I Sing You My Demented Songs

Tonight I will be going to see Weird Al Yankovic in concert for the seventh time. For the sake of comparison, I have seen The Cure, my favorite band ever, three times. My next favorite band, James, I've only seen once and barely even remember seeing them. (Not from being drunk or anything, they were at a festival that had multiple stages, and I wasn't much of a fan of them yet, so I'm not sure if I even went over to that stage to see their set.)

The only other bands I've seen multiple times were Live (5 times), Violent Femmes (2) and Barenaked Ladies (4). I think that's it, anyway. (Note: I've also seen U2 twice)

As for why I've seen Weird Al so many times, it's quite simple - he puts on an amazing show.

So today's post will not be dripping with anger or animosity, as the past few have. Today, I'll just keep it light and talk about some of the best concerts I've been to.

Genesis - We Can't Dance Tour (5/25/92)

This is, to date, the only stadium concert I've ever been to. It was at the old Cleveland Municipal Stadium, and our seats were on the field, about 3/4 of the way to the back. However, thanks to the enormous screens above the stage, we were still able to see everything. The show was awesome, and included mist of their bigger hits, as well as a good chunk of songs from their early days when Peter Gabriel was with the band.

Fun fact - it was also the first time I ever saw naked lady bits. The Stadium was absurdly old. The bathrooms, to put it nicely, were less than acceptable. I remember going to Browns games, and people were pissing out the windows because they couldn't wait for a spot at one of the trough-like urinals. At the Genesis show, there were a lot of women. There were not, however, a lot of women's restrooms. I think the men's rooms outnumbered the women's rooms 3-1. So when I went to the bathroom, there were a bunch of women in the men's room, either sitting on the sink to pee, or hovering over the troughs, so, yeah, lots of vagina.

Lollapalooza (1991)

This was the original version of Lollapalooza, the very first year of the festival. The set started off with a couple bands I didn't particularly care about, and didn't pay much attention to - Butthole Surfers and Rollins Band. But after the two of them the show immediately kicked into high gear.

The third set of the day belonged to Ice-T and his band Body Count. (The first half of the set was Ice-T rapping, the second half was with Body Count.) I knew the Body Count songs, but not the solo stuff, but it didn't matter. Both halves of the set were equally awesome.

Up next was the biggest error of the day. Nine Inch Nails was next, and absolutely blew up the joint. So here's a little visual for you. Blossom Music Center, for those not from around here, is an outdoor venue. There's a pavilion with actual seating, then a giant hillside where you just sit on the grass. Back in the day the only barrier between the lawn and pavilion was a rope strung between some posts, which weren't even sunk into the pavement, they just sat there. Anyway. Nine Inch Nails hit the stage and the place just went nuts. Two of the girls from the group I was with and I were right up front on the lawn, pressed right up against the rope. Suddenly the rope fell to the ground (someone down the line had cut it) and without warning we found ourselves in the midst of a flood of humanity rushing the pavilion. We ended up making it very close to the front of the pavilion for the majority of the set. The set itself was outstanding, definitely the highlight of the day to that point.

The reason I said Nine Inch Nails going on fourth was a mistake wasn't their fault, it was because of who went on fifth. Living Colour was next, and kind of sucked the energy out of the crowd that Nine Inch Nails had just put into it. They weren't bad by any means, they were just kind of boring. I mean, Nine Inch Nails was very new - they had still only released "Pretty Hate Machine" and were toying around with the tracks that would become the "Broken" EP, and were one of the most popular bands in the world at the time. Living Colour, on the other hand, weren't. Of course everyone knew "Cult Of Personality" but that was really it. So it kind of brought the show down a little.

Next were Siouxsie and the Banshees. I will admit, I hadn't heard much by them before. "Peek-A-Boo" (one of my favorite songs) was on college radio every once in a while, and "Kiss Them For me" was a pretty huge hit, relatively speaking, but other than those, I only knew of a couple songs I'd heard through friends. That being said, they were outstanding. From start to finish, Siuoxsie mesmerized the crowd and was simply wonderful.

Finally came the headliners, Jane's Addiction. Absolutely mind blowing performance that was cut short when somebody threw a glow stick at the stage and hit Perry Farrell in the eye. He got pissed and left, and the show was over. Before it ended, though, he did a duet with Ice-T that kicked ass. Pretty awesome show.

Garth Brooks - Fresh Horses Tour (1996)

For a long time this was my absolute favorite concert ever. Everything from the stage to the lighting to the actual music was just amazing. The show began with a completely empty stage. Some piano music started, then a piano came up through the center of the stage on a riser, with a guy in a cowboy hat sitting at the keys. We all went nuts, thinking it was Garth. Then, a guy started coming up on another riser, this one through the center of the piano. That was Garth. From there the show only got better. It is still the only country music show I've ever gone to, and if I ever go to another one it'll only be to see him again.

