My Face for the World to See (Part II):
The Diary of Sherilyn Connelly
a fiction


March 16 - 23, 1999


Archives

<    3/16   3/17   3/18   3/19   3/21   3/22   3/23   >

Current



Tuesday, 23 March 1999 (electro-shock blues: electro-shock blues)
9:33am

Tiff wrote back. It's astonishing how consistently I say the wrong things to her.

11:27am

Here comes that awful feeling again
Welcome the ugly animal
I hate secrets, including my own. They only ever make things worse. I'm so sick of having to keep them and abide by them and pretend I don't know when I really do and have others keep them from me and just the whole fucking mess.

Is this a secret? Do you I know you? Do you know me? Do you read mine? Do I read yours? Can we acknowledge it? Can we be open?

I didn't want to know it was there, but now I do. This is not good.

12:54pm

Speaking of secrets, I finally wrote my mother a couple weeks ago.

—————
Date: Fri, 12 Mar 1999 16:53:59 -0800 (PST)
From: "lndgnwtr@hooked.net"

Rather than doing my typical line-for-line deconstruction of your last message,
which probably wouldn't do a damn bit of good for anyone, I'm going to focus on
the one thing that really struck me in a good way: your stated desire to put the
past behind us and start again. I confess, that surprised me, as you've up to
this point held on very tightly to the past. (Not understanding how a child who
hated being looked at could evolve into an adult with "flagrantly dyed hair," for
example.) But if you really mean it—if you're willing to accept that I'm not exactly
the way I used to be, that I'm capable of growth of maturation in ways which aren't
what you would prefer—then I do think there's hope. Believe it or not, I do want
to help you through this as much as possible. If you really want to understand what's
going on, I'm willing to help you understand. Obviously, you can feel free to ask me
anything you want.

I suppose a lot of it is going to be extremely disturbing to you, if not every single
aspect. I don't know what to do about that, except to suggest that perhaps you're
stronger than you give yourself credit for. You survived the Tom ordeal, and while I
recognize that this is all quite traumatic for you, I'm standing by my conviction that
it's not quite as bad as being a homeless crack addict. (To my way of thinking, the
fact that I'm writing this on my computer work suggests I'm doing a little better than
that. Tangentially, we're in the midst of employee evaluations, and my reviews have all
been glowing, with nary a comment about my appearance.)

This is my life, and quite frankly, I'm sick of hiding it from you. I'm not ashamed or
embarrassed of who or what I am, and there's no reason for you to be, either. In the
long run you may even be proud of me.

If you'd like, I can point you towards stuff online containing both general info and
things specifically for parents in your situation. You're not alone in that respect.

Anyway, let me know how you want to proceed...

jeff
 —————

Fairly promising start, no? Clearly, I was in a good mood. Ready to start the healing process. All systems go.

So she responded, and quickly.

—————

Date: Fri, 12 Mar 1999 17:46:56 +0000
To: "lndgnwtr@hooked.net"

> Rather than doing my typical line-for-line deconstruction of your last message

Thank you!

> which probably wouldn't do a damn bit of good for anyone, I'm going to focus on
> the one thing that really struck me in a good way: your stated desire to put the
> past behind us and start again.

Yes!

> I confess, that surprised me, as you've up to this point held on very tightly
> to the past. (Not understanding how a child who hated being looked at could evolve
> into an adult with "flagrantly dyed hair," for example.)

I really think that was a fair question at the time.

> But if you really mean it—if you're willing to accept that I'm not exactly the
> way I used to be, that I'm capable of growth of maturation in ways which aren't
> what you would prefer—then I do think there's hope.

Of course. I do not want to lose you. My main concern and you can believe this or
not-is that you lead a happy (as is possible in this crappy world) and productive life.

> Believe it or not, I do want to help you through this as much as possible. If
> you really want to understand what's going on, I'm willing to help you understand.
> Obviously, you can feel free to ask me anything you want.

I need time to assimilate this, but if I can ask questions, may I also make some
observations?

> I suppose a lot of it is going to be extremely disturbing to you, if not every
> single aspect.

Yes.

> I don't know what to do about that, except to suggest that perhaps you're stronger
> than you give yourself credit for. You survived the Tom ordeal, and while I recognize
> that this is all quite traumatic for you, I'm standing by my conviction that it's not
> quite as bad as being a homeless crack addict.

Different, and you know it. I think probably what has hurt me the most has been the
vitriol sent my way. You must understand, I had not a clue.

> (To my way of thinking, the fact that I'm writing this on my computer work suggests
> I'm doing a little better than that. Tangentially, we're in the midst of employee
> evaluations, and my reviews have all been glowing, with nary a comment about my
> appearance.)

I am very happy for you and very proud too.

> This is my life, and quite frankly, I'm sick of hiding it from you.

That was your decision, I guess.

> I'm not ashamed or embarrassed of who or what I am, and there's no reason for you to
> be, either. In the long run you may even be proud of me.

I've always been proud of you. I've told you that over and over. You were dropping
hints to me-a basically dense person. I had no idea. Not really fair to me when you
come right down to it, since you probably know me better than anybody around-but always
seem to take everything I say wrong!

> If you'd like, I can point you towards stuff online containing both general info
> and things specifically for parents in your situation. You're not alone in that respect.

Yes. John said he would do that for me also.

Have you said anything to your father?

> Anyway, let me know how you want to proceed...

