ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alden Nagel is the founder and editor of Nut Hole Publishing, and also a writer. You can find him on Instagram: @aldenwnagel
Introduction
Nostalgia is a fuzzy concept, as a point of fact. As a writer, I often find myself doing that which all writers do—writing from experience. A fictional character is hard to write, and arguably impossible to write, too, if it does not come from a place of lived experience. Its inherently impossible to deny this, otherwise I would be arguing against time itself; the literality of history prevents this. Though, the impermanence of time allows for lived experience to fill the void. To remain constipated against lived history is itself a modality wherein that which cannot be said is said. All of fiction is this without any refutable deniability. In other words, history itself is no fool. History, as a practice and a thought-process, is often seen as that which can be viewed objectively. The brain is that which subsumes that which is objective, and transforms it henceforth into that which is made irreal.
Reality is real—but human experience is not. Human experience is subjective, but to call reality subjective is an error, which is based in critical misunderstandings of what is in fact real. Both conservatives and non-conservatives agree on this in similar ways to that of leftists and non-leftists. To politicize that which is critically true, or not, is to therein hold time in one’s mind as an unforgivable force of nature. This is expressed in that through which an understanding of literality cannot be rendered possible. In the field of psychology, this is often assumed to be that which is based in trauma, lived experience, or learned experience. Grief, past relationships, and misunderstanding (often based in miscalculation of the lives of others) can do this. I have seen too many parasitic romantic relationships in my life to not know it when I see it, until proven otherwise.
The company of strangers can also provide this. The company of friends and family is never enough; neighbors as well. I would further postulate that explaining oneself in an overly true, schpealing manner is an expression of: neurosis, overthinking, anxieties based in lives unforgotten. I do not mean to say trauma, as trauma is often over-considered in our culture. Americans do not understand that which is not American, due to a number of factors. Everyone has their own understanding of that which is American, but, so do I. As we all do. This essay is both an intentional examination of the intertwining of nostalgia, child abuse, and that of my own experience.
Horror Is The American Genre
It is impossible to define what is American, in regards to historiography, without understanding that which is American. Americans disagree everywhere on that which constitutes being American. Most people in the world don’t even refer to that of the country of The United States of America as American. This is because citizens of The United States of America find themselves presuming this, based in an issue inherent to the English language within The United States. Many linguists, academics, and global citizens of the Earth often refer to Arabic as the truly superior language. This has been popularized within the theory-fiction based philosophical critiques of Reza Negarestani. His most notable works include his studies in continental philosophy, and most infamously, his text “Cyclonopedia: Complicity with Anonymous Materials”.
I myself have not read the text, but I do believe that… I don’t know, because I only have a casual understanding of these high-level philosophical concepts and those who write them. a voice within writing is itself a kind of auto-characterization as well. I mention this to herein state what my characterization, or rather, my voice is based in so as to establish an understanding. There is something genuine in what I attempt with my writing, but I cannot help but infuse my whole being into what I do. My best writing always take a long time and a lot of focus, as is true for most writers. I find that, personally, my writing cannot be what I want it to be if I do not focus with great intensity on everything I believe at once and trim the fat of it all in editing. The metaphorical fat, of course, is in reference to the fluff of what I write. In other terms, I must throw the detritus of my own thoughts at my own feet (Substack) so I can begin to look at it. In another way, its kind of like how one must always make a bigger mess to clear a larger space. If you’ve ever cleaned a whole room, such as your own bedroom, I’m sure you know what I mean.
I’m certain a post-Hegelian like Negarestani would also believe, given his history as a thinker and an academic, that everything can be explained. I myself have had a distinctly young male problem in my life: hanging out with people who, for whatever reason, do the unforgivable. The unforgivable is always relative to context when one considers abuse. Geopolitical anxiety is the greatest rendition of this very issue. I often refer to geopolitical tensions, and watch the news obsessively, if I’m dealing with bad shit. I think most people do these days.
