The Lightening Power of Laughter

Sometimes it only takes a bit of laughter. Even the witches of Eastwick knew the power of laughter.

I've been down the dark rabbit hole of misery for much of the past week. Okay, why stop at just a week. I've been in that hole for the better part of this year. I seem to fall into it with more frequency and with much ease nowadays. I'm familiar with feeling sorry for myself and with the wallowing that comes with it. As much as I don't want to be a victim I play the victim quite often. I would rather play the dashing socialite that is impeccably dressed (even in jeans and a t-shirt), whose presence is desired where ever he may be. But alas, it is the self-perceived, undesirable victim that I most often play. Although, I'm still pretty well dressed. Even victims can have style.

The words "I hate people" often exit my mouth on the breath of an exhale. But I know that I need people. I don't really hate them. It's the behavior of many who crowd this crazy, sexy, dirty, gray, radiant, glamorous metropolis that I call home that I really hate.

Last night as I sat in a garden with friends and a stranger telling stories, I wasn't miserable. I wasn't sad. I was happy, content, cold! Glass after glass of wine or beer was filled, emptied, and filled again. The contents of a bowl of Seven Layer Dip were demolished as chip after chip scooped up the goods like a backhoe removing dirt. I was talking, listening, laughing. At one point I was laughing so hard I couldn't breathe. And the coughing started. You know, the coughing: when you're laughing so hard that you can't catch your breath and you start to cough. I had to stop laughing and make myself take deep breaths: in through the nose, out through the mouth. That laughter was wonderful though, even as my lungs burned. I was enjoying the human interaction that we humans are on the planet to enjoy. The interactions that I don't get when I'm down that rabbit hole, isolating. I had forgotten the lightening power of laughter.

Life changes. There is always something that we wish we had done, or wish we were doing. It's up to us to either do those things or find the joy in what it is we are actually doing. I'm currently binging Parenthood on Netflix. I often make myself feel guilty that I'm not taking advantage of everything my City has to offer. But truthfully, I really enjoy sitting on my sofa watching Parenthood. That guilt is so self-inflicted that I should wear a body condom to protect myself from its infection.

As I write this, I'm sitting at my desk listening to the cast recording of the musical Come From Away. It's a 9/11 story. A tale of fear, sadness, compassion, and friendship. This day is heavy. I may never forget what I was doing on that morning 16 years ago when my sister finally got through to me on the phone and informed me of the devastation that was happening outside my window.

As I write this, I'm thinking about my mom and how I wish I could feel her arms around me right now. Sometimes a mother's hug is all one needs to comfort him. I think about how often I don't indulge in her hug when I have the opportunity. This train of thought inevitably leads down the track of impending loss toward that someday (hopefully many years from now) when I will no longer be able to feel her arms around me. My sigh is loud and as heavy as the day. I sent her a text to tell her I love her.

Change can happen in an instant. We can all attest to that. I don't laugh enough. I'm really hard on myself. I wait for things to happen instead of making things happen. Life may seem like it's long but it isn't. It's already September and just yesterday it was June. Time is flying. My waiting and isolating and not laughing only makes what little of it there is miserable.

I have to live. I have to live. I have to live. I am here. I am breathing. I am alive. I have any opportunity I want. I can make choices. I can play the victim or I can write myself a new role. I am here. I have to live.

Laughter was indeed my best medicine. But with medicine, one has to take it in order to feel better, to heal. In order to heal, to feel better, to enjoy my life I need to laugh more. I need to spend more time with my friends. I need to speak the stories instead of just writing them. My sofa will still be there when I want to binge the next television show. But laughing with people is different that laughing at the television.

I've been too heavy lately. It's time for the lightness.

Embracing Life and My Fear of Vulnerability

The anxiety is real. I'm not sure where it comes from or when I developed such a deep cavern of fear for it to fill. But I suffer from it, wake in the middle of the night for no apparent reason because of it. 

My latest bout is travel related. I don't want to fear traveling. I don't want to hate traveling. I enjoy being where I'm going. It's the getting there that drives me to utilize deep, calming breaths...and drink. 

