19 May 2001 ~ Stories...

Pub Crawl...

I nearly had a breakdown on Thursday night. I swear, I almost just lost my entire sanity. Thursday night, something occurred in Binghamton called "Senior Pub Crawl Night." That is, the graduating seniors of Binghamton University are issued plastic green mugs, after which they all parade downtown in a rather un-solemn fashion, and all of these people bearing green mugs are given cheap drinks by all the downtown bars.

Now, to anyone else, this might have been: a.) amusing, b.) fun, c.) a good challenge -- ie, a chance to somehow get one of these sacred mugs, or d.) a minor inconvenience involving some nasty barf on the sidewalks and a fair amount of broken glass the next day. To ME, however, this was breakdown material.

I have approximately three real fears. One of them is falling into a river and drowning. One of them is losing my glasses and being unable to see. The third, and probably worst, fear, is vomit. Silly? Yes. I cannot explain this fear even to myself. I can only surmise that reincarnation is quite a real phenomenon, and that I died of the Plague in a previous life.

For as long as I can remember -- back to three or four years old -- I have been afraid of vomit. To the extent that, if someone said the words "get sick," or "barf," or "puke," I would have what can only be described as a panic attack. If a family member was sick, I avoided them like... like the Plague. I'd hide in my room and cry. I'd wash my hands a thousand times a day. I'd try not to breathe so as not to acquire any germs. I remember an instance in third grade when my class was reading one of the "Ramona" books in which Ramona has the stomach flu, and I ripped those pages out of my book. I've had dreams, literally all my life, about people around me getting sick, and me having to avoid them, so as not to become infected. I STILL have those dreams. I wake up crying, or in desperate fear, or feeling generally unhappy. Strangely, this avoidance does not apply to any other symptoms of illness, or any other variety of uncleanliness. I am simply unable to tolerate vomiting.

I have never consumed enough alcohol to vomit. I simply do not understand, cannot comprehend, something like Pub Crawl night: getting as drunk as possible until one is sick...

By eight o'clock on Thursday evening, State Street was already... soiled. And I was already terrified. Literally, terrified. I would rather have had hairy spiders crawling all over my naked body than be exposed to this sort of event.

["...Get yourself a nice cold beer... And drink yourself away..." --Filter]

I hid in my house for the majority of Thursday night. I sent an email or two. I turned on the TV and the radio, because I could hear commotion from the seniors outside in the streets, and couldn't bear the thought that one of them might be drunk already and perhaps drunk enough to be sick. I fell asleep with my head buried beneath a pillow.

I've tried everything I can to get the hell over this stupid thing. I've tried meditating. I've tried recalling some traumatic illness I might have had as a child. I've tried hypnotizing myself, which doesn't work. I've tried talking about it. I've even tried constant exposure to vomit-like substances, forcing myself to pick the shit out of the drains at work with my hands and stare at it. None of it has helped in any way.

Friday morning, it rained. A brief but intense cloudburst. The Higher Powers are taking care of me.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Sweetness and wreckage...

I was in the shower last night and found myself thinking about Peter. Sadly, I realized I cannot really remember making love to him. Oh, I can remember, but the impressions are vague... Only two or three instances really stick out in my mind... The first time, of course... The night we made love without even looking at each other, without even kissing, and I ran outside afterwards and sat on the back porch smoking a cigarette and sobbing because I thought he hated me... And that time in the kitchen...

The kitchen-incident was probably one of the best and worst and strangest sexual encounters I have ever had in my life. We were cooking dinner together, and just kind of spontaneously... fucked. REALLY spontaneously. I'm surprised we even managed to turn the stove off first. I'm surprised we didn't destroy anything.

I remember this episode particularly well. First of all, I think we both had motivations other than getting off. For the first and only time in my life, I think I was using Peter for sex. I had nothing to prove anymore; didn't care to make him know I loved him, didn't care about anything except... I'm not sure what... I think in his heart, he knew -- although he faked ignorance extremely well later -- that, prior to the kitchen episode, he had not been my last lover. I think he knew, and I think it pissed him off, and I think I was secretly delighted to know it pissed him off. It was violent, and it was scary, and perhaps the closest thing to rape that either of us was capable of. It was also wonderful. I think that may have been the last time we had sex, though I can't swear by it. It should have been. In that afternoon, I exhausted most of my angry, frustrated energy with Peter. Never again could I have ever felt that kind of passion with him. I recall wanting to say something like, "I guess I showed you," afterwards. I suspect he felt the same way. Even a few months later, when I found out he'd stolen my email password, I WAS furious, that fury was nothing compared to the desperate mix of love and hate I felt in my kitchen that afternoon, my back against the wall and both of us tearing each other to pieces.