Dead Milkmen - Beelzebubba Tour (1989)

This show wasn't particularly exceptional or anything, I just remember it fondly because it was my first concert without parental involvement. Plus, one of the opening bands, a local Cleveland band called Flaming Baby Heads, had a pixie-like lead singer who was sexy as hell, and was able to get a couple thousand punk rock kids to sing the theme song to Sesame Street. That is still one of my favorite things from any concert.

The Cure - 4Tour (2008)

This was the third (and, to date, final) time I've seen The Cure, and it was by far the best. This was the show that finally knocked Garth Brooks off the top of my favorite concerts list. The staging was sparse, there were no keyboards, which added to some songs, detracted from others, and Robert Smith, as usual, didn't interact with the crowd much. What made this show so special was the sheer volume of music played. Most times you go to a concert and it's 15-20 songs, hour and a half for the headliners. Both times I'd seen The Cure before this, that's how they were, too.

This time, however, they played 33 songs, and were on stage for just over three hours. With what was, at that point, 30 years of music to choose from, they balanced it really well. Other than the album they were touring for ("4:13 Dream") they played a lot off "Wish" (booooo), but they played at least two songs off every single album, so no matter what your favorite Cure album was, you heard something from it.

There are a couple other shows that really stand out in my memory, but this has gotten really long already, so I'll save them for another time. And yes, I am fully aware Weird Al, the reason I even started this post, isn't on here. Even though I love his shows, none of them have been overly special for any reason. Maybe that will change tonight.

Title from "Crowds" by Bauhaus

Trust Is Like A Mirror

You can fix it if it's broken, but you can still see the crack in that mother fucker's reflection.

I rarely write when I drink, and for good reason. I'm a god damn mess right now.

I need to retract what I said in an earlier post. I do NOT need to block everyone out. Just because certain people make me feel like they could not possibly give two fucks about the way I feel doesn't mean I need to push away those who actually do care. So Stephanie and Rachel, I apologize. I regret telling the two of you that I don't need to talk to you because - shocker - I need you more than ever. It's not your fault that other people have made me feel like complete shit, and I apologize for you getting caught in the crossfire.

There really aren't too many people I feel I can count on any more. Steph, Rachel, Sam, Shannon, and Maninder are probably it. And here's my dumb ass, pushing away most of you. Why? Because a couple people NOT in that group made me feel small. Made me feel worthless. Put me in my place, in the grand scheme of things.

I hate that I let people make me feel that way. Fucking hate it with a passion.

Quick question... For those of you who read this... If we were to talk about some really personal shit, would you proceed to talk to your spouse/significant other about things which were illicitly stated to not go beyond our conversation?

I rarely ever talk to my wife about people from work. I definitely never tell her other people's personal business. Yet I've been told to my face that someone I confided in told her husband all about my shit.

I can't even explain right now how that made me feel. The first words that come to mind are: Hurt. Small. Stupid. Crushed. Betrayed. Unimportant.

I get it. I'm dealing with some difficult stuff that's hard for other people to wrap their heads around, or which might make them feel uncomfortable. But guess what? If you think it's hard for you, TRY FUCKING BEING ME FOR FIVE MINUTES!!!!!

The only thing that is keeping me from being absolutely destroyed right now is the fact that, yes, it was unfair for me to just unload all my problems on her shoulders. But at the same time... I obviously only spoke to her because I trusted her. To have her tell me point blank that she broke that trust... I don't know if I'll ever get over that. Because she was probably the person I trusted more than anyone, to be honest.

Bad judgment on my part.

I know being drunk isn't helping my mood right now but hey, at least I'm being honest with myself (and you) at the moment.

Title/subtitle are a quote from Lady Gaga.

My Days Have Been A Dream

I've been struggling to snap this little patch of writer's block I've been hit with for about 5 days now, so my friend suggested I check out some sites that give writing prompts, to kind of get the creative juices flowing again. One of the sites I found seemed to focus on two subjects very heavily - writing speeches, and writing about dreams, or dream-related subjects. I'll do the speech one next time, because there were a few that seemed like they could be fun. Today I'll discuss dreams.

I decided against using one of the prompts from the site, for reasons that will become clear very quickly.

Can I not grasp them with a tighter clasp?

I've always envied people who remember their dreams upon waking. I only remember a handful of dreams per year, if I'm lucky. More often than not I wake up with no recollection whatsoever of having a single dream.

Allegedly people who consider themselves to be creative tend to remember dreams more frequently. Likewise, restless sleepers and people suffering from depression and/or anxiety. All of these are applicable to me, so why am I not remembering dreams?

It could partially be attributed to the meds I'm on, as many antidepressants and antipsychotics tend to suppress dreaming. But I was unable to remember dreams long before I ever went on meds.

I don't enjoy sleep, so that may be another factor. I've always felt like time asleep is time wasted. People think I'm joking when I say that but it's the absolute truth. Granted, dealing with minor insomnia (which, at times, has been major insomnia) has probably influenced that attitude.

