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10:27 p.m. - 04/06/03
when*you*gonna*love*you ~ as*much*as*I*do?
I want to give my parents bedtimes. Or at least, times when they are restricted to their room. This journaling-thing only works as a way to wind down if I can journal as me, honestly, feeling and thinking what I actually think and feel, and I still don't know how to go into that with either of those two people around. I have a feeling (nestled safely below every defense) that there's a lot to get into right now. Something like Tuesday-Thursday doesn't simply go away, simply get better, simply disappear. The thoughts I'm having are important thoughts, and I told the doctor that I would investigate them. So someone put my parents in their room, and make them stay there. That way...if I start to fume...or cry... Why after all this time don't they understand that sometimes I'm crying because I'm ok? Why don't people understand that it's the not-feeling that got me into trouble? Why must I feel in closets and cages, in secret rooms I can't even show them? (For now, and this will change, and it really is a healthy defense, but, but, but, but, but...) Mom asked about the new forum, wanted to know what it was and if it's one of the places where I'm "Mary Brave." They're starting to notice that as a recurring theme. Hmm...more and more envelopes addressed to that name, more and more doodles I forget to dispose of with that surname centered in the design. I told her nothing of caged's purpose, and I told her it wasn't "one of the places where I'm Mary Brave." I know how cliche it is to say she wouldn't understand, but honestly, how can I expect her to? My parents feel rejected if I speak too quickly or too quietly or with the wrong words. If I tell them I've claimed a new name in honor of a new life, which I learned to live with people who called me by that name, and knew this part of me before I did, are they really going to feel happy? If I told them that my new name was "Rogers" because that's where my home was, and that was the upbringing I won't evident in my character as I evolve, do you really believe they'd jump for joy? And I don't expect them to. I just assume that they shouldn't expect me to talk about it with them, either. I feel so different from my family, and I don't know what to do with that. We've always been so "close" and so obviously related- physically we look so much alike...I feel weird to say that I don't think I'm like they are. That's just - what every adolescent thinks...right? That's just a phase. But the path I want to go down, none of them have. The choice I will make none of them did. And I guess I have to let that mean something, even if I'm not sure I want to. I guess I have to notice where I'm different, if I want to notice where I'm similar. I do love them, after all...

That's not what I was planning on talking about, which just proves there is a lot going on, and if I'm not in the mood to freak out about it, I really do need to pay attention. I need to check my emotional gauges and adjust accordingly, whether or not the parents are close enough to hear me breathe. I need to continue living whether they're in the house or not.

So. What is going on? I keep thinking about the midweek craziness. The intensity of it. I understand that I followed a hugely difficult session (and not difficult-relieving, difficult-miscommunication-wise) with spreading the word about caged-freed, which- of all my "do I or do I not want to let you in" battles is probably the most frightening, simply because I'm letting in something I can't define. I have no idea what I'll read when I open these e-mails from names I don't know, with titles that could mean anything. I haven't told him about the whole caged operation yet, but I think I need to. It's important. I'm honestly scared of it. So far, no one in the pro-ed culture has written in, but there have been submissions I don't agree with. And I wonder how I'm supposed to respond to material I find innaccurate or offensive or painful to read. How do I respond when something makes me want to cry because I remember it, and part of me still lives in that place, and how do I respond when something makes me want to scream because I view the world so differently? Do I just write an entry, like anyone else? And what position do I play in this new place I've built but left so open to others' decoration? What power do I have? I think about Disney the man versus Disney the current corporation, and I wonder what could happen to something with my name given free reign. I have no reason to doubt the power of those who will speak. I'm just scared of getting hurt, or of being confused, or of finding out something I don't want to know. I'm scared of such simple, stupid things sometimes. Like feeling and being and knowing who I am.

And what's up with that last one, honestly? What's up with this fear of me, this intense fear? My shame was so high at that midweek point; I was honestly going over the edge, to the point I can no longer keep myself safe. And it's gone down now, but the undercurrent, the semi-constant presence of it, is still higher than normal. It peaked and it's gone down, but it hasn't gone down far enough. What does shame have to do with any of this? What does shame have to do with a bad session (followed by a good session and a good phone call), with beginning something which might be great, with considering relaitonships and knowing who I am? Damnit, so many people like me. So where is that switch, for myself? Where or when do I get to see what they see?

I don't want it now and again, moments of clarity that feel like grounding. I don't want it every so often, enough so that I know it's there, but with no idea how to maintain it. I want it fully. I want to like myself, which unfortunately means uncovering who I am, and I don't know, maybe part of that came up during this whole Tuesday-Thursday crisis because I'm definitely scared of myself now. I wish I knew why, (I say, but maybe I don't...)