If you read any of my Paris blogs from September 2015, then you know that I thoroughly enjoyed my first trip to Paris--the Eiffel Tower, the wine, the Mona Lisa, the wine, Versailles, Hermès, the wine, the chocolate, the cheese, the café's...the wine. Walking on the streets, strolling by the Seine, riding the Metro all brought me joy. You might also remember that I was bumped off my return flight with no explanation. That could have been very traumatic, but I took it in stride, freaking out for a moment, then settling my sleeping and car arrangements for another day, after which I had the glorious opportunity to see Monet's Water Lilies. I'm glad I didn't miss them. So for that I say, Thank you Air France for the bump.

That bump-without-an-explanation is the whole reason I'm returning to Paris almost 8 months to the day of the first trip. I emailed Air France asking 1) for an explanation as to why they were unable to accommodate me on the return flight and 2) to pay for my extra night's hotel cost. They never did explain their inability to accommodate me on my scheduled flight and they didn't pay for the extra night in the hotel. But they gave me a flight voucher worth €800. That basically covered the price of this flight. So again, Thank you Air France for the bump.

For three months I've been marinating in the excitement of returning to Paris. Yet as the day of departure approached I could feel my familiar anxious tropes beginning to take hold of my thoughts and my insides. You know...you find yourself short of breath, nauseous, fearful, emotional. That's anxiety. At least it's my anxiety. Three out of the four nights prior to departure day I found my sleep restless or completely interrupted. My emotions were high. I could cry from a side-eye glance misinterpreted or because the subway left before I could make the transfer. A sad song turned me into a puddle. I found it difficult to relax and more often than not in these situations I resort to an OTC sleeping pill to ensure I get some rest and turn off my mind. 

Finally, the day before departure--departure for Paris in May; Paris in springtime. I tried to check in for my flight on line. I couldn't. I tried four times to no avail. Finally I called the customer service number where I'd originally spoken to a lovely woman who helped me book the flight using my voucher.

I gave Carla, my Air France customer service representative, my ticket number. She pulled up the reservation immediately. At least I thought she had. I mean she confirmed my first, middle, and last names after typing in the number. Then there was silence followed by, "I'm going to need to put you on hold for a couple of minutes." The couple of minutes turned into seven and at least two more times of being put on hold.

It seems that even though I received three emails on February 12, 2016, with all of my itinerary confirmations inside, my reservation had been cancelled on February 14, 2016, for no apparent reason that appeared in any of the information Carla could find. I wanted to vomit. There I was 30 hours before departure and I was no longer booked on the flight. I must confess part of me wanted to just say Fuck it and let the anxiety win. I seriously gave thought to just not going. Then Carla said that she, with the help of a manager, had reinstated my reservation: "You should now be able to check in for the flight online." Except I couldn't because I hadn't remembered to bring my passport to work and needed the number to complete the check in. My anxiety shot through the roof, my stress levels threatened to drown me as they rose toward my chin. 

I went directly home at that point. I did not pass go; I did not collect $200. I managed to check in for the flight and confirm that I was indeed booked for the return. Although I have a bit of trepidation considering the two incidents I've now experienced with Air France. Bump me once, shame on you. Bump me twice, what the hell am I doing here?

The excitement ebbs and flows. The anxiety ebbs and flows. The excitement gets stronger as the departure time nears. 

I hate being vulnerable. I have a fear of flying that presented itself at some point after the devastation of 9/11. Admitting my fear is vulnerability. I hate not knowing exactly what I'm supposed to do and how I'm supposed to do it. That is showing vulnerability. Refer to the first sentence of this paragraph. I realize that much of my anxiety comes from this fear of being vulnerable. 

But I'm going to be in Paris tomorrow and for now I want to embrace the excitement, give the vulnerability a small foot hold, and leave the anxiety in the airport at JFK. 

Mon voyage se poursuit. Au revoir. 

High on Heels

Sometimes a man’s gotta do something that’s out of the ordinary. Sometimes he has to push himself. Sometimes a man’s gotta walk into a shoe store and buy a pair of heels.

