My third trip along Enlightenment Lane, I discovered open mindedness was not for the weak of will.

The next four years of my young life were a blur. First, I was busted making out in my closet with a girl from the neighborhood then, a younger boy, on down the line to an older boy in my bed, and then a girlfriend from school. Shunned, bullied, and labeled a tramp, I miraculously acquired an actual steady boyfriend, only to find he cheated on me with his ex girlfriend’s brother.

Forbidden to love whom I wanted, when I wanted, or how I wanted. With broken dreams, I reasoned running away would erase the mess I’d, unknowingly at the time, forged myself. At sixteen, I vowed to snare the next person that came along. Oh, and I snagged myself a real winner.

My first clue should’ve been when he slapped me across the face for teasing him, my second, when he beat the shit out of me for not empathizing with his ignorance to seek a dentist. And my third, when he, clad in cowboy boots, kicked his car full of dents, while ranting some insanity about “No one cares about him,” but no. I was too young, too pissed, too desperate, and by the time I realized all that, I was pregnant.

Broken and beaten, the last of my remaining self and will severed, I resigned to him and his convoluted ways. Dressing, walking, talking, eating, and fucking like the “lady” I should have been. Over the course of thirteen years, I believed his every word, took to heart, his every command, and shamelessly struggled to rid myself of my demon and its wanton behaviors. All, with his carefully guided fists and twisted logic to keep me on the straight and narrow.

Enduring life with the devil, I was blessed with three beautiful children, the most diplomatic way to state the fruits of an unwanted, and most often then, an unwelcome union. With age, came a touch of wisdom. At twenty-nine, I faced my forty-something image in the mirror. “Just who’s the crazy one here?”

Pretty much goes without saying that he was, of course. But, my answer to myself differed little from the numerous times I’d gazed upon my reflection. I knew my impulsiveness, selfishness, and insatiable desires had left a trail of misery for all involved. For my entire life had been formed through my unhealthy relationships. At the expense of others, I’d sought a definition, an identity, recognition that a person can only afford him- or herself. I realized for the first time in my life, I had to fix me. When he refused to listen, I followed my instinct. I tried having the best of both worlds. When meeting needy spouses in rented motel rooms under aliases and carrying on trysts in the gym parking lot were discovered, once again…I ran.

Running from him was little different from when I reasoned avoiding my hometown would solve my woes. Labeled a whore, a tramp, and admittedly, I was. I took on numerous counseling sessions – anger management, rational thinking classes, and countless group therapies for depression and anxiety, to name a few. All while maintaining a full-time job, running my own business, attempting to earn my GED, frequenting the clubs every free night, regrettably disrupting a relationship or two with my wanton carelessness, and somehow managing to pay child support, faithfully. The while, I argued relentlessly, as my councilors tried to convince me of my sanity.

I wasn’t crazy? Well, that was news to me. Thankfully, I had one councilor patient enough to help me lay it to rest.

“That’s impossible. You know the mess I’ve created throughout my life. If I’m not crazy, then what am I?” I asked.

“Who are you?” she asked.

God, I hated playing the sounding board game, especially that line. “I don’t know. I don’t fit in anywhere, no matter how hard I try.”

“You shouldn’t try. Not everyone fits into a category. In fact, most people don’t,” she said.

“Right.” Easy for her to say. Miss prim and proper, married, sexy-as-hell for a fifty-something year old, lady. And, I told her so too.

“What do you want to be known as?”

What the hell kind of question was that? Suddenly, the sounding board game seemed more palatable. It took me some time to think about an answer to that one. I didn’t want to be a lady, by any means. But could I reveal to the world how I felt? I eventually answered. “I want to be known as, a person who is dependable, kindhearted, and a hard worker.”

“That’s it?” she asked, and I nodded. “But, you already are all those things. I don’t see the problem.”

I looked away, unable to admit the rest. The risk felt overwhelming. Instead of pushing the issue, she enlightened me with her life story-which I will not elaborate because of the personal nature. Point being, both of us tugged at the last tissue in the box by the time she’d finished.

“So…You’ll understand if I tell you I feel like a man trapped inside this body? That, “cheerleaders” and the like make me nauseous and I feel like a drag queen when forced to wear a dress? That, I don’t understand how women think, or how they feel, or shopping, or the desire to domesticate things in the slightest? That, I hated every second of being pregnant, though I love my kids? And, that I view men as intellectual equals? That, I pitted myself against the every intelligent boy in school, equaling their math and art skills, coming in a close second in science, and ranking higher in every other subject, including drafting and shop, and would’ve joined the football team if allowed?”

“What I don’t understand,” she said, “is why, if you view women as you do, why you’re willing to have sex with them.”