This is good. We are talking relatively rationally. I am sorry for any hurt I have caused
you. That was definitely not my intention.

Love,
Mom


—————

She's making an effort, no question there. So I accentuate the positive, right?

I'd like to think I would have, except for one detail: her saying that hiding my life from her was my decision. Okay, maybe it was, but the implication is that it was purely my decision. Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.

And, of course, by her own admission she doesn't understand any of this, but still feels fit to make observations. Not in as big a rush to ask questions and maybe LEARN something, nope. But more than ready to judge, it would seem.

Then there's bringing up Dad—she typically only does that when she's desperate. The last time was, "Has your father seen your hair?"

My original reply was fairly civil, but evolved into this.

—————

Date: Sat, 13 Mar 1999 08:15:16 -0800 (PST) From: "lndgnwtr@hooked.net" >> I confess, that surprised me, as you've up to this point held on very tightly to the past.
>> (Not understanding how a child who hated being looked at could evolve into an adult with
>> "flagrantly dyed hair," for example.)

> I really think that was a fair question at the time.

Yet you refused to accept my explanation at the time: that I'd changed.

Are you exactly the same now as you were as a child? Did you not grow? Have you entered
any bubblegum-blowing contests or used your Mary Had a Little Lamb plate recently?

No? I don't understand. You used to do those things and be that way;now you're saying you're

NOT like that anymore? How is that possible?

> Of course. I do not want to lose you. My main concern and you can belive this or not-is that
> you lead a happy (as is possible in this crappy world) and productive life.

Me: "Having my hair like this makes me happy."
You: "We're not here to be happy." (last May)

Is it possible you've changed a little since then?

> I need time to assimilate this, but if I can ask questions, may I also make some observations?

It's not like I can stop you, can I? I really think the learning process is more important at this
point—you ask, I answer, information is exchanged, and knowledge wins another victory in this
post-literate age—but feel free to observe based on the data you've collected so far.

>> You survived the Tom ordeal, and while I recognize that this is all quite traumatic for you,
>> I'm standing by my conviction that it's not quite as

> Different, and you know it.

My point exactly. An addiction isn't destroying my life. I'm not living on the streets or stealing
from my family, nor do I have two children I've abandoned.

Am I worse, perhaps? Given the choice, would you rather have another junkie to deal with?

> I think probably what has hurt me the most has been the vitriol sent my way. You must
> understand, I had not a clue.

*sigh* So much for putting the past behind us.

I sent you no vitriol (I'm really beginning to wish I'd never brought up that word) that was
unprovoked. You've attacked my appearance, my identity and your perception of my lifestyle,
and I've tried to defend myself. Yes, I've been angry and responded as such. Have I ever been
vitriolic without it being in response to something?

And, at the risk of making this whole discussion even more juvenile than it already is, you started
it. You hurt me first. You attacked me.

> > This is my life, and quite frankly, I'm sick of hiding it from you.

> That was your decision, I guess.

Uh-huh. I decided that purely and entirely on my own without any kind of input or influence from you.
So, all this time I could have been telling you everything about my life, and you would have been fine
with it. I see.

...and I quote:

"I know that I can't go to your web page any more because its so very disturbing to me when I do." 12/30/98 17:30:51

To a lesser extent:

"No hurry, in fact it is entirely up to you if you want to respond at all. It won't make any difference to
me in the way I feel about you-I love you and I always will. You owe me absolutely nothing." 1/3/99 11:54:34

Then, of course:

"I'm not going to ask what is a goth club, because I probably don't want to know." 1/9/99 14:52:02

...after which I proceeded to go into a fair amount of detail anyway about the goth subculture because
it was becoming an important part of my life; you didn't respond, and it was dropped altogether.

Y'know what? I'm going to assume that in fact you do want to know everything, and that not keeping
you up to day with my life had always been purely my decision and possibly (but not necessarily) at
odds with your wishes. My decision to protect what I perceived to be your delicate sensibilities was a mistake.

From now on, no more secrets. I will no longer hide my life from you.

So, where I'm at right now.

I'm didn't go to Shrine of Lilith last night, the goth club which has become my regular hangout. The
reasons for this are myriad. First off, I look like hell. My face is still red and swollen from electrolysis,
both from yesterday's and last Sunday's sessions. It's not nearly as bad as it could be, like when I first
had it done last summer. Of course, I had a lot more hair on my face then—it all got zapped at the time,
but regrowth is very insidious. My electrologist Phil says that I actually have very good, resilient skin,
and it will be quite beautiful when he's done. The fact that I've been on hormones for the last six months
helps too.

The bottom line is, my face is swollen, in absolutely no condition for makeup, and what parts aren't red
and lumpy haven't been shaved since Thursday night since I'm seeing Phil again on Saturday and Sunday.
He says that by Sunday my face should be cleared again; there will still be hair and I won't be finished,
but the beardshadow will be gone. I can't wait.

(Ironically, I'd been offered to be interviewed Saturday for a documentary being made called "Sex, Death
and Eyeliner" about the scene, and they want to talk to me about being a goth tranny. Alas, if I'm not
going into a dimly lit club looking the way I do, I sure as hell ain't going to commit my image to celluloid
right about now. A shame, because it was strangely tempting.)

