The Miseducation of the Bitter Faggot

It was a chilly June night, the clock had just struck twelve and I was laying in an empty bed alone on a Saturday. I tossed and turned for forty-five minutes trying not to cry myself to sleep for the third night in a row. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I get a decent night’s sleep? My mind was clouded with purple thoughts of retiring for good, something that I’m sure many have thought about and still do. I am no longer ashamed to admit that I sometimes just don’t want to be here anymore. Here in New York City. Here on this planet. I often times have morbid thoughts of the world blowing up just so that I don’t have to live in it anymore. To kill myself would be insane, this I am aware of so those thoughts I allow to seep from my selfish mind.

I have become a bitter faggot. But why has it come to this? I know why. I’ve lived and learned in a world where I have constantly had to prove myself. I have lived in a world where I seek validation around every corner. I’ve lived in a world where smiling friends are really blood sucking leeches. I have lived in a world where being who I am just isn’t enough. I have become a bitter faggot. I recently read a book called The Velvet Rage by Alan Downs. The book dissects the ins and outs of growing up gay in a straight world. Since starting the book, I couldn’t put it down. This page turner was filled with stories and glimpses into the lives of other gay men much like myself. I thought I was the only one who considered suicide while living under this unforgiving rainbow. All my life I’ve felt the need to prove something. I’ve tried to prove that I matter. I’ve tried to prove that I am just as worthy to be loved and adored as the next man.

I knew at an early age that I was different. When I discovered that I was different I did everything I could to outshine all of those around me. I became competitive. I became the star student. I became the class clown. I developed a wicked sense of humor. I became bitter and I didn’t even realize it. My hands began to tremble as I try to get the words from my brain to this page. Sweat drips from my underarms as I am even fearful of publishing it but I refuse to go unheard yet again.

As I look at my life, I realize that I am truly blessed. I have a wonderful and loving mother who has done nothing but embrace me. I remember coming out to my mother on a hot July day just before she dropped me off to work. I hinted around that someone we both knew very well was gay. She playfully asked, “who son, who?” Just before opening the car door I told her that it was me. That had to be one of the most difficult days of my life. I later learned that she sat in the parking lot for thirty minutes crying and praying to God that I was joking but alas, I wasn’t. It took years for me to establish the relationship that I now have with my mother. I now have a relationship that allows me to call on her and share with her the ups and downs of being a black gay man. Many gay men can’t say that they have this level of comfort with their moms. I’ve developed the type of relationship with my mother that allows me to share with her the relationships with the men that I date without fear of judgment. I know that my mother would have liked to have what the world would consider to be a “normal” child, but God obviously had other plans. Sure it would be nice to have a family that embraces me authentically and unconditionally. I would love to father a child with a woman so that at Christmas he or she could play with their loving cousins. That’s a life that I will most likely never see because, I’ve become a bitter faggot.

I’m tired of competing. I’m tired of so called friends taking credit for my ideas. I’m tired of people to telling lies around me and sit in wonderment as to if they’ve ever lied to me. Why do we steal from each other? Why do we so few and far between reach out and offer help? Why do we introduce each other to unsafe sex practices and recreational drugs? Why are we so unforgiving? These questions continue to race through my mind. I remember the day that I was introduced to “designer” drugs. I asked myself, was the person who popped that pill into my mouth really my friend? Was the person who introduced me to sex clubs really concerned about my well being? Sure the times had were fun but they led to destructive behavior and a lifestyle that I couldn’t keep up with. There was no way in the world that I would have guessed that I’d become addicted to a “feeling”, but I did. My life was spinning out of control. I would use drugs as an excuse to get away from all of the aforementioned things. I figured that the drugs would love me where nobody else did. It was a dirty little secret that haunted me for quite some time. The drugs helped me to become even more BITTER now that I recollect.

I don’t want to wear fake smiles anymore, it hurts. I don’t want to hug anymore, it hurts. I don’t want to clink glasses anymore, it hurts. I don’t want to bend over anymore, it hurts. I don’t even want to laugh anymore, because it too hurts.