Victims of These Gay Days

In these days of changing ways. So called liberated days. A story comes to mind of a friend of mine.

Georgie boy was gay…I guess. Nothing more or nothing less. The kindest guy I ever knew. His mother’s tears fell in vain the afternoon George tried to explain…he needed love like all the rest.

Pa said,

There must be a mistake. How can my son not be straight? After all I’ve said and done for him?

Leaving home on a Greyhound bus. Cast out by the ones he love. A victim of these ‘gay days’ it seems. Georgie went to New York town. Where he quickly settled down. And soon became the toast of the great white way.

Accepted by Manhattan’s elite in all the places that were chic. No party was complete without George. Along the boulevards he’d cruise. And all the old queens blew a fuse. Everybody loved Georgie boy.

The last time I saw George alive?

Was in the summer of ’75! He said he was in love…

I said,

 I'm pleased.

George attended the opening night of another Broadway hype. But before the final curtain fell, deciding to take a short cut home. Arm and arm they meant no wrong. A gentle breeze blew down Fifth Avenue. Out of a darkened side street came a New Jersey gang with just one aim…to roll some innocent passer-by. There ensued a fearful fight. Screams rang out in the night. Georgie’s head hit a sidewalk cornerstone. A leather kid, a switchblade knife. The sight of blood dispersed the gang. A crowd gathered…the police came. An ambulance screamed to a half on Fifty-Third and Third.

Georgie’s life ended there! But I ask who really cares?

George once said to me…and, I quote…

He said,

Never wait or hesitate. Get in kid before it’s too late. You may never get another chance. Cause youth is a mask…but it don’t last. Live it long, Live it fast.

Georgie was a friend of mine!

Four victims of ‘gay purge’ in Chechnya reveal the horrific torture they endured

All four of the men said they were tortured for other information on gay men, and one of them said when he was handed back to his family the officer implied that they should kill him. Read more at…

https://www.gaytimes.co.uk/community/118273/heres-everything-you-need-to-know-about-chechnyas-gay-purge/

Head Full of Doubt

There is a darkness upon me that is flooded in light.  In the fine print they tell me what is wrong and what is right.

And, it comes in black.

And, it comes in white.

And…I am frightened by those who do not see it.

When nothing is owed or deserved or expected.  And, you’re life does not change by that man who is elected.  If you’re loved by someone, you are never rejected.  Decide what to be and go be it!

There was a dream…and, one day I could see it.  Like a bird in a cage I broke in and demanded that somebody free it.  And there was a kid with a head full of doubt.  So  I will scream til I die and the last of those bad thoughts are finally out.

There is a darkness upon me that is flooded in light.  In the fine print they tell me what is wrong.  And what is right.

There is a darkness upon me that is flooded in light.  And, I am frightened by those who do not see it!

Avett Brothers

 

 

 

 

Cycle of Abuse: Isn’t It Ironic?

Irony is such a strange word.  I never fully understood it.  Until, I found myself uncovering the trash bin of history that covers my blood.  And, until, I found myself needing to look long and hard at my own ‘hate crimes.’

The irony of my parent’s sharing the same psychiatrist…Dr. Koutras, the hand who filled the bottles.  Until the, irony of shared psychosis…Forty five minutes with my father (the wife killer.)  Forty five minutes with my mother (depressed ex nun looking for abusive father figure.)

Until, until, until…

Dr. Koutras became a stone pillar within a graveyard.  Not until, the doctor’s death, did I  understand how the sharing of time together…can become a pebble that lay the pavement.  The pavement that cover the path…to their children’s own bouts with depression, anger…addiction.

My mother had told me shortly before she passed away.  Informed me that both she, and my father did not reside well.  Did not perform well, as parents should, after Dr. Koutras passed away.

Gee!  Do you think so?

After all, the good Dr Koutras and Mr. John Hawkins, had lay the ground work for my father’s quick dismissal from murder.  After all, both psychiatrist and psychologist, along with many of those with power, knew Janice and Harold had created a child…under the hospital’s not…watchful eye.

The irony that struck me?sps-5

It had not been my mother’s discourse on loosing a psychiatrist of good faith.  The irony struck me that…many abuses of doctor/patient professional relationship…had occurred.

