[from my diary]
Wednesday, August 21, 1991 1:25 am
Tonight, we saw a Broadway show! I haven’t seen one in a year! We saw Lost in Yonkers, Neil Simon’s 1991 Tony Award winner for Best Play. It was great. Really great.
It made me want to write! I really want to write a play. Unfortunately, I always want to write a play but I never come up with any good ideas. I started to write one during Drama Britain two years ago, but I only wrote about two or three pages. I never flesh out my play ideas beforehand. Maybe I should do that, like I did week by week with “Changing Times,” my soap opera. That way I could stick to an idea instead of meandering.
I never know what to write about, either. I think, actually, that I should just dig down inside myself, let it all go, let out and listen to my emotions, face them, and write about whatever strikes me as something I want to write about. I want to write about myself and what I see, like Neil Simon does in some of his plays.
I don’t think I’m so good at writing comedy. Maybe if I adapt funny real-life circumstances and situations, maybe that would work.
I just have to brainstorm.
Maybe it’s really just that I want to create! Because I have an urge to write, but no ideas to write about. Maybe I want to get my feelings out. I can’t get everything out of my brain.
Hell, this is a private book. That’s why I have it — because it’s private. I should feel free to write anything I want in here, right? It’s my choice whether or not I show it to anyone.
But I can’t write about something if I can’t admit it to myself first.
I think the reason — no, I know. I won’t admit it to myself because I always have the hope that I can cure it, or suppress it to the point that it vanishes, and disappears. But, it really won’t, will it. I suppose I’m stuck with it. And even if it is curable, admitting it to myself won’t make it incurable.
It’s my dad. I just realized it. Unbelievable. I have made a revelation! I may have discovered the problem just now! See, while I’m writing, I’m thinking ahead. I don’t believe it!
Here’s my newly discovered theory.
I’m ashamed to admit it especially to my dad. He’s always pushed me to this macho, assertive position that he wants me to be. I’m afraid of admitting it because of him. In a way, he blocks me from admitting it. I’m afraid of his reaction. My mom’s, too, but him more, maybe. And because I resent that, because I resent his blocking of my admitting it, I have bad feelings towards him!
That could be it! That could explain why I won’t admit it; that could explain why I don’t like my dad; he makes me ashamed of it. Because it’s something that makes me less masculine, and my impression is that he wants me to be so masculine, so pushy, so assertive — and it conflicts.
Then again, that’s why most people with my problem don’t admit it — because of fear of reactions, and because of shame. Because it’s not the norm.
I’ve thought this next thing before, but I’ve never written it down — this I know in my soul: that I am not myself. I mean that almost literally. My life is a lie; I am living a false existence. If I can’t admit the truth to myself, how can I live a truthful life?
I’ll just go on feeling half-baked and discontent by continuing the lying to myself. I can’t feel whole unless I admit it all — and for some reason, I keep thinking of J. Alfred Prufrock and Mr. Miller’s remark that he said: “Don’t you ever feel that you have a divided self, a divided soul? That somehow your two halves aren’t properly aligned, something is out of whack, 2+2 does not equal 4?” That’s all a paraphrase plus my own metaphors, but that’s me. Divided, malcontent, and not all together.
Admitting it could also end my guilt.
[…]
But there’s a problem. Let’s see… imagine an empty balloon inside a box. A strong balloon, with lots of force. It’s in the box but it’s deflated. There’s lots of room in the box, thusly. Now, the box has a safety valve. Right now the balloon is deflated, as I said, no, change that. It has a gas inside it, but it’s compact and aching to expand and break free, out of the balloon and out of the box and free. At a command, the gas can expand.
Right now that is the situation. I haven’t issued the command. But if I issue it, the gas will expand. It will be a bit relieved. Very relieved, in fact. But, it will make the balloon expand greatly, and the balloon will push against the box and try to force it open. It may — it will break the box and itself as well, unless I open the “valve” and release the gas to the outside.
Actually, there’s a better metaphor. There are two valves. They symbolize 1) admitting it to myself and 2) admitting it to society. The second is harder, because — I’m done with metaphors — that would mean facing ridicule, persecution, rejection. Maybe rejection from family, relatives, friends… I don’t know. But there’d be those who would support me, as well. What about getting beat up? That would be a risk, unless I worry too much and maybe it’s not such a big risk, but still a risk.
Oh — the point of the first metaphor: once I admit it to myself, it would be harder to keep it a secret from society. But who knows? Maybe admitting it to myself would actually ease my mind.
I feel that writing it would actually be admitting it to myself, finally. I should admit it to myself and then see what happens. I mean, it’s not like I’ll be able to change it whether I admit it or not.
Okay. Here I go.
I am gay. Why does that look so shameful? It does. Wow.
Not quite accurate. I’m actually bisexual. If pure heterosexuality is a 0 and pure homosexuality is a 6, then I’m between 4 and 5. I’m bisexual, with leanings towards males.
It’s weird, but I’m getting an erection now.
I wish I was different, but I’m not. Maybe there’s a way to change myself, but I don’t think there is. I think this a part of my life, forever.
My erection is gone… the initial shock is over.
I have to write it again.
I like guys more than I like girls.
I’m more gay than hetereosexual.
Gay. Gay gay gay gay bisexual bi bi gay.
Except that “gay” sounds better than “bi.” “Bisexual” sounds like something from Playboy, Penthouse or Hustler. Sounds kinky. For some reason I like the word “gay.” I mean, I think many girls are pretty and I get turned on by good bodies, but I have to push a bit, strain a little to feel it. (Interpret that the right way!)
I said I don’t want to reveal it to society, but actually, to tell the truth, I really want to tell [friend]. I wish he was here.
But would I really go through with it and tell him?
It’s late. This has all happened really quickly. In the morning, after my thoughts have cleared, I may regret this and want to turn back. But the truth is here.
Some of my daring moments are at night, when it’s right before I go to sleep and it feels like it won’t be permanent. I’ll have to see what it’s like in the morning. As of now, though, I’m glad I did this.
[…]
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