Even I had a chuckle at that statement. Right then, I’d realized I was not only a man, but a sexist man…Sheesh. “Truth is…it’s always been easier for me to woo women into bed. Given my desire for sex, well it kind of goes without saying I’d take whatever’s available, no?”

“But, if you’d rather have a man-”

“The men who want me aren’t what I’m after. I don’t want to be some man’s sex object or wife, but I don’t want a man who is a wimp either. Anyway, the size of my balls scares the hell out of the ones I’m attracted to, figuratively speaking. I guess I intimidate them.”

“Well, who are you then?” she asked, looking a tad agitated.

“I guess, I’m…just me.”

She ended the session with a hug. “You won’t need to make another appointment. Have patience and just learn to accept yourself.”

That’s it? Well, her simple act of empathy helped me understand there are probably no two people alike and I am special, just because. Her kindness also helped me to recapture my will. I left her office anticipating where my journey would lead next, but wondering if I’d ever be accepted, just for me.

Disclaimer: Any names used in this series are purely fictional to protect the privacy of all involved.

Nothing is more touching than real stories from real people. People, like myself and I’m sure,
many of you, who have “been there, done that, and sadly, got the t-shirt” whether we wanted
it or not.

Horror writer Rick R. Reed said it best in his Myspace blog today. With his permission, I am reposting his enlightening piece. From his heart to yours…

Parallels: Coming Out and the Fight for Marriage Equality

The other day, I posted a YouTube video of commentator Keith Olbermann’s wise, common
sense, and compassionate words on marriage equality. His was one of the best arguments I’ve
ever heard in a loud and often insane discourse on the topic.

But one part of his talk really shook me up and I haven’t been able to get it out of my
head, because it really hit home for me personally. It might have gone by too quickly for
you to ponder, so this is what he said:

“And uncountable in our history are the number of men and women, forced by society
into marrying the opposite sex, in sham marriages, or marriages of convenience, or just
marriages of not knowing, centuries of men and women who have lived their lives in shame
and unhappiness, and who have, through a lie to themselves or others, broken countless
other lives, of spouses and children, all because we said a man couldn’t marry another man,
or a woman couldn’t marry another woman. The sanctity of marriage.”

I am one of those people he’s referring to. I can be counted. For seven years, from age 23
to age 30, I was a married man…in the kind of marriage that’s legal in all fifty states. We had
a son during that time. And we worked hard and created a life that was pretty much the
American dream: the two car garage with attached house, the kid in kindergarten, the cute
puppy, and the circle of straight friends who were pretty much like ourselves.

But what those straight friends, the child, nor the puppy knew, I was living a life “in shame
and unhappiness.” Make no mistake: I dearly loved my wife (and still do); my son was my world
(and still is); those friends meant a lot to me (and some were even surprisingly supportive when
this perfect-looking little world began to crumble). But I was living a lie. All of my friends were
straight; my coworkers at my job were straight; my family of origin loved the son who was now
a husband and father. And all the while, I was wrestling with these desires I naively assumed
would go away when I married. I believed the Christian right’s assertion that being gay was a choice…and that was the most damning belief of all. That belief messed up not only my life
but the lives of people whom I dearly loved.

It took me a long time to accept myself for who I really was, to be brave enough to show
the world my true face and say love it or leave it. And it took years to understand how I could
have known something so fundamental to my very being and to not accept it.

I titled this blog with the word “parallels” and I think there is a parallel with my struggle to
accept myself as a gay man and the broader fight the LGBT community are fighting as a whole.
See, the more I pushed myself down, the more I beat back the urges I couldn’t deny, the more
I tried to be someone I simply was not, the stronger, it seemed, that person beneath the mask became. That person behind the mask, with all the pain he was suffering as he was scuttled
into the shadows of the closet, grew angrier and angrier and more despondent at being told:
“No. You cannot be. You are sick and diseased and not worthy of the love you are
now getting.”

I think, in the end, a lot of that beating down (mostly by myself) only made the gay man
behind the mask stronger, so that when he did finally come out of the closet, he was finally
ready to accept himself and his new life, with all its own problems, pitfalls…and yes, joys. But
it was his life…and not a life he thought society thought he should have.

I think the parallel to me personally and the larger fight going on now is that these setbacks,
these right wingers beating us down and saying: “No. You cannot have what we have, even if
we lose absolutely nothing by giving it to you” is making the whole community at large stronger,
more mobilized, and more determined. With each beating down, we rise up stronger and more determined, just like my own gay self did, back when I hid from who I was. What these right
wing haters do not realize is that their efforts are harming us only superficially: they are making
us more willing to stand up and fight for what is right and what is ours. That little core, both
inside a closeted person living a lie, and an oppressed community, can go only two ways: the
first is to give up to despair and the second is to finally stand up and say: “There’s nothing
wrong with me. I am as deserving of love and acceptance as anyone else.”