When my wife and I first started talking, I lived alone, the only time in my life I've done so. At one point I decided I would see how long I could stay awake. I hit 94 hours before deciding to sleep. The only reason I even did that was because she and I were going to meet in person for the first time the next day, so I wanted to be refreshed.

I went to bed early (for me) because I figured I would sleep longer than usual, to catch up a bit. 9:30 rolled around, I went to bed. No lights, music softly playing, a warm comforter, perfect sleeping conditions.

Around midnight I finally drifted off to sleep. I was awake at 4:30. In the morning. Yes, after approximately 4 days of no sleep my body was completely fine with only getting 4 1/2 hours of sleep. And as you can probably guess, I didn't remember any dreams.

I stand amid the roar/ Of a surf-tormented shore.

The last dream I remember having was before Halloween last year. It was a kind of creepy one, from what little I can recall, something having to do with being chased down an alley, or some such nonsense. It was one of those dreams that seem pretty common, the whole feeling in danger, threatened, etc. thing.

Normally the dreams I do remember tend to fall into one of two categories - frightening, or sexual. It's very very rare that I remember dreaming about anything else. The sexual ones, in all honesty, bore me. Sure, they're fun in the moment, but they're no more vivid or exciting than the daydreams I have on a regular basis, or fantasies that I've imagined.

The real interest, for me, is in the dreams that are frightening. They don't interest me because they are enjoyable, by any means. Quite the contrary. Usually the bad dreams I remember involve someone I love being hurt physically, or even killed. What is truly terrifying about that is more and more, when I do have one of these dreams, it's one of my children that are being hurt/killed. Every time I have one of these dreams I wake up in sheer panic, sweating like crazy, and have to walk around the house for a few minutes to calm down.

But I never go into their bedroom to see if they're ok. As real as these dreams have felt at times, they've never been real enough that I'm still afraid for my boys after I wake up.

When I was in high school, I always had this problem where as I drifted off to sleep, I'd have quick dreams about global catastrophes - earthquakes, floods, asteroids, whatever. They would always happen right as I fell asleep, then it would take me hours to go back to sleep. It would happen almost every night, and I am positive it was the beginning of my insomnia issues.

I've often wondered if it is because of these episodes that I also don't remember dreams frequently. Obviously I can't say whether or not I remembered dreams when I was a kid. I am pretty certain, though, that it was around that time when I knew I wasn't remembering dreams frequently.

It may fall into the realm of sharing a bit more than you care to know, but I also never had the whole "wet dream" phase teenage boys go through. It's never happened to me a single time. Can't say I'm overly saddened by that, but at the same time, it almost feels like I missed out on a little part of growing up, perverse as it may be.

I don't know what it says about me that I don't remember dreams. I kind of remember hearing or reading when I was younger that not remembering dreams was somehow linked to mental illness of one sort or another, but things I've read more recently have pretty much said that's a load of crap.

Whatever it means, if anything, isn't really a big deal. Sure, I'm missing out on some conversations about dreams with people at work from time to time. (Fun fact - I usually just make something up if I'm ever included in those conversations.) And yeah, dream interpretation is, for me, pretty useless, even though I find it fascinating. But that's OK.

I'll get my three to four hours sleep tonight, probably not remember any dreams, and wake up feeling like I only slept five minutes. You know, a normal night for me. Here's to hoping it's not a night where I dream about the kids. Because that is never fun.

Title and subtitles from the poem "A Dream Within A Dream" by Edgar Allen Poe.

And The Smile, And The Shake Of Your Head

Your trust, the most gorgeously stupid thing I ever cut in the world.

I've been trying to write all day but couldn't figure out what to write about. Now that I've got something to say, I don't actually want to say it. I've certainly learned over the past week that it might just be better to keep my fucking mouth shut. Just seems safer that way.

I've come to see now that I was a fool to let my walls down. I need to just go back to being the quiet guy who simply comes to work, does his job, goes home and doesn't say jack shit to anyone. Granted, yes, at this job I haven't been that version of myself too often. But that is how I've been the majority of my life, it's how I need to be again, and too damn bad if it hurts anyone's feelings.

I've let myself get hurt far too much lately. I know I'm an insanely sensitive person, but that doesn't make it any less real when my feelings get spanked around. It's simply safer to push people away and protect myself. So that's what I'm going to do. I can't keep worrying about upsetting someone else at the risk of my own well-being.

I've been completely unable to reign in my emotions tonight. For about nine hours now all I've wanted to do is cry. Actually, I did at one point. Locked myself in the bathroom at work and cried for about 5 minutes. That's how deep the pain was for a while there. Then I started punching railings and cement walls as I walked around the hospital, because I just wanted a different kind of pain for a while. So yay, now my hand hurts like hell and I still feel like a god damned idiot. Go me.

