Sometimes I dream that my dad has come back and told me that it was all a hoax and that he will be here for me again, and when I wake up I cry.
It's incredible how much I still miss my daddy after more than seven years. I've gotten used to living without him, but I guess I don't really consider it living. No matter what I do I can't even begin to put his ghost to rest, he was exactly the father I needed and then he was gone.
Underneath everything else I still feel like the little boy who wasn't good enough to make his daddy stay, only I know that there will be no tearful reunion and redemption for this one. He's some ashes at the bottom of a lake now.
Oh great, I'm crying now, no sound just tears. And hollowness. I feel like I'm from new jersey and when I wipe my eyes I have to be careful of my mascara. Of course I don't wear mascara but I don't think there IS a manly way to wipe tears from your eyes. Someone should invent that. That and girl-out, the perfect combination. Get rid of the pain OR turn your whimpering into a sexy activity. Win/win proposition.
I feel like I'm both falling apart and coming together at the same time. Re-arranging. Life is such a slippery slope and every step you take that has meaning has pain attached.
It's wierd. I'm not gay (not because I'm afraid of being gay, but simply by virtue of my having desires for and feelings towards women that I cannot explain as anything but biologically dictated drives), I'm not gay but I'm much more comfortable touching men than women. Don't get me wrong, I don't WANT to touch men. I don't sit around thinking about touching men (while I do sit around thinking about touching women) but when it comes to anything from shaking hands to hugging to just incedental contact, I am a hundred times more comfortable touching a man than a woman. Part of this is the fear of appearing inappropriate, I've been socially inappropriate all my life and I don't want to give some poor girl the impression that a creepy guy is trying to touch her. That's the last impression I want to give. But that's not all there is to it.
I think part of it comes from the fact that my mom was not really around when I was little, but my dad was always available. He did the tucking into bed, the cooking, and all the father stuff too. This could also explain the fact that I am just plain more comfortable around men than I am around women. (Hee-Ann gave me the verbal habit of saying plain for no real reason). I would rather ask a man for directions, or have a male boss, or go to a male professor's office hours (I don't really care which gender teaches a class, because the mental distance between a professor and a student in a lecture is so great.)
I don't know, I mean I think that women are incredibly fascinating creatures. Physically their beauty goes beyond the merely external and inside to the strange workings of the female body. That's one of the things about transvestites, even if they can look %100 female they still don't have the wide hips or internal sex organs or the fundemental differences in blood chemistry that even hormone therapy cannot fully replicate. They have different voices and styles of thinking and in some ways they truly are completely different creatures from men, only we're the aliens since they have no genetic material which we do not, and we have the Ys which they don't.
I don't understand how men can fixate so strongly on the sexual aspect of male-female relations when they aren't even the most interesting part. Yeah, evolution designed us so that we would have to reproduce by means of sexual intercourse to keep variety within the species so we can't all get wiped out by the same thing. Yeah we have instincts that tell us to go forth and multiply. Yeah it probably feels really good (I, of course, would not know.) But what fascinate me are the little differences and nuances that this evolutionary trait endows people with. The effect on the mind and body of the hormone stew which results from the sexual differentiation and then the differentiation of tasks that followed.
I guess what it comes down to is that I think emotional intimacy is infinitly more fascinating and valuable than physical intimacy. How can you want to have sex with a girl without wanting to know why she twirls her hair in a certain way, or what she thinks of when the first drops of a cloudburst start to fall.
I had more interesting things to say but I've been drifting around the house while I've been writing this, and I've lost a lot of good thoughts. It started out in my head to be a deep and meaningful and poetic statement on the problems created by the demystification of sex and the fact that I don't think I'm ever going to find someone to spend my life with because I CAN'T believe that I'm ever going to find someone to share my life with. And that I don't want to commit acts of intimacy with someone I don't hope to share my life with.
It has devolved into a somewhat shallow scraping at my opinions on the subject of what male/female relations mean to me. I think SO much better than I write.
Sometimes I worry about typing all this stuff out here because I know my shrink reads it and will call me on it. He's a great guy, but he is much more judgemental than the average headshrinker, and he's not afraid to make me look at the things I've said and explain them, even when I don't want to because it's embarassing or hurtful. Putting this stuff out here exposes it to him and that's a little scary, but I gotta go ahead and do it because I need to shed the shell I've wrapped myself up in before it smothers me. I need to be a real live boy again.
I'm also afraid to change the music I am listening to while I type out these entries because I feel somehow I'd be being dishonest to put down 1 band while I was actually listening to more than one. How fucking neurotic is that?
If I get my poetry back I will write more on men and women and where I fit in all that. It may bore you but it will satisfy me and I have come to accept that you are auxilliary to this process. Read, comment, or don't. I can't remake my inner self in another image just to please people I don't even know. I'm sorry about that.
No, fuck it, I'm not. I'm not sorry about that at all. I'm proud of that. It means I'm starting to hope I'm getting better.