For Coming Out Day, 2018...

I do not know who will see this but, I am just sitting here reading an article on Psychology Today about loneliness.

I am alone and it will kill me. But, not truly alone. But, would Sylvia Plath consider me alone? We both had children. And we were both isolated by circumstances, mental illness and locale. We do differ in support structure. She did have friends who did check in on her from time to time and found her with her head in the oven, towels wadded up in every crack, kitchen door locked, so the children would not die from gas and not find her. I admire that amount of planning. Another thing Sylvia and I share. I wish I had people who would come hunting for me, sniffing for gas.

Just for the record, my oven is electric. A sarcastic clap starts and a voice speaks, "Suicide...death...admiration for little details in suicidal planning...what a great opening...hook them in early with something light. Next journal entry why not open with genital mutilation?"

"Oh, I will get to that later.", I reply to the voice inside my head, "Maybe they will catch it."

As I type, there are two voices inside of me that are speaking at once, both equal in volume and tone. The first voice says, "Share your story with others." The second voices says, "Keep to yourself or you will just be hurt." I am in the center, unable to stop hearing their voices, which are really just my voice.

On the surface of things, if you would see me in public, on a normal day, you would never notice me. I camouflage myself very well. Also, I limit my exposure to the public.

I am ugly. This is not a histrionic outcry, or some dramatic plea for a counter opinion. This is my personal truth. I am physically not attractive. So, if you are like most people, your eyes, if they happened to get past my camouflage, would see a tall, long torso-ed, obese(your mind will fill this in as you read, as we all have our bias about what is and what is not "obese"), lumbering creature with olive Sicilian skin, black and blue hair, chocolate eyes, dressed all in black from shoes to hoodie, wearing earbuds and bracelets, one of prayer beads on my right, the second of metal studs on my left and one of stringlets of leather bound in knots with a scorpion pendant trapped in amber. It glows in the dark.

"Your creativity makes you beautiful.", Samantha softly nurtures.

"I know Sam. I wish I could agree with you.", I reply to Samantha's reflection in my mirror.

Also, I am an enbee, or non-binary. I am in the midst of gender transition as well. My target is neutral, androgyny. I am cis gendered male with a transition aim to female. I believe all life, regardless if it is here on this planet or another, is always transitioning and changing because there is never perfection.

Gen P-Orridge understands me perfectly. I Love her.

I am a pansexual as well. Simply put, if I Love You(capital L, capital Y), it matters not what gender you are. I am in Love with You, all of You, and desire You. Our body parts, well functioning or not, as Hedwig put it about her angry inch to Tommy, are "...what I have to work with.", or what we both work with.

Personality-wise, in trusted circles, I am quite gregarious, humorous and intellectual. But, when surrounded by strangers, I am painfully shy, reserved and eccentric in my actions.

I am a single parent and primary caregiver of a twenty year old, beautiful, Zen Master, of a child who is disabled with a terminal illness that has them in a power wheelchair full time.

"Ahnd mee tew!", Malcolm shouts, "Tee-Tee and mee arr bess buddees!"

"Yes, sweetie, I know.", I pat Malcolm's head as I long brush my hair with his hands, "Now go play while I finish writing, okay?"

"Mmmkay, mummie.", he agrees and flounces from the room.

I suffered over a decade of abuse(12 years to be more clear) from my Monster, or what normal humans would call a "father". I will not go into specifics(unless you ask me privately) but, will say that when you read news stories about children who have been discovered in horrific sexual, or physical , or emotional abuse situations, you have read my story. I learned and experienced more about human ugliness at the ages of four until seventeen than any human will read about in their lifetime.

Also, in 2007, my social network completely collapsed due to many factors, leaving me professionally and socially isolated. There was also vicious personal attacks in the music and artistic communities around where I live by people I cannot identify directly that nearly destroyed my artistic career.

I had a day job working for a bank but, I am a professional musician and artist. Plus, I write, paint and sculpt. I am currently unemployed.

These last points, while not visually true tells of me, are important for you, dear reader, to know. They are a part of my soul and do cause some of my isolation.

"Such a sexy busy little bee, are we not?", Samantha grins.

I smile, "You are breaking my train of thought, Sam."

Starting in April of 2007 and through 2016, I had a series of what I have called "emotional and intellectual collapses". These were due to many factors, much of which I have shared above. The collapses themselves were physically devastating, as well as emotionally and intellectually and manifested in what I think and call "abhorrent behaviour", like self-mutilation, alcoholism, and what the Japanese have called "hikikomori", or extreme isolation and confinement.

I have suffered from depression my entire life. I have made several attempts to destroy myself. None of those attempts would be considered "cries for help". But, each failed because of factors beyond my control. The 9mm bullet in the gun that was in my mouth failed to fire. The 4x14 inch roof rafter I hung myself from broke, down the 14 wide but, my neck did not. The fall from a five story building resulted in injuries but, no death. And the sever of my radial brachial artery nearly did but, that I stopped with my spiked belt and sutured together with an old sewing kit from my car's glove box, after a vision told me to not die and that it was not my time.

I have been diagnosed also with PTSD and Borderline Disorder.

