Almost a year ago, to the day, I fell in love with a narcissist.
Some of you may be asking- why didn’t you see the red flags?!
Obviously if I saw the red flags from the start, I would have never gotten myself into such a hellish situation. This is now a part of my story, one that I embrace,
Anyone who knows me well knows that I have been through some intense things in my life: I came from a traumatic background, I left home when I was 15, I’ve lost 200lbs, done some really stupid/ballsy shit, I’ve put myself out there, travelled and lived in other countries, lived through natural disasters, etc. My point is that I am an adventurer.
That was the moment she diagnosed me; I felt a rush of emotion. Finally, I had my answer. I knew the missing piece. I knew what was wrong with me and I know had a framework to understand myself.
The feeling of powerlessness hits differently when you watch someone you love to succumb to addiction and return to using. No matter what the reasoning your loved one has for returning to use, it can feel like you are losing a part of yourself. When my loved one relapsed, I instantly began to blame myself. What did I do wrong? Was this my fault? Does he still love and care about me? He is abandoning me? So many questions and a poverty of satisfying answers. The simple truth is that and addict relapses because that is a natural part of the disease
Six months ago, I shattered. The pressure from trying to hold a career, friends, grieving from the loss of an important relationship, carrying the weight of the emotions of others, a complete lack of authenticity, trying to build a life, chase my dreams all toppled with the stress and uncertainty of a pandemic completely fucking broke me.
Filters gave us the option of ignoring color (or fetishizing it). It gave us the option to equate race to kink - as if a black man’s genitals or skin color were somehow similar to a desire to be tied up. We should not have these options because these options are unethical. Our experiences must exist uncomfortably if our community is to make progress - I need to be able to hold my queer identity in conjunction with my race and understand that I still benefit culturally and politically from my whiteness, even while homophobia exists.
I cannot help but be cautious and skeptical, while I am excited that the movement has taken over social media. When the posts die down and your social timeline returns to “normal”, will you continue to stand for us? Will you adjust your timeline accordingly? Will you demand darkskin girls in media representation, when we have been given the bare minimum with ethnically ambiguous women?
George Floyd’s death brought back the importance of why we cannot loose momentum in this war against police brutality. This cannot just be another hashtag. We refuse to let this be just another headline the media buries away with their own narrative. We know the issue is real, and we have to face this head on until change is implemented. It has been so powerful to see the range of diversity joining this movement. This is no longer just a battle that we as black people have to fight alone. People are listening, people care to fight for our lives, and care to fight for the volume of our stories. This movement has restored a level of hope that I thought was once lost. One team. One message. Black Lives Matter.
George Floyd’s murder has made me realize that to just be non-racist was not enough. I Had to be ANTI-racist. I had to be active, and I had to be an ally. I’m not sure what that means for me yet. Here is my vow, and a vow I hope many other white people make. I vow to be an ally to all people of color and learn and educate myself as to what that means. I vow to take action to and be active in ending racism and police brutality. I vow to work to change the world and repair the damage I have caused any way that I can. How do I plan to uphold these vows? To be completely honest, I don’t know, But as a start I plan to open my ears to my Black Brothers and Sisters and Trans siblings. I know it’s not their job to train me. I will watch, and I will listen, and I will observe. And anyone that feels compelled to share experiences, lessons, or anything else I’m all ears. I promise to be a student. Also, I will call out injustice whenever I see it. I will no longer turn a blind eye because “it doesn’t directly affect me”. I hope to have the chance to share the experiences from my time perpetuating hate with youth, the kids that are just like I was. Angry, hurting, and lost, to hopefully steer them down a road of love and peace and inclusiveness.My plan moving forward is not rigid. I plan to be agile in my pursuit to uphold my vow. Willing to change with feedback and lessons. Now is the time for action, and I am taking it.
Social distancing has me struggling to write. If you are one of those people who’s pumping out new ideas right and left because you finally have the opportunity to sit down, alone, and brainstorm, I’m jealous. I’m a social creator. Because I have not had the opportunity to sit down with friends and sift through my thoughts, I’ve been stuck on ideas that don’t feel significant enough to produce something from them. To me, there is something impactful about the process of dialogue that strengthens the transition of thoughts into words.
I have a theory that perhaps this isn’t all that unique at all, but I do believe that my sexual anorexia is somehow an atypical solution, so to speak, to my fears. There is an absolute incongruence with the way I feel and the way that I express myself socially, as anyone can look at my Instagram and would be probably right to think someone who shows as much skin wouldn’t be uncomfortable in their own.
COVID-19 is plaguing the world, affecting those in the most vulnerable circumstances - and while the LGBTQ community remains prideful this season without its usual festivities, it lacks the support from big businesses from years past.
It was through this practice of self-awareness and acceptance that the epiphany came, like the earlier one during childhood. “I could share my thoughts and express them, and if it isn’t accepted, I still know that I’m worthy of said expression.” I wanted help understanding my new understanding of expression and working through the childhood loneliness and rejection. Fortunately, I had access to therapy. I also began the journey of exploring medication and adult behavioral therapies.
Loving another person isn’t giving them everything you have. Sometimes loving people is saying no. Sometimes loving someone is speaking up. Sometimes loving someone is speaking up and saying “your behavior is not okay and you need to self evaluate.” Not everyone can see themselves clearly and sometimes people need a hand to get out off whatever they’re going through. Now more than ever we should have a social responsibility to the people in our lives to help create awareness. Obviously, in a kind and respectful way - Delivery is everything. Most people I’ve dealt with are receptive.
I came out, and almost immediately was pulled into a world where I was inundated with the knowledge that people wanted me for my body. My early forays into the world of “the apps” was rife with unsolicited dick pics and the subliminal idea that I was only as good as the pleasure others could derive from my body. Grindr was a place where I could look for easy quick connections that left me momentarily satiated without the need to really look beyond into the mess of emotions that I was feeling about my sexuality.
To be relevant within a community, you must be active in it, and I was scared of becoming irrelevant. At a time when I viewed all human interaction as something special and intimate, losing all of that was unthinkable. You can probably see where this is going. While I was trying desperately to remain in control of this aspect of my life, I was losing control in every other
Pronouns are one of the most basic forms of showing basic dignity and respect to others. When our pronouns are respected and adhered to, we feel seen, validated, and included. This is especially important to non-binary people and those who don’t identify with “male” or “female”. For non-binary people, most of their life has been a long and painful road to acceptance and happiness, feeling like outsiders who don’t feel like they belong in this world. There is very little representation of non-binary people in media, such as film and television, and non-binary often fail to see positive representations if themselves reflected in the culture.
Is a dick pic just a dick pic? A recent conversation with a friend sparked the possibility that, sometimes, sending or receiving a dick pic is about more than simple sexual gratification, it’s also about a need to feel validated.
It is three in the morning. My eyes snap open, discovering my sheets are soaked through with cold sweat. Through my open window, the final chorus of Deniece William's "Let's Hear It For The Boy" blares from the street below. A part of me is relieved to pinpoint the source of the sound- it explains the sudden steamy turn my dreams took. "Let's give the boy a hand," indeed. The relief only lasts a breath as my mind catches up to what the song means. The first sign is always music. "I Wanna Dance with Somebody," "Born This Way," or any of Hayley Kiyoko's discography would have sufficed. As it happens, this year's harbinger of doom is Deniece Williams.
Learned helplessness is defined in the dictionary as “a condition in which a person suffers from a sense of powerlessness arising from a traumatic event or persistent failure to succeed.” For example, a person might grow up in a demanding or controlling household but due to the fact of being a child, they have no control over their circumstances or environment. The child then internalizes this sense of powerlessness, so that even when circumstances change and there is an opportunity for escape or the child becomes an adult and can make their own choices, the person does not try because they believe on a deep, felt sense that they are unable to. A felt sense of helplessness becomes inextricably viewed as part of their identity or as an unchangeable fact of the external world.
I saw you. The way I was positioned in my chair, it was in exactly the place it needed to be for you to have a direct view of me, and me of you—straight on. It felt close, yet miles away—you were all the way over there in the orange chair, overlooking the mouthwatering lake.
How could high school me have been so casual, so flippant, so blind to the film’s mastery of narrative and character? I should have been taking notes the very first time I saw it. As the credits roll, I order a final glass of wine and notice that “Bridget Jones's Baby” is also available for streaming. Hmmm. Better to wait, I decide. I hope the title is still available when I fly home a week from now.