Author Rick R. Reed: Web site or Myspace

Enlightenment Lane: Trip #2

On my second trip down Enlightenment Lane, I discovered open mindedness is not for the weak of stomach.

Despite family, I held a special relationship with one male relative during my elementary years. For the sake of this beautiful man and his family today, my relationship to him will remain unspoken, and all names are fictitious.

Exploring. Yep, that’s what we two embraced every time we were thrown together, every chance we got. From following muskrats down the near by creek, to nearly setting the neighbor’s horse pasture ablaze when we decided with all twelve years of wisdom that an old tire would work just fine to contain our light-the-match-box-on-fire-all-at-once experiment, there was never a dull moment.

On one such excursion, we cased the shoulders and grassy banks of the town’s bypass. What we searched for, we hadn’t a clue, but what we found opened our eyes and our pants…

“What’re you lookin’ at up there?” I knew it had to be interesting if Cole stopped. He never slowed down, not even his mouth. Yet, at that moment, he neither moved nor replied his attention transfixed on something in his hands. Scrambling up the incline, I noticed the object of his ignorance appeared to be a magazine.

Some magazine! I’d never seen an adult male fully naked, or fully hard for that matter. I think I joined in his awe at that point, amazed to discover a mutilated stack of similar magazines at his feet. “Help me!” I snatched the book from his hands instructing him to help sort through and find the good ones before someone caught us. We scavenged five that weren’t too weathered and scurried off to our favorite hideout in the woods.

Pages turned slower as the minutes passed. “Whoa! Back up.”

Cole flipped to the previous page. We cocked our heads trying to take in the gist of the depicted scene…Red knows how he likes his cock and Kev aims to please…

“Damn, think they’re really doin’ that?” Cole asked.

I further read the picture book…pointing to Red’s chin. “Yep.”

Cole’s nose still glued to the pages, he flashed me his sinister stare, quickly accompanied by a smirk.

“Oh, hell no! Find someone else for that one, dude!” I backed away and soon found myself sprinting for the safety of my house, courtesy his earnest pursuit.

Halfway home, we bumped into one of my neighborhood friends. Bent at the waist, I struggled to catch my breath while Cole caught up. “Hey, Eugene…” he said, trying to hide the magazines behind his back. Of course, he hadn’t dropped a one of them.

“Cole.” Eugene eyed him funny. “Whatcha got?”

Cole looked at me, and I said, “Just show him.” Three words I would live to regret later. Cole did as told, and soon he and Eugene were wandering off. “Where ya goin’?” I asked. They paused, and Eugene bent to whisper.

“Alright!” Cole turned to me. “Come on, he wants to show me somethin’. He says you can come too.” I hurried after them.

Eugene told me to watch TV for a while. He and Cole needed to talk in private, fine with me. I think there was a Star Trek rerun on at the time. Never seen or heard his parents once, must’ve been checking out yard sales or playing pinochle at their friends across town.

Cole wandered into the front room about half an hour later, more than a little dazed looking. “You know I’m tellin’ if you’re smokin’ pot again.” I said.

“Just shut up. I didn’t do that!”

I stood, took his chin in my hand, and inspected his eyes. “Well, you been doin’ somethin’. I can tell.”

He grinned, waiting for me to inquire, which I did. “You should’ve been in there…we jacked each other off…” he said.

“What!”

“Man, it was great!” He grabbed my shoulders, guess he thought I was going to bolt again. Being the influential party, the oldest child in my family at the time, the one solely responsible for my visiting relative and his actions, I had to play the part. “You should’ve seen it…I never shot so hard in my life…my load hit the ceilin’! Swear to God!”

Damn, I missed it… That could’ve been interesting, not Cole, but Eugene? Oh yeah, that would’ve been worth it, just to watch.

“Hey, Cole!” Eugene yelled from his room. “Tell Bryl to come here for a sec!”

“What’s he want?” I asked, as Cole began pushing me toward the hall.

“Just go, he ain’t gonna bite or nothin’.”

“You’re comin’ with me,” I said grabbing his elbow. Perched on the edge of the bed, Eugene smirked. “What?” I asked, holding Cole’s arm like a vice.

Eugene glanced at my white-knuckled grip. “Go watch TV for a while, Cole.” I backed up as Cole pried out of my hold. But, taller and faster, Eugene clutched my wrist, closed the door, and led me to the bed. Maybe he thought fear is why my body shook so violently, because he said, “I’m not gonna hurt ya, just wanna show ya somethin’.”