I recently started to read the essay “On Terrorism: Theirs and Ours” by Eqbal Ahmed, a writer who I believe is someone very keen on the issue of terrorism and how it can be equitably defined. That is, terrorism in the Arabic Region of Central Asia is only distinguishable from the geopolitical terrorism committed by the United States on anyone else. Terrorism is also a domestic issue and always has been—terrorism committed by neighbors, family, friends, colleagues, strangers, governing bodies, corporations, radical groups—need only be put in context. Regarding my aforementioned issue of having people in my life who have committed the truly unforgivable, I am going to postulate two ideas about things:
Everyone can be found guilty of the unforgivable, if you think too hard.
Everyone can be considered a terrorist if you have a narrow definition of what terrorism is. Being scary, standing one’s ground, or having a difficult time communicating what’s important does not matter. This is certainly the optimist’s view. I believe that everyone is inherently an optimist, though. In other words, everyone wishes for security and contentment, and from this simple principle is where I find a genuinely universal optimism to being alive, well, and treating each others both nicely and equitably. Those who know me best understand this I think. I avoid gossip, as I believe it is a social evil that is, simultaneously, unavoidable. Maybe this is also a curse I’ll always have as long as I’m any kind of writer. Overhearing gossip is also a form of the unavoidable evil. Humans, as a species, have a biological advantage to this very thing: We cannot help but be surrounded by gossip at all times. Terrorism, too, is a form of this, but it is unavoidable on an ontologically massive scale.
It must be stated here, that while I was a student at The Evergreen State College, there were ideas floating around regarding the “radical weird” which, in other terms, can be simplified to a Marxist understanding of that which is normal and every day. My critique of it extends to the point that it is making a molehill out of the mundane. Of course, overthinking is the fruit of all sociopolitical analysis, to the degree at which it breaches that which is practical and becomes something closer to that of utopianism. I personally understand the concept further, as a kind of post-accelerationist view of simply understanding that the world is only getting weirder through time. Tet older generations offer nothing new at the same time. This can be a frustrating idea for older generations, but true common sense makes no dividends on this. The actual truth is that reality is an objective manifestation made literal by that which we understand it. This is why the human brain is still the most advanced computer in the world, and, that there is nothing more complicated than a group of people in active dialogue with each other either in-person or otherwise. I’m avoiding the word conversation here, if only because an online conversation is also one of the most complicated ideas in the universe, and like that of in-person conversations, it too can go nowhere very fast.
This is one point through which reality is optimistic; dialogical fluff offers very little other than that which is being misunderstood. A truly great conversation has been defined by writers older, not alive, and wiser than I, and so I will not discuss it here. A good conversation is also being open to what one is not afraid of. Those who are so defensive that they actively avoid what is being talked about in truth or cannot help by avoiding what is being brought up, is a clear sign of what I’m going to refer to purely in jest as “conversational terrorism”. To terrorize an idea is to bastardize it and, as such, to now allow those who discuss it to allow for that which is productive. Good conversation, in my view, necessitates being open to ideas, as well as not being closed-minded. I paraphrase when I say closed-minded, as I understand two aspects of how I write, and how I text, email as well as how I talk in-person. Often, I have a very real issue with opening up and being honest. I see this less so in my best friends, and more so in those I place large deals of trust in. As a person, I am merely an observer. All of us are, regardless of how we as any collective of people do.
There is are reasons why I don’t trust unreliable alcoholics: they are often too unhealthy to be around families they call their own. This is a hard presumption, but if you’re too cynical, or see too much, it’s as real as any belief is. Secret drinking is the devil’s handiwork if you drink too much, that is, if you want to go as far as mentioning the devil. I don’t believe in literal devils, but devils have a nicely happenstance symbolism to them, as it encapsulates in my view so much that is presumed to be evil with all due immediacy. There are no truly new issues to humans as a species or of a global group of people. I don’t mean that there are no new ideas in the world, but there are truly insidious ways in which people live. This is an idea both simple and everyday.