There I was, alone and naked in a dive bar waiting for my Jack and Coke. I looked around at the 150+ guys around me trying to figure out what happened in my life for me to be standing in that spot at that moment. The month before, my fiancé broke up with me. I’d just moved to a new neighborhood and the wounds were fresh. A lot of trauma surrounding shame and lack of worth pulled me into such a deep, depressive, inescapable state. Much to my surprise, a naked social group had a monthly party at a bar in my new neighborhood. My heart immediately dropped when I got the reminder, I’d purchased the tickets in a drunk whim. But I was going to do this, and I was going to do it tonight.
When you’re a 17-year-old, regardless of your gender, orientation, race, or religion, you’re a bundle of nerves, angst, misplaced anger and emotion, and you tend to make stupid decisions because of those emotions. When I was 17, I was going through all of that turmoil and angst, and made two very important decisions: the first being to dropout of high school and run away and live with my then drug dealer boyfriend (ten years my senior), and the second decision was that I agreed to be a co-director of the Fairy Forest of our local Renaissance Festival for that year. These two decisions were made almost around the same time, and both had an enormous effect on each other, and on the trajectory of the rest of my life.
Three months ago, I told myself I was done with these, that there wouldn’t be any reason to write another—because I was closing the books on a period of time in my life and looking ahead. I said, “You, Mr. You, you are the last one I will write about in real-time.” I take it back now. I’m not convinced there will ever come a time where I can completely let go of the notion of sitting at a coffee shop, looking around at all the students and professionals doing their work, having their conversations, on their first dates, and writing to the men who have traipsed into my life for whatever reason—and made an impact of sorts. The story is never finished—until it absolutely is finished.
I am not advocating that the key to happiness lies in making peace with the concept of Instagram. I am, however, convinced that our Instagrams, Facebooks, and Twitters, are affecting us more than we’re admitting. If I’ve learned nothing else from this exercise, it’s that, somewhat ironically, sharing helps more than any other remedy I’ve found.
I’ll say that I do think we misunderstood each other, somewhere along the way, on that evening—a Friday, which I’d typically spend with friends, blowing off steam from another work week in the books. But you were new to town, and I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to see what we could be.
Determined to join the current cultural conversation—no matter how late—I finally sat down to watch Netflix’s ‘Tidying Up With Marie Kondo’ last week. And although I only made it through a single episode before deciding to rewatch the ‘The Princess Diaries 2: Royal Engagement’ for the sixth time, Ms. Kondo still made enough of an impact to inspire me to start tidying up. I didn’t have the energy to sort through my entire wardrobe, but I did manage to remove several piles of dirty clothing and Chipotle receipts to reveal most of my floor. Impressed by my ability to perform this most basic cleaning task, I couldn’t help but wonder: could Ms. Kondo’s methods be applied to my romantic life?
I do wish I’d gotten to see you once more before you flew back—to see a little more of that innocent snark. To maybe see the things that made you tick. But did anything? I got the sense that nothing did, that you lived your life optimistically, wishing people well, no matter their treatment of you. It’s admirable, really. And so was how gentle and understanding you were to me that night.
In the grand tradition of millennials shrugging off their small-town lives in favor of a bigger, greater, urban existence; I am thrilled to announce that I am a THRIVING New York City resident. Within six months, New York City has already presented me with more opportunities to grow than I ever thought possible. I have seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Tires on fire off the shoulder of West 67th street and Broadway. I’ve watched Drag Queens glitter in the dark near the dumpsters behind an Arby’s on East 34th.
It was just last night. And you should know how many times its rung through me. Sitting with you at that bar—we kept our conversation. You said your things and I said mine. And it mattered, because my face was flushing and Jennifer turned up next to us on her birthday to buy a shot of Fireball and tell us about the woes of her life. We said cheers to her. And I think we also hugged her goodbye.
I was 15 years old. I knew exactly what I was doing. I was chronically depressed but I was also clever. I was bullied but I was a bully too. Moreover, I did not see a future where I was not struggling to live. I woke up one morning in May 2009 with a plan. Prior to my biggest algebra test of the year, I poured out a bottle of my prescribed muscle relaxers all over my bedroom table. I grabbed a glass of water and I swallowed approximately 15-20 high dose muscle relaxers.
For the longest time, I CHOSE to associate within these confined stereotypical cliques because I felt I didn't deserve autonomy over my own body and that my worth is based on how attractive you found me. The worst defeating belief of it all: that this is all there is, that this is gay culture and in choosing to belong I had invited loneliness in.
For me, a new city presents a wide opening to extend or explore parts of myself that I typically wouldn’t back home—the parts that might not move on as high a frequency. This trip allowed me to bring those things out—I wanted to be more open, to explain, to pay attention, be real, and be patient—at least for three days. With confidence, I can tell you that’s what you got from me.
I know there are a lot of people out there who feel alone and invisible some, maybe all, of the time, and there are so many words of wisdom out there from “anonymous” or dead people. It feels like my responsibility, as a survivor of a darkened heart, to share a fresh message of hope.There is a fine line between being alone and being lonely. That line is called clarity.
When she said yes, I ran upstairs to gather the necessary supplies. A movie night! With other boys! This was new territory for me- most of my after school activity consisted of riding my bike around the cul-de-sac alone, reading alone, or… well really anything alone. So, with a backpack full of twizzlers and skittles, I set out with an apprehensious heart, unaware how changed I’d be within the hour.
Before this, I spent a year heartbroken, in a lapse of self-imposed exile, in a very small city where I never intended to spend the rest of my life. Here, I managed to make up for what I see as lost time. I met a lot of people. I formed bonds. I found real fondness for a lot of very different men. Mostly, I lived the shit out of that year, and surfaced from it feeling more grateful, more self-assured, more at ease, more accepting—maybe even, dare I say, more patient.
In knowing this, I chose to surround myself with a tribe of supportive individuals who accept every part of me. Who lift me up when I struggle. Who empower my voice and my sense of self-worth. I must continue to remind myself that I am always enough. That I deserve the best. Without that, I will never know who I really am.
I’m standing at a point where I am learning to love myself. I’m doing things for myself and I’m doing what’s best for me. That’s a powerful kind of love because I have my own back and it can’t be taken away. I’m DONE having anxiety and worrying about people are thinking, I’m DONE sitting silently because I don’t want to say the wrong thing and I am DONE looking for acceptance in the wrong places.
Just the day before, you’d moved into the building—when we must have spotted each other near the front entrance. You messaged me later, “Thanks for your help. We only had that huge mattress to carry up the staircase.”
In truth, I feel sad for you. I imagine that once I was out of sight, you rolled the window back up and returned to sitting in silence with your friends. Just a hunch. In my experience, the kind of person who screams “FAGGOT!” at a stranger isn’t particularly gifted in holding a conversation. Maybe you screamed at me to break the silence. Could it have been as inconsequential as that to you? I’ll never know.
The next morning, you had me spinning. I walked from your place to mine to the bar, where I met Jack for brunch. I stepped into the room and, almost immediately, I was floating. A glowing face, a gleaming smile, something that gave off the impression of, “I could die today and all would be okay.”
Before I begin, I would like to explain what ghosting is for those who may not be aware, ghosting is “the practice of ending a personal relationship with someone by suddenly and without explanation withdrawing from all communication.” The person essentially vanishes from your life without a trace, as if they were an apparition here today and gone tomorrow. And just like a specter you would see in a typical horror film like The Conjuring, this ghost haunts you with the memory of your time together.
Leaving the autonomy of single life which permits oneself to explore any avenues that become presented, and entering a relationship where exclusivity opens a deeper level of intimacy with a single individual it made me wonder: What is the gay male experience and is it universal?
Perfect is a cruel god. It offers diminishing returns in exchange for sanity. It paints a pretty picture and presents an alluring promise which, ultimately, is dangled beyond human reach. Perfect a waste of time. So why are we so in love with it? Why do we strive and sacrifice for it? Why do we whisper hurtful things to ourselves when we don’t meet it?
Over the last few years, there has been a noticeable change in the industry. More gay roles are coming into play in film. And not just the super flamboyant ones that everyone likes to stereotype. More roles are coming out of gay people who are well; complex individuals who just happen to be gay. This is just great except the fact these roles are all going to actors who aren’t gay.
I can be fine for days, or even for months, but good days also mean bad days will come. You maybe feel as though I should just change and move past my anxiety and depression. Understand that anxiety is like a person standing behind me, whispering sweet nothings about how every decision I make is being judged. And in front of me, depression stands like a giant god-like figure, pushing me back and telling me to just stop trying to move past him.
I guess, we spent some time coming back to each other after that, but there was mounting pressure on both of us to make up our minds, to feel something, to really feel the need to need something. We kept at it, through summer, into fall, into winter—where we officially ended whatever we had started. Now, I can see that all of it made me nervous—the attempts to meet each other where we were at.
