Do I? It sounds so dramatic. I’m just being one of those dramatic homos.
I don’t. I’m comfortable being gay, have been for a few years. I used to hate being gay,I think that is a part of my anxiety.
Anxiety, anxiety is another issue.
For so long I used Adderall to mask and hide my anxiety. Now? Now, I reach for a caffeine pill or a beer.
I’m so disappointed in myself. I’m sitting here drinking my second beer of the night, I took Seroquel XR with a swig of beer, ignoring the yellow “Do not consume with alcohol” label.
The last few days I have toyed with my Seroquel XR dose, it makes me so tired, I thought less would help. Now I am not sure. I seem more anxious.
God. I need to just start being strong enough. Instead of thinking medication will get better, I’ll just reach for a beer until we get the meds right. What if the medication is already right?
I’m setting myself up for new addictions. New ways to sooth the real problem — I fucking hate myself.
I hate myself. I hate that I have some bullshit mid-level job doing nothing. I hate that I am gay. I mean, I don’t. Like, I am fine with being gay and all that. But being gay changed everything.
I grew up very conservative and religious. I didn’t give up on God curing me and come out until twenty-three. At thirteen I knew I was damned.
I knew what I was. Fagot. Evil. Pervert. Pedophile. Yes.
My religion taught that homosexuals can be cured with enough faith. I tried. I really tried. Never did I have enough faith. At thirteen I started praying morning and night and many times in between. I begged God to fix me or kill me. I didn’t want my apostasy to hurt my family’s chance of glory in the afterlife. I read the scriptures and offered my life to Christ. Every flight I took I prayed for God to bring the plane down so I wouldn’t have to live broken. Yet I remained ruined, broken, gay.
Yes, I accept that I am gay. Also, I know that there is nothing morally wrong with being a homosexual. At times, I do resent what this has taken from me, socially, I blocked myself from my family and my peers, I didn’t want to corrupt them until I was clean, social isolation.
Complete social isolation. I didn’t come out to my parents until my junior year of college, until I knew I’d be alright if they cut off contact with me.
My guilt about my sexuality is gone, but it wasn’t replaced by confidence or pride or social apptitude.
The carnage remains. I am smarter than what I do. It eats at me. My intellect might not be reflected in my writing, I’m dyslexic, always have liked numbers more than letters. Regardless, if I wasn’t gay, if I had more confidence, if conflict didn’t cripple me, maybe I could be in a profession where I feel challenged, where I feel like I am contributing.
Every meeting I am the smartest person in the room. Yeah, I sound like a dick bag, but I’m right. Every meeting at work, everyone, I clearly have a superior intellect. And yet, it doesn’t matter, because no one expects someone as capable as me to have this job. Also, less capable people assume everyone works at their capacity, they don’t demand more than what they themselves would accomplish.
Again, I’m nothing. I’m sitting there, ready to contribute and realize nobody wants or expects what I have to contribute. I finally have the guts to be me, to offer up what I have, but it is too late.
I spent the last decades hoping I’d have the balls to kill myself if God didn’t fix me, cure my homosexuality. I finally am comfortable with myself that I can inch out of my shell and contribute. And yet, here I am, stuck with the life I built as a broken young man wishing I had the courage to opt out, to guarantee the world had one less fag.
*God. This is a convoluted mess. I should edit this. Instead I’ll hit post and help myself to another beer. Fuck. I hate me. Fuck.