Dysphoria the punishing
Growing up in late 60s ,70s ,to be openly gay or God forbid transgender you were taking your life in your hands. I always felt like I was being punished for some unknown reason. A life sentence with no chance of being paroled. The way I would discribe it to my therapist in the eighties was ,it was like I was trapped. The older woman looked at me like i had two heads, a kind of freak of nature fit for a circus sideshow. When questioned about my sexuality she would get this look on her face of being totally mortified. How awful I must have appeared in the eyes of this individual. She was no help.
When I entered the work force at the age of 15 as a laborer. My first boss and his buddies would tell tales of driving to a local town now known for it’s tolerance of self expression. These brave men would laugh saying they would drive down there and beat up gay men for fun on the weekends. Oh how they laughed , I listened in shock and fear. Knowing it was still consider a mental condition. Suitable for a trip to a State medical hospital like Bellevue.
Seemed in the course of my life in stealth mode there was not a single person that didn’t make derogative comments about people who were open about who they were. In every case I sat there in shock thinking to myself “ geez I am right in front of you , and you say you care about me , that you love me” you call me friend ,brother ,son, cousin ,nephew.
There was not a single person who was immune form saying nasty things about someone being lbgt. I remembered every single time because it was like a dagger through my heart. I would purposely do something that would cause my self injury. I would purposely get myself into trouble. So I would be punished ,Later when I started to experiment with drugs I took it to another level. I was bent on killing myself. I still suffer from this but I am open about the reasons why. I prefer to talk about it as opposed to acting on it. I still feel like I’m doing a life sentence. In recent years when I was working 12 + hour days ,it was like my incarceration was hard labor. Right before I quite my job working for a builder who was hiring illegals and paying them nothing ,trying to force my company out , I was averaging 18.5 hour days 7 days a week. I remember thinking it would be easier if I was incarcerated. This was made even more stressful because of the deteriorating health of my business partner , life partner , my husband.
When the doctors had to amputate his leg ,I quit working. He meant more to me than anything else in the world. I want to be home taken care of him. When he died so did I , I can no longer do the things I had before. His last words were of my sacrifice and his lamenting not being there to help me, to protect me.
So I go this alone largely , well there is one exception. A rare diamond of a soul I am very fortunate to have in my life. That’s about all I care to share at this point. To continue would only cause me to falling to pieces in tears.