My father, essentially, lived weekends, at John Hawkin’s home.  Lived not as the killer he had been…less than two years before.  My parents shared the same confidant for over twenty years, Dr. Koutras.  He had allowed them to visit, have sex, get married and give birth.  Give birth…to me.  Give birth to an addict with OCD and generalized anxiety disorder.

The humor?  Years later…had been that I became a counselor.  Receiving a degree and psychology and working as, a mental health worker.  Going even further than that…a master’s degree in social work.

Paradoxically, I had worked with adults, dual diagnosed, at a private psych hospital.  Still, I found the bowel’s of addiction held me close at night.  Still, I had bouts of anger that would only be semi controlled by destructive and risky sexual behavior.  Still, with papered degree in hand…I did not know of my history.  A history that possibly could have helped explain my abhorrent…after work…behavior.

Nothing from my childhood to my thirties seemed cohesive!  Would it have helped to know?  Could I have changed?

I took so many friends, lovers hostage…as they say, in AA.  I ran and hid.  Ran and hid.  Ran and hid.

If I took the time, depression would set in.

Being gay appeared to be yet, another personal flaw to be ashamed of.  Growing up catholic, living among adults who did not hold the tools to console and reflect.  Having siblings much older, I found no comfort there.

I lay no blame on my own homophobia.  Lay it nowhere and it no one’s feet.

However, when dressed in my best gray wool skirt, green polyester blazer and pastel button down shirt.  Reading of family values…one man, one woman, two and a half children.  Beholding a ceramic blood infused man hanging from a cross.  And, being scolded for inquiring about a couple, two women (Maryanne and Dawn), that seemed closer to one another than most…

It, the Bible, the Scriptures, distances placed between myself and two, possible role models…  IT all instilled in me feelings of insecurity, remorse, guilt.  And, the unspoken words of

being gay…was not okay!

…fear…resonated.  stand alone 4

When I did eventually come out.  Come out… and running with ‘freak’ flag, flying.  Closet doors not only splintered but knocked off it’s hinges.

My mother spoke few words…

‘I am ashamed of your choice.  But I’ll get over it.’

Criticism began my adolescence.  My mother and father did not want me to have anything to do with Maryanne and Dawn, the not gay, but gay couple.  I had been told to pray for them.  My sister with baggage of her own, slipped birth control pamphlets under my bedroom door.  I had been dressed in gray wool skirts with pastel button down shirts and green blazers.  I had been dressed in the Good News Bible!

Whether any of us knew it or had the ability to understand!?  Slowly, the encouragement to shun gays…rooted and grew in my subconscious.

In school, I used with frequency the words…

fag, dyke, queer…

With friends, I did not confide my inner turmoil.   My wanting to play with GI Joe and not, Barbie.

I hid deep within me, self abusive and risky sexual behavior with men (starting at the age of 14.)   Hurtful scars for my teenage mind to own.  And, own alone.

A sore that was deeper than a chasm of  my leftover souls.  Souls that held no reality.  Or, at least, in my young mind…a life I could live not live with any certainty.

That is…until, irony brought me to a woman with her own demons.  Another graduate of New Hampshire Hospital.  A woman whom… with her innocence and love, rescued me from all the turmoil that stir inside my defunct and dysfunctional persona.

busnote

 

 

 

Every Morning…Mary Oliver

I read the papers,
I unfold them and examine them in the sunlight.
The way the red mortars, in photographs,
arc down into the neighborhoods
like stars, the way death
combs everything into a gray rubble before
the camera moves on. What
dark part of my soul
shivers: you don’t want to know more
about this. And then: you don’t know anything
unless you do. How the sleepers
wake and run to the cellars,
how the children scream, their tongues
trying to swim away–
how the morning itself appears
like a slow white rose
while the figures climb over the bubbled thresholds,
move among the smashed cars, the streets
where the clanging ambulances won’t
stop all day–death and death, messy death–
death as history, death as a habit–
how sometimes the camera pauses while a family
counts itself, and all of them are alive,
their mouths dry caves of wordlessness
in the smudged moons of their faces,
a craziness we have so far no name for–
all this I read in the papers,
in the sunlight,
I read with my cold, sharp eyes.