I guess in the end I should've seen a night like tonight coming. A very huge disappointment that crushed me, if I'm being perfectly honest, followed a couple hours later by proof of how much I've been betrayed, and by how many people. If I'd just trusted my instincts with several people, I probably wouldn't feel anywhere near the way I do, and I'd probably still be happy at work. Instead, I feel like a complete asshole, and don't even want to show my face there anymore because I almost feel like I've been the butt of quite a few jokes there. Fuck that. I don't almost feel that way. I absolutely fucking feel that way. I'm almost ashamed to show my stupid face in that pharmacy any more, and in the end I have nobody to blame but myself because I fucked up.

I trusted people.

Title/subtitle from "A Night Like This" by The Cure.

I Sing Myself To Sleep

One thing most people know about me and that anyone who doesn't know me but has read any of my posts may be learning is that I absolutely love music. I need music in my life the way other people need cigarettes or coffee. Like many people, music helped me get through the bad times, helps me savor the good times.

I thought that after the absolute darkness of the last post, I should do something a little lighter, more fun for this one. In that spirit, here are some songs that have special meaning to me for positive reasons.

"Pictures Of You" by The Cure

This is, unquestionably, my favorite song ever. The first time I heard the Disintegration album, way back in 1989, I was still trying to find my true music taste. While I did lean heavily toward some of the "alternative-mainstream" (altstream?)  music, such as OMD, Erasure, Depeche Mode, and even other Cure albums, I also liked punk rock, especially Dead Milkmen and Ramones, plus random stuff like Def Leppard, Motley Crue, Alabama, and, the biggest staple on my dad's record player back then, The Beatles. But when my friends Tara and Shelby brought over the Disintegration cassette, I knew I had found the true magnetic north on my musical compass.

The first time we listened to that cassette, we were driving to Cleveland to go to the zoo. We ended up driving for almost four hours, criss-crossing all over Northeast Ohio, listening to the album straight through three times. We finally went to the zoo, then listened to the whole album again on the way home, taking back roads instead of the highway, so it would take longer. 26 years later this is still, in my opinion, the single greatest album ever recorded. Sure it has flaws, but overall, it is majestic, beautiful, haunting, chilling, depressing, and joyful all at the same time.

As for this particular song, when I first got my own copy of Disintegration, I played this song over and over so many times that whenever I would listen to the entire album, I would notice how much the sound quality on "Pictures Of You" had diminished. But I didn't care. Cassettes were, what, 7 or 8 dollars? I would just get a new copy and do the same thing. The very first CD I ever bought was the single of "Pictures Of You" and it finally enabled me to keep a copy of the cassette that wasn't going to shit. (I still have that copy of the cassette and throw it on once in a while for old time's sake.)

I can't really express what this song has meant to me over the past 26 years. I'm not sure if I can truly describe what it was that made 14 year old me fall in love with it so completely from the very first time I heard it. In all honesty, had it not been for this song, as well as this album, I may very well have ended up with very different tastes in music overall.

"Stuart" by Dead Milkmen

This song reminds me of my sister, Penny. She and I still quote this song to each other every once in a while. It has some of the funniest lyrics I've ever heard, and it's still just as funny now as it was back then.

Basically it's a song about stupidity and gullibility. There's the opening (and closing) line ("You know what, Stuart, I like you. You're not like the other people here in the trailer park "), the part about the narrator's son dying at a carnival, ("POW! He was decapitated! They found his head over by the sno-cone concession"), and even some conspiracy theories ("I know it's the queers! They're in it with the aliens! They're building landing strips for gay Martians! I swear to God!") thrown in for good measure.

The best part however is the second verse, talking about the paper boy, Johnny Wurzner, and how he begged his father for a burrowing owl for his birthday... " 10:30 the other night, I go out in to my yard, and there's the Wurzner kid looking up into the tree. I said, 'What're you looking for?' He said, 'I'm looking for my burrow owl.' I said, 'Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick! Everybody knows that a burrow owl lives in a hole in the ground! Why the hell do you think they call or a burrow owl anyway?!?!' Now Stuart, do you think a kid like that is gonna know what the queers are doing to our soil?"

It is impossible to listen to this song without it cheering you even if it's just for a moment.  Two and a half minutes of joy.

"Don't Give Up" by Peter Gabriel

This is an extremely slow, almost depressing song from his album So. It is also extremely inspirational and warm, and it instantly makes me feel a little stronger and more positive when I listen to it. Kate Bush does the female vocals, and she is simply amazing. The light airiness of her voice plays perfectly with the deeper tones of Peter Gabriel's voice, probably the best duet pairing he's ever done.

"Sit Down" by James

This song is just an anthem for anyone who feels out of place. "Those who feel a breath of sadness, sit down next to me. Those who find they're touched by madness, sit down next to me. Those who find themselves ridiculous sit down next to me. In love, in fear, in pain, in tears..." It's another one of those songs that I had a strong connection to from the very first time I heard it. Just absolutely love it.

