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I’ve been noodling around on Joe’s blog this morning and need to get things down before my thoughts disappear into the ether. There are times like now when I think that I’m going senile because stuff that pops into my head doesn’t stay for long.
I’m hesitating making this post for a number of reasons. Mostly because I’m not a very open person when it comes to writing about my personal life on this website thingy.
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I find it difficult to talk to my mother. A stranger on the street, in a bar, on a blog – it doesn’t really matter where, I have no problem. I can be coy or verbose as I choose. With my mother, things are different.
She once said, “You’re a very angry person.” Damn straight I am. I’m angry that I’m forced to slam the closet door shut whenever family comes over. I’m angry that I have to live a lie in order to keep the peace. A while back I visited her the weekend before my birthday. We were sitting in her car at the train station, waiting for the shuttle back to New York. I turned to her and said, “You place a lot of value on being honest with yourself. You’re always telling me to ‘Just be yourself’. Why can’t I when I’m with you or with family?”
I don’t remember exactly what she said in response but whatever it was, it hasn’t resolved the issue. God forbid I start dating again because she’ll never accept that her son is gay. She views it as a Great Tribulation. And folks, ever since Michael died, it’s like Mom’s gotten more religious. She prays for me constantly. Prays that I’ll see the light and wake up one morning and not be gay anymore. Asks why it’s her personal trial that her son isn’t straight. She could be a grandmother and the family name would continue. Gee, I always thought that if you were going to pray for someone, it’d be a genuine desire to help. This must be why I’m a lapsed Catholic. I’m too busy being a deviant to bother with domination mindgames.
I haven’t spoken to Mom in a few months. She gets all huffy if I don’t call once a week. Well, I haven’t spoken to her since February. I can imagine the tongue lashing now. She wants to have a meaningful relationship with me. And I guess, on some level, I do as well. But it’s tough going, it really is. At 17, I left home; scratch that, I was thrown out of her house. I literally had my belongings in garbage bags ready to be picked up at the curb the day after graduation from high school. I had to grow up rather quickly and it wasn’t pretty, but I managed. Three months in the Navy and a brief stint at Covenant House, then college while working fulltime. It’s been a grand adventure but one I’m loath to repeat. And now, nineteen years later, I find myself in the unusual position of trying to reconnect with someone I barely know, who refuses to acknowledge half of my existence.