After the series of collapses, I made the decision to make my death coincide with the death of my child. Since their lifespan is not expected to be much past the age of 23-25, and I have no close people in my life besides my child, I could literally eat myself to death. Crap food, alcohol, little to no exercise combined with my unresolved grief and pain would keep my body in a state of readiness for when the moment came and my child dies, my heart would simply "octopus trap" thus killing me. And all others would gather from my death would be that I was overweight, taking care of a disabled child and was full of stress. Not knowing that I orchestrated it. Look up "Takotsubo cardiomyopathy", if you are curious.

I am certain at this point the eyebrows of my reader are travelling to edge their hairline.

But, what stopped me from this course was the quality of care that my child needs and the desire to build for them a "memory bank" of Love that when they do leave this planet, all that they were given and all that they gave away becomes the paint that my child will use to create their own, unique afterlife. My views and ideas on this viewpoint I will only share privately.

In late 2016, I found a therapist who has a practice that specifically speaks and treats patients who are LGBTQ+ people. I sought out finding "somebody to talk to", since, like I said earlier, I have no social network.

My therapy has been difficult. I only see my therapist one hour a week because that is all that time in my schedule and money in my bank will allot me. I tried anti-depressants but, they hospitalized me because of very rare reactions. I use cannabis instead for my anti-depressant needs. This is not a flippant admission. This is shamanistic medicine. I would take psilosybin mushrooms as well but, those are not as available and I steer clear of police involvement in any form or fashion.

"And The Sadist is now dead which clears up a lot of space. As well as our new mantra, 'Existence...survival...must cancel out programming.' Do not forget to mention that.", Samantha reminds me as she uses my hands to fold towels.

In any case, I am making progress but, I am terribly lonely. One would think that having a child with so much need would eradicate loneliness but, it does not. Being a caregiver isolates you from others. Humans instinctively recoil from sickness. So, anybody associated with sickness is rejected. Couple that with all that I sketched above equals table for one in the school cafeteria for the rest of your life.

I am not like other people. But, I have the same needs that all people have. And I have little to no skills to take care of them. I have learned to operate in the world just enough to make money and provide for myself and my child. The rest of it is a series of mistakes and blunders that I have to clean up the mess from.

Even when I release a new album of music, people professionally reach out. But, personally, no one does.

That is a constant in my life. No one reaches out ever. I have to reach out. I used to be vigilant about this. My thought was this was what friends do. Then, I noticed that I was the only one in the connection who was doing it. So, I stopped. Frankly, I stopped because if I mattered at all in a person's life, I would be a part of that person's life. This is not a spiteful slight or despondent diss. My perception is my reality, regardless if the sky is actually blue or made of actual fire. I give people permission to do what they want to do with no animosity. But, it does make me isolated. Isolation hurts, even if it is self inflicted.

"People have their own lives and they are suffering too, darling, you know that.", Sam's circling pat of my belly and hand over my heart grounds.

"But a see-saw is not fun if you are the one doing all the work.", I reply.

We nod our head in agreement.

I do not do my "needs" well. This is something I uncovered during therapy. I am a giver. I give because I need to nurture. This is not because of guilt or over compensation or even co-dependency. It is the way I am wired. But, I have never learned the skill to give to myself as I give to others. This is a wound left from the claws of My Monster. Nurturing others is good but, neglecting and/or abusing yourself is doubleplusungood. And the undoing of this tangle of frayed wires and crossed circuits has been nothing but torture.

Maslow's pyramid and Harlow's Social Deprivation studies are always in my mind. One inspired the other, in my perception. And Harlow reminds me of My Monster, as well as the "rape rack" and "pit of despair" Harlow created. Those labels apply to real events from my own childhood, even though My Monster was not clever enough to be a scientist, but it was a master of manipulation, just like the monks who castrated Henk Heithuis. Slowly I am climbing Maslow's pyramid. I have the first level scaled. The second level is haunted by echoes and ghosts. And the third looms above, just out of reach. The last two levels seem like a myth or a dream Maslow made up just for my frustration.

"Nice image! Scaling Maslow's Pyramid. I love it!", Samantha laughs.

"Let me close this missive. You can read it when I am done.", I playfully chide, "I may not have the guts to post it."

This is just a ride. The lights are bright and everything is noisy with electronic whirls and curls. It can be fun from time to time but, for some of us, it is frightening and is too rough on our skinless muscles. All that cotton candy and salty treats that fill the air make us burn and scar. We cry a lot and laugh too little but, it is still just a ride. We live on a candied apple with a fire filled liquid center, just on top under a skin of air and cloud that we take all for granted. And the apple spins itself while being spun with eight other apples around a very talented juggler who happens to be made of nuclear fire. And still, it is just a ride. While you sit there watching the juggler make this magick happen, every little pixel that plods the clods on that third apple from the juggler wants the same thing...

...to co-exist in symbiotic peace.

I consider this homework done.

The file is saved but, left open. A monitor's glow highlights an android standing up from their chair and shuffles out of the room. Distant soft sobs soak into a black satin blanket purchased for a sweet sixteen, years ago. Those sounds quiet into tiger purr snores.

Samantha uses control plus "A", followed by control plus "C". She waits a moment, listening.

"Everybody needs their own Tyler Durden.", she whispers with a wry smile.

Control plus "V". Submit clicked.

"Happy Coming Out Day 2018, babe...", Samantha whispers in our half-lucid ear.