So there you go. A couple songs that are beautiful, or wonderful, or hilarious, that have each made their mark in my life. If you haven't heard any of them, I strongly suggest hitting YouTube. They're all there.

As always, thanks for taking the time to read. Comment if you'd like. That always makes my day.

Title of today's post is from "Sit Down" by James.

We've All Gone Crazy Lately

I actually discussed my suicide attempt with someone the other day for the first time since right after it happened. The only other time I ever spoke of it was when I had to, in 1994, the day after I got out of the hospital, when I had a forced psychiatrist appointment. I've certainly told people I tried, of course, but other than the two conversations I've never gone into detail like I'm about to.

I would have walked head on into the deep end of the river.

There were several elements that came into play the night I tried to kill myself. The biggest most obvious factor, of course, was being molested for so long, and finally getting myself away from Mark. I know getting out of his clutches should have been a reason to celebrate, not attempt to end my life, but I was 19 and severely fucked in the head.

When I finally got away from him, it was the spring of 1994. I had actually moved in with him after graduating high school in '93, because he had my head in complete disarray and I felt like I had no other choice. We worked at an Italian restaurant, where I met a woman named Jennifer.

Jennifer and I became friends very quickly when we met. I was just about to turn 19, she was 25 and going to Hiram College to be - wait for it - a shrink. Anyway. Jennifer was the first person I ever told about the situation with Mark. The night I told her, she promised me she would never let him touch me again. A promise that was fulfilled.

The very next day, April 23, 1994, she took me to the hotel where Mark and I were staying and helped me pack everything I owned. As we were leaving, Mark was pulling into the parking lot. We passed, and to date that is the second to last time I ever saw him. I moved in with Jennifer and that summer was the first in 5 years that I was actually able to enjoy.

Sitting like a princess perched in her electric chair.

Jennifer was very good friends with her ex boyfriend, Doug. They would usually go to dinner once a week, and he would come hang out a lot. He and I even became pretty good friends, going to see some local bands that we both liked, or a baseball game, or whatever.

At the time I was way too naive to notice what was actually going on, no question. But she was only the third woman I'd ever had sex with and, well, I wasn't thinking with the correct head.

On October 14th, 1994, I came home from work to find Jennifer and Doug sitting on the sofa. I honestly thought nothing of it because like I said, he was always around. I started heading toward the bedroom to change, and Doug called me back. He asked me to have a seat so we could talk, so I sat in the recliner across from them. I will never forget the conversation. Here it is in its entirety:

Doug: "Listen. We both know Jen wants to have a baby. We also both know that you aren't going to be in her life forever. So she and I are going to try to have a kid. You guys can still date or whatever, but from now on I'm the only one fucking her."

Me: "..........."

Jennifer: "............."

Doug: "We are going to dinner so you can have some time to think about it. We'll talk when we get back."

The entire time, she wouldn't even look at me. She just stared at her hands, folded in her lap. I think that's what hurt the most. She wouldn't even look at me.

It's one more beer and I don't hear you anymore.

I sat in that chair for at least a half hour after they left. I was completely crushed, and simply could not move. For a couple weeks Mark had been calling several times a day, leaving messages on the answering machine that were sometimes frightening, sometimes puzzling, sometimes pathetic. Regardless, it had begun fucking with my head again. Now there was this.

I finally got up from the chair, went to the kitchen, and grabbed a bottle of wine, a can of beer, and a knife, then headed to the bathroom.

Jennifer had lupus, and was on quite a few different medications for it. I opened the medicine cabinet, and emptied every pill bottle into the sink, even the Advil and Tylenol. Then I opened the wine and started shoving handfuls of pills into my mouth, washing each load down with as much wine as I could get in there, until both the sink and the wine bottle were empty.

Next I climbed into the bathtub, and just started cutting. Wrist, thighs, chest, whatever. The knife wasn't the greatest, but determination can overcome a shoddy piece of equipment. And holy hell was I determined. My head started getting pretty cloudy, and I was covered in blood. I opened the beer, said a half assed toast to Jennifer, and passed out.

The pounding on the bathroom door began to stir me from my haze, but not enough that I could really tell what it was. Then Jennifer began to yell, and I clearly remember yelling "go fuck Doug" to her before passing out again. The next time there was pounding on the door it was the paramedics breaking it in.

I really only remember two things about being wheeled out of the apartment in a stretcher. First, Doug was nowhere to be seen. In fact, I never saw him again after that night. The second thing I remember is the look on Jennifer's face as they pushed me past. There was no concern. No sadness. Just pure hate and loathing.

When I got to the hospital my wounds were tended to, and I was given ipecac to make me puke. Throwing up several hundred half digested tablets is bad enough. Having to drink a glass full of charcoal to stop the effects of the ipecac is something I'd rather never repeat.