My love affair with high heels began in early childhood. Read my HuffPost Gay Voices piece, “Discovering and Outgrowing My Mother’s Shoes” and you’ll know.  That love manifested itself at various stages of my life. My senior year in college I participated in our Theatre & Dance Department’s student produced cabaret. That particular spring I performed in drag for the first time in public. Two of my friends and I spoofed a couple of dance pieces that had just been part of our annual dance concert. I played the girl part while my female dance partner in the original piece played the boy part. To complete our menage a trois we added a boy from another dance piece altogether. Incidentally, I had a crush on that boy, but he wasn’t out at the time. Memories. I’m off track. Back to the heels. 

I went to a thrift store. Yes, a thrift store. They were popular even before Mackelmore and Ryan Lewis sang their ode to cheap finds. I was in college and had little money. It’s not like I could ask my parents for the funds to buy a fabulous pair of heels. Can you imagine? Anyway, I went to this thrift store and found a pair of black Nine West heels that almost fit. With a little tissue stuffed in the toe they fit perfectly. That was until I put on pantyhose. Wearing pantyhose those shoes wanted nothing more than to slip up and down every time I took a step. How was I supposed to dance in those? Solution. I wore footless nude tights. My ankle area didn’t have any hair on it, so I was good to go. With tissue in the toes and sweat created just from wearing them, they stayed on my feet just fine. 

Remember on Will & Grace when Karen went to Will’s office and made reference to his bamboo shade and the sidewalk level window where he could see bad shoes walk by? Remember how she then lifted the shade and with perfect nasal condescension said, “See. Nine West?” Every time I see that episode I think of those black Nine West shoes. I thought Nine West was upscale, and I’d found a great find at the thrift store. The things I didn’t know about labels…I guess Karen set me straight about those shoes.

Then there was the time I worked at a dinner theatre in Florida. I remember finding this fabulous pair of glamorous 1940s-esq strappy sandals. They were gold with thin straps creating the vamp across the toes and a loop for an ankle strap atop the upper heel. These shoes, however, were missing that ankle strap, but I was not deterred. I threaded a gold ribbon through the loop with enough length to wrap it a couple of times around my ankle and tie it. The ribbon blended with the color of the shoes and worked perfectly to hold them on my feet. 

I loved those shoes. They even made the move with me from Florida to NYC. There were times my then roommate and I would just put our heels on in our apartment and sit on the sofa talking. He still tells the story of how he liked to put his heels on to vacuum. He was a 1950s housewife in a previous life minus the pearls. 

One of my favorite things we did in our heels was sing the two big Daisy and Violet songs from the musical Side Show. “Who Will Love Me As I Am” ended the first act and “I Will Never Leave You” was the 11 o'clock number. For those of you who don’t know, Side Show is a musical about siamese twins Daisy and Violet Hilton who became famous stage performers in the 1930s. Emily Skinner played “Daisy” and Alice Ripley played “Violet.” I always sang the Daisy role with my roommate singing Violet. I remember this one time (not at band camp) that I was working the cash register at The Drama Book Shop when it was still located on 48th Street at 7th Avenue. I looked up and there was Emily Skinner standing in front of me waiting to pay for a book. I had no filter and proceeded to tell her that my roommate and I sing Side Show all the time, and I always sing Daisy. She didn’t exactly look annoyed, but she certainly didn’t seem impressed when she  replied, “Okay,” with a tone of this-is-weird-but-whatever. She paid and left. I wonder if it would have made a difference in her reaction if I’d told her about the shoes? Nah, probably not.

That brings me to present day. I’ve been wanting to buy a pair of heels for more than two years. A friend of mine has a pair of Jessica Simpson’s that actually fit me, and I found myself wearing them almost every time I went to her apartment. It didn’t matter if we were eating, sitting on the sofa talking, watching TV, or playing a game. I would put on those bronze-colored heels and just exist.

Here’s the thing I discovered about myself. I have a lot of strength and courage for many things in my life, but I was finding it very difficult to access my courage and walk into a women’s shoe store by myself and ask questions of the employees. For instance, I needed to know what size shoe I would need. I’m a size 8 in men’s, but was uncertain what size that translated to in women’s. I think those Nine West heels from college were a 10, but I’m done with stuffing anything but my toes in the toe box of a shoe. 

After exhausting my search for someone to go shoe shopping with me I decided that I had to go alone. I knew I could do it, I just didn’t want to. I needed the confidence boost of a wing man.