Ghosting. It’s trendier than millennial pink. It’s more popular than a matcha latte with almond milk. It’s as constant as the artisanal avocado toast in your Instagram feed. If you’ve somehow escaped being ghosted by 2018, chances are you’ve been in a committed relationship since high school or simply don’t own a phone.
I hate your thoughts about me. The cool people call me ‘choice’.
I hate your higher power.
He weakens me.
Rely on that and I cower.
One thing should be made clear from the beginning- no actual healing happened during my stay in psych. There were no miraculous breakthroughs, turnarounds, or life-changing pills. In practice, I slept a lot, met people who were nothing and everything like me. More than anything, I waited.
During my interactions with him, I realized that I had been cheating myself of fully engaging in the many adventures that life has to offer. Too often have I let fear keep me from saying “yes” to new experiences and moments. By having no expectation, I could allow this narrative to unfold as it was meant to, rather than trying to exert control of the situation. When time becomes limited, the ability to be present is a rare and precious gift. One that must be treasured and embraced.
It’s moments like this that can make a person nervous. Everything is good, things are new, but you don’t know where it will go—if it’ll last. I didn’t know what you were thinking or whether you’d made a judgment call. All I knew was that this was nice and exactly what I needed that day, that time of year—after the year that I had just had, all the things that I had put myself through. It’s something to be nervous about, but it’s also something to rejoice in. Stop this moment in time right now, I thought. Just pinch me before we have to go back to being something else.
So you’ve found yourself in a mental hospital. Learn from my mistakes and pack your own reading material. My own encounter with a bonafide, legitimate, Girl-Interrupted psych ward happened in the deep winter of 2016. I hadn’t planned on spending the weekend interred. I had groceries to buy, laundry to catch up on, a life to live.
My life revolved around making sure I was the perfect, most non-threatening form of a person as possible while still being cool enough to hang out with anyone that was thrown my way. I got fit, without getting too fit. I was outspoken without trying to ruffle too many feathers. I made myself strong through my traumas without being overpowering or willing to fight for anyone else. I dulled my natural glow with the mud of being a bite sized morsel for people who under no circumstances deserved it. I watered down the aged whiskey that I am with as many mixers as possible to ensure everyone could have a swig.
I never wanted to risk doing anything that might draw suspicion or invite ridicule. I now understand how harmful homophobia is to everyone it touches, not just gay people. It creates an unhealthy environment that forces people to conform out of fear of violence. For the first time in my life, I had a serious issue that I knew I could not discuss with anyone, not even my mother, whom I often confided in like a best friend. I decided to fix my horror by never giving in to my desires or even thinking about them. If I kept my thoughts and actions pure, my disease had to go away.
I attribute a lot of my success from the discipline that I learned from the gym. The consistency that you need, drive and the "never give up" attitude that is necessary reach your goals can help you in any aspect of your life. I am extremely thankful and grateful for my mother for first introducing me to my sanctuary. Since that day, my life has changed for the better. That skinny, shy kid is gone.
Deep down I have always craved intimate connections with other men- a brotherhood, if you will. This desire for male bonding transcends my sexuality. Ideally, my sexuality should not be a hindrance to the development of these kinds of bonds. Too many times, I have been deemed the token gay friend by my male friends. Both through what they say and how they act.
I felt the floor swallowing me up whole. Everything faded away around me and all I heard was the sound of my heart hammering in my head. Dimly, I heard myself repeat, “this can’t be happening” for probably the tenth time in the span of a few minutes. My world crumbled around me. I felt helpless and alone, but worse, vulnerable and afraid upon finding out I tested positive for HIV.
Suicide is what you die from, but depression is what kills you. You don’t commit suicide, you die of depression. At least, that’s what I will live in fear of for the rest of my life. I’m medicated now, able to feel extreme high’s and low’s without losing control, and extremely hopeful for my future. But every time someone in the news calls into question the seriousness of depression, or when someone I dearly admired loses the fight, the cloudy demons inside my mind will blur the edge of my vision to make sure I know that, while I have them under control now, they are not ever really gone.
By now, you couldn’t deny the fondness I have for you. It’s the little revisitations that pull me back to that very day, when I was living in a period of innocence—unaware of possibility, naïve to what it can do to you. It’s these little revisitations, always messy and always brutal and always so heavenly, that take a notch right out of me and replace it with something else.
The room where you held my face in your hands. The room you ran back to, emergency Advil in hand and an I-told-you-so smile on your face. The chair where I practiced mini surgery on myself for the first time. The room where you clutched at me like a life raft. The bed where I found you with another boy. Hands trailing down and mouths open and smiling. The bed where you brushed my hands away and said things had changed beyond repair.
Why are juries of our peers so eager to rationalize the actions of our murderers; to legitimize the irrational fear of our existence? Why are queer advances seen as more traumatic than the unwanted advances cis straight men routinely impose on women everywhere from the train to the street to the workplace? As long as gay/trans panic defenses maintain jurisprudence, queer people are potentially disposable under the law.
This is usually the part where, if I am lucky enough to speak to someone about it, I am advised that I should seek a mental health professional. Believe me, I would love to. However, like most of my generation in the US., I can barely afford to live basically let alone live with amenities like mental health support. I save up, trying to treat myself to an appointment… but, as usual, something happens: the car needs repair, I get sick and have to spend the mental health money as physical health money, I don’t get scheduled enough shifts to pay my rent, utilities, insurance, debt… I get so close to digging out of the hole, but then the dirt crumbles in my hands and sends my flying down to the bottom of the pit once more. Now sure, once I’ve hit rock bottom, the only way to go is up. However, falling back down to rock bottom time and time again…it really does a number on the body.
When I was born, my arm was missing from the elbow down. So right from birth I was immediately thrust into a difficult situation. I never knew exactly why until recently, but what I did know was that I was very different, which I thought was a bad thing. I tried desperately to be normal so society to accept me.
But you know what I don’t deserve to do? I don’t deserve to walk through life avoiding my feelings. I have no right to avoid facing hard situations because they’re uncomfortable. That is no way to live. My father may have lived his life being jaded, but I can not. I am no longer willing to risk what I care about because I’m afraid to have something worth losing.
As early as I can remember, I felt different from my peers. It was as if something was missing; like I had a secret, and if anyone found out, I would be hated and despised. It didn’t matter that I had no idea what the secret was; I just knew I had to wear many masks to assimilate into the world around me. I had to protect my secret at all costs.
It had been at least a year since we’d last seen each other—you met me at a time when I was younger and vacant, vulnerable. And emotionally unavailable. I want you to know that I was here for it the night we reunited—out of happenstance, out of my persistence to maybe make it up to you in some way.
This story doesn’t have a grand catharsis. No earth-shattering realization. And in that way, I find it comforting. I said no. Not because I felt obligated to. But because I wanted to. I said no- I left- and the world kept turning.
If you had asked me at age 4 what I wanted to be when I grew up I would have said a paleontologist. At 8, I would have said a superhero. At 14, I knew I was destined to be the next Lady Gaga (except, you know, only a gay black man, but I would have made it work). At 17, I wanted to be a drug and alcohol counselor. If you had told me that almost two decades later my 8 year-old self would have a lot more in common than any other persona, I probably would have gotten really excited and wondered when my powers would manifest and which room I would be sleeping in during my stay at the Xavier’s Mansion as I trained to be an X-Man.
Have you ever felt like you were trapped? That no matter what you did you were never going to get out? That if you ever tried to ask someone for help, you’d end up causing more pain and suffering for those around you that you love? I have.
Being a graduate student studying clinical mental health, you’d think that I would have acceptance concurred. Well, that’s far from the truth. I simply don’t. No matter who we are or what we have learned or studied, anyone can struggle with acceptance. Even sitting here writing this, I still have a hard time understanding it fully and accepting things within my life that I cannot change. But then again I am just fighting against it and wasting my time and energy.
Why am I telling you all of this? Because I want you to see that I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. I believe that a lot of gay people have similar stories to mine. Real life is not like Love, Simon. In reality, there are those of us that have come from broken homes or have no basis for what healthy, loving and stable looks like. So many of us are late to the game and are stuck figuring things out well into our 30’s that a lot of heterosexual people get to learn in high school.
I feel like I am constantly in this inner turmoil. Being an introverted extrovert is extremely oscillating. Part of me wants to be around people, make friends and be in the spotlight. The other part of me wants nothing to do with anyone. I am terrified that no one wants me around. I do a lot of public speaking events, trainings, and meetings with different people for my job. I tell my story and my experiences. There’s videos and photos of me in many different organizations. However, I struggle to tell my truth in a meeting.