After nearly two years of on-and-off intimacy with Peter, I can barely remember what his body felt like. I can barely remember any of it: only sleepy recollections, bits and pieces. The feelings associated with those memories are hazy ones of warmth, and of sadness; of being quite nearly in love, but being quite nearly suicidal. And that's it. That's really it. Two years we were lovers, and all that's left in my memory is sweetness and wreckage, made vague by time and apathy.

[One might comment, with dreadful, disgusting irony that would doubtlessly horrify Peter, that "time heals everything."]

* * * * * * * * * * *

Another rite of passage...

I attended my mother's graduation ceremony today. She is now entitled to place six letters after her name: "M.S.W., M.S.S." Masters of social work, and Masters of social science. I'm very proud of her.

The ceremony itself was dreadfully long and boring, and nobody got to throw their hats, which was disappointing, to say the least. Worse, however -- MUCH worse -- was the woman I met after the ceremony.

"You're Susannah's kids?" asked a strange woman, sitting near my mom. My mom was fussing with her gown, trying to fold it or something. "Yeah," I replied. My brothers, who were busily spraying showers of Mountain Dew on unsuspecting little sidewalk-mites, nodded politely.

"That's a relief," said the woman. "My partner, Mary, has two kids, and we're not out to them, but after her divorce is final, we're going to tell them."

It was a weird response, but not shockingly weird by any means. Having grown up as a sort of straight spokesperson for the gay community, I'm used to stupid questions and bizarre confessions. Having grown up with a freaking WEIRD mother, who ended up in a long-term, loving, lesbian relationship, I'm often the spokesperson for children of gay parents, as well. No problem, really. There aren't many questions I'm unwilling to answer, and I'm fairly decent at listening to people babble on about their sexual-orientation concerns.

So, to alleviate this woman's apparent nervousness about "coming out," to her partner's children, I said, "Yeah, my mom came out to me when I was about fifteen, and I was just kinda like, 'so?' With the fuss she made about it, I thought she was going to tell me I was adopted or something..."

Well, this seemed to comfort the woman, whose name, I learned, was Pam. But THEN she began to change the subject and THEN I began not to like her.

She asked us where we were in school. Joseph announced that he was a month shy of graduating high school, and that he wanted to become a trauma surgeon. Then she asked me, "And what grade are you in?"

GRADE?

"Oh, I'm out of high school!" I exclaimed. She looked at me disapprovingly. I think she thought I'd dropped out. Whatever. I may still look younger than my age, but I DON'T look younger than my brothers, and I DON'T think I look so young that it's a SHOCK to hear I've graduated high school. "Well, what school ARE you in?"

Fucken cunt-rag. Nosy, nosy cunt-rag.

"I'm not in school," I said, hoping she'd drop it. She didn't.

"Well why not?"

"I work fifty hours a week cooking and waitressing and cleaning and doing dishes," I told her, a little coldly. "And I still don't have the money to go to school."

"So get a loan. Get assistance. What's wrong with that?"

Fortunately, my mother had finished fucking with her gown and came to the rescue, though I don't think she'd heard any of the previous conversation. My mom, affectionately teasing me, mentioned something about, "...and it seems like the only guys Helena ever dates end up being gay..." I have never had a problem with my mom teasing me. But this was EXACTLY the wrong thing to do at exactly the wrong time.

"Oh REALLY?" Pam's eyes lit up. "You know, from a social worker's point of view, I think there could be many reasons for that. Most likely, a fear of intimacy."

A fucking FEAR of intimacy? Shit, guys, I'm writing a damned PUBLIC journal entry about SEX, and *I* am afraid of intimacy? Who in the hell ever gave this woman the idea that gay men, by definition, do not ever sleep with women? Who in the hell ever gave her the idea that I've never fallen madly in love with a homosexual man, fully desiring an intimate relationship? ME? Afraid of intimacy? That's like saying I'm afraid of wearing socks! Dude, this chick's presumption, whether it was from the perspective of a social worker or not, could not have been more wrong. I felt like throwing back, "Oh yeah? Me afraid of intimacy? You ask my friend Aaron who the prude is, and I bet you a thousand dollars my name wouldn't ever come up. You ask any of my former close acquaintances, friends, or lovers who's afraid of intimacy, and I bet you a thousand dollars my name never comes up." I didn't say that. I just began to get very, very angry.

