Tag Archives: shame

For the world to see–

A year ago I lost my phone and all my pictures of you.  I was devastated.  But it was good.

I saw you a few times since then.  The first time, to discuss ourselves as two separate people.  I was granted the finality that you had saved just for yourself.  A few other times, briefly in passing.  No words exchanged.

At some point this past year, I lost your image.  I remember what you looked like, but I had forgotten what I saw.  At some point I stopped craving you.  I stopped fantasizing about you.  I stopped knowing you.  And then tonight, I see your pictures again.

You and all your manhood.  Everywhere I look.  Why are objectifying yourself like this?

It doesn’t matter.  You are beautiful anyways.

It’s a wonder I ever thought I was comfortable with you.  I worship you.  You are perfect and exquisite.  I am not worthy.  I was not worthy.  I objectify you.

But then I love you.  I feel guilty that other’s look at you as I have.  I feel sad that you crave their sight.  I wonder if your inadequacies were my doing.

I am sorry.

It has been a long year of solace, and I have come full circle.  I have found myself stuck in the shadows of your existence once again.  No doubt, forever you will be the emptiness in my heart.  But once again, the emptiness in my bed, in my breath, and in my being.


Derogatory drive-by

Today I was walking down the street, and somebody hollered “faggot” from their car as they sped by.  I wasn’t really offended.  And this post doesn’t have as much to do with the bone-headed nuances of a simple coward as you might think based on the title.  It was actually just something I brought up to my mother, only to have it used as leverage for shaming.

Shame on me.

To make a long intro short, I have a dying grandmother who does not know my situation.  Sound vague?  Mostly because it is.  You see, apart from myself, my mother has known about my sexuality longer than any other person.  She has been mostly void of negative sentiment, which by her word means she is accepting.  And that’s not to say that she isn’t, or that she’s a bad mother or a bad person.  She has always provided for me the same, and we are never short of communication, it is just obvious to me that who I am is someone she would rather I not be.  She would rather not deal with my situation.

This is why my grandmother does not know.  Because she is dying and it could put her in the grave.  Because I will ruffle feathers and have people talking.  Because it will all fall back on my mother, or my father, or my brother or my sister, and I will be the one to blame.

Shame on me.

I am empathetic to the fact that they should not have to deal with my situation by any force other than their own.  And I am sad that my mother will take the brunt of family gossip, and my father will be harassed with unnecessary comments and suggestions from people at his church.  I am sorry that my siblings will be burdened by questions from their friends.  This is no one’s crisis but my own.  This isn’t even a crisis.  I am sad that people I love are forced to have reservations and concerns.

Shame on me.

Where most of my shame comes from though are these people themselves.  These people I call my mother, my father, my brother and my sister.  These people who over the years have scorned me and belittled me and made me feel lesser through their words.  And I know they don’t mean it.  I know they are unaware.  But the things I say, the clothes that I wear, the places I go and the people I surround myself by are something of an identity.  An identity I have struggled with for a very long time at the hands of these very same people.

Shame on me.

Somebody driving by and calling me a faggot is no skin off my back.  Because you know what?  I am a faggot.  But hearing from someone I call my family to be wary of pictures I share, scowling at my eyebrows, using effeminate hand motions to describe distaste for my outfits, and baiting my closet of shame with my dying grandmother… these are things that hurt me.  More than I can teach them to understand.  Because they tell me that who I am is someone that is not approved of.  They are telling me that I should be ashamed of myself, and to keep my “situation” as ambiguous as the word used to describe it.

I am ashamed."No son of ours..."

And for what?

It is July 2nd, 2013.  Or thereabouts.  Maybe it will be a new day by the time this is posted.  Maybe it already is a new day for some who will read this.

It is 11:28, at present.  In the evening.

It is calm.  Or more so than it was a few hours earlier.  The day was tragically humid.  It quickly enveloped my world in rain and thunder and fierce winds.

And for what do these things matter?

It is July.  This month will see my beloved dog through what would have been his 15th year.  I will see my best friend towards the end of the month, and I will quickly learn that time has given us a beautiful friendship that will last for forever, but has also come to lead us in new paths.  Separate paths.

It is the 2nd.  Of no particular importance.  Though I’m not of the beautifully minded who intricately remember such a specific day on a yearly basis, it is easy for me to recall some things.  This day, 2008 I would have been intermittently playing Okami and grieving my realization of self to be something of a disappointment.  2009 I would have been replaying Okami and mourning my year that was lost to my earlier realizations.  2010 I was hiding in my house and avoiding knocks at the door from concerned friends who couldn’t get ahold of me to join them for the previous night’s Canada Day fireworks.  2011 I would have been sleeping all day to compensate for the last 9 months of working night shifts before quitting the morning of the 2nd.  2012 I was holed up at my parents spending hours debating on how I should respond to messages from my ex in regards to his missing me, but having no interest in getting back together.

I guess the 2nd of July in 2013 will forever mean something new to me.  I am still the same lost child with a deprived sense of self as I have always been, but this time around I’m trapped in a lonely city away from home.  Even my “firsts” are redundant.

And it is the 23rd hour.  An hour that has forever been my time of self-reflection.  Too late in the evening to be bothered by social nuisances.  Too early in the evening to be distracted by reading or videogames.

It is calm amidst a storm.

I am calm amidst a storm.  A storm of emotions I just don’t know how to cope with.  I am anxious and I am lost.  I trust no one.  I have faith in nothing.  I am broken beyond repair.  I don’t have the means to recover before the next storm rolls over me.

And for what do these things matter?

They serve to show me that I am entirely too involved in my depression.

What have I become?  Why am I so ashamed when I look at the person who I was 5 years ago?  4 years ago?  3 years, 2 years, 1 year ago?  Because I see that I have become nothing?  That I am the same?  That I “deal” the same way that I always have?

I don’t want this to be my reality anymore.  Maybe if I play Okami again, my life will appear differently afterwards.

The boy not yet a man…

The boy, he rests his hand upon

our existential window,

et je sais que ce n’est pas bon,1

si ses yeux sont des ciseaux.2

A life that mustn’t satisfy

this ageless man, he spins.

His boyish face can’t rectify

the weathered heart within.

With broken seams and mended dreams,

I face him, just, and say,

“Why do you frown just when it seems

the hardships go away?”

His heart unkempt and terrified,

the boy not quite a man,

stretches his hands, un-unified,

autour son coeur;3 Tian Shan.4

A pool of realized fears that shelve

a gaze with no reflection–

he tells me I don’t fool myself

despite my insurrection.

To stand before his realm of glass;

To face myself in vain.

The difference, you see, does not surpass

the image I did gain.

He breathed a breath serrated, and

made contact he did not.

Shed soft tears and still was jaded–

his pitied closet of rot.

1“and I know this is not good”  2“if his eyes are like scissors”  3“around his heart”  4A major mountain range of Central Asia, extends 1500ft.


I wrote this in University September ’11.  Somehow it seems fitting.  My former self must have known I’d need this one day.