I’d mention a guy I’ve known who has asked to cuddle me, and then a couple months later told others he wouldn’t touch me with a six-foot pole. Knowing that guy, he knows the power of not being nice. I respect his rude ways, though. I know him too well not to. He is also not an alcoholic, nor does he abuse drugs. He has intense limits, but like the most adventurous of all of us, I do not view him as someone I cannot trust. I view his sternness as that of which I respect him. My issues with his politics, while more often aligned with my own, are not the start. Luckily, there is also no one I’d sooner like to argue with about this very matter.
As someone who grew up with an alcoholic mother, and an (even worse of an) alcoholic father, I see this has having a truth all of us can understand. We are products of our environment, only and when we presume that our environments make us. We all have childhood memories of that which is, in all ways, dirty. We have all held cigarettes left on the ground, we have all taken liquor from our parents, we have all been a product of the trauma surrounding us. Economic factors too are not enough to describe this in full. The poor and the rich understand this in equal standing: the middle class, and the abuse of middle class socio-politics explain themselves as well. I don’t like the metaphor, but if you’d like, you can envision Malcolm In The Middle as the perfect encapsulation of all that exists true to the American middle class. That is, if economic classes are being defined purely by economic measurements. Being objective about economy-based issues is assuredly every businessman’s best friend and their worst enemy at a simply similar same time.
Other television shows are very good at showcasing American life: Seinfeld, The Simpsons, and King of The Hill are established examples of this. However, I would like to make note of the known fact that, regardless of streaming numbers, there is something to be said about television shows that deal with colder, more grueling subject matter as per their tonal relevance: The Bear, The Wire, Breaking Bad, and The Big C. I haven’t seen much of the show Arrested Development, but I do believe that Schitt’s Creek is also a very good television show as it pertains to American life.
I’m avoiding discussing further about what defines “American” mostly because, non-United States-based people always have the best opinions on this matter in my view, and, we all know why no matter what we believe on an individual level.
Schitt’s Creek is, in short, a classic story made universal due to its wonderful writing, direction, knack for comedy. Its deeply lovable cast is to blame, yes, but I also believe that it is well aware, even meta-aware, of a critical issue within family life. It is my favorite television show about a rich family. I suspect I might like The Beverly Hillbillies more, but I have yet to view it.
This issue is a contrast-comparison of the rich living ignorantly in a poor area, done in all due theatrics. There is a reason why, as much of the show Sex And The City as I’ve had to watch in my life, why I prefer Schitt’s Creek.
Sex And The City (including its newer reboot, …And Just Like That) are deeply empathetic television programs which dwell in that which is not permanent. They live in fantasy, and are aware of this. Mr. Big isn’t supposed to exist in the real world. There is a reason why, yes, I personally believe Carrie should’ve always gone with Aiden, and it has nothing to do with the character’s name being similar to my own. I’ve known quite a few Aidens/Aidans in my life, but there is also something to be said about the search for people who are not “us” but share a name. Every Sean knows a Sven, every Jackie knows a Jackson, every Henrietta knows an Icarus, every Poindexter knows a Khalil… etcetera. The directness of names are not the only sign. We all know more than five other people in our lives, and yet to this, the keen division between that which is obvious and oblivious becomes apparent with all due truth.
I don’t think Carrie (in Sex And The City’s timeline) should have gone with a guy whose biggest selling point was reliability, when she clearly wanted more out of her life, and thus finds it after she has become middle-aged. Luckily, what is “middle-aged” is a median figure which is always going up in accordance with the average lifespan.