The reasons I'm able to be seeing Phil at all right now, since electrolysis is both painful *and* expensive
(Phil charges me a very reasonable $110 for three hours, and I've had roughly 55 hours done) , is that my
tax refund was a bit more than I was expecting and my insurance from work has finally kicked in. It doesn't
cover electro, but astonishingly it does cover my hormone prescriptions, premarin and provera; this is
something of a minor miracle, since the insurance companies typically refuse to pay for hormone therapy for
non-genetic women. But it went through, truly a miracle, and saving me about $110 a month—$175 if you
include visits to the endocrinologist. Part of it might have had to do with the pharmacy in question; they
know me there and have always been very kind, and in fact have expressed sympathy at how much I normally
have to shell out in cash for my prescriptions.

That's the aesthetic reason. On a more personal level, there's a girl there whom I kinda don't want to see
because a relationship which was just starting to bud between us died last time, and it's probably just as
well if we keep our distance for a while.

None of the above was exaggerated or done for shock value. It's all 100% true, and just a glimpse at my life right now.

>> I'm not ashamed or embarrassed of who or what I am, and there's no reason for you to be, either. In the
>> long run you may even be proud of me.

> I've always been proud of you. I've told you that over and over.

That's not what I mean. I mean proud of me for being out, for being able to face the world as myself and not
what the world expects me to be. Believe it or not, what I'm doing is not easy, and has required more courage
and backbone than I'd ever thought I possessed.

Someday you'll see me as a happy young woman, consider everything I'd been through and what it took for me
to finally come into my own, and you'll be proud of me. I have faith in that.

> You were dropping hints to me-a basically dense person. I had no idea. Not really fair to me when you come
> right down to it, since you probably know me better than anybody around-but always seem to take everything
> I say wrong!

Like when you said you were embarrassed to be seen with me in public? Or that I was ugly? Did I take those
wrong? If so, how should I have interpreted them?

Actually, I dropped very few hints. I've known since last May that coming out to you would take a while because
of your refusal to grant me the right to look the way I wanted to look. I really see it as two separate issues; if I
want to have hair like Betty Page, I believe I should be able to regardless of whether or not I want to be like her in
other ways too. Getting you to accept my appearance as is was a frustrating enough task without throwing in the
confusing gender issues which you weren't likely to understand.

What if during the big hair discussion last May I'd said "The reason I have a girl's haircut is because I want to be
a girl?" Would that have suddenly made everything all right? Would *that* have been fair, when you were already
clearly freaking out?

> Have you said anything to your father?

Not yet, no. Then again, he's never given me any static whatsoever about my appearance, so it hasn't seemed
like as pressing an issue. I figure I'll discuss it with him in person next time I'm in town.

By the way, you have not come to San Francisco once since I've been here. I have lived here since August of 1994.
It is now March of 1999. That is four and a half years, or roughly 234 weekends in which you could have visited
(233 if you count that one weekend that Carmen and Sue came up and invaded). You haven't seen my home or my
neighborhood or any of the places I've worked or my favorite pizza joint.

I've told you on any number of occasions that you're welcome to come up and visit. Please don't pretend otherwise.
I can't help but consider it a snub.

> This is good. We are talking relatively rationally. I am sorry for any hurt I have caused you. That was defintely not my intention.

While I believe you, please tell me: what was your intention? Shaping me into what you want me to be by any means
necessary? Trying to convince me that my life was wrong and misguided? What nobler intention was I missing? I really
want to believe there was one, and I'm open to hearing it.

I love you very much. If there seemed to be any unnecessary vitriol in this message, it was the effects of the hormones—can
you say "violent mood swings?" :)

Gotta go. Phil awaits.

jeff
(it's probably a little too soon to sign off as Sherilyn, since I'm not going full-time by that name yet, so I won't.)


—————

Yeah, I laid it on pretty damn thick, oversharing even by my standards. But the "That was your decision, I guess" bit pissed me off in a major way, and I felt the need to compensate.

Typical for me, I got real nervous real fast, so the next day:

—————

Date: Sun, 14 Mar 1999 06:15:17 -0800 (PST)
From: "lndgnwtr@hooked.net"

I do love you, and do believe we can work this out even if my tone might
suggest otherwise at times. I think I'm in a very necessary cathartic
mode right now...

—————

In retrospect I wish I hadn't backpedaled so quickly. It might have been the best thing for her, but not for me.

—————

Date: Sun, 14 Mar 1999 16:25:59 +0000
To: "lndgnwtr@hooked.net"

Thank you, I need to hear that. I reiterate, I love you and I don't ever want us to be estranged, but please
realize this is very very hard on me. However,I do not mean to downgrade the fact that it must be very
hard on you too. Please forgive me if it seems I am doing that. I guess maybe I am wallowing in my
own pain right now and maybe I need to do that for a while. Yes, we will work this out. To my way of
thinking we have to—nothing else will do.

Mom


—————

She still hasn't replied to my actual last message, though. Maybe she thinks she's off the hook, or she's just taking her time to compose, as is often the case with me. Guess I'll find out eventually.

Last | Top | Next



Monday, 22 March 1999 (electro-shock blues: hospital food)
11:00am

So I'm doing the mirror thing in the ladies' room at Lilith when, as will often happen, an incredibly beautiful girl comes up to the sink next to me and, as will often happen, my own self-image dropped several notches. She had alabaster skin, perfect eyebrows, not a hair out of place or wasted ounce on her body...in other words, everything I want to be in my shallowest moments. (Not entirely dissimilar from Pandora, who in many was has always been my role model.) Naturally, we didn't speak.