But now—as it’s come to be true for me, these things don’t ever really need to leave. Sure, they can fade and lose some of the initial sheen. But they can stay as long as you choose to let them. And, I guess, this serves to say that over many occasions now, I’ve chosen to let them stay.
In my own life, the difference between a positive and a negative sexual experience is my intention. If I’m desperate for validation, half-asleep, and feeling lonely, 95% of the time any sexual encounter I have is going to feel phony at best and downright unbearable at worst. If I’m feeling excited, intrigued, and full of passion, my sexual experiences tend to be of a much higher quality. My meditation practice has inspired me to bring my spiritual toolkit into the bedroom and onto Grindr with me.
I’d walk across hot coals, throw myself in front of a train, and even support Donald Trump if it meant protecting my kids’ well being and happiness. But what happens when circumstances for wellness are beyond me? When I can’t do what I was put on this earth for? When I am powerless? When I watch a child suffer and cannot help? This is my story about coping with a child’s illness.
My coming out story was nothing like the story of “Love, Simon” and that totally okay. When you take a wider look at my life, it much more resembles “The Glass Castle” by Jeannette Walls than any sort of love story. That is the beautiful part of 2018. I can still watch a movie about someone who’s coming out story is existentially different than mine and still be able to enjoy, praise, and connect with the story on a different level. The gay community is made up of an almost infinite amount of moving parts. The variables that go into making just one individual are vast and ever changing.
Those feelings have always been there, even if I couldn’t name them or look them up in an incredibly intimating medical index. In a moment, sitting in my therapist’s dimly lit basement office, I feel a deep power in knowing. Knowing that there is a reason I wake up some days feeling like I’m living underwater and other days feeling as though my veins are coursing with electricity. Oscillating between the two extremes all the while. The miracle is this: that all of these feelings have a name. “Borderline Personality Disorder,” says my therapist. “Everything I’ve just read is an indicator of Borderline Personality Disorder."
I am choosing to be a mom who is more than just a mom. Who is imperfect. Who is no longer allowing herself to be defined only by her ability to fit into the definition of what a perfect wife and mother looks like, according to our patriarchal society. Who believes in the power of women to be anything we want to be. Who is deciding that the best thing she can do as a mother is to show her children what a strong, independent, authentic, empowered woman looks like, in spite of the fact that our society has never wanted women to know their own value or worth.
Who can say they haven’t thought about marriage? Okay. If you can, then tell me have you considered how others feel about marriage? The person you just hooked up with the other night has been dreaming about getting married to another person his whole life.
You remember these things. And if any were to ask and say, “Where have you been?,” there’d only be one answer. I’d lift my hand to wipe an invisible strand of hair from his eyes and say, “Right where you left me.”
Nobody really tells you what it’s like to be a gay man. There isn’t really a guide or any type of manual, you are just thrust into living and told to do your best. As a gay man, I’ve found that doing my best is not always what is best for me or all that it is cracked up to be. My best doesn’t always translate to “the best” according to other people, either. Sometimes, it doesn’t even translate to a positive notion for some people; some people may find your “best” to be mediocre or lackluster. How would you even know, though, if nobody ever tells you?
What do you say to an unconscious, dying man? What do you say to the man who has loved all of us unconditionally? How can I be strong and ready to make decisions, if the man who inspired my dreams is withering away?
I have to believe we can come to a place where there is no longer a need to “come out”, where you can just “be” from day one. I think what straight people don’t understand, even the most well meaning ones, is that essentially queer people have been robbed of a large chunk of their lives.
Before I get your Andrew Christian undies in a bundle, I have to say: I don’t believe in irreparable mistakes. They are tremendous lessons that allow us to find purpose in our lives. That being said, leave your Beyoncé egos at the door, for these are my truths to live a happier, healthier, and more vibrant gay life. Let us begin…
Moving in with a significant other is a beautiful, beautiful thing - but keep in mind, this should be a choice and not out of convenience. The difference between a choice and a convenience is simple; think long and hard about why you want to move in with your significant other. Conveniences that make you want to move in with your partner are: cheaper rent, makes sharing clothes easier (same sex couples typically), and easier to see each other with busy schedules. If any of these reasons are your defining factors, DO NOT DO IT!!!
It is perhaps sad, and extremely enlightening, how easy it is to emasculate most men. One little remark about how their appearance or interests may be straying towards the feminine could completely derail their sense of self and cause them to withdraw or lash out. That seems to be the default of most men, to retreat further into themselves and bury their emotions, or to externalize their pain by putting down or even physically hurting others, many times women. Men are not allowed to show vulnerability, so their pain is internalized, and they become ticking time bombs of pent up emotion.
Hey Eustace, it’s your housemate David! Glad to see you moved all your stuff in. I normally don’t go into the tenant rooms, well, my guest’s rooms. I want you to feel at home, you rent, but please, consider yourself a treasured guest. It’s just that you left the door open and the dogs smelled your take out. I got to them RIGHT BEFORE they were about to devour the nachos.
My pack was mean girled up by a table just off the dance floor. They were watching a twink, who clearly had too much booze, perform the wacky waving inflatable arm flailing tube man version of Dua Lipa- New Rules. After analyzing and demeaning this poor kid from hair-to-heels I had a revelation…we are a bunch of fucking bitches.
Sure, it’s 2018, and sure in gay marriage is legal, but let’s face it; there are still too many people who look at gay men as faggots, who are just disgusting. They gay community, still has many fights to face and is still fighting to survive in a straight man’s America (or even world). I make this point, because as a gay man, I want to ban together with other gay men, and find ownership in society. I have yet to feel completely welcomed by my community, because I am not seen the majority in the community as an equal, because I have this thing called Cerebral Palsy.
I am. Those two words “I am” are the most powerful words in the universe. They are the start of who you are, how you feel, and what experiences you create for yourself. In today’s world, the LGBT community has paved the way for future generations to come, but in some way or another, some of us have felt left out. The pressures that originate within the community have left us feeling self-conscious; hiding behind the “mask”, feeling as if we have to be promiscuous to “fit in” with others, and using drugs/alcohol to feel confident in ourselves, leading to addiction.
Can I get a moment of free time? I think that's been my problem lately. I don't have a free space in my life. I don't have a house situation that allows me a free moment to myself. I work with a bunch of people who can't give me a moment of free time. After I spend weeks dodging calls from my parents, and wondering if my boyfriend thinks I'm dead, I am basically left with about 8 minutes of free time a day.
In addition to the gay community, Hollywood reigns supreme in this town. Anything that isn’t essentially perfect is also viewed as less than, and those of us who don’t fit the traditional mold of what a man or woman should look like is either ignored or ridiculed for being different. For someone like me, with a glaring defect that he can do nothing about without surgical intervention, my already battered self-image can’t help but take more hits. However, while there is a great deal of hardship to overcome in regards to being born with this condition, there are still many gifts that comes with being born with this condition.
That’s what trauma can do to you; and you never took an issue with any of my issues. I remember the first time I had an anxiety attack around you. I had called you after a car almost ran me off the road, and after I told you what happened I didn’t want to burden you and tried to get off the phone, but you wouldn’t let me. You stayed on the line for another hour.
Sometimes you need a coffee date with the girls. Sometimes you’re in the mental hospital. But, why not make the best of our situation. Coffee it is.
The journey to seek help wasn’t easy, because as a deaf person, many mental health professionals leave the bulk of costs to the patients. Things like interpreters are required in order to receive any kind of mental health treatment. I had moments where I didn’t want to seek the necessary help because of the communication barriers, but I mustered up the strength and overcame my fearful reluctance.
I wasn’t a great person to be around at that time. I often let my anger and frustration out on others, especially my girlfriend at the time. Obviously that wasn’t fair, and I just didn’t feel like myself. And when you stop feeling like yourself, I think something is wrong. When I realized I wasn’t feeling like myself, I decided to follow my heart, and go with my gut instinct to start a new chapter in Atlanta.
There is a level of trust that comes with hookup culture. You trust that the guy you are talking to is actually real. You trust that this person won’t share your pictures and interests with other people. You even trust them with your address when it finally comes time to meet up. For years, I have spent time on Grindr and Scruff chatting with men who appeal to me and I’ve never given much thought to how much trust I give them. The thought that I could be inviting a thief into my safe space is something I never expected to encounter. Unfortunately, I recently found myself at the center of just that.
