I’ve been wanting to write my next post. I mean, I started this blog so that I can deal with many of the thoughts, emotions or other worthy material I come across, but every time a topic comes to my mind, as quickly as it appears, it disappears. Many ideas have been disposed over the past days because I did not apply myself to start writing; I was very busy living.
But going back to the lack of words, why is this? It could be many reasons: as I said earlier, my fear of exposing my feeling to others, lack of time, lack of interest, the fact that simply I’m not used to write, anything, not even a school, were I barely take notes. Weird, because it seems that in school you have to write a lot, especially reports (no wonder why stress kicks in every time a teacher say “instead of a test, I want an essay” I ace tests, and strange enough, essays too). Or maybe is just that I don’t have discipline, anywhere. Could be it.
The point is that I haven’t written for the past two weeks, and it’s an issue I have to deal with. Over the past years I’ve learn the hard way that in order to advance, it’s necessary to confront what’s in front so that I don’t have to drag it along to where I go. And this is my way to do so with this issue: Words: Friend, enemy or foe. Or all of the above.
It’s weird for me to be considering all of this, since I’ve never been a writer, or a reader, or a talker. Those are active, aggressive roles that most of the time, I don’t feel comfortable playing. (Why am I afraid of the aggressive part of my personality, that’s another story). The thing is that, for most of the part I write, read and speak. It’s a requisite in order to be a part of society, but the less I have to write or read, the better. Speak, that I enjoy, but not as a way to put my ideas into other, but more as a may to connect with them.
It may come as a shock for many people, but yes, I’m afraid to talk. Why? Because I’m afraid that I might not articulate what I want to express in the way I want to express it, and that the result of this could be extremely negative. It has happened. I don’t like to write, because I take a long time doing it so that all of the ideas that I want to put into a text are clear and the text is readable. Most importantly, I do not like to read. Period. It may seems that it’s because of laziness, and in some regard it may be true, but the real reason is the next one: I’ve always been suspicious of words. I feel that language, written or spoken is like a secret and elaborate code that I do not understand and that I do not have the cheat sheet to understand it’s meaning.
It’s a terrible way to perceive words, but there it is. I think that it has to do with the fact that it’s another person’s view of reality. I prefer my view, and might be wary of the view of others. That’s why I feel more comfortable dealing with images. I might be watching something fabricated, but it my firsthand view of the fact, not somebody else take on the same thing. Also, that’s why I take movies over books. Movies and books are two different mediums. Yes, books can be more detailed in the abstract, and movies might lack that dept, but still, it’s the take that the director had on the material, not the material itself.
Going back to books, sometimes, when I’m reading, I feel that I’m not getting the whole picture, which I have to complete it in order to understand it. I know that this part of reading is what makes it the more enjoyable for most people, but not for me. I need to have all the elements in order to make my own conclusions. On the contrary, I do not need to read four pages of the description of all the light shades in a sunshine, I just need to see it, period. If prose is complicated for me, poetry is like hieroglyphics. Too many contrived or so few cryptic words to describe… whatever. Not my cup of tea.
Getting back to the fact that I’m not writing. Well, I guess that it’s only a matter of practice, of getting accustomed to use words, so that I don’t feel threatened by them. The same goes for reading. Yes, I do read. Speaking, that’s another story, talk I love. Besides, words are the bridge we have to connect to others, and that I love. Being able to be in the presence of another being is an amazing thing to enjoy. Now I know why I haven’t been writing, I have been in the company of others, enjoying and giving myself to them and receiving their presence back. Thank you.
It’s a Fact; I’m thirty years old. The point about it is that I’ve just turn 30 last week, only last week I was enjoying my last days in my twenties... but now, I’m 30. You can say, come on, it’s just another birthday, just another day. But no, it means much more to me.
Seeing my life in retrospective, I’ve come to realize that, during a critical period in my life, I had to mature much faster than the rest, I had to deal with demands beyond my age and role. I had to rise to the occasion, and I did, but, as soon as I had the opportunity to free myself from those responsibilities, I did, and I’ve never looked back. Fatal error. You see, that’s the reason I’m feeling inadequate at this point and age. As a child, I was one of those classic Adult-Childs that never jumps, never screams, would never, ever be disrespectful. What a drag, he he. I remember going to the most fancy Chinese restaurant as a child and, while my cousin, just months younger than me, was causing a riot, I was sitting properly besides my mom and actually thinking that my cousin deserves to be punished for that kind of behavior. Silly me.
That was then, this is now. I’m still respectful to other, I know how to sit properly at a fancy restaurant, but I´m more relaxed. The bad thing is that I run as fast as I can from any serious responsibility, and that’s not good, specially when you reach an age such as 30, when is no longer appropriate to be careless and with no aim in life. I know that, and I’m working towards something for myself, but then again, that means having to grow up and I don’t want to. Call me Peter Pan (my previous therapist did) but I do not want to be an adult, I already was an adult as a child, I know what it feels like and is not good. On the other hand, I’m beginning to feel the gripping hand of brother time behind my back. Man, I even wanted to start paying for my funeral service to have it ready when it comes the time to use it. I want to pay all of my debts, to buy a house and all the things an adult of my age supposedly has to be planning even before he reaches this point.
