November 17 2009

Some of you will be aware of what the 17th of November means to me. It's the anniversary of my 'Coming Out,’ the anniversary of the day I told my mum I was gay, way back in 2001. November the 17th is about so much more than sexuality, though.

A lot's changed for me since 2001, I've moved from Oamaru to Christchurch, from Christchurch to Wellington, and from Wellington to Palmerston North. I’ve ditched the ‘gay’ label and moved on to ‘bisexual’ only to drop that for ‘queer.’ I’ve given up on Christianity, become an atheist, then a Satanist, a pagan and finally an agnostic. I’ve been a staunch supporter of monogamy and marriage, an equally fervent advocate of polyamory, and more recently I’ve committed myself to celibacy. I’ve subscribed to beliefs about divine ordination, biological determinism, social coercion, and lately social/environmental/biological interactionism. I’ve changed so much that I scarcely remember who I am and where I came from. I need this day, I need the time to reflect, to try and make sense of it all.

November 17 is about honesty and integrity, about earnestness and accepting responsibility. It’s about facing up to the fact that I create myself, about not laying blame at the feet of others. Every year I commit myself anew to honesty, having lived a pack of lies most of my youth.

You see, I learned to lie, prolifically, convincingly, from an early age. I was so desperate to win approval, from my parents, my peers, my teachers, complete strangers. It’s what I do, I lie, and I lie, and I lie, and I lie. I lie to you all, every time, trying to make myself look better in your eyes. It’s a compulsion. Most of all, however, I lie to myself.

It’s Aaron’s fault, I tell myself, for stealing my stuff and selling it. It’s Mum’s fault for leaning on me too heavily. It’s Bruno’s fault for swinging back and forth and changing his mind. It’s Bryce’s fault for being too needy. It’s Dad’s fault for yelling at me and beating me. It’s Brent’s fault for not telling me the truth. It’s Daniel’s fault for cutting me off when I said I missed him. It’s Scott’s fault for asking me to church. It’s Stewart’s fault, and James’ fault, and Tom’s fault, and Simon’s fault, and Kerry Anne’s and Tamara’s and AJ’s and Eric’s and Seth’s and Glenn’s and everybody else’s fault but my own. I tell myself a history that allows me to live with myself, and I rehearse it so often that I almost believe it.

Almost.

The truth of the matter is, I did this to myself. I brought me here, to this moment, by always choosing the path of least resistance, by avoiding responsibility, by accepting less than I felt I deserved, by doing what I knew would only hurt me in the long run because it was easy or appealing at the time. I have no one to blame but myself.

And I’m still doing it. I’m doing it to you now, right now as you read. There are things I want to say, apologies to be made and lies I want to admit to, but I can’t bring myself even to utter them aloud in the silence and privacy of my bedroom. I’m writing this, leaving out the worst, all those shameful little secrets, all those dirty deeds and most private thoughts.

I live in a world of my own creation, a world where I am the victim, the martyr, who will be one day be vindicated. And yet, some tiny part of me still sees through the falsehoods I’ve spun, retaining enough clarity to wonder whether I could survive being faced with the screaming naked truth, that I am the monster. When the towering edifice of illusion comes crashing down around me, and I see myself as I truly am, will I persist, or will I smash what little remains of my kingdom? Will I wander about in that ruined wasteland, picking up and turning over the fragments, playing my accustomed role though nobody is watching? That tiny watcher in my soul knows the latter is the more likely.

November 17 is for honesty and integrity.

And I fail.