Fine Line

There is a fine line between pleasure and trauma. Many of us use pleasure to hide our trauma, while others traumatize pleasure. It’s a very difficult boundary to delineate.  The politics defining the trauma and the pleasure are very mixed – some suggesting one over the other. Then there is the challenge of dichotomizing both sensations.

Was I a victim of alcohol and drugs abuse or did I use it recreationally?  These are the questions I must ask myself – where am I?

Regardless of that answer, one thing is clear – I am going to succeed. I have been reading, “For Colored Boys,” and although most of them are depressing stories, I have been able to take one message from them – hope.  I am not, and have not been alone. I may feel like I am in this struggle alone, but there continues to be so many more out there. I wish we could all connect and come together and share. But that is impossible, so instead I stay in and focus. Focus on rebuilding.

perspective.

I’m not going to lie. I woke up super annoyed today. I have to be honest with myself and realize that everything happening to me while in Chicago is a result of my own decision to come her, unknowing of what to expect. Yes, I can blame the social conditions that have led to come here. I can also put the limelight on the manifestations of my own status as a queer Chicano from a working class family. While all this is true, the “suffering,” if I can even exaggeratedly call it that,   

it's dark.

It’s dark here. I open my eyes and I still can’t see anything.

All that is left is in my imagination. Your love lighting the way.

I recall those moments when I was down, and just needed someone to hold me.

The way you used to hold me so close to you, while I cried.

It’s been a while since I’ve cried like that.

Or when I would be afraid and you would just grab my arm and give me a kiss on the cheek.

I don’t even remember the last time I kissed someone I cared for.

Intimacy doesn’t scare me. It frightens me.

It is a result of self-hate, body image issues, doubt, and fear.

You probably don’t remember, but you made me smile.

You also didn’t know how much I talked about you to everyone.

They knew of your existence before I knew of your pain.

Do you remember yelling at me?

I feel so stupid. I told myself no one would ever talk to me like that.

Yet I let you.

More than once.

Do you remember the time you would squeeze my arm in disagreement.

And here I thought your jealousy was your way of telling me you loved me.

I was so naïve. You’d tell me what to do and I followed without objection.

I don’t blame you.

I thought it was my fault.

I was the one who messed up.

To this day, people still blame me.

No—I won’t tolerate the guilt anymore.

Yes I did wrong. But I never abused of you.

My lack of tears are no less valid than the ones on your face.

We were lovers, but you were also my enemy.

To this day, I am recovering from the darkness you put me through.

it's time.

I can’t believe that years after loving you, I still care about you just as much as that innocent summer. I know you’ll figure out who you are once you read this, but honestly, that is the least of my concerns. But a part of me can never forget how much I felt for you. Perhaps it’s because you were my first true love, or maybe you were not. But at least, it felt like you were. Mostly because it was innocent. There were no improper desires. It truly was a young boy discovering himself, and through that meeting you and falling for you.

My yearnings for you were pure. But so was the heartache. All those words that I wrote for and about you, you claimed to love them. I wonder if you knew that you were the cause of them. Perhaps you never figured out that it was I who pranked called you, that I would do anything to just get your attention.

Yes, I admit that it was peevish but it just felt so right back then.

It doesn’t exactly hurt that you are no longer the same person. Granted, we both went our separate ways. What united us back then, perhaps no longer exists. I wouldn’t be surprised if all that is keeping us together is those memories and adventures we decided to embark on.

Yes I still remember. Our moments in City Walk, all the starbucks we drank,  and all the times I wanted to kiss you.

It’s not that I am forgetting you, but rather I am letting myself go. It’s time I do.

Suicide awareness

Many nights, I found myself crying in bed.  I prayed that my mom would hear my sobs, come to my bed and hug me to sleep. But no, I found myself all alone – in my thoughts. There was no way, I could accept being a fagot, a cocksucker. After years of running away from these tormenting words, they were creeping up on me.

Accepting my queer identity was no easy task. I tried to brush it away, pray that God would make me normal. I felt so dirty.

I was bullied – pushed into the girl’s bathrooms, they would spit on my food, I was even kicked while I was on the floor. But the most embarrassing moment was in 5^th grade. We were beginning our comprehensive sexual education, and were separated by genders. As the girls were lining up to leave the room, this boy (Salvador is his name) shouted “Luis, don’t you belong in line with the girls?” Everyone laughed. Everyone but me.  I had never been humiliated in front of everyone, usually the bullying was more intimate – just me and my aggressor(s). Now, even my so-called friends laughed.  I felt my face burning. I starred at the wall, praying for the day to just end.