After my literary session in the woods, and then being privy to Cole’s account of what’d transpired in this room minutes earlier, I was well aware of why my body trembled. What I didn’t know was how I would react, but Eugene’s actions – one hand turning pages, while the other loosening his pants – answered that question, and with no uncertainty, I dropped to my knees…

No, I’ve never regretted my first experience at mimicking the men in those magazines. It was the aftermath. Cole happened to walk in at the least opportune moment…well, maybe not for him. Of course, his big mouth contributed to my pseudo-popularity. While I thought my life, busy before that day, my tasks only multiplied whenever Cole came to visit. For each time, he’d show up with a one of his friends in tow. “Hey, Bryl…This is…”

Months passed, and I realized that not a one of them “knew” me if we happened to pass on a busy downtown sidewalk, nor did any of them ever call, or stop by, but for one reason.

Cole hadn’t shown up for about a month when he phoned, saying his mom had discovered our pastime, but finally being ungrounded, was coming over later that day. Some young teen in tow that I’d never laid eyes on, Cole strolled up the walk and started to speak-

“Save it,” I said, holding my hand like a cop directing traffic through a busy intersection. “Introductions are a waste of time.”

Disclaimer: Any names used in this series are purely fictional to protect the privacy of all involved.

Many friends, coworkers, and online acquaintances have asked about my sexuality. Omnisexual? No, they understand being pansexual. What they’ve asked me to explain is why I am. Within the coming weeks, I’ll be posting recollections of my life to date. Brief memoirs as I recall them, in hopes to shed light on my costly trip down Enlightenment Lane. At my expense, please enjoy!

Enlightenment Lane: Trip #1

On my first jaunt down Enlightenment Lane, I discovered open mindedness is not for the weak of soul.

I can say my mother, the Den Leader, was more than a little shocked to discover she had a gay boy in her Cub Scout pack. An eight-year-old being gay wasn’t the real surprise though. The confusion started at my younger brother’s slumber party two months prior.

Aw, yes. I remember it as if it were yesterday…

“Come on!” My brother dragged me into the flock inside his cramped room. “They really want to meet you,” he said. Me? Well, okay. After introducing me to half a dozen young boys, too young, in my opinion, I headed back outside to ride my skateboard.

As if I hadn’t enough problems, (hormonally active since the age of five), the one boy I secretly wished would notice me, yet deep down inside knew he shouldn’t, was on my heels. One lap around the patio, and there he stood, hands inside his jean pockets grinning like a fool. My thoughts exactly at that moment – fool.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hey. Why aren’t you in there with the others?” I asked, thinking if I covered my ass, I could front the blame, right.

Looking back, his hands rushing from his pockets to encircle me seemed to happen at lightening speed. Yet, at the time, I know it played and replayed in slow motion. So, I had this too-young-a boy hanging around my two-year-older body, and my only thought as he looked up at me, in all his gaiety mind you, asking if I would kiss him, was…Oh my God, I’m robbing the cradle. Of course, with my cursed hormones, my thoughts never seemed to synchronize with my actions. Like many of my experiences, before rationality surfaced I was too far entangled to beckon its call. Christ, for an eight-year-old, the boy could kiss…

“Want me to ask my mom if you and I could go bike riding?” I asked with a wink, fully aware of my premeditated plan to get him alone on Fossil Hill, a well-known make out spot up the street from my childhood home. We neighborhood kids nicknamed it because of the many shell-like fossils we’d found embedded in the shale.

Wouldn’t you know, my ever diligent, all knowing, little brother busted the party by walking outside right then. “Oh man! I’m tellin’ mommy!”

Quickly incorporating my ten-year-old wisdom, I quieted the impending riot by explaining his friend only wanted a hug, which was very much still in full swing when my brother arrived.

“Yeah.” His friend butted in. “From now on, I’m calling you, Mom!” Mom…Huh? “I wish you were my mother, you’re always so nice to me.”

Poor kid, if he only knew my less-than-noble intentions…

Fast forward two months later, and my mother discovering the boy was gay…

“There’s just no way he can be gay,” she whispered to me in the hallway one evening.

I said, “He is, so drop it. You’ve got a problem with it, or what?”

“But, I thought you two were…you know…”

“What?”

“I saw you outside, and don’t try to deny it. I told you before, I’m a witch…I know everything about you. If he was gay, he wouldn’t have been kissing you now, would he have?”

“Well, he did…And, he is gay. So, what’s that make me then, huh?”

Also, my first lesson in rhetorical questioning obviously, for neither of us could answer.

References:

omnisexual. Dictionary.com. The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition. Houghton Mifflin Company, 2004. http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/omnisexual (accessed: November 08, 2008).

pansexual. Dictionary.com. The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition. Houghton Mifflin Company, 2004. http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/pansexual (accessed: November 08, 2008).

Disclaimer: Any names used in this series are purely fictional to protect the privacy of all involved.