There might as well have been a disco ball hanging above the store to indicate I’d reached my destination when I found myself in front of its window. I looked through the glass and saw shelves of shoes from floor level to the height of stretch-up-to-reach-it. So many shoes. I had to refrain from singing an chorus of “Let’s get some shoes.” I would have probably been as giddy as a school girl finally being asked out by the boy she’d been crushing on for month if I’d been with someone, but I was alone and a little apprehensive. 

High on Heels was the name of the store and I was high. I was in shoe heaven. I was surrounded by closed-toe shoes, peep-toe shoes, strappy sandals, etc. Tall heels, short heels, platform heels, and wedge heels floated on boxes around me. The colors ranged from fleshy beige to deep red with a spectra of blues, purples, greens, and yellows in-between. Some were glittery and sequined in silver and gold. Some were satins in champagne and peach. There were enough glittery reds that Dorothy could have clicked her heels three times in each pair and had enough trips back to Kansas for a month. 

“May I ask you a question?” I asked the man who appeared to be the manager.

“Of course,” he replied.

“I wear a size 8, but have no idea what that would be in women’s.”

“Probably and 9-and-half or 9.”

Supplied with the answer to my size question I set out to find that pair of shoes that would make my eyes wide like finding the perfect surprise under the Christmas tree. My desire was a beige-colored pair of round toe stiletto pumps. You know the kind that have a high heel and a platform in the front. Yep. That’s what I wanted. I live in NYC, the home of Carrie Bradshaw and the Gossip Girls. No kitten heels allowed. Besides if a man’s gonna walk around his house in a pair of heels he might as well rock a fabulous pair with height.

I found a champagne-colored pair in satin…esq. Five-and-a-half inch heel in back, one-and-a-half inch platform in front. They were pretty fabulous. I took my sneakers and socks off right there in the store and tried them on. After my earlier conversation with the manager, and after noticing that no woman in the store was paying any attention to me, I felt a sense of relief and almost no anxiety over trying the shoes on. I then talked to the manager about how they fit and began testing my balance. It’s interesting how one can rock forward on the front platform. 

“Will this heel bear my weight?” I asked the manager, thoughts of the denizens of Kinky Boots in my head and their discussion of how the heel on a woman’s shoe isn't designed to support the weight of a man.

“Yes,” he responded with a look on his face that I trusted.

I was so happy after finding a pair so similar to what I’d wanted that I couldn’t resist looking at another pair. They were even more fabulous than I had allowed myself to hope to find. 

Sitting atop a display box was a pair of dark mint green, peep-toe, faux-suede, Mary Jane stiletto’s with a skinny gold heel. The heel was 6” high with a solid 2” platform in front. They were beautiful. Honestly, I wish the heel was the same color as the shoe (and I would prefer silver to gold), but still I wanted to do my very best Carrie Bradshaw impersonation and say, “Hello, Lover!”

There was a size 9 and whaddya know, they fit me and they were on sale. The truth is I loved them more than the first pair, but decided there was nothing wrong with buying them both. Options, darling! I may only be wearing them around my apartment, but that doesn’t mean I have to limit myself.

The cashier who rang me up said she loved the mint green pair but no matter how much she tried she couldn’t walk in heels that high. I knew I was going to be able to walk in them, but pretended that I was hoping I could find my own balance. 

I was empowered with positivity and courage after walking out of that shoe store. I sent pics of myself in both pairs to many of my friends. (I wore the green ones for at least 3 hours that day). One of them responded to me, “You’re an inspiration.” I was taken aback. I don’t see myself as an inspiration to anyone, but the truth is, he and I had talked about my lack of courage to go into a women’s shoe store alone and buy a pair of heels the previous night. Now I was showing him that I had done it. To him, I was an inspiration.

We never know how what we do or say can inspire someone else. I found my courage. I walked into the store, apprehensive at first but determined. I tried on the shoes in the store and had a good laugh with the cashier while buying them. I proved to myself that I can do it — not just buy high heels, but anything — and I was rewarded with positive outbursts of pure joy, excitement, and encouragement. 

We can get everything we want out of life if we just take the first step. I’m still learning that. Find your freedom. Live your truth. Express yourself however you want. Hold your head high. Walk tall. I am. My steps just happen to be in 6” heels sometimes.