So...this whole "orientation" thing. I've been thinking about it again. I've been thinking about how there are all these people in my past toward whom I felt really strong connections, some of whom I never got to know well, some of whom I did, and I wonder...if maybe that's what a crush feels like when no one tells you, it's possible for it to be a crush. When all around you "crush" means giggling and crying and saying, "he's so cute" or "his friend said his other friend said he likes me" and everyone you know is straight by default, and you never even consider (except maybe once...twice...) and then you don't. And I think about how deeply I cared about these people, and how it didn't make any sense, and how they were all women. Except...occasionally...I'd meet a boy that I felt safe with, that I felt almost ok knowing, almost ok being by myself with him. The type of boy I'd try to talk myself into feeling that attachment toward, into feeling that nervous energy when we touched, but never could. The type of boy that I could love with my whole heart, and trust to maintain the distance between bodies. The type of boy who is so fucking sweet and hurt by girls not loving him, that I would never tell him how much I did. Because the encore, "and I guess I just felt safe with you" is the closest thing to "you're like a brother to me" I can say aloud. And no matter how badly I want them to know they can be loved by a girl, I'm not the girl to tell them that. Not when, any interest sparked would be refused. Not when I'm sitting here thinking back to grade school teachers, and the fantasies I *did* have before deciding those teachers would find me despicable and no longer good if they knew I thought about something like sex. How can you tell a boy that needs to know he's lovable that you loved him, when you can't give him the proof? I cared about him...them... I cared, and I knew they could never get anywhere near me. I mean, think about Billy. Billy was a thousand fucking miles away, even if he was next door. I was never going to end up alone in a car with him; I was never going to meet him, most likely. I stayed with the fucking safest boys, and I loved them, but I didn't go crazy loving them. I didn't feel electric currents running through my nervous system. I didn't feel like I wanted to jump and shout and sing and bang my head into a wall all at once because she was so beautiful and so nerve-wracking all at the same time. Is that a crush? Nobody ever told me that could be a crush. When I want to touch you because of the way you talk to me, and the way you make me feel, entirely apart from how you look... When I pretend you're holding me at night because it makes the house feel safer.

Sometimes you were more of a mother than a peer. Is that ok? What does that say? Is it just part of how our orientation is formed, the needs that aren't met by our parents or do I need to move past needing a nurturer in order to love romantically? And when does that part kick in? Maybe I have experienced it. Maybe it did kick in. Hell, I wrote poems you could classify as love poems. I went all Shakespeare and exposed to the gates of these women, and...And they were my teachers and my friends and kids I barely knew, and I was supposed to have a poster of Johnathon Taylor Thomas in my locker and be in love with a sports star.

So what are these things? These things where you want her to hold you more than you want to be on time? These things where you play with your notebook, pretending it really takes you that long to gather your things because if you stay just long enough, she might speak to you and you alone? Are these just the pastimes of a girl whose never been loved the right way? Are these just the pre-Red pastimes that filled my days, the need for that consistent, nurturing attachment that I never filled? Where are the fucking definitions, the definitions that say this is sexuality and this is romantic and this is friendship and this is crazy because I can't tell anymore. I can't tell what's an "issue" and what's something I've always feared was one.

Living on a smile here and a monosyllable there, what is that? Is that a sign of something important or simply the way a girl gets by when she doesn't have enough smiles and words inside her? When she doesn't have enough of that love backing her up all the time?

What if I never figure this out? What if I never know? I feel like so much more of a freak than can be classified. Whatever your personal prediction for my life is, I feel so much more bizarre than that. I can't turn out "straight" or "gay" or "bi" because I'm simply not that simple. I'm a total freak. Asexual. I don't have those feelings. I don't need those things. I don't want a boy to come anywhere near me. Keep your hands off me, you ass. I know you do that with all the girls, but you never, ever do it with me, you understand? And they will understand, they'll understand good, because I'll be damned if they'll ever touch me again.

In the meantime, she tells me, "I've been waiting all year to hug you" because I have walls as high as mountains, and I think, "So have I. Damnit, I wish you'd know it would have been so much more than ok." The first time I hugged this particular woman was onstage in front of a billion people, accepting an award, and so I couldn't just hold on. I couldn't just start crying. I couldn't just say, "this is the award, for me, this is everything." I took my place in line and congratulated the next recipient. I shook hands with people I loathed and people who drew me in, and I thought about how dirty and naked I looked. How everyone in the audience must be thinking I looked so awful and wondering if I actually believed that outfit looked good.

I should have been holding onto her, saying, I'm confused, tell me what this is. And she wouldn't have felt it back, and I wouldn't have gotten out unscathed, but I wouldn't be sitting here five years later, with all these stories that make no sense. All these stories I never tied together, and the little bombshells that explode and make it all confused again. You're just afraid of boys. You must have liked what happened with Chelsie. That's not true! I was so scared that night. Why don't I know that's not true?

I'm relational, the doctor says, undoubtedly, hugely, at my essence, at my core. And I'm just trying to understand how I'm relational, but I'm so afraid of what I'll find out. And what the hell does that have to do with caged and with a session where he assumed I thought Hampshire didn't want me because I was sick? Someone wants me. I know that, right? I know that someone wants me, don't I? Maybe that's the link. Maybe I remember how beautiful the poems were, and how small the reciprocation. Maybe I remember being told I held on too long when I embraced someone. Maybe it's not that I'm scared of who I love. Maybe I'm scared of everyone who has never loved me.

I could really use a home right now.

chord

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