So there you have it, on one hand I want to party hardy, and by that, I mean do just nothing and stare at the sky. On the other hand I want to start working on the rest of my life. That’s my crisis right now. Mr. AlMi, I need help… Again. (By the way, Mr. AlMi is my last therapist).
Now, looking around, I’ve noticed that most of the Dragons around me (because of the Chinese horoscope) are doing just as not that good as me. The range goes from lower back pains, unwed fathers to the worst-case scenario, a psychotic episode. What’s going on? Why oh why is turning 30 so difficult?
Going further in my research, I’ve noticed that it is not just us dragons, its just people around me. For instance, back in April I met Piercy, 42, and we hit it off right away. Everything seemed to go fine but all of a sudden he just stopped calling. I felt that I didn’t do anything wrong, on the contrary. But anyway. Around July he started calling again and from time to time we have chatted online. Last Wednesday he invited me to have dinner for my birthday, and we started talking about age, crisis and responsibilities. He told me that he came to realize that he needed time for himself, he started therapy and that everything was going well. What a surprise, he starts dating me and has to go back to the shrink.
Another of my friends, PZ, has had a very difficult year. In March he had to move to another city for his work, and left behind his boyfriend Tito. Well, PZ has come to realize some info on him that has put all of his life in a different perspective, and he is 38. Of course Tito (23) is not so happy with all of the sudden changes PZ is having, so he is in a crisis all of himself. Not to mention the fact that they’re miles and miles away.
Election year in Mexico. Enough said.
Finally, in different places and from different sources, I’ve been hearing, reading, that this year is of the reckoning, ascending or whatever these groups call the changing of level the “whole humanity” is experimenting. Oh! My god!!
Well. At the end, I don’t feel so alone and helpless about my crisis. It’s not just me, it’s the whole world, it seem it is on the verge of a meltdown. Or Ascension. Thank you.
I’ve always wanted to write a journal. Always. It seemed like an interesting thing to have. A testimonial of who you were in that particular time and place in your life. An instant window to your old self. Along the line I’ve known of several people who have been writing their journals and generally I’m curious to see how am I portrayed in them. The last person that I knew about was my friend Tito. I was completely surprised, I would have never imagined that he, of all the people would keep a journal. But he does. So I asked him if he could read me what he had written about me. After some convincing, he did. And regardless of what he wrote, I was thrilled for the opportunity of going back in time, in that particular way.
Not that I’m one of those people who like to dwell on the past, on the contrary, I like the new and improved. Even speaking of my favorite artist, I prefer to hear “hung up” than “material girl” anytime, even if I was there when the older song started having airplay, and even if I like her ever since. So, is not about nostalgia. It’s more about letting go. I know that I have lots and lots of memories in me, I even surprise myself when some of them appear out of nowhere, since they’re not something that I have had in my present state of mind. The point is that they’re there and sometimes I feel like if I do not release them, they will stay and burden me forever. In that line of thinking, that’s why a journal has always been intriguing to me. An easy-archive to my past so that I can go on freely. I know, it’s psychobabble but it works for me.
Then again, if I have the answer, why, oh why don’t I apply it? I’ll tell you why, I because of fear: fear that someone else might read it and learn about some bizarre idiosyncrasy I might have had or have at the current moment. Fear that something I might have said about someone can be heard by that person. Fear that people might know whom have I slept with, you name it. It might seem to most of my friends that I don’t have a problem sharing my life with others, but to be honest, I DO! I have a wide load of things that I would like to keep in a journal, but I’m too afraid to put it in paper, because, as soon as it is in paper, one, is out of me and two, it can be read by anyone. See my predicament?
It can be said that I can be a bit paranoid, it’s true, but the point is that, at the end, is both. I’m paranoid and I have trouble letting go. Friends, lovers, family, relationships, stuff, you name it. Feelings, situations, moods, even pens. And it’s a well discussed topic with my therapist; I have to learn how to let go. But, in order to do so, I have to confront my fear, my fear of exposing myself and who I am, so here I goes: I present to you CUB IN THIS CITY.
I’m a 30 years old gay man from Juarez, who can be called a bear but feels more like a cub. I started coming out of the closet at 20 to some of my friends and at 22 to my parents. Only last year I told my three siblings, and their response was: duhh! Let me explain about that, is not that I’m queer, is just that they’re young, not stupid. In fact, the good thing is that, since I’m very discreet and masculine, I pass under the radar most of the time. Sometimes it works against me because guys that I might find attractive do not think of me as gay. Most of my friends know this tidbit of information, but as a Mexican male, I’m still not so comfortable knowing that anyone can know it. The only place where I’m not out is at work, and I like it that way, since I work in a mostly male environment. I’m sure a lot of people suspect it but they’re prudent and do not ask about it.
I share with you this particular part of my life, because, although I consider myself out of the closet, sometimes I feel sometimes like I need the protection it gives to us queer people. I fear I might be discriminated against if I don’t have that special place to go when needed. It’s a double standard, I know, but sometimes you have to do what you have to do to get by. But as the need for the protection of my parents, some stuff tends to grow old with time and become a burden. So by writing this I’m trying to come clean with this particular topic and myself.
So there you have it: I’m gay (that’s the good news), I have trouble letting go, I’m a bit paranoid and I hope that, by exposing myself to you in this space I can overcome some, if not, most of my fears. Thank you for the opportunity.
