Everyone was so supportive, I thought I’d go for it. Over the coming month, I’ll probably post from several old journals. They are very scattered as I hadn’t really developed the skill for it nor the habit of writing consistently. However, that’s not really the point.
This one was taken from an old journal entry back in 1997. It was my first real forray into writing down my thoughts. A relationship that I never should have been in had just ended and I was alone, lonely, and miserable. A relationship that I’d moved across three states for,Houston to Boulder. I’d heard about journaling as a form of therapy and thought it might be helpful for me. It is unedited for grammar or content.*
*While writing this entry, I was sitting on a giant boulder overlooking a creek inside a canyan between the Flatirons in Boulder, CO. It was one of my favorite places to go and relax. It was called Dream Canyan.*
This is a journal I have always wanted to start but never have. It’s the first day of the new year. Pat has left for Atlanta & I am still here in Boulder, CO. I really don’t know why I have stayed but, here I am. I really like my job & I guess I ‘m afraid if I leave I wont’ be able to find another job like this one. I am making more now than I ever have before however, it is very expensive to live here. I am barely scraping by. I am thinking of moving to Denver w/Daniel. As roommates go, he is not bad. A slob but not bad. I would, at least, be able to become a part of the gay scene there. Boulder has no scene at all. Something has to change soon. I have given up alot for love on different occasiona & I just am not willing to do it again. I want to focus on my own life & hopefully get it together. I have started working out again. I would like to get my ass in shape. At least, to tone up and be firm. Not to please others but to please myself.
Continue reading Old Journals – 1.1.97
I’m considering publishing some of my old written journals on the blog.
I found one of my old written journals from about 1o years ago the other day while unpacking some boxes. It was around this time I realized my childhood insecurities were crippling me as an adult. To say I was dysfunctional is putting it mildy. I was a mess! Oddly enough, most of my entries were optimistic. Often yearning for a better life, somtimes realistic, sometimes very UNrealistic. I kept waiting for something or more astutely someone to happen to me. I hadn’t yet contemplated the term of self-acceptance. My self-esteem and self-image were so low as to be non-existent. I was very skinny in a muscle bound world of gay men. Skinny w/a big butt. (Well, I thought it was big but, in hindsight, it wasn’t so big.) Throw in a heavy dose of low self-worth courtesy of my stepmother and you have a recipe for the classic dysfunctional adult. Not surprisingly, I lived at the whim of my emotions and desires.
I must admit, I’m a bit apprehensive. It was a time in my life when morals were foreign to me. I did things I’m not proud of. I was self-centered and selfish w/o even realizing it. Course, it’s hard to be moral and self-righteous when you aren’t sure where you next meal is coming from.
If I am to put my money where my mouth is, I should do it. Maybe my mistakes can help someone else.
** This was copied from my old journals and I’ve tried to condense it for clarity **
It finally happened! My stepmother is dead! Satan has left us once again for the underworld. May she reign in hell forever undisturbed.
This news is so completely unexpected as she is 10yrs younger than my dad. On top of that, they still don’t know what killed her. She went to bed one night and just didn’t wake up. It was your conscience that killed you, you mean spirited hateful bitch! (Yes, I’m bitter, and I have good reason. If you haven’t read the history, please do so now.)
I just got home from work and I’m so giddy w/laughter I can’t control myself. I know I shouldn’t be happy over someone’s death but I can’t help it. She was the bane of my existence for so long, I can’t help but be happy. She made my life a living hell as a child. Anything cruel or mean she could think of to do to me, she did. It has taken me years to work thru the anguish, feelings of inadequacy, and self-doubt that she instilled within me sometimes daily.
I have such a feeling of relief. As if a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders. My belief is that, for whatever reasons, she was a miserable person in this life. A person who couldn’t be happy so tried to make everyone around her just as miserable as she was. All my puns aside, I hope that she has found some sort of relief from her grief. Maybe in her next life she’ll come back as a gay man adopted by white trash and they’ll kick her to the curb at the ripe age of 14.
I’m going out to celebrate tonight. I plan on getting snockered up real good!
****this is a from a journal entry about a week later****
They discovered what killed my step mother finally. Apparently, she had taken a whole slew of pills again (she was a severe pill addict) and some of the pills interacted and backed up into her esophagus. She basically choked to death in her sleep. Hows that for irony? I still say it was her conscience.
** I copied this story from an old webpage and I’ve condensed it way down for clarity/simplicity. Even still, its a bit lengthy so you might wanna grab a cup of ‘joe’**
First let me say as tragic as my childhood was w/my foster family it could have been a lot worse. Kinda hard to believe but I’m digressing….
Birth – 1yr:
I was born in the early 1970’s to the not-so-proud parents of Wanda Clem & Roy Seymoure. My mother met my father while he was in the service and after he was discharged they married. I was the 2nd sibling at the time and an unwanted/unexpected pregnancy. My mother & father were hard core drug users before, during, and after her pregnancy. I was born 2 months premature and addicted to several drugs. I spent the first 9 months of my life in a hospital surrounded my machines and strangers. By some miracle, my mother managed to get me home. I’m sure the laws then were much laxer in relation to child/drug abuse. You’d think the issue w/my hospitalization would have been a wakeup call to my parents. Nope! My parents continued their drug habits. I would be left alone in an empty closet or an open dresser drawer for hours sometimes days at a time w/nothing but a pillow and bottle. When CPS (Child Protective Services) found me, I had a diaper rash from my neck to ankles. I was returned to the hospital for 2 months for severe dehydration and related ailments along w/multiple contusions/bruises all over my body. This time I was not returned to my parents. As luck would have it, my real mothers best friend, told my foster mom/dad about me. My foster mother told me once, she took one look at me and fell in love. My adoption was just a matter of formality after that. So I went from being the unwanted son of Mr/Mrs. Drug Heads to the first and only adopted child of Mr/Mrs White Trash Family Robinson. (yes, I’m poking fun here)
Continue reading Tragedy of Childhood