Throughout the course of the evening I saw her on the dance floor, sometimes dancing, sometimes not. But always by herself.

Alone.

There's a lesson in this, though I'm not entirely sure if I'm grasping it or not. A detail which is probably clear as day to the rest of world but not to me.

I may have rediscovered sleep. At least, I slept a lot last night (including through much of the Oscars, which was once a very big deal to me), and as a result didn't go to New Wave City. Just as well, as I should save my energy for Trannyshack this Tuesday.

The Ex snapped at me last night for how I put a newspaper on the couch. I tossed it onto the only part where there was any space, and she got upset, accusing me of doing it "with attitude." (Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not after you.) So my every move and every action is being watched and analyzed and judged. Guess I shouldn't be too surprised.

Sometimes truth is just under the surface.



2:33pm

Just got back from paying the water bill, about an hour and half round trip on foot. If it isn't raining too much when I leave work, I'll be paying the rent. Ah, responsibility. What's not to love?

On the way back I stopped at Computown, to satisfy my current jones about getting a laptop. Well, not a laptop, necessarily; I'm thinking now more in terms of a handheld (or palmtop), which is about as small as a computer can get without simply being an organizer. I typed on one for a few minutes. It worked. I could definitely get used to it.

Even at half the price of a laptop, though, it's not something I can consider at the moment. Not just the money...after Computown I went into an anonymous thai place to grab something for lunch. One wall was a mirror, and I couldn't help noticing that even for having shaved this morning and wearing makeup my beardshadow was still showing. Just barely; certainly nobody else noticed, and I saw it because I knew what to look for; it stands to reason that my skin tone would need a little more time to even out. In other words, not worth getting upset about.

And yet, there's already been some regrowth, and it's only going to get worse. Facial hair is extremely fucking tenacious and doesn't go down without a fight. I have maybe a month or two before it gets genuinely noticeable. It'll never be as bad as it was before, but dammit, I want it gone. I really want it gone.

Hence it must take priority. Unless I get another financial windfall (like The Ex being able to pay what she owes be from the last six months), it'll have to be sporadic at best. So be it. I'm at the point now where I probably really only need to go in every couple weeks anyway.

For as much stress and insanity as it has caused directly and indirectly, I have at no point regretted my decision to transition. It's impossible to say what my life would be like right now if I wasn't doing this. Outwardly, it would probably seem far less complicated, The Ex and I might still be together, etc. Inside, though, I'd be far more fucked up than I am now. It may not seem possible, but believe me, it is.

For the first time in years, I can cry. I cannot help but consider that progress.

3:59pm

I wrote Tiff. Just a simple hello.

It's been over two weeks, which by my (usually faulty) math is long enough. Talking to Sym about it on Friday, however briefly, helped a lot. Which isn't to say she unduly influenced the decision one way or the other, and of course I take full responsibility for my actions, but it helped bring it out of the theoretical.

If she responds, she responds. If she doesn't, she doesn't.

You want to bridge the schism,
A built-in mechanism to protect you
You're looking for salvation
You're looking for deliverance
You're looking like an idiot
And you no longer care
I have heard neither hide nor hair from Heidi in the last week. The turnaround time on these things is getting shorter and shorter. This may be a sign that the universe is starting to collapse and time is running backwards. I'll have to write Stephen Hawking and let him know.

4:08pm

...the lesson is that she may be feeling just as lonely. Morrissey might have been singing to boys, but she may be the daughter and the heir to a shyness which is criminally vulgar. Then again, she may be perfectly happy to keep to herself. I suppose there's only one way to find out, and moreover, I'm not sure I'd notice if I further damaged myself emotionally at this point.


     When you ain't got nothing, you got nothing to lose
                      —Bob Dylan, 1965

     When you think that you've lost everything, you find out you can always lose a little more
                      —Bob Dylan, 1997
My mother still hasn't written back. I wonder if she realizes the ball's in her court.

c0g hasn't been on at all today. Doing better things, probably. Lucky bastard.

Last | Top | Next



Sunday, 21 March 1999 (electro-shock blues: 3-speed)
3:09pm

I don't have the energy to go into the detail the events of this weekend demand, but briefly...

The trip to Berkeley on BART while dressed (first time in that kind of situation) went fine. No real static from anyone at the Neil show about my appearance. A line has definitely been crossed, though. As Burnout put it, "Jeff has come out to Rust."

Neil was amazing, by the way.

Finally met Sym and The Boi later that same night. Very sweet people. Came out to So What! on Saturday night to see The Boi's band play and enjoyed it immensely. Finally got to dance, which I hadn't on Friday. Also significant for being my first time going to a club and back essentially on foot while en femme. Now I know it can be done.

Given his inherently feline nature, c0g has landed on his feet quite expertly. Me, not so much. But, hey, the bigger they are, right?

Saw Miguel on Saturday and got my hair cut and colored. Had him put it in Wednesday Addams-esque braided pigtails, which fortunately survived the night. I really need to figure out how to do this.

Though it remains to be seen if he'll remember having done so, Perki recruited me to help edit Errata. If it pans out, I can't even begin to guess at the ramifications, if any.

Tiff wasn't at Shrine on Friday. Definitely just as well. Spent much of the evening with c0g. Okay, "following" is probably the most apt adjective, but he didn't seem to mind. If I can't participate, I'll observe.