As I lay there, a nurse asked me who I wanted to call to come get me. I honestly had no answer, because I didn't want my parents to find out, and Jennifer was really my only friend at the time. I stalled as much as I could then finally gave her a phone number. Mark's.

I have tried to rationalize why he was the one that got called, but in reality I was just scared and alone. Jennifer didn't come to the hospital, but that honestly didn't surprise me, with the way that she looked at me, strapped to the stretcher. I had nobody else.

Before Mark arrived I had to have a psych eval to see if I needed admitted to the psych ward. That was one of the most chilling moments of my life, listening to patients that had been admitted scream and wail and moan, while I had to try to convince random doctor guy that I didn't belong in there with them.

Mark arrived and I was released. The whole drive back to the apartment, he didn't say a word. He dropped me off and drove away, and I haven't seen him since.

When I walked up to the apartment I saw a note taped to the door. Simple and to the point, two words: please leave. I walked down to the parking lot and saw that Jennifer had gotten every one of my belongings shoved into my car. I slept right there in the parking lot that night, and the next, then slept at different rest areas on the highway each night for the next week. Finally, I ended up calling my parents and asking to move home.

Butterflies are free to fly, fly away.

I will never forget the events of that night, as much as I wish I could. I know one problem is that I've never talked about it to any of the therapists I've ever seen, and that is something I should probably do at some point. At the same time, it's been almost 21 years. While that night in no way defines who I am, it certainly, undeniably had an impact on how I turned out.

There are still times when I think about ending my life. I won't deny that. Just a few weeks ago I was driving home from work and had a very clear image in my head of taking my car into a concrete barricade while going 80 miles an hour. I had the speed, I just didn't turn the wheel.

Ever since that night I cannot drink wine. I've tried many times, but it's just not going to happen. I also had a very hard time for over a decade just taking meds. Any time I had to take a pill, I would almost throw up. The scars from the knife are faint. The only place you can really see any is my left wrist, and even those are quite difficult to see.

I think about Jennifer from time to time. I wonder if she and Doug ended up getting married. I wonder if they were successful in getting pregnant. I wonder if the lupus killed her.

I hope she ended up doing well. I've thought about looking her up from time to time, but really what's the point? I'll just believe she ended up married with a couple children, and is a successful psychiatrist. I hope it's true.

Title and headers from "Someone Saved My Life Tonight" by Elton John.

She Can Both False And Friendly Be

I know a maiden fair to see

I am the type of person to trust way too easily. It has come back to bite me in the ass more than a few times, yet I've not learned my lesson. A "friend" at work broke my trust twice, and honestly, I am now at the point where if she and I never speak to each other again I will be perfectly fine with that.


The first time she broke my trust was actually over a year ago, but I just found out about it about two weeks ago. At one point when I was still relatively new at my job, I mentioned to this "friend" how when one woman at work wears a certain outfit, her breasts look absolutely amazing.  She decided it would be in everyone's best interest if she told the woman what I said, and did so before the end of that day. She claimed that she didn't tell the woman who said it, just that it was one of the guys. Several weeks ago I was having a conversation with this woman, and decided I needed to come clean. It was kind of gnawing at my conscience because the two of us have become very close over the past year and she has helped me through some extremely rough patches, so I felt it would be respectful to apologize and admit I was the one who complimented her boobs.

Fun fact: When someone says, "Oh yeah, she told me you said it," my face turns a pretty spectacular shade of pissed off purple-red.

I guess I deserved being told on for that one. Especially considering who the woman is that I said this about. But still... personally I know that if this same "friend" came up to me and said "so and so is really cute" or "this guy has a really nice body" or anything like that then yeah, I would keep my fucking mouth shut and not go straight to them selling her out. Not my style.

She gives a side-glance and looks down

The second time this same "friend" betrayed my trust was much more recently. I was chatting with a different friend on Trivia Crack about some of the things I've been going through lately, which up until I started this blog this week, very few people knew about. This friend asked me a question that I had to take some time to consider the answer to, and when I replied I sent my answer to the wrong person, basically describing my cross dressing and how I'm unsure about if I'm attracted to men. It was extremely embarrassing, and there were only two people I wanted to discuss this with. I told the "friend" what happened, and was honestly surprised by her response. Basically she made me feel stupid for even worrying about it and was very dismissive toward my feelings and concerns. The next day I saw the other person I wanted to discuss it with, and she told me the "friend" had already told her. I think I hid how truly angry I was somewhat well, but I honestly can't remember many times where I've been as completely enraged as I was. At one point during the day I went into a bathroom, locked the door, and just started yelling obscenities and kicking the wall.

My biggest question is, who else has she told? Did she tell another woman at work how I've said she has an extremely wonderful ass on several occasions? Who else at work is now aware of what I'm going through? The second friend says the "friend" only told her because she was concerned, but I'm not sure I agree with that since the "friend" was so dismissive and condescending when I spoke to her originally. If she was so concerned, where was that concern when we actually spoke? Oh, that's right, it didn't exist.

