Saturday, Jun. 22, 2002 - 9:14 p.m.
Blurting It Out

I am just going to write some stuff down, and decide later whether or not to post this.

Lately, I have not been disclosing very much about what’s really going on. Part of that reticence, I think, stems from a healthy questioning of the online journal milieu, what Queer Scribbles means to me, what I expect or want from it. The project has been an incredible part of my life these past two years and, like other long-time online journalers, I find myself wondering what’s the point of all this disclosure, whether or not I wish to continue.

That’s all well and good; but the recent paucity of entries has been about more than metajournalistic reflexion. I have been depressed. There, I’ve said it. Written it. I see now that this has been descending gradually, going back at least to my move last fall. Vocationally and personally (and sexually) I drifted aimlessly last fall, glad to have moved but unsure of why or what I wanted or needed to do now. This was compounded by September 11th, the gay bashing murder here, and most personally by my dear friend’s HIV diagnosis.

I took a job this winter, the kind of job I promised myself I’d never have to work again, and found some superficial comfort in the financial security that brought. I applied to grad school and was accepted, but with funding so paltry that becoming a student again would have been near-impossible (and certainly not desirable); I rejected the offer, and with great excitement (and encouragement from QS readers) decided instead to focus on my writing.

So I began to write, an hour a day on weeknights and two hours daily on weekends. I did that for about six weeks, I think. It was going okay; I felt like I was finally developing some discipline, a habit, and that the black voice inside—that had sabotaged all past efforts to write more seriously—was finally tamed.

Of course, life is never that simple. I set one piece of writing aside a month ago, thinking I’d go back to it a few weeks later with fresh eyes, and in the meantime I intended to start working on something else. I couldn’t decide what to begin next. I started stalling. I would come home from work and stare at my blank computer screen until the hour was up.

And the black voice returned.

To make a long story short, I have not written one word since. Aside from the handful of entries in here, I have clammed right up. It’s even been a few weeks since I’ve written anything in my own private journal.

And, as always happens—god fucking dammit!—the creative impasse awakens my urge to drink. It’s been almost two years since I had my last cravings (and my last drink) but a couple weeks ago I started yearning to lose myself in booze. It scared me. My alcoholism is such that, were I to succumb to the cravings, I could easily drink myself to death. So, having stayed away from AA for six months, I have recently returned; this has helped. But still I want to drink. I am sitting here writing this instead of going up the street to buy some booze.

I don’t think I will drink, and part of the reason I’ve not written about this here is not to alarm folks unnecessarily. AA really does help a lot of people, myself included; I intend to stick around and keep going to meetings and hopefully recover some peace of mind.

Because right now, you have no idea how regressed I’ve become. My sex drive is gone. (Always a serious warning sign, eh?) My self esteem is fucked; I hate the fact that I’m aging, that I can’t write worth shit, that my trapezius muscle fuck-up has prevented me from working out or exercising or swimming—from doing any-fucking-thing—for over two months and so I feel grossly out of shape and undesirable. And people. I have become scared of people again. How fucked is that? I have been spending too much time alone, I guess.

Two weeks ago I got results from a couple medical tests that, because of biology and lifestyle, it makes sense for me to take regularly. The HIV test and the diabetes test. I am clear on both counts. It had been a few years since my last HIV test; although I haven’t had an unsheathed dick up my ass since the last eighties, I always find it stressful waiting for the results. This time was no different.

And when my doctor told me the good news, I felt……..nothing. I felt no relief, no happiness, nothing. That freaked me out. I mean, it wasn’t like I was disappointed at getting a clean bill of health, but it was this lack of affect that made me realize I am probably depressed.

Anyway, that’s what’s been going on. It would be great to revert back to not knowing what to do with myself; lately, it’s been more a case of not feeling I have a right to exist. Toxic shame, some call it.

I am depleted; I am a cold stone. But I have been here before. I know what to do, and I’ve already started. I wish I were a stronger person, that I could handle more and do more with myself; too often it takes everything I’ve got just to keep that black voice at bay. That’s what it feels like: I’ve got all this potential but I will never amount to anything. Puh.

I consider going back to writing tomorrow maybe, or the next day, just keeping on, working on it, being gentle with myself, blah blah blah; but that belittling harsh voice snaps back and I recoil and go limp. Limp limp limp.

It’s like dying. Or, at least, not living.

This is not living.

And I do want to. Live, that is.