Thinking about going to New Wave City tonight and Trannyshack on Tuesday. Trannyshack, in fact, may be the perfect hook for writing Tiff: she used to go all the time
funny, she didn't seem like a sympathetic former regular that night, did she? for all you could tell, she was disgusted by the thought.
and sounded interested in going again. Maybe I'll invite her week after next, though. It would be too much pressure for this week. The Ex would probably want to go, however. Sure, why not?

The Neil show was fairly emotional for us, particularly during "Harvest Moon," which was to be our wedding song.

I'm at work. Must go home now. Particularly if I'm dumb enough to go out again tonight.



Last | Top



Friday, 19 March 1999 (electro-shock blues: my descent into madness)
10:27am

I like the new desk. It has definite possibilities. Lots of wall space to play with. The Fidget Queen and I are now diagonal from each other, which in cubicle terms means fairly isolated, though bright light from his lamp shines through. That can be fixed, though.

Perhaps most dangerously, I've inherited a very neat little monitor mirror from the former occupant of this space, the kind that fits onto the upper edge and lets you see when they sneak up with the knife. Given my somewhat jumpy nature (well, I do almost all of my writing at work, whaddaya expect?) this is very useful. On the other hand, it's feeding my rapidly evolving narcissism a bit too well. Being able to glance slightly upwards and and to the right and get a 3/4 view of myself is entirely more tempting than it should be. I'd damn well better come up with some ways to improve my makeup as a result.

On that note, I decided to take the plunge last night and get made up again, at least below my eyes, which I hadn't done since the Manson show last week. The swelling has definitely gone down, and the mottling is smaller. That doesn't sound like an improvement, but trust me, it is. Anyway, Phil had been saying that I didn't even need to wait for the swelling or redness to go away before using makeup, provided it was hypo-allergenic. Still, I'm awful nervous about moving too quickly and putting my skin through more abuse than is absolutely necessary. It's only my damn face, after all.

But I figured I'd give it a try, since I was really hoping to get made up and dressed (if low-key) for the Neil concert tonight. In fact, I spent my current clothes budget on it last night: a black pleated skirt, black tights and a black t-shirt, all Hillard & Hanson, a brand to which I seem to be developing a certain loyalty. And why not? They make really nice stuff which fits me well, thank you very much, and in which I don't look half bad. In fact, in my current outfit, I dare say I look almost...natural. Certainly it's a more casual/demure look than I usually go out in, and that's definitely for the best. Glammy is fun and I love it, but the real challenge (as I see it) is just looking, well, normal. I don't know if I'm really pulling it off or not, but I hope so. And The Ex's initial look last night when she first saw me suggest that I might be.

Anyway, the makeup covers the redness much better than it ever did the hair after even the closest shave, and the more I think about it the more it makes sense. Whatever caused it, the redness is organic to my skin; the hair was punching through the skin, was essentially a foreign object. (Is my hostility showing?) In any event, there's still a sense of shadow, which is to be expected, but it's nowhere near as severe as it was before. In another week or so, when the redness has all but disappeared...

I'm probably going to blow a lot of minds tonight at the show, at least of those who know me, and most haven't seen me since last October. It'll be fairly dangerous, I suppose, but I'm gonna do it anyway.

Many of the old friends I may or may not be seeing will be from a mailing list I used to participate on called Rust (about Neil Young). I haven't been particularly active over the last couple of years, though I'm still recognized at shows, and even am now expected to show up at the "International Rust Fest" every year to sing "Rockin' in the Free World." Funny how things work. Anyway, my handle on the list was Hip Drag Queen, and I know a lot of people were somewhat confused by it—why on earth call yourself that if there's a risk of people thinking you're gay? Which is a perfectly good reason right there, if you ask me. (It's from a Neil lyric, by the way. The first line of a song called "Lookout Joe": "A hip drag queen and a side-walkin' street wheeler / Comin' down the avenue / They're all your friends, you'll come to love 'em / There's a load of 'em waitin' for you.") Anyway, seeing me dressed like a girl may either confuse the hell out of or confirm the suspicions of many. I don't know, and ultimately I don't care.

1:39pm

And, afterwards, unless I get a seriously better offer, I'm going to Shrine. Whoever I see there, I see there.

2:45pm

while you're sitting there feeling all selfless for the sacrifices you think you're making, can i remind you of a few things? by her own admission, she almost broke up with you on more than one occasion last year, while at the time you were still convinced you'd always be together. before you even started your new job and the madness that ensued immediately thereafter, she said she wasn't sure that she wanted to go onto your insurance as a domestic partner because she wasn't sure she could make that kind of a commitment to you, even though you were still officially together. are you noticing a pattern here? she is not an innocent victim in all this. oh, she played that role awfully damn well—looking at you with that burning in her eyes, saying that she wanted you to hurt as much as you were making her hurt. and you, the eternal fucking martyr, fell for it. it was emotional blackmail, pure and simple. wanna have some fun? get pierced. watch how quickly she gets off her proverbial ass and does the same damn thing like she claims she's been wanting to all along. after all, the only thing that ever seems to motivate her is keeping up with and/or topping you. if you hadn't gone the black-hair-with-bangs route it's a safe bet she wouldn't have, either. which isn't to say it hasn't been adorable watching her goth out lately, and the question of what would have happened if you hadn't started getting into the scene until after you broke up, or if you'd gotten into something else altogether (like punk or swing), if she would still be the same struggling little GAF she is now or paralleling your other path is certainly intriguing. and it would be so much easier if you didn't still love her, wouldn't it?