It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear

In the end, honestly, the fault lies with me for trusting this "friend" in the first place.  I should have picked up on the signs of the way she gossips. She has told me about other people's secrets, yet I was a a dumb ass and thought, "Well, she wouldn't do that to me, so it's OK if I tell her." Wrong. So wrong.

My biggest question now is what else she has told other people I've said? I suddenly feel like I have to be very concerned about who knows my shit, when before I was comfortable in the knowledge that only a select handful of people knew any of the really private things about me. Now, any of the nearly 200 people in our department could know my shit, and in all honesty that petrifies me.

I would never do that to somebody. I think that is what hurts the most. This "friend" has even told me some very personal secrets that I have never discussed with anyone, even the other people in what was our little circle of friends, even when I knew they knew about it. Because I don't know - and don't want to know - how much she has told them, compared to me, or if she's even discussed it with all of us or only one or two of us. It's none of my business, because those conversations, I feel, were just between us and should stay just between us.

Of course I have had my moments of weakness where I have talked about things people have told me. I am not trying to say I've never discussed a conversation with someone else. But when someone says "this is just between us" or some variant thereof, guess what? IT FUCKING STAYS JUST BETWEEN US!!!!! Even if it's only implied that the conversation is about personal things that others shouldn't know about, I don't discuss it with anyone else. Hell even if it's not implied, but I just have some kind of gut feeling, then it fucking stays between us!

Maybe I just expect too much from people. And I know I trust people too easily. Hopefully I can break that habit and only trust people when they deserve it. One thing for sure, as I said, is that if this "friend" and I never speak again, it'll be no skin off my ass.

Title and quotes in bold and red on today's post are from the poem Beware! by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I Will Sing, Sing A New Song.

I turned 40 today. I haven't dealt with it well at all. I've never had an issue with a birthday before, but this one is kicking my ass, for two reasons.

First, I've been forced to come to terms with the fact that I will never achieve one of my biggest lifelong goals. Ever since I was 14 I wanted to be a high school teacher, either English or Spanish. That's never going to happen. Yes, I could still teach at a pharmacy tech school, or do after school programs or something, but it isn't the same.

The other reason 40 has bothered the piss out of me is that I'm so utterly confused about who I am. I've been cross dressing for a few years now, and over the past six months or so it has gone from just wearing panties to wearing my wife's dresses and stockings and lingerie when nobody else is home. I'm almost positive I'm straight, but every once in a while I'll think a guy is cute and wonder what it would be like to hook up with him. I'm also at the point where I would almost prefer to become a woman. Or, at least, mostly. I don't think I could ever give up my penis, because, well, it's a nice one.

I've gotten much more comfortable talking about some of this stuff lately, but not to the "right " people. Instead of discussing these feelings with my wife and/or a therapist, I've burdened a couple friends and two managers at work with the task of dealing with my crazy ass. Extremely unfair to them.

So what good has come from four decades on this planet? Let's recap:

Married to a pretty great chick. Two healthy, intelligent sons. A healthy relationship with both parents and both siblings (not something that many of my friends can say). A job that I am really fucking good at, regardless of what some of the assholes I work with think. A college degree. A roof over my family's head, two cars to get everyone where they need to be, and food in their stomachs. And some really excellent friends who I could not imagine my life without.

Yes, some really shitty stuff has happened in my life, but right now, for this little bit of time, at least, I am just trying to focus on the positive. Because lately I've lost track of the positive in a massive way, and it is exhausting being so sad all the time.

Title today is from lyrics in the song "40" by U2.

This Is How I Disappear

I'm stealing an idea from my friend Shannon and using song/literature/etc references for the titles of my posts. This one is the title of a My Chemical Romance song, and it's very fitting for what I'm about to write.

This is the house where the original version of me died, disappeared forever. I cringe every time I see this house, which is about 3 miles from where my dad lives. I have wished many times over the past 26 years that it would just burn to the ground.

In 1989, when I was 14, a freshman in high school, my best friend at the time lived in this house. I was over his house more than I was at my own for the first three months of the school year. His step dad tried to buy his affection, so he had a 4-wheeler, a 3-wheeler (before they were outlawed), BB guns, video games, a swimming pool, and countless other items that I didn't have. Plus, he was two years older than I was, and able to drive, which was extremely valuable growing up in the country, where the closest store (a department store called Big Wheel) was almost 10 miles away, and the cows outnumbered the humans 6 to 1. Those first three months of freshman year were fucking heaven.

In October my friend and I, along with a few other kids from school, plus his neighbors, created a "haunted forest" in the woods behind his house. We set up different scenes and "traps" along a path that wound about a mile through the woods, starting and finishing on opposite sides of his back yard. Over the three weeks we prepared and operated our little attraction, I became very familiar with the trail and the little offshoot trails that radiated out from the main one. When we finally opened our haunted forest to the public, we actually had a somewhat steady stream of visitors. We had no permits so we couldn't charge anyone, but in the two weekends we had people coming through we earned almost $500 in tips. Not horrible for a bunch of idiot kids.