"Is your current boyfriend gay?" she asked. I have no idea how she figured I HAD a current boyfriend. I have no idea what made her think it was ANY of her damned business.

"Bisexual," I muttered through gritted teeth.

"Bisexual's not bad," said Pam. "As long as you don't end up ever dating the same guy as your boyfriend."

She had a point there. She DEFINITELY had a point there. But it was a point I REALLY didn't need pointed out to me, thank you VERY fucking much. Ain't NOBODY needs to tell Helena about the pain of falling in love with two people who are in love with each other. The day I become unaware of that particular cruelty, is the day I go out and buy myself a tool-kit full of screwdrivers. The day I don't remember the ache of finding the two men I loved most in the world, in bed with each other, is the day I forget my love of orange juice, my first name, and the kitchen-incident.

I decided I really, really hated Pam.

ALL damned evening this woman was offering some "advice" to me, asking me EXTREMELY tactless questions about my life, and criticizing me.

She didn't believe that I'm less than two weeks away from being 21. She refused to believe it. I said, coldly, "Thank you VERY much, but I'd rather not be perceived as a child. It doesn't command much respect to be thought of as thirteen." (And boy do I EVER know what it's like to be disrespected because of one's age... gahd...)

She said, "I don't care what your father's like, mine is worse!" And they LET this bitch be a social worker? I wonder if HER father ever stopped letting her eat? I wonder if hers ever left her essentially homeless? He didn't sound like that bad of a guy to ME...

She said, "You should go to chef-school and become a chef. That way, you'd at leats be making some money." "I don't WANT to be a chef," I said.

"Well, what DO you want to be?"

I want to be a professional hitch-hiker and I want to write like Robbins, Rilke, or Sartre. I want to gain experiences, and I want to write them down, and I want to make people laugh, sob, and think with my words. I also want to make a lot of love and drink a lot of orange juice. That's all. Those are my dreams. I didn't tell Pam that. I told her I didn't know. I told her I had plenty of time to think about it. Seeing as I'm only thirteen or fourteen years old in her eyes, I don't know WHY she felt so passionate about getting me to decide on a fate for myself. The cunt-rag.

ALL night. It just never ended. Pam and her poor partner invited themselves to dinner with my family, and we had to freaking eat with them. By the time my family was packed safely into the car and was driving home, I just exploded with rage. "WHO does that crazy cunt-rag think she IS?" I demanded of my mother. "I SO hope you're not very good friends with her or anything, because if so, your friend just came AWFULLY close to getting her eyes ripped out with a spoon." My mom was sympathetic and also kind of thought Pam was a cunt-rag, although she thought "cunt-rag" was a fairly gross term. Still, all the way home, I seethed.

* * * * * * * * * * *

"A little fat gypsy..."

My bad mood was broken by my building manager, who came upstairs to tell me to beware of the new people across the hall. They're "bad news," as he says. I happen to think this guy is just absolutely the freaking bomb. He's a dreadful gossip, and he's terribly nosy, and he's got all sorts of stories about growing up on the mean streets of Brooklyn (Brooklyn? I think Brooklyn...), but he's just great. Chris, my friend and upstairs neighbor, had stopped by to see what was going on, and so the three of us discussed, in hushed tones, the new people across the hall.

"They're GYPSIES!" explained Mr. Burns. "Long time ago, they used to wear costumes, but now they want to look American... They have American boyfriends so their kids will have blonde hair and blue eyes, but those girls... Those are GYPSIES! Lock your doors! PLEASE lock your doors!"

After he'd left, Chris and I had a rare moment of bonding, laughing over Mr. Burns and speculating about his comment, "I know everybody's business around here... If somebody farts crooked, I know who farted."

"Do you think he knows about us?" asked Chris.

"Ohhhh... shit... hm... probably!"

"He knows... Of course he knows..."

I dunno, Chris... Did YOU fart?

I'm tired. Goodnight.

~H.T.*