things?
I feel like I’ve come full circle, or as someone put it, full spiral.
Rewind, some time back : I was once in the offensive, pining for what wasn’t to be.
Yet I never resorted to venom soaked words.
There were none.
When the shoe was on the other foot, I thought it was akin to love. It wasn’t love yet, but it had legs. It had potential. And I realized years into it, that my investment was futile, other than the experience I chalked up. But I only felt loss of something good. I never lashed out.
It was simple. I would never have that spark with them. I would never be someone else. I padded along.
So I learned all about pain.
Slowly, I eased back out to see if there was anyone else.
I was cautious.
Then I found someone and it unfolded. It was never my intention to put heartache on another, but that’s apparently what I have done. And with that, came words that stung so hard, I couldn’t stand to hear them any longer. So I just let it go.
But I’m worried that some of the words are right.
That I am too comfortable in my loneliness.
Yet I want more than anything, to let this not be summed up neatly in a journal entry.
I don’t want to hit submit.
It’s supposed to be better than this.