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Why Are Gay Men So Afraid Of Themselves?

We compartmentalize ourselves into groups — masc., fem, top, bottom, verse, twink, bears, otters because it’s no longer enough for us to be human and homosexual.

I wrote this and it got published by Thought Catalog and I am so excited I am jumping around my apartment. Please click/ read/ share!

I needed this

I have been saying these kinds of things forever, but the trouble that I face is not with dealing with my lover being that way, I prefer him that way.  But my problem is with me feeling and being that way.  My fear comes from admitting it of myself, that I might sometimes have feminine tendencies or am not stereotypical male, top-only, muscle man into all of those “guy” things.  My biggest fear comes from feeling like I am less those things than my lover.  I need a good support article for dealing with myself.

Tonight has been one of the hardest nights of my life.  I know some people read my post from yesterday about the “novella” I am writing.  It is based on true events, which are unfolding as we speak.  Tonight, my boyfriend of 2 years tried to break up with me.  He wasn’t very good about it, as he couldn’t hang up the phone on me, and couldn’t stop listening to what I had to say. I made him wait to talk to me about it this weekend, because I had made plans with him to go back to Disney California Adventure, where we had our first date, because he hasn’t been back since then, and I would kiss him at the World of Color show just like before, and let him know how much the last 2 years have meant to me.

He did not agree, and the end of the call was basically “I am so done with this.” and then for me, “I will see you on Friday. And we will go from there.”

Needless to say, we are in a state of limbo, and it has been so hard to cope.  I write it out here because, even though my all of 5 followers will probably not even read it, it at least helps me cope.  And that alone is enough for now.  I don’t have much support in these hard times, not a lot of family or friends I can confide it.

Ironically, the one person who could and did console me, I called afterward, was his best friend.  She helped me understand a lot and made me feel much better, realizing the changes he has gone through might mean he isn’t who I want him to be anymore.  And that if that’s true, letting go of him is okay, and I will always have the memories of the man he used to be to me.

Those memories will always mean the world to me, no matter what happens.

But then he texts me “I’m sorry… So sorry…” right after our call, and I don’t know what to say.  Why he is sorry?  Is he taking it back?  Does he feel bad for trying to trash my heart?  I don’t understand.  We weren’t going to talk until Friday because he was so upset, but then HE texted ME?

We talked a small bit, with me saying I’m not giving up and there’s no reason to be sorry for saying how you feel, and he comes back with “Why won’t you just let me go?”

And that’s a good question.  And that’s the reason I’m writing this post.  Not just to rant, not just to vent, not just to help me cope.  But to tell everyone, all of you BEAUTIFUL people out there, that there is always going to be something in your life worth fighting for.  There is always going to be that one thing you can’t let go of, ever.  For everyone it will be something different.  Some people find love, some people find a video game, some people find a book, but everyone will have their thing.

Well, Christopher is my thing.  And I realized that tonight more than anything, I will never let him go, because he is the thing I have worth fighting for, and he always will be worth fighting for.  Even if I only get to keep the memories we had and the times we shared, it will be worth ever ounce of fight I have in me to keep those until the day I die.

What do you all have worth fighting for?

Prologue

“I don’t know, I still love you.  I just miss getting to know people, and going out.  I don’t want to leave you, I always want to have you here with me…”

“…but I don’t want to tie you down when I have such wandering feelings.  I want to get out and do something new.  I need to move and finish school and get on with my life in a way that I can’t do here.”

I felt my mind shatter at this point.  I was taken aback with such force at his statements that I did not know how to respond.  I probably looked like a fish, standing there with a gaping mouth, trying to think of what to say. I was literally speechless, which is quite the event for me.

And before you ask, no, I did have not always dated guys or been “gay”.  My high school life was much different.  And in fact, if you’d asked me 5 years ago if I ever though I would be where I am now, having dated someone for 2 full years, let alone a boy, I would have told you you were a complete pyscho and probably backed away slowly.  This was never in my future.

And then all of a sudden, one day, it was… I remember the day very clearly, the day I met him.  I have to laugh, as it was quite the event.  There’s actually quite the back story to this particular relationship of mine, but it really was a chain of events.  Everyone person I’ve ever liked , known, or dated has really led me right to this point, right to this guy.  And it still feels weird to say, or even think that.

But as I stood there, jaw-dropped by his statements, I couldn’t help but reflect on where it all started, and how things progressed, and how amazing it all really was.

We had been talking for several months, probably about 6, when I finally met him in person for the first time.  Actually, even further back than that, how we started talking was strange in and of itself.  I laugh at that more than anything.  Boy-thief.  Oh, the irony.

I guess since I’ve already gone on and on about it, I might as well tell you what happened…

You want to travel with them. You want to see what they’re like going through airport security, on planes, in strange countries. You want to meet their families and charm them to pieces. You want to nestle into their childhood beds and look around in the dark at all their old posters. You want to see all the embarrassing photos of them with braces and socks pulled up mid-calf. You want to hear all the stories about their drunken nights under the bleachers and their best friend’s jokes. You want to read all their journals, see how they took notes in high school. Did they use pen or pencil? What color highlighter? You want to work with them, just to see them work. You want to go out with them. You want to make out with them in the bathroom. You always want to touch them; you want them to always want to touch you.
You find reasons to disentangle yourself from them; it’s only going to hurt later, you can tell already. You stay up way past your bedtime for them. You look at the clock and know their schedule. You neglect other people and other things, and beat yourself up about it. But it’s like they have a hold of your hands and your voice, and you don’t mind. It’s like you’re trapped in an hourglass; you know your lungs might fill with sand, but there’s something sensual and comforting about the grains sliding down glass walls and pooling around your ankles, your knees, your waist.
You like things about their appearance that the rest of the world may cringe at and call strange, less than perfect. Their broken, reshaped noses; their little teeth or the gaps in between them; the way they pull their hair; their narrow hips; their wide shoulders; the depth of their pores. You can laugh when funny things happen in bed. You usually want to be in bed with them.
You think they’re smarter, better, friendlier, fitter, happier, more productive than you are. You strive to be as much as they are, as good as they are. You try to cheat and figure out what it is they’re going to teach you, if they’re going to fall from grace, if you’re going to play a part for them that you never thought you’d play before. You try and pull patterns and threads of meaning from the conversation or the way they looked at you the first time you met; what they did, what they offered. An apple stolen from the bar. Notes from a guitar. Pitchers of free beer. Pieces of bark with writing on them.
You cherish snippets of them; paste them up in your memories like old faded scrapbooks clutched to chests for generations. Their skin glows black and white in your head. They star in the little short films of your life that sneak up on you when you’re not looking. Like the walk to the South End for dinner on a quiet corner. The feel of the sun beating down on you both at an outdoor concert. The way they ordered wine on your first date. The slow swing of a hammock near a lake. The back seat of their car.
You can see yourself with them in the future you can’t quite see. You build apartments outfitted with all the right kitchen supplies and the perfect bed with two nightstands, each piled with books and magazines. You wait for them patiently while they chase their dreams; they wait for you patiently as you chase yours. You sit in bed eating dinner late at night, drinking tea and wine and whiskey as you tell each other all about the chasing. You create adopted dogs and cats; you have awkward conversations about money; you put up with each other’s crap. You see what they look like standing at the end of a candle-lit aisle in your grassy front yard and wonder if you’ll make it to the other end to meet them or if they’ll just end up in the scrapbook clutched to your chest or flickering on the screen in your brain.
How You Know - Talia Ralph (via thesecretdiaryofjake)

(Source: victimize)

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