My eternal love for this television program goes beyond the TV show itself, however. Will & Grace played an integral part in my coming out story and in my overall acceptance and love of myself as a gay man. So, when the reboot was announced and Will & Grace aired again, it gave me the opportunity to reflect on the impact it had on my adolescent mind and how it, quite literally, gave me the courage to be the person I am today.
So you’re ready to come out as gay. Congrats. I’m proud of you. But I’m also terrified for you, scared that you aren’t ready for being out of the closet at Wheaton College, your school that will consistently rank in the Princeton Review’s Top 10 Most LGBT Unfriendly schools during your undergraduate years. This decision to come out, which you naively view as inconsequential, will blow up in your face over the next two years.
In the aftermath, the smell of an unscented lotion has always had the worst impact on me. It was never appealing to me beforehand with its metallic undertones, but it became especially nauseating afterwards. I hate the feel of lotion too. The physical product may have healing remedies inside it, but the gooeyness of the texture always makes my skin crawl. I hate the sound pushing down on the tube makes as it squirts out. I just hate everything about it. But what I hate the most is that it reminds me of what that monster did to me.
For LGBT people one of the most important factors in ensuring their healthy well being is whether they are surrounded by people who love and support them unconditionally. I can say, with complete assurance, that I have been blessed with an amazing amount of love and support from my friends, family, and community, and it all started with my mom. I am beyond appreciative and full of gratitude for being embraced by you when so many others like me are shunned and cast out by people who claim to love them. Thank you for being my biggest ally when I needed you most, and for still being that shining beacon of love and acceptance.
Watching as my friends fall more and more in love with each other, I realized all of those failures I have are meaningless. Yes, they have provided me with memories I will never forget, and taught me lessons to carry with me into future relationships, but they are only part of my past and have little influence over my future. My friend and I have been in similar predicaments, where we were hopeless romantics craving intimate, romantic love. Each rejection emboldened us with a sense of disparity towards love which made us give up.
A true diva is any person who stands out in the crowd, shining with the personality, confidence, and drive to be who they want to be without letting anyone stop them. By setting this example for all those who witness, a diva inspires strength, offsets loneliness, makes us believe in ourselves, and most importantly, brings us hope.
That's the great thing about identity. You can always reinvent yourself whenever. It's even more exciting when you come to terms with your identity. It's been refreshing to start to think about a new look for the new year. I'm keeping Connor around until then. Might as well kick off 2018 as Ace. New year. New identity. New look.
Healing from a broken relationship is like breaking a bone; you can't cut off the cast after a week because it hasn’t had enough time to repair properly. Most of all, I learned that I need to learn how to love myself. For so long, I looked to others for validation when the only person I needed to accept me is the man I saw looking back at me in the mirror.
“Does it count as rape?” I ask.
Because I feel like I’m responsible for what happened to me.
“Me too,” I said.
Ever since getting sober, I had come to find out I was quite the alchemist. You see, alchemists are able to transmute base metals into gold, and that's exactly what I found myself doing. I was able to transform all that pain, all that suffering into something quite incredible. I found my golden light again. My life had new meaning, and I found myself having the whole world in my hands again. I wasn't going to screw this up.
My lung collapsed on the operating table. At 22 years old, I was fighting for my life and just moments away from death. When I woke up, I had tubes coming out of my stomach and tubes going into my veins. I looked down to see 17 staples holding me together and a doctor telling me how lucky I was. A power greater than myself had saved my life and showed me compassion through others that I thought would never accept and love me.
Like with many things in my life, I just learned to accept the consequences later. Like the amount of total sweat and regret I felt when I woke up from a Sunday Funday fog on Monday morning. All of this brings me to my point. It’s hard feeling inadequate as a semi broke gay in West Hollywood.
Integrity: the quality of being honest and having strong moral principles; moral uprightness. The state of being whole and undivided. It seems so simple and unassuming. Be honest, have strong morals. Be steadfast and unwavering. At times, my mind still cannot grasp the full meaning of these definitions. I mean, what does it mean to be whole and undivided? It's like I can hear the words and I recognize the meaning of them individually, but when assembled together, they become another language altogether. One I cannot fully understand.
It has been a long journey in my life to figure out who I am. From being the ugly duckling in my school, to literally getting beaten with sticks because I was hated. My peers pretend to gag as I walked passed them in the halls, they called me nasty names, tagged me I posts saying I was "uglier that the ugliest hobo alive", I wasn't a very liked kid. I didn't really have many friends, and if I did they didn't last long. So, I had learned the hard way to try and be with myself.
With the current stereotypes about the gay community, it can hard to unpack the notion of a friend with benefits. There is a general preconceived understanding of the gay community that it is extraordinary to find gay men who are friends and have not been romantically or sexually involved at some point. It is a stereotype, gay friends for solely companionship sake does not exist, though it could be deemed rare based on the rate of occurrence.
After years of suffering in silence, I was diagnosed with ulcerative colitis in October 2015. This disease has forever changed the course of my life and made it impossible for me to continue my work as a commercial real estate broker, a job which requires constant traveling and time on my feet. I’m hoping the documenting of my experience motivates others to get help.
More than ever, it is okay to be emotional and sensitive. It's all part of being a man. Of being human. Embrace it. Don't run from it.
I was certain that one of the benefits of getting clean would be finding a loving relationship. Fortunately, that has not been the case. I say fortunately because the love I have gained for myself from months of failed dating experiences has been instrumental in my personal growth.
In the gay community though, it seems like it is difficult or impossible to be bisexual. I’ve come across people that think that I am gay and am just afraid to commit to being gay, and others that say believe bisexuality doesn’t exist. There are internet forums and chat groups within the gay community where the mention of anything straight is blatantly shut down as being ‘gross’ or something unnatural. In my experience, bisexuality is not met with open acceptance, but more with a muted hostility.
Like many addicts, I had not realized how after almost a decade of misuse, alcohol had become my primary means of coping with every situation. I drank when I was sad; I drank when I was anxious; I drank when I was stressed; I drank when I was excited. In sobriety, I had to learn how to not only deal with these emotions, but to experience them. I’d spent so many years blunting them with a sheet of alcohol.
Some days, I wake up and barter with my subconscious: If you don’t want to kill yourself, you’ll need to sacrifice today’s peace of mind. So I would. But there would be days when the urge to kill myself was delicious, even intoxicating, and I’d settle for hurting myself, banging my head against walls, cutting myself, anything, really, to quell that voice which so often whispers its dreadful nothings in my ear.
Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t find myself desirable, it’s just that I’m the guy who studied communications in college, which some people would view as the major you choose when are not sure what else will get you through those 4 years. This man is a doctor. This man is the type that Ali Wong, the comedian, would tell you to trap.
As an openly gay man, I never thought my best friend would be a heterosexual male. Thankfully, my best friend is just that and it has become one of the most fundamental aspects of my adult life.
Your body and mind both begin to repair themselves during the process of getting sober, but there are some blemishes on your brain that you can’t scrub out, no matter how much support and clarity you have. This rings true for an alcoholic like myself who is still an extrovert and craves the social interaction that is innately intertwined with drinking. Even now as I am preparing to add another mile-marker to my sober travels, I still find myself caught off-guard and insecure when I least expect it.
Like any addiction, my eating disorder made me behave strangely; I retreated into myself and felt always alone. When I ate too much in public, I made excuses to go home so I could remove the sustenance from my body. When I went to meals with friends, I lied and said I’d already eaten and watched enviously as they ate ‘normal’ food without thinking twice.
Though I am not afraid to admit that I am mentally ill, I understand why people are: Mental illness is still stigmatized. Nationally, we mostly speak about mental illness in the wake of mass shootings, or after suicides. Historically, when people suffered from mental illness, they were shipped off to devastating institutions. As a result, people might worry that they’d lose jobs, friendship or romantic relationships if they were honest about their mental health issues.
The mass shooting in Orlando at Pulse Nightclub happened the night before my graduation. Some of the most formative years in my life were book ended by one of the most formative experiences in US history. I can’t remember how many times I watched Lin Manuel Miranda’s Tony Award speech. “Nothing is promised,” he said. You see black in times like these.
Early sobriety in many ways, felt much like my time in India: I was navigating terrain that was so far beyond my comfort zone, where all of my preconceived notions were constantly being proven wrong. I was in a place where the only constant was what I wanted to most escape: Myself.
I keep my feelings to myself, placing them in an air tight container to keep everyone around me happy. They don't understand what it's like. People don't want to hear about how I really feel, that would ruin the euphoria of their life – a selfish bliss achieved by ignoring the plight of those around them. You see, it's only when someone dies that people are encouraged to reflect and wish that they would've done something more – asked, and meant that one simple question.