But, to my surprise – something happened. Someone saw, someone listened. The teacher (Mr. Franco) stopped the class, and in front of everyone asked Sal why he said that to me. Of course, Sal had no excuse. Mr. Franco humiliated Sal and warned him that one day I would be his boss. Although I do not agree with the teacher’s methods of punishment, when Mr Franco spoke up I felt like I was worth something. Mr. Franco saw my potential and knew that I was worth more than that embarrassment.

Thinking about this day just brings so many tears. Something that happened over 12 years ago still scares me. It still makes me weak.  I never told my parents about this, or anything else. I covered it all up by getting good grades, and having them not worry about me. 

Nothing changed in middle school. I felt like middle school would be a new beginning for me. My middle school years were some of the most difficult. I was in 6^th grade when we moved to our new house (meaning my parents had less spare money), I was in 7^th grade when my grandfather died, when my mom had her first cancer surgery. Sometime in middle school, my father also lost his job and we were living off food stamps and unemployment.

I was being bussed to a school where no one knew who I was, or knew of my previous bullying. It didn’t take long for that bullying to continue. From my peers, both male and female, calling me a fag, to spreading rumors about me and my supposed boyfriend (who is now a famous Model), to having my life threatened.

I remember my parents bought me this backpack from the swapmeet in 7^th grade. I was grateful for this backpack, and although I wanted a Jansport – I knew we couldn’t afford it. The following day, at school, I was made fun of for wearing a “fag backpack.” How aweful could we be to each other that I got made fun of for having a backpack that had some light shade of blue. This supposed effeminate backpack made me a fucking fag. I hated that backpack since then. I was fucking poor, my family on fucking welfare, and here these classmates of mine making fun of me for the color of a backpack?

I get so upset now. Angry because I let them get to me, angry because I purposely fucked that backup so I could get a new one, angry because I hated my life.

And I did the same – ran away from these problems, ignored them, got good grades, was valedictorian and pretended I was free of problems.

Until it all crashed on me. My confusion was getting to me. My desires were getting in the way. I couldn’t handle it anymore. I was going crazy. I knew what this would mean for my family – shame, disappointment, regret. I promised I would not tell them until I was on my own. But I couldn’t keep it any longer. 

I choked. I failed. I tried taking my life away. I was afraid of cutting myself, so I chose overdosing. I was rushed to the hospital, after my mom heard me vomiting in the bathroom. I was back at home, still feeling dirty and now also stupid.

I now thank the Creator for making me afraid. To those who lost hope, did not loose it in cowardice, but in strength.  I pray that your spirits have found the peace and serenity, we yearn for.

 This is my suicide story. I can relate.

My younger brother was in suicide watch for two months while in high school. During my second year of college, while I was in San Diego, my brother had to be hospitalized. There had been many threats, some attempts, and finally the psychologist had no other option – he was a threat to himself. I had never seen my mother so defeated, and my father so depressed. Seeing him in that awful ward.

See – I was able to hide my scars. He poked too hard, his marks remain alive, even though he wishes he wasn’t. 

I am here to listen, if you ever need me to.

why.

Its 1:15 a.m. and I find myself, again, restless. I don’t understand why I cannot go to sleep. It is all these thoughts that continue to plague me. but I honestly feel like if I am suffocating, suffocating at the fact that I have no where to turn. I don’t want to burden anyone with my melodrama, my internal thoughts. And my best friends – I have, I don’t know why, but pushed out. Why do I push out those who have offered to help me? I need to stop blaming myself, that is the problem. I need to come out a better person, a new person. I need to stop relying on people who are emotionally abusive. It all comes down to that, to the fact that I am unable and unwilling to recognize that I have never actually done something—but rather, I continuously allow myself to become a victim of something. I am trying to recognize what the core of that is – I am uncertain what it looks like.

Why is it that I am always doubting my self-worth? Why is that I always feel like I am not good enough?

Sure, I may feel this. But what am I doing to address this. Am I trying to find the drive of these feelings? Or am I trying to transform myself?  

warmth

Dark voices plague my head.

No they don’t tell me to do dangerous things.

Rather, they make me go crazy.

Not wild, but mad. Upset.

This reminds me of a darker period in my life.

I thought the devil was inside of me.

Controlling my life.

I was a devoted Catholic.

Loved God.

But I also made love to him.

I jerked off with the same hand

I took the eucharist.

I once wrote a poem about it, and presented in my Chicano Literaure class.

I thought I would be stoned. But I wasn’t.

They loved it.

Why I asked myself – would they love the idea of me making love to God?

The darkness never left, rather I hid it.

I’ve always been a very angry child.

I don’t know why or where it comes from. Perhaps the bullying in elementary school and middle school.

In high school. I always worried. I had meltdowns. Broke down. She held me tight. I felt comfortable.

Warmth. I miss it. I miss it.