did that last entry make sense to anybody? It did to me. Sort of. I really get pissed off when I have to accept the fact that I don't have the choice I want, and that I am not in control. And it's got nothing to do with bogus bit rates, or deceptive marketing or lying corporations, although such obsessions do provide useful diversions from what I want to avoid. Responsibility. It all really is up to me. Everything. I am God.
Please do not be offended; you possess the same responsibility, and have the same power. You, too, are God.
tuesday night, I cowered here in my cell while a visitor who had gotten in through my building's unlatched back door, knocked on my apartment door. It had to be the hustler, but I didn't think he knew which apartment I lived in—he's never been here, not this apartment. I suppose it could have been Ed McMahon with a big check, but I think the more cynical view has the edge here. Ed would have rung the front doorbell.
I hide and am afraid because I choose to be. I tell myself it's easier to run than be responsible, but that's not the truth. It's the uncertainty; God only knows what will happen if I stand up for myself. The economy of my survival has always been based on the currency of letting others take advantage of me. So hiding from a pontential confrontation may sound wimpy to you, but I far prefer it over the terror of the utter unknown.
Now, don't gush at me with all the illogic and practical arguments against this kind of avoidance; I'm well aware of its invalidity. But the fact they are illogical and impractical has never made social avoidances déclassé; indeed, avoidance is often a favorite in our panoply of reactions—along with polite deferrance, brutal rejection, or subjugative acquiescence—when, for example, we are approached on the street by a disheveled stranger, bluntly soliciting handouts. We can accomodate any gracelessness in our behavior, or any incongruity of our ethics further on down the street. We can rationalize, can't we?
sometimes I just sit on the edge of my bed and cry. For no reason, at all..." Maybe he knew I'd understand that. Or maybe he sensed in me another like himself; a child-victim who'd grown-up without ever having a chance to resolve the abuse. It's possible he just wanted to garner my sympathy and inspire me to be for him the trustworthy caretaker he'd been looking for ever since his parents, then his foster parents, and then his grandparents first blew it. His name, also, is Joe and I have a tremendous compassion for him, but I could no more have given him the salvation he wanted, than could he have given me what I sought—a new reason to live.
But I tried. Around '92 he stayed with me for a few months, and he didn't steal a thing. I guess we were engaged in a mutually futile endeavor, and such a partnership disallows enmity at the expense of progress. Our relationship was that of cordial friends more than sex partners, though we did attempt sex a couple times, without good results. Eventually, we lost regular contact. Around the holidays in '95 I ran into him again. I was thrilled; I cleaned my whole apartment, and carefully made the bed. I was working nights at the time, but we had arranged for Joe to come in through the porch door while I was at work. I left it open for him. He would be there when I got home in the morning, and all night I looked forward to the comfort of returning home and not being alone.
My foolish naiveté collapsed at 7:15 AM as I approached home, and could see from the street my porch door was wide open. I have never been very competent in matters of self care; I'm sure I harbor some degree of contempt for responsibility. It harkens way back to my experience of irresponsible adults who failed to recognize—or worse yet, chose to ignore—the million or so evidences I gave when I was four, that something terrible had gone wrong. That's why I still dwell on it today; I had to suck it up and be an adult—for the sake of the adults—when I was far from ready to deal with the consequences of rape. I was four and didn't have the choice I wanted, and was not in control, and I remember to this day the rage which was triggered and the resentment which was planted deep, and the promise I made to myself that whenever I could make the choice, I would refuse to be responsible.
joe stole a bunch of stuff back in '95; a stereo, a CD walkman, a bunch of CDs, and all my change for laundry. I never confronted him. It sounds crazy, but I didn't see him for four years, and then it was not as friends, it was at a distance. It was easier to just write it off as the bad results of refusing to be responsible; as the consequences of keeping a bitter companion.
He has been leaving messages on my answering machine. Apparently, he thinks we are now friends again, or that it doesn't matter that we are not. The latter is more chilling, and more likely. Growing up is a process of dying to the fond and familiar ways of a life built around irresponsibility, resentment, and the careful tending of the flames of rage. I can let go. I can be responsible. I can be a new person. I can do anything. I can be God. I want to die.
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