If you’re a heavy drinker, that decision can seem impossible. I always ran with a hard-partying crowd. For someone young, the thought of losing access to the social situation they’ve always known is terrifying. Whenever I would try to become sober – which happened at least ten times before it actually worked – the voice inside my head would incessantly shout: What if I’m less funny when I’m sober? What am I even going to talk to this person about if I’m not drunk? I can’t dance until I’ve taken a few shots! Sleeping with someone without alcohol?!
“Greed has poisoned men’s souls, has barricaded the world with hate, has goose-stepped us into misery and bloodshed. We have developed speed, but we have shut ourselves in. Machinery that gives abundance has left us in want. Our knowledge has made us cynical. Our cleverness, hard and unkind. We think too much and feel too little. More than machinery we need humanity. More than cleverness we need kindness and gentleness. Without these qualities, life will be violent and all will be lost….”
Dating is hard enough. There is no need to make it even more difficult than it already is. Respect other people. Communicate. Know what you want and state it. Decide whether you want to be in a relationship and don’t waste someone's time. Don’t mistake fear for intuition. And for god sakes, don’t ghost people. If all else fails, just remember this- be yourself and don’t be a dick. Because karma really is a bitch.
The hardest thing in a friendship is understanding that at some point, you will have to let them go. Whether this be a move, or a new relationship, or a shady mistake one of you had partaken in. But it will happen to all of us, one time or another. But I don’t know what is worse, the official friend breakup, or the final meeting that occurs weeks or even months later.
Being with someone with an anxiety disorder is like being with anyone else, it’s about learning your partner and figuring out how they see the world and how you can see the world together. Anxiety, like any other mental health issue, is different for everyone that experiences it.
For two years, I worked at a psychiatric hospital with most of our clients homeless and addicted. A former client explained to me that it’s impossible to be sober while on the streets. Drugs dull your situation as well as protect you (uppers keep you awake at night to guard your belongings and downers allow you to sleep during the day when it’s safer). It’s hard to keep doctor appointments and refill prescriptions when you don’t know where you are sleeping that night.
Chester Bennington was a powerhouse. He had an unforgettable voice, an infectious stage presence, and a whole lot of pain. He spent his career sharing that pain with us so that we didn’t have to be alone, and I’ve only cried today thinking about how he thought he was alone. He made me and so many other people ok, but he couldn’t be ok. And that is the real tragedy of suicide.
The friendship card, ladies and gentleman is a form of blackmail, usually provided by a best friend. Though the actual time the friendship card is passed is unknown when your BFF holds the power, consider it over.
I know there are a lot of people out there who feel alone and invisible some, maybe all, of the time, and there are so many words of wisdom out there from “anonymous” or dead people. It feels like my responsibility, as a survivor of a darkened heart, to share a fresh message of hope.There is a fine line between being alone and being lonely. That line is called clarity.
I’ve noticed an addiction. Not one to alcohol or drugs, but more of a social addiction; an addiction to going out. Week after week, almost day after day, my friends do the same things at the same bars and house parties with the same people and it makes me want to pose a question: If you do the same things you do during a special event that you do every other day, did you just waste that special event?
At that meeting, a friend of mine, who is no longer with us, shared about not being able to decipher the true from the false. He made the point that the only difference between people in the “loony bin” and us, is that we’re sitting in here talking to each other while they’re sitting in there talking to themselves...
All over the internet I’ve been seeing advice pieces for millennials. Idealistic perspectives that make building a career seem like finding a glass slipper. For most people, job hunting isn’t this much of a fairy tale, but more like a pebble in your shoe that you need to get rid of.
Since then, they have been blocked from all social media and any ability to contact me by phone. I have limited interactions at family gatherings to a “hello” and “goodbye” when I choose to return them. I took the power back. This was not about revenge or getting even. It was about protecting myself and realizing that sometimes those close to you do not deserve the right to be there. It was about ensuring I had people in my life who wanted to be there not because they felt obligated by blood, marriage, or some other possibly meaningless connection. Through these relationships I found the ability to gain enough respect for myself to stand up against those who did not share the same respect for me.
If life taught me anything, it's that the ride will continue, and life moves on whether you are ready or not. Yes, your age of innocence is over and you have to decide whether or not to sink or swim. And yes, it isn’t always clear what the right or wrong path is. But you keep moving; ride that rollercoaster with confidence and class.
That was it. Everyone left me and I had nowhere to turn, nowhere to run, no one left. After losing my job on the summer bay I had found myself at the far too familiar place of rock bottom. The people that loved me that had 'abandoned' me gave me a special gift by their absence. The gift of room. Room to grow.
The next day I found myself in a treatment center. When I told my daughter that I was “going away for depression for 30 days,” she wouldn’t even look at me. I knew then I was powerless over how others perceived me. My secret was out. Bring on all the shame and guilt. Everyone now knew that I was “a junky piece of shit,” which is how I saw myself. My friends and family would start to tell me how they missed “the old Candice,” but I had no idea who that was. I knew Brooklyn’s mom, Mike’s ex-girlfriend, the girl who climbs the corporate ladder. But I didn’t even know what my favorite color was.
Like life outside the rooms, at least in my hometown, idea of sexual exploration seemed to be only okay with one person, and only if you were dating with the intent of possibly getting married or at least perusing a longer-term relationship. A little more rope seemed to be granted to men, but for the most part sex was seen as a distraction to recovery, which it very well can be to many people and was to me in the first couple years, but in turn the idea that an individual could have the ideal of not wanting a romantic relationship, wanted multiple partners of varying genders, practices, and fluidity…well, it just wasn’t talked about
I have always been highly aware of my mortality. At the age of ten, I wrote a poem about death. I was ahead of my time, I still am. I questioned the existence of an after life. I worried about what life would be like without me here. I wondered what death would be like. I envied all the people who would survive without me and get to experience more time, more love, more life than me
My life went from Bering Sea badass to full blown junkie very rapidly. Hidden from me was that passion I had for life. Taken from me was my ability to live. I was at war with my addiction and it was winning.
I must admit, I have never contributed to anything before. Well, I’ve contributed to the increase in my weight, but I don’t think that really counts.
I may not be able to pinpoint the exact moment I was over you, at least I can pinpoint all the exact reasons why, at one point in time, I loved you.
I woke up on the morning of September 11th, 2009 feeling the deepest pit of shame in my gut I had ever felt in my 20 years of life. Truly embarrassed, I walked into my home group that night and picked up my final surrender chip. That was when the real work began
I couldn’t stomach my meal and I certainly could no longer stomach this man. A false sense of entitlement stemmed from his luxurious upbringing; money does not make you better than anyone. Money cannot buy you kindness, but if it could, I doubt someone of his nature would ever splurge on it
I discovered my core reason for my use; my low self-esteem and self-worth. I began to work on ways to improve those in a healthy way. I learned that happiness can exist in every moment you are in, if you let it. I worked on thinking more positively and finding the silver lining to every situation. I took responsibility for the fact that I made choices in my addiction that negatively affected myself and those around me whom I loved, and I began to make amends for those mistakes.
Do you ever remember the last time you hugged someone for the last time? The worst feeling is when you know it'll be the last time.
No good can come from our continued sharing of articles harshly demonizing one another. It only furthers the difference between us and recharges the debate. Like the earth and the clouds slowly becoming more polarized against one another, our opinions, if they are not well informed, will eventually have to strike to relieve the buildup. If we work to alleviate the pressure buildup that comes from constantly sharing misinformation, we can hopefully live in a world where it doesn’t feel like lightning could strike at any moment.
This has developed a sense of stability. Same surroundings, same people, same meetings. My sobriety is strong. It is stable. Yes, there have been a lot changes: boyfriends, lovers, houses, jobs, sponsors. But, I grew mentally, spiritually, emotionally. I love differently, I live differently.
Even with how bad I felt after that, and knowing I had a serious issue, I kept up my partying and using and drinking. I just didn’t care. I was aware I had a problem, but I felt I could live with it. I believed this was how I was supposed to be living. My only role model encouraged this behavior from me, but I didn’t feel good on the inside or out.
In a sense, I knew Max's death was coming. He'd go in and out. And his path of active addiction would only lead to one destination. His pain has been alleviated. His suffering has come to an end.
I came into sobriety as a young, baffled, broken gay boy. I never considered myself a joiner and, honestly, didn’t like people that much. But what staying sober and participating in my own recovery has done at some deep level is change who I was and what I was about. Today, it’s an honor to say I’m a part of something that is actually impacting and helping people that are just like me. This new life is something I couldn’t have imagined and I’m so glad I traded in my old life for the one I have today.