While we had several monsters in our haunted forest, the real monster was dwelling inside the house, watching, waiting, planning his every move and carefully choosing his victim. Me.

In November 1989 I was, as usual, at my friend's house, playing video games and listening to a Dead Milkmen cassette. His step dad, Mark, came down to the basement and asked if I'd like to go driving the 4-wheeler, so naturally I jumped at the chance. It was an extremely cold night, snowing, with a very steady wind, and I almost said never mind and went back in the house. But the pull of the wonderful machine was too strong, and I hopped on before talking myself into going back in the house.

We drove around the back yard for a while, Mark driving, me in back. After about fifteen minutes he pulled over so we could switch, and I could drive. I circled the house a few times then he told me to drive into the woods, which we normally weren't allowed to do after sunset. Eagerly I turned into the darkness.

As I drove along the path Mark had me pull onto a side path that I knew ended after about twenty yards. When it did end, I started to turn around but he urged me to go further into the woods instead. As I drove he told me his hands were cold and asked if he could put them in my coat pockets. I said sure, so he did. After a few minutes he said they were still cold and moved them inside my coat. Finally he slid them into my pants. He started rubbing me, and had me stop near a dead tree. He proceeded to talk me out of my pants and gave me the first blowjob of my life.

As I walked the three miles home that night, the only two things I remember were that the extreme cold was making my outsides as numb as my insides, and that about half way home someone flicked a cigarette butt out the window of a passing car, and it hit me next to my eye leaving a scar I still have to this day.

In nearly 26 years the events of that night have not gotten any less vivid in my memory than they were in the following weeks. Unfortunately, I ended up not only keeping it a secret, but letting the abuse continue for four more years. This was without question the night that changed me forever.

Until very recently there were only three people I ever told about being molested, all of them girlfriends, including my wife, before we even met in person. Nobody in my family knows any of this happened. Nor do they know about the suicide attempt, the severe depression, or any other issues that stemmed from this. Hopefully they never will.

There is so much more I want to say about this, but I simply can't right now. It's wrecking me too much to think about it. I need to disappear.

Thanks for reading this, if anyone did.

The Man From California

No, I am not from California. Have never even been there, in fact. What I am is a pharmacy technician at an extremely prestigious hospital who had the good fortune of talking to a man from California one day while I ate my lunch in a courtyard between buildings.

It is amazing to me how 20 minutes can completely change your outlook on life, even if only for a few fleeting moments. Two of my coworkers and I decided to take advantage of some extremely uncommon (for Cleveland) early May 80 degree days and eat outside. There were several empty benches in the courtyard, but none together where the three of us could all sit. When one friend said she would just sit on the grass, the man on the bench across form us offered to share his bench with her.

We got to talking, and during the course of the conversation, he mentioned he was from northern California, and how the weather (86 degrees and pure sunshine, that day) reminded him of home. We asked if he had moved to Cleveland, and he said he was just at our hospital receiving some treatments (for what, I will not disclose). He had been here for 9 weeks and was hoping to go home in June.

I do not want to get into specifics of what was discussed during our conversation, because I feel that it was for the four of us alone. I think we all felt that way, because each of us, at different points, stopped whatever we were saying when someone would walk past us. To me it felt like it would have spoiled the conversation if anyone else heard us. Broken some kind of spell, or ruined the mood, or something, I don't know. Or maybe I'm just being a melodramatic dip shit who read to much into a lunch conversation with a random stranger whose name none of us even bothered to ask, like idiots.

I like to think it's more of the breaking the spell kind of thing.

Anyway.

I went back to work feeling very happy that I was able to meet that man, have that conversation. Here was a rather sick man who, just through his outlook and personality, completely brightened my day. And sadly, he will never know it, because as is my usual M.O. I sat there not saying a whole lot, just sitting like a lump on the bench.

Then, later that day, I did what I usually do, and began to discount my own feelings about, well, everything. I thought if this guy is going through what he is going through, why the hell am I pissing and whining, bitching and moaning, about my insignificant little problems?

But here's the thing. They aren't insignificant little problems. Not to me, anyway. To a lot of people, sure, I might just be bitching about a bunch of crap that doesn't matter. But to me, I am genuinely upset about things that affect my day to day performance as a functioning human being.

I need to quit comparing my own problems to other people's, because at least half the time my first thought is, "Well why am I complaining about my petty little bullshit when this person is going through _______?" That is not fair to myself, and it needs to stop. Yes, dammit, the shit that bothers me is important. Who gives a damn if I'm the only one who thinks so?

So to the man from California... I hope you get healthy soon. I sincerely hope the treatments you are going through work and that you can return to California with no fears of having to return to Cleveland. Thank you for your inspiration and for making my day a lot nicer.

If only for a fleeting moment.