The Prick of Preventative Maintenance

The walls were lilac. From top to bottom. Every inch except the baseboard, which I would say was charcoal gray. The orchids, sitting on a table in front of the window, were in shades that complimented the lilac. I hadn't even realized until I was gone that my violet Michael Kors polo and purple plaid Ben Sherman shorts were dramatic pops of color that coordinated with the walls beautifully. I should have taken a #selfie, but alas, no record of me in this room. 

The color was tranquil, calming. The perfect choice for a small doctor's office where behind a frosted glass door the impending prick of a needle to the face awaited me.

I was nervous as I sat in the waiting room filling out the patient history form, reading of the possible side effects, signing my name in acceptance of the knowledge. 

However, once behind the frosted door myself, I was excited. My nerves seemed to be pushing me forward instead of holding me back. I had been curious about this for longer than I can remember and I'd had this appointment for 2 weeks. The time was upon me. I had “come up to the lab” and was the one “on the slab.” It was my turn. I sat patiently as the nurse practitioner explained the different areas in which the Botox can be injected. I listened to her explain about some of the possible side effects, which I had already read about while sitting in the lobby. Then, being a short woman, she stepped up on the step at the end of the “slab,” her needle in hand, my face it's destination.

I should tell you that I probably didn’t really need the Botox injections. Typically no one guesses my age. And when I tell them I’m 43 the reaction is usually one of genuine surprise. My sister is often commenting about the lack of wrinkles on my face. Moisturize, moisturize, moisturize. The truth is, I take care of myself. Along with moisturizing, I eat a healthy diet and aside from my one cup of coffee each morning I drink nothing but water the rest of the day. Yes, yes, I imbibe in alcoholic beverages, but not to the point of excess and mostly it’s red wine anyway. Even a doctor will tell you that a glass of red wine is good for your heart. When I told the nurse practitioner my age and that most people were surprised by my number she agreed saying the I had a “baby face.” I should have coo’d, but just smiled instead. I took it as a compliment. I talked to her briefly about the lines beginning to form on my forehead and how at the end of the day they are deeper than I would like. 

Five injections later it was over. This procedure I’d been anxious about for two weeks was completed before you could make a dirty vodka martini. The needle was tiny. After the first injection I had been so surprised at its lack of sting that I had to convince myself it had actually happened. In my head I had created various possible scenarios of pain, stinging, and pressure. But the truth is, the injections didn’t really hurt. The reality came no where near the possibility I had created in my head. (Note to self: this is usually true in all aspects of life. Learn this lesson!) The nurse kindly wiped away the blood from my forehead and sent me out the door with botulinum toxin attaching to my muscle fibers, preparing to work its magic. 

I can’t lie, I was giddy with excitement. I had confronted my fear of a needle-to-the-face and the idea of “freezing” a part of me that is a hub of expression. Now I just had to wait for the final results. I was informed it would be 2-3 days for the effects to start showing themselves and 2 weeks to be fully realized. That was new information for me. You see, I was under the impression that I was going to walk out of the office with frozen?, numb?, paralyzed? muscles. I had no idea what that was even going to feel like. I mean the thought of not being able to move my forehead at all was one I couldn’t quite comprehend, but as you can see from reading this, it wasn’t enough to deter me from doing what I set out to do. I just figured I would deal with it.

Listen, I know that elective cosmetic procedures aren't for everybody. I didn't even know if they would be for me. But I'll admit it: my vanity gets the better of me. I’m not ashamed of that. And now those lines that maybe no one other than me could truly see are less visible. I see nothing wrong with maintaining my youthful appearance. It’s preventative maintenance. I’m not “frozen.” I can still express myself. And at the end of the day, stress is no longer visible on my forehead in the lines of a furrowed brow. 

Today

Today I access my power, my love. I'm a good person. I'm worthy. My path in life is my own. I need no one's approval. Today I make a choice to be the best me I can be. Today me being proud of me is more important than my parents being proud of me. Today my own approval rating matters more than what other people think about me. Today I begin peeling off the layers of fear that I've been wearing for years. Today I begin to figure out who I am. Today I begin to forge my path with God/Universe/a Higher Power--MY path. Today I reclaim my life for me and learn to have faith and to trust. Today I take a step toward Openness, Happiness, and Honesty. 