Last | Top | Next



Thursday, 18 March 1999 (electro-shock blues: cancer for the cure)
9:04am

Fuck. Well, that'll teach me, huh?

Maybe he's moving and maybe he isn't, but I definitely am. I was just told the movers are coming at 5pm to relocate me across the room. Away from the little shit, at if nothing else, and a space with less direct light
and out of her main flight path. days could go by without even realizing she's here. that's definitely for the best.
and less foot traffic, which is surely a good thing. Still, it sucks having this sprung on me with such little notice, and I don't like the thought of having to start from scratch with my nest.

For lack of a better word, when I move into a new space (typically referring to living situations, though in the last couple years more often meaning work, which has become like home anyway), I tend to nest, meaning I personalize by covering every available bit of wall space. I suppose it's very juvenile of me, the kind of thing you're at least supposed to grow out of by the time you graduate college, but I do it anyway. It helps me to focus and concentrate. Certainly when I was in college and living on campus it helped me retain my sanity while living in hell. (The single worst living situation I've ever endured was from January-May '95, with August-December '94 coming in second. Nothing else has ever come close. No matter how uncomfortable things get between The Ex and I, and last night certainly sucked hard, it'll never be as bad as those days. I learned an awful lot about survival back then.) Anyway, here's an idea of how my desk looked a couple months back. It's evolved a bit since then (more clutter, basically), but the general idea is still the same. This is the camera flash turned on, and this is with the flash turned off. I love blacklight.

Connelly's Razor: every support system goes away. The more you rely on something, the more you must be prepared to live without it.


The Ex and I had a nasty argument last night. I'm still not entirely sure what caused it, but I suspect it was just me being me.

I'm not suicidal, but it got me thinking about how much easier life would be for so many people if I wasn't around at all, how I've caused them nothing but grief and stress lately.

The Ex and my mother are the two people who immediately come to mind, the people whom for the longest time I couldn't bear to disappoint or upset. I don't think my mother really comprehends just how afraid I was of her being angry with me when I was growing up. Not that I feared she'd be violent (the wooden spoon disappeared when I hit double-digits), but I couldn't stand the thought of her being upset or disappointed in me. It would be the greatest betrayal ever.

So I never did a goddamn thing wrong. Or, at least, I did very little, and what she did catch me at were minor infractions at best—sneaking out at night to go to the corner store, that sort of thing. Oh, and the way she tore into me that one time, she might as well have caught me with a needle in one arm and fucking a whore with a crucifix with the other hand, it was that bad.

I kept my minor drug use (acid and shrooms in controlled environments with people I trusted) a secret she never detected, and to this day she would probably never know that I'd ever done anything like that if I hadn't told her. She knows I don't drink, yet damned if every time I'm at her place she doesn't offer me a beer, perhaps if only to keep up masculine appearances in front of Earl. Bad enough I have a faggy haircut and don't lust after red meat, but turning down a beer too? Goddamnit, at least she tried!

Then, of course, there was her great line about personal problems: "Oh, everybody has problems." She was too busy sorting out her own issues to want to deal with anyone else's, even her children's. Which I'm sure was her right. After all, her husband left her. Nothing anyone else could ever possibly experience would come remotely close to that. Queen of pain, she was.

It seems unlikely that I could ever get to truly comprehend how much it hurt when she said that I'd never given her any real trouble until I got that haircut—how much I didn't do, how much of my youth was wasted because of not wanting to give her trouble. Maybe being rambunctious simply isn't in my nature, that's distinctly possible, yet how dare she not grant me the right to do this? After how much living I gave up for her when I could actually get away with it? After being the good respectful little boy whose primary embarrassing characteristics seemed to be his weight and mediocre grades?

Then, at least, I wasn't a genuine embarrassment to her. She could point to me and say to her friends, "See? I'm doing all right." What can she say now? My mind boggles at how she'd try to explain this. Surely it'd be much easier just to say I'd died. She may even be saying that; how could it be disproved? It's not like I'll be showing up at church any time soon.

The final disappointment, when all she wanted to do was show the world that she can play by the rules. Got married, converted to her husband's faith, obediently bred and raised children. Better yet, all boys, meaning the family name (not her name, but since when has that been the point?) would continue onwards. Perhaps the only time
hello? the dream last night? planning on getting to that soon?
she really put her foot down was insisting on having one more child in hopes of having a girl after three boys. Hell, if the third kid had been a girl, that would have been more than sufficient, but it didn't work that way. Then the miscarriage. Surely that would be interpreted by some as a sign to just plain stop, but not in this case. One more try, and in June of 1973, at the age of 33, her fourth child (and her husband's fifth but she'd long since learned not to think about that—his family abandoned the child so it clearly wasn't her responsibility) was born.

Another boy.

Four boys. Mildly disappointing, for it would have been wonderful to have had at least one child to really call her own and raise and teach and nurture in the way that only a mother can for a daughter...but not a bad thing. Four beautiful boys now, even if the oldest one was already showing a self-absorption worthy of his doting father and the second oldest was already developing a rebellious streak a mile long, no thanks to the aforementioned father who seemed to have stopped caring about him the day he was born. At least the third was making it through the terrible twos just fine, thank you very much. Still, though. Four boys, four chances to get it right, four new Christians, four sets of grandchildren to see at church and on holidays and to show to her friends and relatives. The American dream. This newest one seemed to have a deformity in his legs, but it was fixable. Everything would work out fine.

