December 30, 2004
Boy, getting relaxed in your own skin is a full-time job. How long have I had this existential angst? What it reminds me of most is when I was in France at 17. I barely drank and never did drugs and was a nervous wreck most of the time. I got involved with a man much older than me (though in retrospect, at 28, a baby himself), who would be wonderful for a day and hardly talk to me for the next three days. Really, a terrible first love, (are there any other kind?) because I have always henceforth been ready for the rug to be yanked out from under me at the very moment harmony seems to set in.
I see now through my college years and 20s, I drank heavily to quell this very anxiety. I got jobs in gay bars, in which I could be comfortably gay and drink. But the nervousness came back pretty forceully during my first 18-month attempt at sobriety at 26, and not being able to get rid of it probably had a lot to do with my picking up again. I can see now that it is this feeling more than any other I have been medicating through my drink and drug use since then.
I honestly think it has something to do with never having learned to feel completely “safe” as a gay man. Never physically and emotionally completely comfortable in society, in the face of rampant tacit dissaproval, and periodically very real menaces of verbal and physical abuse. When the threat of AIDS became like a knife at my throat, you can imagine how the fear was fueled, provoking more attempts to throw water on the fire. (Unfortunately, the water was laced with vodka). When and where did I feel completely comfortable? Drunk or high in gay clubs, as a patron or an employee, then later, on drugs, in my house, behind the computer screen.
I thought I had grown up, that I was a self-affirming proud gay man. But by medicating my fear on a daily basis, I merely calmed the fear temporarily. And now I am a scared 15-year old again, and I am confronting the fear yet again. This time I am determined to treat the disease, not merely the symptoms. I want any progress to be real, not ephemeral. I want serenity.
I went into my noon meeting in a knot, and the sharing was on the 4th step—taking a fearless inventory of yourself. It’s hard to be fearless when you are so afraid. I realized though, that that could be as much a part of my personal inventory as anything else. My fear. My fear at not being accepted and approved for who I am. My fear that I won’t be forgiven for the wreckage I’ve wrought, or that I won’t forgive myself for it either. I found myself welling up and crying. This was a good thing, as AA is a good place to cry. It is the ultimate sanctuary of unconditional love for adults. There, whatever the sexual orientation of the constituents at a given meeting, it is a completely safe place to be afraid.
After the meeting, a new buddy, T., took me with his roommate and another colorful character to lunch in the heart of Nob Hill, the closest thing Albuquerque has to a gay neighborhood. This was a tonic, because I actually felt I could live there. And T. is a babe, and funny, and has about the same length of sobriety I do. I have been around the block too many times to get in a froth over someone I’ve just met who I barely know, but it was nice to feel that I can actually meet new, interesting people in a new place, and that possibilities open up when you open yourself up to them.
The colorful character was older (my age I guess—T. is 25) and straight, and as we exchanged stories, it was revealed that he was in prison in the late 90’s. Not any prison, Chino, my alma mater. And not just anywhere in Chino. He lived in my old dorm, Redwood. Small world, ain’t it?
C.C., as I’ll call him (for Colorful Character) told me his story outside of the meeting, so I don’t feel I am violating the tradition that whatever we hear in a room, stays in a room. He recounted a varied post-prison profession resume during a long sobriety, culminating in his silent investor status in a prosperous Albuquerque daycare center. Then an angry ex-wife tipped off the press that his conviction had been for statutory rape—consensual sex with a 17-year old. Before you knew it, he was painted by the media as a pedophile running a daycare center. His life spun out of control, he started drinking again, and lost everything. EVERYTHING. I drove him back to a living center for homeless veterans. And all the way he could only say how grateful he was to be sober again.
Be skeptical of what you read or hear about “Sex Offenders.” Stories such as his are just as common as those of the child molester plucking kids from the park. (And this coming from someone molested by a scoutmaster at 11, so I certainly am not ignorant of that reality.) But I must point out the dehumanizing witch-hunts going on in this country, generated by overzealous prosecutors seeking to portray themselves as defenders of the innocent in a country “plagued” by devilish victimizers (drug dealers are often painted with the same brush). This is often more a reflection of their career ambitions than of reality. Sometimes the true victims are not who they appear to be.
Speaking of prison, I got a letter from my friend Brad, still inside. Here’s a sampling: “Thank you for the blogs. You’ve been a busy boy and it’s a treat to live vicariously. I always was under the impression that ‘re-entry’ pertained to spaceships and sex, but methinks you’re in the middle of another variety altogether? The “Deprogramming, delousing and revitalized beauty regimen” must seem daunting! Personally, I feel dirty. I’m seriously considering getting “dipped” upon parole much like an old wicker chair. Come to think of it, I look like an old wicker chair! [Ed. Note HE DOESN’T.] My beauty regimen will be nothing short of “industrial strength cosmetic surgery.” It’ll be a BIG job!”
He makes a fair amount of witty observations about the minor humiliations of prison (the lack of privacy in the hygiene department, the brain-numbing attempts at banter) and embarks on a discussion of his current reading list. (He’s a big fan of Rita Mae Brown, John Steinbeck, and a book I left him, Julia Glass’s suberb “Three Junes.”) If anyone out there cares to correspond with a literate, good looking gay man, out in August, please pick up your pen and write to:
J.B. Ware
V-36436 9206-UP
C.I.M.
P.O. Box 600
Chino, CA 91708
After my lunch, my sister called and summoned me to meet the owner of the educational consulting agency where she does tutoring. A very affable man, who may well use me to do some SAT writing prep teaching if I move out here. As of today, Albuquerque looks much more promising than it did yesterday. However, since I have to go back to LA anyway, I frankly suspect I will not want to leave again when I get there. While I will try to remain open to the most objective decision possible, I will job hunt in L.A., and if I find a shoe that fits, I will wear it. In which case I will be looking for a roommate situation. So if anyone knows of anything interesting, please let me know.
I’m off to another meeting, a gay one. No one will be able to say I’m not giving Albuquerque a chance, not to mention sobriety.
MCO 2004
P.S. Two Hours Later. The meeting was wonderful. I was the last one who shared, and laid bare my ephiphanies about fear, and internalized homophobia, and self-medication over all of it. I also talked about my feeling that the reason the meetings provide such relief is that just walking through the door is a statement that I am at least brave enough to admit I need help, I can’t do this alone. There was no doubt in my mind that everyone there identified, in spades.