If this sounds like an absolute nightmare, you’re right. However, this is the reality of the very real process by which thousands upon thousands of dancers, singers, actors, and all other manner of performer attempt to gain employment. All the while juggling multiple side jobs, abject poverty, and the constant notion that they might not be good enough to make it. Couple that with the societal notion that their profession isn’t a “real job” you have a perfect storm.
I often wonder how differently things could have turned out for me, had one small circumstance been different. I confront this thought daily as I take an inventory of the many blessings I now enjoy, and remember the struggles I somehow managed to survive. What I’ve come to understand about my path as a recovering drug addict is simple: every experience has value.
I pressed the eject button with no regard for a parachute. I have some good ideas about why I did that, but I really don't know for sure. I haven't been to therapy yet, where I'm sure this story will be a big topic of conversation, so until I get a better answer, I'm using this one: when you run out of cocaine, you just don't feel like dancing.
I started drinking alcoholically when I was 15 years old. I discovered hard drugs when I was 16. I started toying with the idea of killing myself when I was about 13. I’ve felt out of place since for as long as I can remember.
The feeling of ecstasy bursts through me like an orgasm of epic proportions. All because of a song. It's not that I can't control myself. I just don't want to. That is what I feel when I have a manic episode. I'm more than happy. I feel unstoppable, on top of the world.
Millennials have been labeled the loneliest and most depressed generation that has ever lived. Members of this generation are increasingly living alone, moving to new cities, working more, and spending less time face to face with friends and more time on social media.
This has been a tough year. We lost many people. Celebrities, loved ones. Let them stay in your heart and memories. Let this past year be a reminder of how precious life is. Keep our loved ones close to us. Say, “I love you,” to them.
Here’s what the next four years are going to look like: people complaining, people protesting, people complaining about the protesters, just like it has been in the past few weeks. Our voices aren’t going to change anything. Just like they didn’t change the Electoral College vote. Want to change the country? Fight it within! Educate the masses! Don’t spread lies with those fake articles! Donald Trump is going to complain about SNL, the people, he may even complain about this article. But guess what? This bitch doesn’t care what Donald Trump says!
I’m just listing what we need. I’m asking you to take part in it. Do drag! Write that book! Act in that play! Sing those songs! Make us laugh, cry, sing, dance! This is your time to shine! And it doesn’t matter if you’re a man, woman, trans, gay, straight, religion, color of your skin… America needs you to be as creative as possible to make this country livable in what could be a dismal four years!
I will hereby make a, what today seems like, radical claim. For the sake of reflection, I will suggest that those who are dispositioned towards so called “political inaction” and tranquility, while others suffer, are not to be loathed.
By JS
I'm not really sure why I'm writing you a letter. Maybe it's because I live in a society where what you did to me is inconvenient for other people to accept, so my silence is easier for everyone. I'm sick of it. I don't want to be silent anymore. My voice matters. I don't know if it matters to you or not, but it matters to me.
By Susan Heide
Growing up in a household with alcoholism, violence, abuse and mental illness cemented my thinking for many years. I thought if I could be perfect and fix or control the problem, the chaos in my home would stop. I continued this pattern throughout my life with the other alcoholics in my life in addition to my mother, including my son and my boyfriend. It was the creation of my own version of insanity. Repeating the same behavior over and over and expecting a different result. It wasn’t until I entered the rooms of Al-anon that I learned differently.
By Zed Carter
It’s hard for me to even put into words how much I obsessed about this. It took over my every thought and action. If I didn’t have any, I was thinking of how to get it. If I had some, I was thinking about my next one. Achieving constant numbness was what I desired, and I did whatever I thought I could to do it. I started stealing from family and friends. Sold or pawned all the stuff I had and even what my family had. I got fired from jobs for stealing money from the till. I had lost control and couldn’t stop.
By Natallie St Onge
There was fog on the freeway that day. It stained the clouds with hints of hesitation, pierced the bridge that covered the rotting yellow lines with a shade of melancholy and dissipated into the sights of the brave who had the will to look. The sun was little to no presence, its rays commuting to other sources of life that needed its color to live, like the sea whom depended upon the warmth to guide the waves. Relevant and dense, hard to see through, easy to know who it is, the fog on the freeway was there that day.
By Chris Heide
They say that relapse doesn’t have to be a part of your story. For me, it was a necessary plot twist in the story of my recovery. A period that dramatically and irrevocably altered my course. My relapse provided me with a purpose for my life. Let me explain why.
By Ryan Vasquez
Consider this a brief newcomer’s guide to Washington that provides you with a realistic point of view of the greater Seattle area as opposed to the same old trumped up brochure bull shit you can find via any google search.
By Jeremiah Johnston
My back was against the wall. I had hit a bottom filled with desperation and surrender.
By Megan McDowell
To abandon is to give up; discontinue; withdraw from: Pertaining to something that is not meant to be possessed, or is being held without merit.
By Casey Allen
All addictions, at least initially, exist for the same reason: the pleasure they bring their suitors. This pleasure may come in many forms, and is often disguised, but is always present in some way or another. Addictions are nothing more than habits, and a fair part of one’s serenity—nay sanity—is dependant on such repetition. Why then is the term “addictive” so often synonymous with “vindictive?”
By Casey Allen
Words, ideas and language both written and spoken are all of much more importance to me personally. I find the possibilities, variations and interpretations to be far more captivating and rewarding. One sentence can have any number of meanings depending on factors such as emphasis, context and, perhaps most importantly, the personal influences and analysis of whoever is reading or hearing the words.
By Charlotte Hollingsworth
My relationship with my father, for its inconsistent place in my life, affected me the same way. Being ignored and convinced I deserved it was a hallmark of both. My father was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, with borderline personality disorder, he was a drug addict, he was a neglected child. My ex was simply not capable of the attention and affection I deeply needed, and couldn’t help that I was using this very thing as a way to fitfully exorcise my own demons.
By Kyle Getz
I should back up. I’m gay. And not just a little bit, dip it in the crack gay. I’m all-the-way, tell-you-to-thrust-it-deep-inside-me-until-you-find-my-he-spot gay. Okay. You’re all caught up now. Yes, I have to come out with intention; some people don’t know until I proclaim it.
By Charlotte Hollingsworth
In just under 90 days, I am going to turn 30 years old. Every year around September I start to get reflective, there are quite a few anniversaries this time of year leading up to the oldest anniversary of my life, and the changing of a season is always an inspiration to introspection. But I’m excited this year. The last two years of my 20’s have been tumultuous to say the very least, and I am excited by how much I’ve learned, and how much calmer my life is becoming.
By Kat Larson
I’m a boss. I couldn’t hustle harder if I tried. I literally fly around work in a cape blazer- which by the way, I am convinced this is the best fashion invention of this century by far. At work I’m recognized by my 3.5 inch platform pumps, all black everything, and crimson red lips. I go in, work hard, and get the hell out of there.
By Natallie St. Onge
People don’t last forever. People, relationships, do not come with an expiration date, but they do come with warning signs. They come with feelings, and awkwardness, and hurt and sadness that you can’t always repair. They come with opinions that are different than yours and they come with other people. They come alone, or they come in a tidal wave of self-doubt and anger, of joy and welcoming company for you to meet. People come with a start. People come with an end.
By Kelsey Ryan
I was willing to do anything for my love. I was willing to steal, to give up my real friends, to lie and manipulate people to get what I needed. I was willing to become a monster for my love, something that scares me even now. Something you love should never make you change who you are for the worse, but instead should allow you to grow for the better. My love changed me, and it was definitely for the worse.
By Dylan Flint
Turn off the news. Study history. Shut out the spin doctors, the witch hunters, those who let no tragedy go to waste. They are not there to help you but to help themselves. Learn how to be a better human. Learn how to be a King. The bank of justice is not bankrupt. Redemption is all around you.
By Joshua Boyles
I wish the memories of my childhood weren’t the flashbulb memories of trauma and abuse. I was raised by a single mother. I know there were times of joy and laughter, but what I remember most is always being afraid of her wrath. There was a presence of alcohol, sometimes and excess, and the daily smoking of marijuana. You would think that with the amount of pot she consumed she would have been calmer, but she was not.
By Aaron Michael
It’s important to remember that you’re not a victim to anybody. If you don’t like your boss, your job, your circle, your circumstances then change your attitude, and I guarantee the things in your life will change. If you don’t like how your child behaves, change how you parent. If you don’t like the way your finances look, change what you do to earn an income. If you don’t like the way your life is, understand that you are not a victim to circumstances
By Nina Clevinger
Music isn’t meant to be loved by everyone, or hated by everyone. Music is meant to help the person creating it express themselves, and the person listening to it learn about themselves, and vice versa. Music is single-handedly the thing that keeps us all going, it’s right up there with love - it’s all we need. Love and music. And to be completely honest, I think love and music are the same things.
