Bailey Gay Guys and Traumatized Lives

A Memoir
1. Auflage 2021
ISBN: 978-1-0983-6255-3
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 80 Seiten

Life is messy, it's only natural that the words used to tell its story have just as much character. Gay Guys and Traumatized Lives is the story of a young boy forced to endure the hardships of a life tainted by traumatic experiences and find the inner strength to write his own story.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Bailey, Joe

Leseproben

1 I’d rather be dead than be ordinary. Others have tried to force me to conform to their ideals for years. Instead, I opted to pursue my ambition of becoming a wild child. Jumping around my house while my dogs bark at me, only to return their excitement with my own obnoxious howls is what allows me to thrive. My zany personality keeps me sane through the predictable lifestyles perpetuated by those around me. I think anyone who has met me can vouch for me that I detest “normalcy”. Share a popular opinion with me and I will likely say another. “I love chocolate!” I hate chocolate! “Peanut butter is the best!” Peanut butter makes me want to vomit. Don’t even get me started on mozzarella cheese. Yes, I know, I’m an anomaly. I’ve heard it over and over again. Reese’s peanut butter cups are treats made by the devil incarnate himself. Halloween essentially consisted of me hauling around a pillowcase to do my family’s bidding. I was out there for the sheer enjoyment of showing off my costume, my favorite being a witch comprised of a wicked hat with fake gray hair hanging off the ends and a magenta robe with spiders decorated across it. Stylish, right? Now, you may be asking yourself who this brave and inspirational leader is. Chances are you’re actually considering whether this book is worth reading given that the author is clearly a psycho. And you’re probably right in that assumption. My name is Joe. I am 26 years old. I am currently sprawled across the wooden bench outside of my home. Puppies roam in the grass stretched out before me. Rays from the sun cascade off their recently groomed coats. I feel my chest lift slightly with each breath I take until the wind comes and I gasp on an inhale, choking out chunks of cool air. Each day I participate in this similar ritual known as grounding. A therapeutic technique often utilized to gain control over one’s emotions, proven to be beneficial for those living with my condition. In 2018, I was diagnosed with PTSD, posttraumatic stress disorder. PTSD is defined by the DSM-V as being caused by experiencing or witnessing a traumatic event. Symptoms associated with the illness include, but are not limited to, nightmares, flashbacks, emotional triggers, and dissociation. Personally, I despise medical jargon. It is unnecessarily complex making it challenging to truly understand its meaning. Instead, I’ll offer you a glimpse into the inner workings of my mind, and what it conjured up in the wake of my sexual abuse as a child. From age nine and onward, I experienced what I would compare to an autopilot feature. My body could walk, my mouth could talk, and I could go through the motions of life just fine. However, the traumatized parts of myself that I locked away along with my memories were sealed off. To put it simply, for 15 years I was not my true self. Consider an animal that has been relocated to a controlled environment, such as a zoo. The animal is still fully intact, but is now restricted in its ability to explore freely. The animal may experience a lack of ambition, as it now relies on a predictable schedule it has no control over. What my therapist would later describe as my childhood self was cut off from me and I didn’t have the key. I was not fully functional. I was operating at fifty percent capacity at all times. What is most alarming about this revelation is that I wasn’t aware of this for the majority of my life. Coping with these emotions was certainly difficult. I had a lack of resources at my disposal to assist me. Unlike my peers, I didn’t resort to drugs to ease my suffering in my youth. Overmedication is a problem persisting into today’s society as people struggle to cope with common issues. My family agreed with this notion and remained conservative on this topic. As a result of this belief, I didn’t understand the benefits of counseling either. In my youth I was skeptical of the mental health community. Looking back, I’m curious if some unconscious part of me was trying to protect myself from this encounter. I was raised in a sheltered climate, a trailer home within suburban Minnesota. It’s okay to laugh; I see the irony in this statement too. My home was larger than what you would anticipate. Ours was not perched up on wheels with a rusty white exterior. Our trailer was a stationary, double-wide model. It consisted of three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and