Gratitude From 'Self-Worth'

To share ones life, even a part of it, takes a vulnerability that I don’t often possess. My story is one of many in this world, yet there is a universality in it that allows people to connect to it. Opening up and sharing the struggles and joys of my life with others, then hearing from them how they recognize themselves is something that I hadn’t anticipated. It's more than I could have asked for.  

None of us are alone. There is common ground. Honest sharing starts a dialogue where people can discuss how they feel, what they’ve been through, what they’re currently experiencing. I feel blessed to have found a voice and a platform for sharing mine.

To say that I was overwhelmed by the response to my latest HuffPo Gay Voices blog post, "How Do You Find Self-Worth When You Don't Like Yourself" is an understatement. The piece resonated with so many people from all walks of life proving that we're all human beings and that feelings of unworthiness are not unique to one's gender, sexual orientation, or position in life. I was unprepared for the number of people from all over the country, and other parts of the world, that reached out to thank me, tell me I'd written their story, tell me what they did to find self-worth. 

Many told me I was brave and courageous for sharing this story. I’m thankful for those comments. I appreciate them along with all those who chose to share their similar stories with me. Those who reached out on twitter and Facebook. Those who gave generous positive feedback. Words are powerful. I have found bravery in bearing my soul so honestly. Sometimes facing the scariest thing can be the most rewarding. 

Positive comments are like beautiful flowers in the garden of life, but as everyone knows, any beautiful garden can be infested by weeds. The trick is to not let them strangle the beauty and mar the landscape. The positive comments I received from the above mentioned blog created a diverse flower bed full of engaging thoughts, interesting advice, and pearls of wisdom, but there were weeds mixed in. Sometimes they weren’t easy to see at first -- hiding; buried between beautiful gems of flourishing positivity. In an open forum where people hide behind keyboards and animated avatars with all the courage in the world to say something negative, these “weeds” are to be expected. My favorites from the current blog include: “Quit feeling sorry for yourself,” “Sounds like someone needs more sunshine and fresh air in their life,” “Self-absorption is a turn off,” “Very often low self esteem is well earned.” My personal favorite had the word "vapid" in it, but because I refuse to give credence to such out and out meanness I won’t quote the entire remark.  

It took me a few days to read the comments. I wanted to read them, but was afraid of the negativity. I thought any negative reaction to my soul-bearing blog post might feed into my feelings of unworthiness or undesirability, but I wanted to see the flowers. I found the courage to read them and, with the help of a coworker, not take the negative ones too seriously. The piece I wrote was important to me. I wanted to interact with those who were so positive in their responses. I wanted to acknowledge those who gave good advice. Doing so was a step in the right direction for me. I was able to draw strength from all of you. The above mentioned “weedy” statements became humorous to me instead of depressing. I allowed myself to think about what was said, then question it’s truth and validity. In spite of the weeds I was still able to see the flowers. I was able to allow the good and the bad to coexist and not get bogged down by the bad. 

Listen, I'm thankful every morning that I wake up to another day. There will always be challenges to face, but there will also be victories to celebrate. I'm working on being kinder to myself and my therapist can attest to that. Look. That’s me planting a few flowers in the garden. I’m still going to find weeds in there. Even weeds that I plant myself, but I’m figuring out how to not let those weeds dictate how I view the garden as a whole.

To those of you who said my story is your story I say, "Thank you for helping me see that none of us are alone." Plant the seed of positivity and watch what happens. The effect is beautiful and can change what you see and how you see it. Weeds will always be there. We just have to keep them from choking the vibrant garden that is life.

The journey continues.

It's Gonna Take a Reset

Sometimes I just need to clear my head of the pollution that’s clogging up the processor. I need a “reset Safari” button for my brain. The cache needs to be cleared of all of its downloaded cookies and previously viewed pages so that I can browse with a cleaner slate.

The past is the past. I have to learn from it, but not live in it. I have to take what has happened in my life and reconcile it like last month's bank statement then file it away. The past can’t be changed. Some of it is joyous and some of it is not. It can’t be put on like a sweater in the cold months. I shouldn’t be paraded around like a prized Pomapoo.