By Max Aldinger
Therein lies the problem with sex addiction. You can’t just swear off the opposite sex forever. Companionship is a normal part of being human which is why in fellowships like sex and love addicts anonymous you’re expected to create “bottom lines” for yourself. Things like watching porn, getting hookers, using dating apps can all be considered a relapse based upon your personal story and problems with sex.
By Nina Clevinger
Something needs to change. I’m only 19-years old. Nineteen. Nineteen, and I’ve been physically and sexually assaulted by men who I do not know on two separate occasions. Not once, but twice. I was still recovering from the first time when the second time happened.
By Alaina Clarke
If you’re a Serial Dater like me, I can give you one piece of advice; everything, everywhere, all the time, is changing. Putting all of your happiness into the hands of another person will not erase the things you have been through. You have to face your pain with courage, tenacity and dignity.
By Evan Glass
When going through a struggle, however difficult or easy it may be, we have a decision to make. We can either let it kill us (and control us), or we can embrace the struggle and make it an asset for ourselves and our lives. Unfortunately, most people let it kill them.
By Natallie St. Onge
For the past year, I have struggled with immense thoughts of doubt, paranoia of all things high school, and the grieving loss of a best friend. I’ve cried the equivalent amount of a monsoon in the tropics, and I have heaved and complained more than I ever thought I could.
By E.G.
I had been with her earlier in the day. We couldn’t spend more time together because I was going to a party and did not think about spending time with her instead.
By An Anonymous Contributor
Without him muttering a word, I already knew he went back out.
By Chris Heide
“Passion. It lies in all of us. Sleeping... waiting... and though unwanted, unbidden, it will stir... open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us... guides us. Passion rules us all. And we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love... the clarity of hatred... the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion, maybe we'd know some kind of peace. But we would be hollow. Empty rooms, shuttered and dank. Without passion, we'd be truly dead.”
By Evan Glass
“You can’t ever drink again?”
This is what I asked my girlfriend after she told me about her alcoholism. For some reason I thought alcoholics, after they recover, could drink again. We had been dating for all of two days before she had a drinking episode that forced her into the hospital, AA meetings and to accept the fact that she was an alcoholic. After she told me about this episode, my stomach dropped. I was nervous, as I was not fully aware of the severity of her disease at the time.
By Ford Serna
“It’s about having an idea of the man you want to be and then aligning every decision along the way with the man you choose to be.”
By Graeme Aegerter
I raced down the street, bare feet pounding against pavement until asphalt gave way to gravel to grass then the soft earth of the woods. This was my last chance. They were going to force me to go to rehab, so I knew I had to drink to die. Hopeless, defeated, and too tired for my usual suicide tactics, I begged the universe to take me away from this life as I drowned myself in alcohol. I fell to the earth, unconscious.
By Robert Williams
Shortly after one of the most difficult events of my life, I had a most beautiful man next to me in my bed. We had recently met through mutual friends, connected immediately, and stumbled home together after a flirtatious evening out.
By Chloe St. Onge
I hated chocolate. Yet whenever I went out for dessert that is what I ordered. My friends always ordered chocolate and I followed suit to fit in. Growing up I looked for approval from my parents and peers. I was terrified by the fear of not fitting in and being rejected. On one level, conforming felt good. It was comfortable. On a deeper level, I knew it was not really me. But how do you go about discovering who you really are when you fear you are going to be judged?
By An Anonymous Contributor
I sit in darkness. I can hear muffled sounds around me but cannot make anything of it. My body feels weak, and for some reason I my mind tells me that I don’t want to open my eyes.
By Cody Heck
We often forget that an entire generation of young gay men were also raised with Disney Princess dreams. We’re given this idea that as long as we try our best, remain relatively poised, and do the right thing we’ll be justly rewarded with our Prince Charming or knight in shining armor. This all seems harmless at first, until you’re finally slapped in the face with societal roles and the cold, harsh nature of reality.
By an Anonymous Contributor
From time to time, in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous, I will hear someone introduce themselves in the customary way, “My name is ____________ and I’m an alcoholic”, however before the word alcoholic they will insert the word grateful. When i first heard this I was struck with an instant disgust for the term. How could someone be grateful for their alcoholism?
By Michael Ryan Blackwood
I've struggled with my mental health for almost as long as I can remember. I've now seen two psychiatrists and two other therapists. I have chronic depression, also known as dysthymia. (From the Greek for "bad state of mind," though thumos literally translates to "soul." Bad soul. Well that's encouraging.) If you think of the normal person's mood as sitting on a line (which will have natural fluctuation), the depressed mood sits below that line. Symptoms often include lack of motivation, feelings of guilt, feelings of worthlessness, self-doubt, and sometimes suicidal thoughts.
By Christopher Heide
To all the men out there: Can you remember the last time you cried or got in touch with your feelings? Most men would answer that they have not in a long while, and it might have something to do with the fact that we are a society obsessed with appearance. Many people still unfairly consider men who acknowledge the vulnerability of their feelings, cry or even talk about their emotions as weak and unstable.
By an Anonymous Contributor
I am a liar. It’s simple really. I learned a long time ago that telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth got me nothing but pain, misery, hopelessness and depression. These are not a few of my favorite things. Time and time again, I would tell people how I really feel or think and get reamed. No one cares how I feel. They care how I make THEM feel. People don’t want to hear about my problems, fears or concerns. They want me to make them feel good. They want me to be the party guy who dances his ass off, gets all the girls and makes them look good. Weakness is a Darwinian trait. Only the strong survive and strength perceived is strength achieved. If you don’t have it, act like you do. Do it long enough and it becomes truth.
By Dillon Turman
Imagine living in a society where your most basic human rights are regulated, stripped and perhaps even vacant. As you begin to paint that picture in your head, take into account that there are many societies today in our world that still do not focus on individuality; rather, they focus on tradition and/or a linear set of beliefs and expectations.
By Dillon Turman
Underground – a subculture or simply a place beneath existence that harbors no life and desolation. To me the word “underground” translates into my very existence. As you may be able to identify--with further analysis—the photo attached represents a boy torn between keeping the mask that bares all stereotypes, all stigmas and normalcy and removing it to show and fully express his true self. That boy is me – and I live in a world that truly makes no sense within the 8 to 5, but as the evening and weekend hours manifest, my identity and artistry lights up and kisses the earth like the sun at dawn. I wish to sacrifice myself as a token of the world many of my artist peers live in.
By Dillon Turman
Community -- what does it mean to you? For most, it means coming together. By definition, it means a feeling of fellowship with others due to sharing common attitudes, interests, and goals. What is the purpose of community on a state level or perhaps even a national level? In my opinion, the purpose of community is awareness--regardless of your location.
By Ben Schock
At the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, as we stood in line waiting to be received by the ticketing agent, I scanned the nearly empty hallway: nearly five o’clock in the morning and the only airport occupants were servicemen and -women, their spouses, kids, pets caged in their crates, and enormous amounts of luggage—their families. What made their journey to their future duty stations different than my husband’s and mine?
By Joshua Trotter
I once was a boy without fear of tomorrow. I lived without judgment because there was no judgment. I was just a boy, with blond hair, hazel eyes. I was once known as a mama's boy, who was studying to become a youth pastor, who thought that becoming more involved in religion, because his mother said it was good and right, was the best thing for his life.
By Jordan Heide
“Homosexuals are brute beasts, part of a vile and satanic system that will be utterly annihilated, and there will be a celebration in heaven." Complements of the notorious Jerry Falwell, the above quotation summarizes the dangerous antagonism that faces homosexual Americans on a daily basis. The source of that antagonism? A group that proselytizes love, peace, and understanding, yet defames anyone who doesn’t conform to its archaic set of beliefs. I’m speaking, of course, about Christians.
By Christopher Heide
A new theory has begun to pervert popular culture and could continue to have a drastically adverse affect on alcohol abuse. A minority of alcohol abuse counselors assert that some problem drinkers can learn to moderately consume alcohol. Nothing could be more dangerous to a generation that already severely lacks impulse control.
Audrey was always authentic. Authenticity transcends perfection. She was a woman of conviction, grace and she always stood up for what was right, especially during the decades when women were considered to be less than their male counterparts. She lived her life as she wanted to, not what others would have her be. She was unapologetically herself.