Monday, July 10, 2006
I'm pissed, and I don't mean drunk
I am not an angry person. No, really, I'm not. People would try to piss me off at school but they never could. The one time they did see me get pissed was when they weren't even trying: I went to the bathroom and came back to find that a kid had dug around in my books and pulled out my journal. I almost killed him right then and there. The only thing that makes me really angry is an invasion of my privacy. Today, I found out it was majorly breached, in more ways than one.
My dad told me he wanted to have a talk with me. Fine. I didn't really want to talk to him because the only time he ever wants to talk with me is when he has something to say about my sexuality, but I figure that since he is my father, I should talk to him.
We make the obligatory smalltalk(you know, where we talk about pointless stuff until I want to scream) and he says something along the lines of, "I was searching through the glovebox of your truck and I found something." Shit. That is my only place to keep anything private: right now I am living in a one bedroom apartment with my dad and brother. He had found my journal and the first entry just happened to be basically what I talked about in this post, except much more raw. He of course saw nothing wrong with it("As a father it would have been irresponsable of me to put it down once I had read the first line"). He then went on to say that he had talked to my older brother to see if I had had any conversations with him(which I had) and see what I said.
Am I not supposed to be pissed here? He didn't understand why I refused to look at him when I see that basically anytime I let out what is in my heart and head he automatically requisitions it. And it gets worse. He wants me to go to a Christian therapist that he picked out who will report everything I say to him. Fuck no. I'm not gonna pour out all my deepest secrets(like the fact that I think Adrian Grenier is a total hottie) just so they can be reiterated to my parents.
In an attempt to perform what I call Parental-psycho-fucknalasis my dad asks me "Tell me who you are" and I tell him point blank i am not playing that game where he basically uses everything I say to tell me how fucked up I am and how much help I need. Then of course he throws out that origonal line, "We only do this because we love you." Bull. Since when does love demand that someone else change? I show people I love them by listening to them and discovering what their passion is and spending time with them. My parents show love by trying to turn me straight. They have never once asked me what my passion is. They don't ask about my dreams and aspirations. The only time my dad has ever wanted to do something with just me it was so we could talk about the fact that I am a fucking fag. They say they want to get to know me but that isn't true, otherwise they would focus on something other than the fact that guys make me horny.
What right does my dad have to even bring up my sexuality? He is the one who was too much of a fucking pussy to even have the sex talk with me(ooh, is that some of my latent anger towards my father that caused me to be a fag?). They say that we all failed to talk in this last year(in which they knew I liked guys but we never talked about it). Bull. They made one attempt to talk to me about it. It seems to me that love doesn't give up that easily. The people I care about know I love them, because I have always been there for them. Where were my parents when I was beat up for being American? Where were they when I was spit on because I was white? Where were they when I sat in school every day, carving bloody shapes into my arm with a pencil. Where were they when I didn't have a knife, so I ripped a nickel-sized chunk of flesh out of my hand with my fingernails? All those times when it should have been obvious that something was wrong, they weren't there. Apparantly those things weren't important enough for them to get to know me, to find out what was wrong. I guess I have to get off on guys fucking before that happens.
I have to go now, I left my dad sitting at the park because I wasn't willing to ride home with him, and I am writing this at the library. My time is up and someone is waiting behind me.
And asking you to go to a therapist who would report to him? Does he not understand therapy? One of the reasons it is ever effective is because it is a safe environment. By asking the therapist to reveal what you talked about, it is no longer safe.
About the other stuff, I can't even speak to it as I have never been in that place (cutting), and I have no idea why your parents didn't intervene. But their reaction to your gayness is obviously rooted in 'fear for your eternal soul', which -- though it may sound extreme, at least tells you that they care. That's what I try and remember whenever my mom and I get into it.