Quarter of a century later, things didn't quite work out the way they were supposed to. The two grandchildren, while absolutely wonderful and remarkbly strong for what they've gone through, call another man daddy because the second oldest's drug addiction (ending in a nasty crack habit he barely survived) destroyed their family. At least they still see their grandmother and uncles on a regular basis, despite the bitch—that is to say, despite the best efforts of their mother. At least their father believes in god, unlike the other three who have somehow become atheists despite being taken to church and cathechism and youth group and in the case of the two oldest a rather expensive catholic school. His belief in god could be argued as an alternative to the drugs, but that doesn't make it bad, does it?

If nothing else the oldest is married, even if it did take him until he was 37 and no grandchildren are in sight. And to a very sweet girl. He's no less self-absorbed than he ever was, though. To put it frankly, he's an asshole, just like his father. Would it have killed him to have cut his hair before the wedding? No, but he knew it would kill her, and sometimes it seems like that's the only reason her sons do anything at all, to upset her. Like when they gang up on Earl. That's so uncalled for. He's willing to be friends with them, but they won't even try, just because he's older and was in the army. They're so stuck-up.

The third oldest...thank god for him, he's so reliable. The closest thing to a classical "good son," she has, the one who's always willing to help out and be there when she needs him. Sadly, he never recovered from his weight gain when she and his father broke up...but he's got a genuinely sweet soul, particularly since he stopped beating up on the fourth son. And that hasn't been for years, and he's truly sorry for it. Now if only he could do something about his self-esteem and get out of that abusive relationship with that miserable little bitch. He could do so much better than her, but he doesn't have enough faith in himself so he doesn't even try.

Then there's the youngest. Oh, God, where did she go wrong? Was it because his father didn't care about him? Because she couldn't find a sufficiently stable man while he was growing up? Wasn't strict enough? Too strict? The abuse at the hands of his brother all those years ago? Why didn't she see this coming? What could possibly make her baby, her dear son, her last chance at having children she can be really proud of (and at least his girlfriend was someone whom she would have been truly proud to have as a daughter-in-law), what would make him think he's a girl? (That she'd initially wanted a girl is irrelevant. He's her son, period.) How could he do this to her?

It's not fair. Look at the Wilsons. Look at the Glenns. She didn't do anything differently. They all turned out so well, why not her? What did she do wrong? Why does she deserve all this pain and misery and disappointment? There are rules, she played by them, and got screwed anyway. Why? WHY?

Last | Top | Next



Wednesday, 17 March 1999 (electro-shock blues: going to your funeral part i)
9:04am

I broke down yesterday.

It was bound to happen soon; the only questions were when, where and why. The answer to the first two turned out to be at home with The Ex. I'm still not sure about the "why." I just started crying. It was like the night a couple weeks back when my foot started cramping: sometimes everything just boils over and I can't hide it anymore.

Whether it was The Ex (whom I've badly wronged, and having to live with the knowledge that I've hurt probably the only person I'll ever really love or who will ever really love me is getting harder all the time) or Summer (it don't hurt like it did, it hurts worse, who do i kid?) or Tiff (would it have been so difficult for me just to keep it physical? huh?) or delayed trauma from the zapping (no matter how stoic I may try to be and how much I try to convince myself that because it's something I'm doing voluntarily and it's so outside the bounds of most anyone else's experience that I can't expect them to understand or sympathize since it's so unfair to them hence I'm just being whiny and self-indulgent if I complain about the discomfort that I'm bringing on myself the simple fact is that it really really really hurts bad) or the fact that The Ex saw Pandora (whom I've haven't seen in a long time and miss dearly and have reluctantly had to move onto the ever-expanding lost friends list) or all or none or some combination of the above or simply the hormones (crying jags are an inevitable side effect) is a mystery to me. Or maybe some days I just can't outrace the speed of pain.

The Ex, as always, went above and beyond the call. She held me and comforted me as best as she could. I apologized to her for all the bad things I've done (eternal recurrence, indeed). It was all I could seem to say.

Eventually I had to leave the house, so I went for a walk, ending up underneath the walkway on the beach. (If you've ever been to Ocean Beach in San Francisco, you know the part I'm referring to. It's hard to describe.) It was bitterly cold, but I sat there anyway, watching the sky grow dark and listening to Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie on my discman, which I found more comforting than I had any right to. It's supposed to be for people who have been done wrong, not those who did it. And yet.

Normally on Tuesdays The Ex works and I'd have the apartment to myself, but not tonight. Probably just as well, because before long of being at home again I knew I needed to go out again, and there was only one place that would work: the library.

This is how pathetic I am. Needing something to indulge in, and knowing it couldn't be food or drink or drugs or alcohol or even movies (The Ex was doing homework in the living room, and there was the whole "sitting still and watching a movie" thing which I'm still not quite capable of at this moment), getting a bunch of books was the only option left, made all the more attractive by the lack of money involved.

