A bit busted up

It’s been a rough couple of weeks for me lately. Writing these pieces have been a lovely distraction from my internal crap, but I feel I need to write about what’s been going on. The purpose of these writings have been to explore my relationship with a man with cerebral palsy. I’ve focused a lot on Bug and his life, but I’ve avoided/neglected to write about me, the writer. This hasn’t been intentional, just that I feel Bug is so fascinating and amazing and it’s easy for me to focus on him, but - there are two people in this relationship.

I’m the eldest of three boys, just like Bug. I’m the only queer one in my immediate biological family and as far as I have found out, against all odds, the only fag in the whole family on both my Mom and Dad’s sides.

What’s with that?! I somehow inherited this rouge gene that skipped every other fetus developing in all the women in my family. Crazy! .... and somewhat lonely. I’ve often fantasized that a gay cousin would contact me. I had one female cousin that I adored and we met when I was ten. We would play and play and play for hours. I loved my cousin and thought we would marry. Later I hoped she was gay too and we would have that in common, but she happily married a farmer from Saskatchewan and wrote to me about finding the power and love of the Lord Jesus Christ. Yeah, not so queer.

Later I wondered if I’d get an e-mail, letter or phone call from my nephew or nieces questioning their blossoming sexuality. Nope, all three seem to be happily exploring their heterosexuality. Thus leaving their gay uncle as the only queer in the village.

I hinted in an earlier writing that I used my twenties to work out a lot of my proverbial shit and, WOW, what a pile I had accumulated in a few short years on this planet.

First, right off the bat, I almost died at birth, just like Bug; we both flirted with death right out the gate. Very soon after I was born, the doctors realized something was wrong, they thought it was my heart. I was taken away from my nineteen year old mother, whisk in an ambulance to a larger city an hour away and my chest was opened to find out what was wrong with me...

...what was wrong with me... I don’t know how many times I said that to myself over the years.

As it turned out my intestines weren’t joined in one place and the surgeon put me back together again. I was left with a lifelong ‘+’ sign on my belly.

The second obstacle I was confronted with was that I was born into a farming family.

Me!

Thirdly I was (and still am) ultra-sensitive. My empathy for animals crippled me at times. There were many moments where I'd run for the sanctity of my bedroom, snot dripping from my nose, in full hysterics at some atrocity I'd witnessed in the confines of the wooden fences of the barnyard. Little slimy calves born dead, their pink tongues hanging limply from their mouths and the mothers cleaning the afterbirth from their lifeless offspring. Going out to play in the hayloft and finding the bloated body of a grown animal lying on its side, legs sticking straight out. The horrific smell of burning hair and hide during branding day and the endless cries of baby calves that needed to be separated from their mothers so that the cows udders could dry up so they could be ready for breeding again.

It was all the cycle of life and death on the farm. I used these stories and images to create a one person show I performed after graduating from theatre school. It was very cathartic to sort through all my memories, piece them together in a cohesive form and then play it out in front of audiences.

That’s one of my skills. Turning lemons into lemonade...

The other piece of my childhood that I had to work through in my twenties was the fact that I was sexually defiled the summer of my twelfth year. While Bug was forming in his mother’s womb, all cozy in those embryonic fluids, I was being molested by an ex-minister of my community. It took place over an eight week period, mostly on camping trips that he and I took together. I’ve done a lot of therapy around the impact this and being raised on a farm had on my sensitive little soul. Being defiled by a man when ultimately I would grow into a gay man has played many weird games on my sexual development. It’s been over twenty-two years since that summer and there’s still fall-out from then. I’ve described it as being a part of my bone-marrow, much like being queer is a part of my makeup. I used to tie the two in together. In my twisted young mind I attributed my sexuality to my abuse. Thank goodness therapy sorted these into two separate aspects; the abuse happened to me, my sexuality is me.

The ways in which I explored my sexuality has been tainted by my defilement. I thought I was only desired for my sex. Even today I still get a pang of shame whenever someone expresses interest in me. There’s this quiet little voice in my head that says, ‘He only wants you for sex.’ I constantly am in some form of quiet battle with my perception of me and what I think others see in me. Which brings me to now.

I haven’t felt very sexual lately. It’s been quite awhile and Bug is so patient with me. I do my best to bring him pleasure as his sex drive is much higher than mine. I love the fact that I can bring pleasure to Bug and his body by my touch. Also Bug isn’t shy about asking for what he wants. He has a beautiful way of gently asking me if I’d ‘help him out’. I don’t want to deny him touch, but a lot of the time I feel like an ugly monster lying down beside him and I have to combat myself to stay present to bring him pleasure.

This is one of the reasons I’ve had a crappy couple weeks. A psychic fatigue overcomes me when I realize that broken sensitive farm boy, who didn’t want to be a farm boy, is still very much alive in.

...all the King’s Horses and all the King’s men helping to put me back together again.

Until the next time...