Actions of the past are actions of the past. A bad choice, a hateful criticism from a parent, a harsh word from a stranger is not something that is constant and therefore shouldn’t be on a constant loop of remembrance, playing over and over in my mind.

How will I ever learn to truly love myself, be happy with myself, take pride in myself if I allow shame-filled feelings of my past to keep me in a fear-filled present?

I have been stuck in a purgatorial rut: wanting to move forward, wanting to progress to the next level, yet continually falling off the platform as I leap for the gold coin hanging above me.

I see the words that I’m typing. I hear them as they run through my brain before making their way to my fingertips. I know that I can live the life I want. I know that I can find happiness. I know that I can love myself. I know that I can care about other people, another person. It's all about choice, and I seem to keep making the safe one.

I keep wondering what keeps me grounded in my fear? Why do I feel so safe in the rut? Why is pushing against the walls sometimes all that I can manage? Do I need someone else to pull me up? Do I want someone else to pull me up? Why can’t I just climb out all by myself? When will I climb out all by myself?

This life that is mine keeps churning through its minutes and hours. The sun rises and sets every day. I have to find a way to enjoy what I’m doing even if it's nothing more than sitting on my sofa watching bad television. I judge me a lot. 

I deserve to live the life I want and to be happy with the path I choose. I deserve to see a kinder expression on the face staring back at me in the mirror. 

The past may inform the present, but it doesn’t have the right to dictate it. I think I’m letting my past dictate my present. I’m keeping myself trapped between the murky walls of self-doubt, unworthiness, and fear.  

I’ve had moments of living outside of this rut, but the older I get, the more it seems I’m walking back into its smotheringly comfortable confinement. I’m hiding. I’m hiding and wondering if I’m missed. I’m wondering if I’m missed instead of living in the world, leaving moments of laughter and energy that are missed when they are absent.

I am the only thing standing in my way. I get that. I am the one making this journey more difficult than it has to be. I am the one letting fear keep me from feeling the touch of another human being. I am the one encased in armor. I am the one with the key. I am the one who can unlock the door, release the dusty build up, and let the sunshine in. 

I am the one. Acknowledging may be the first step, but action is required. It’s gonna take a reset, and it’s time.

I Swish

I swish. I’m tired of apologizing for it or being scared of it. I’m ready to be comfortable in my own skin. I’m not completely there, but I’m ready to be. Isn’t that the first step? Acknowledging?

I’m a gay man. I was born gay. The question, “What if it was a choice? Would it matter?” has been posed to me a few times lately. I don’t know how to answer that because for me it wasn’t a choice. I’m thinking I wouldn’t choose to live my life attracted to men in a world full of venom-spewing right wingers and so-called Christians who desire a “vomit” button to show their distaste at same-sex love.

I want to be brave and live my life. I want to be comfortable in my skin. I want to be happy. I want to know that Heaven awaits me. I want the fear of Hell to go away. I want to understand why the verses in the Bible about homosexuality still carry so much weight in the 21st Century. I want to know if the translation of those verses are a colossal joke left by the man who translated them so many years ago. 

I want to be proud of myself. I want to know that God is not sitting on his throne in Heaven shaking his head at me in disappointment. I want to bring joy and pride to my parents, not the disappointment that I fear they feel when they think about me.

I want to live my life without shame. I want my attraction to men to be nothing more than that -- an attraction to the same sex. Love is love. 

I want to practice what I preach and fearlessly believe it.

I swish. When I walk down the street with a good jam playing through the earbuds of my iPod I strut it out. I want to live in that happy place without fear. I want to mouth the words carefree of who might be watching me as if I was rehearsing for my next drag performance.

I want to learn to laugh at myself. To not take myself so seriously. "It's only life after all." I want to let go and take a deep breath, feel my shoulders release all their tension and know that life will continue even if I leave my armor lying on the side of the road somewhere.

Life is for living. I’ve read that, heard it in television sitcoms & dramas, in movies. I’ve heard it in songs. Life is for living. I want to live. I want to thrive. I want to know what life is like when my heart is filled to bursting because I’ve opened it up to embrace the help and love of another person.

Imagine what I could accomplish if I would just unlock the lock, embrace vulnerability, step out into the world and swish my way to the fearless life of happiness that I know is out there. The life that I’ve been too afraid to live.