So, between two different libraries, I ended up with:

Notes from the Underground — Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Jesus Saves — Darcey Steinke
How to Mutate and Take Over the World — R. U. Sirius, St. Jude
Where Wizards Stay Up Late : The Origins of the Internet — Katie Hafner, Matthew Lyon
Underworld — Don DeLillo
Girlfriend in a Coma — Douglas Coupland

More than I needed, certainly more than I'd be able to read before they're due, but then again, that was the whole damn point. This might be the only way I'll gain anything from the period in my life. Who knows, I might finally really be inspired to start writing again on my own...

1:54pm

Though I can't say why, I just asked Summer if she saw Tiff at Lilith last week. She says she didn't, but by her own admission her memories of the evening are spotty at best.

Wow. I am so so so tempted to write her. Just to say hi. It's been a week and a half, after all. Seems like enough time for a simple greeting.

christ, i really need to get a day job. so what happens then, huh? think about it for just a moment: at least now you have no real reason to expect to hear from her and you can go on about your business, however badly you may be doing it. write her and you'll just be adding more fuel to your anxiety fire, waiting for her to reply when you know that even while you were speaking regularly that email wasn't her strong suit. you're constantly on the verge of tears as it is; don't make it worse for yourself. you're simply not strong enough.
A simple "How are things?" Not even "How are you doing?" which might suggest that I think she's not doing well. She's doing much better than I am, that much is certain.

I don't know. I'll have to think about this one for a while.

3:01pm

Good lord, he's packing. Could it be? Of all my faithless prayers, is the the one that's being answered? Is he moving to another desk?

to be replaced by someone ten times worse, if so. let's not forget there are rules to this sort of thing. he may move and within a week you'll be pining for these days.


3:05pm

Someone I'm assuming to be his boyfriend (judging by the noisy kiss) just dropped off the largest bouquet of roses I've ever seen in my life on his desk.
more than you ever gave the ex during the entire course of your relationship, right?
And, this whole time, he's remained talking on his telephone headset. (Not to his boyfriend, I might add.)

I'm not well. I'm not well at all.

4:40pm

Just chatted with Joy for a while. She was in a better mood than usual. I asked her if she's seen Tiff recently. I shouldn't have, but you know me—I'm, like, a rebel and shit. She says Tiff is good overall, if a little stressed about school.

There was no reason expect a less noncommittal answer than that, and by some miracle I wasn't foolish enough to ask if she's mentioned my name. Of course she wouldn't have. If she's thinking about me at all— and if so it's probably only to the effect that I'm such a chickenshit I bailed the moment things got rough—she wouldn't likely talk to Joy about it, and if she did, Joy wouldn't turn around and tell me. She's far too loyal for that.

So I don't know what I was expecting. Just trying to get something to tide me over until whatever happens next.

She's good. Probably better for not having to deal with me at all.

remember that early reply of hers? when she said she liked transparent, and she was hoping the apology had just been an excuse to write her? (little did she know how quickly your apologetic nature would lose its charm, huh?) just over a month ago. mid-february, no less! the shortest month, and it isn't even a leap year! could you have blown it faster if you'd tried, really?
Just a note...a simple, friendly, note. What harm could it—

Oh, no. No no no. I'm not asking that question.

Richard said, withdrawal in disgust is not the same as apathy.

Last | Top | Next



Tuesday, 16 March 1999 (electro-shock blues: elizabeth on the bathroom floor)
3:07pm

Five hours last night. After a while Phil stopped concerning himself with using painkiller spray and seemed to be bouncing around my face at random. Lotsa vicodin on my part—if I had to estimate I'd say maybe 3 grams, which is probably way too much.

But with a few minor exceptions (like some straggling hairs on my upper lip—fuck you, evolution!!!), my face is clear. It's also red and swollen, but not as much as I was expecting. According to my scale I'm at 180, suggesting there's very little swelling happening at all. Then again, it sometimes takes a couple days to really kick in. The real grossness may happen tomorrow.

I called in sick to work today, the first time I've done so since I started there the first week of January. It was midnight when I Phil and I finished, and between BART and Muni I didn't get home until 2am. Not the first time I've been out that late and had to go to work the next day, but between the slight dopiness from the vicodin (which was surely still in my system) and not wanting to face the world while my flesh was still sizzling, it just made since to take a break. This is my first actual day off in weeks—even the last couple weekends have been taking up by zapping. Thankfully, my supervisor is cool with it.

Let's see here, if I'm doing my math right, it took 20 hours (compressed into a week and a half) to clear my face. Not bad considering the first time through, last summer, took about 48 hours. If I get it done every few weeks, I could be completed (as in, completed) by my birthday in June, or at least the end of the year.

just in time for the millennium. lucky you. and who will you be sharing it with?
...and now what?

It's remarkable how unfocused I feel right now. Not just in a grand life sense, but at this particular moment. The apartment needs a major cleaning and this may be my only chance for a long time to do so (and it's not one of The Ex's strong suits). Then again, there's a lot of movies I've taped but haven't watched yet, though that would require sitting still and not moving, and I don't know if I'm capable of that. The temptation to walk to the liquor store on Taraval and get some of that grade-z yet remarkably satisfying ice cream is quite strong, too. Why the hell not? Why should Tiff get to be the only selective hedonist?

Or maybe I could just fucking dance, which sometimes seems to be my only solace. Next time I go to Lilith I may not leave the dance floor. There it doesn't matter if The Ex or Tiff or Summer or anyone else is present.



Last | Top | Next