three spacious areas in the center that consisted of our kitchen, dining, and living room. Initially, this structure was intended to serve as a cabin for my mom and her then husband. They had a child together, my half brother, and were looking to move this property up north off of a lake. After numerous tragedies, enough to fill the pages of another story, they divorced and this place became a safe haven for Mom’s new life. That transition in Mom’s life set the stage for the events leading up to my entrance to the world. Despite my pride in the home we made for ourselves, there was never any hesitation for my peers to define me as trailer trash. This was one of the many colorful phrases thrown my way. Reflecting on these words now, they don’t hold much weight to me. When I think back to the seven-year-old boy that would hear these slurs, that was a different story. I have many fond memories of life in this household. Stray cats littered the neighborhood with my friends and I in pursuit. Countless days were spent caressing the skin of these animals. Their purrs made me light up, giggling with delight. Even with the sweltering heat, many days hovering near a hundred degrees, my little body would sprawl out in the dirt, with a clump of fur prodding at my chest. I remember one day vividly. One of the stray cats our family raised had just given birth and we were nurturing her young critters. We would house them in a large cardboard box under our porch to offer privacy. We would place towels inside and set food and water just in reach of mama. After the kittens grew and could start eating on their own, I wouldn’t hesitate to pluck them up. A neighbor of mine, let’s call her Daisy, and I visited a local store and selected a blue, bedazzled collar and leash set. When we caught the kitty we wanted, we would walk it around the neighborhood and fawn over it for hours. Other days consisted of playing games on the lawn or biking in the woods. Both of these activities often involved falling, then crying, and walking home bloody and bruised yet looking forward to the next great adventure. Damn, this would make for a great dating profile. Just kidding, Andrew! My past is a tale best told in fragments. I could try and tell you one continuous story, but, as it happens, life does not go the way we expect. Moments from our past fit into different contexts to shape our experience of the world. Unfortunately, the purpose of this memoir is to allow for these events to all be expressed in one cohesive thought. I appreciate many moments of my life despite the inevitable hardships forced upon me. If at any point you feel that details are being skimmed over, be patient. My life is messy, and the purpose of these anecdotes will become clear as we move forward. Experiences of our past impact who we are in the present. Understanding our motivations and how our sense of self is reflected in our actions is a crucial component to establishing our identity. If this holds true, then what happens when your individualized self is fractured? In these moments, I found myself helpless. Many times, I would want to reach out for help but couldn’t. Vulnerability is a fragile concept that allows us to connect with others in the community. Trust is an essential part of maintaining relationships with others. Bonding is something that I never found myself inherently great at. What always gave me great anxiety was riding the school bus. Mine was always packed to the brim and, given my lack of reputation in our neighborhood, it was difficult to find a place to sit. I was subjected to a lot of ridicule for the way I looked or dress. Forming friendships was hard, especially when everyone would openly gossip about me in earshot. Ever since I was young, I found myself to be different than my peers. Initially I believed this to be attributed to flaws I possessed. I didn’t fit in among fellow males because I wasn’t invested in sports. Being gay was also a barrier, with suburban life failing to offer a diverse learning environment. I found myself to be on my own island where others were too afraid to visit. I mean, was it so wrong that I enjoyed adorning jewelry, engaging in dress-up, and playing with dolls? Hell no. I regret nothing. Some of my warmest memories involve roleplaying the lives of my various beanie babies and their greatest adventures in Barbie’s magical dreamhouse. Before you ask, I’m no newbie. I also had two luxurious cars to match. I may also have invested in the camper because, duh, who wouldn’t want to participate in roasting marshmallows with friends under the stars? Psychopaths, that’s who. When I first started preschool, I took advantage of my interests and was thrilled with the opportunity to “make believe.” This was a portion of the class that the instructors allowed our creative imaginations to run wild. This environment always felt clinical to...