Furthermore…
Over-thinking about names, and their meanings, are for the over-thinkers and the baby-namers, after all. I’ve never changed my first name, because I personally like it. Other than genetics, it will always be the thing I’m grateful I’ve got from my mother. It is a bad stereotype of gay men that they have issues with their mother, and it is a bad stereotype that gay women have issues with their father. However, like all stereotypes, there is a very real truth in them when we remember that a stereotype, such as any word (this is in full remembrance that names are also nouns) is also a kind of meaning-assignment. To call a spade a spade, as it were, is not a form of formal truth. It is an assignment of semantic meaning. This is not anything that I believe that etymologists should have to worry about. After all, I am writing in the English language. I often wish I knew another language to be more fluent in it so as to write in it, and one day I may well be. In the meantime, I’ll only be wishing that I could write in Arabic, the most advanced and communicatively assuaging major language; created languages are not what I wish to discuss here. Klingon is not a language used within the Stock Trade, unless there is something I don’t know about public stock trading. American English has its linguistic power from the power assigned to its words and how they are used, and as such, this is how it is taught. Public speaking, and English courses, have both been taught as if they are inherently different from one another. Most people are often afraid of that which is outspoken. To come out, as a turn of phrase, is to describe that which is often unspoken due to ascribed senses of normalcy, as well as that of what is sensible. Normal is also temporally and sociologically relative. Normal, as a word, can also be used to put down and socially demarcate.
I do not need to mention here at length that, it has come to my attention that my mother recently stole a painting by one of my closest friends, and of my father’s mother. they may be paintings, but if I were her, I would be more concerned with her pending assault charges for pepper-spraying a neighbor who has had a no-contact order in place against her since I was about seven years old. This isn’t shocking to me; it is only disappointing. People are allowed to be as crazy as they want, the legal system pertaining. The freedom of choice we all have is a dastardly thing. That is why, to call what is American-ly Gothic is mostly, but not fully true in full. To be American is to be a part of something truly and undeniably horrific. This is also why people choose not to move outside of the country. It has nothing to do with citizenship or one’s found purpose. This is truthful only up to and unless it does.
Regarding Families: Biological and Chosen
Families (biological and chosen) are often, but not always, the source of this very issue. In straight relationships, divorce comes from what is not communicated healthily, or unforgivable acts which go unforgiven. Love does not need to be forgiven, nor does having a fine personality. The truth of the matter is that I have a distinctly gay problem: sex is easy, but talking about personal truths is also a very difficult issue, at times. This is true for any of us; its applicability is penultimately coordinated by that of casual facts, and of the marginal justice for the individual over the community which empathy (both on communal, group and individual levels) manifests, and engenders on its own—through and through.
I’m now going to write about something even more personal to me than anything that has to deal with anything ever in my romantic or my own sex life. Quiet abuse, and poor communication, is not what I’m aspiring to discuss here. In real life, what goes unspoken speaks for itself, given that the true human condition is not that we have only our eyes and ears to work with, but rather, that all we can work with is our hands. These are my words, yes, on quiet abuse.
There is a reason why I do not believe I will ever be a father. It is, in short, because I believe it is a moral imperative for me not to be. It is not because I haven’t held a child since I myself was in elementary school. Furthermore, it is not about anything else. It’s simply that, I don’t like kids enough to want to deal with them. This isn’t fully true, obviously, I like kids. I’m stereotyping myself in a corner on purpose. My own genetics and diagnostics, at present time, are fine.
Queer people, on an analytical level, exist to take care of a larger group of people. Queer people exist so that population levels within human societies do not overextend themselves. To say that anyone can and should have children, especially queer people, is a statement and an idea which stems whole-heartedly from that of repression. I often find that it is quite easy for queer people to make presumptions upon others based on sexuality or of gender. No one is more entitled to criticize anyone else than that of their own community, and their own demographics.
I myself gave up on organized religion years ago: my believing that I could earnestly believe in the God and the Jesus that Catholicism preaches only turned to be more and more paradoxical the more I tried to believe in it. However, religious or spiritual complications are not to be blamed: individual people always are, regardless of their personal affiliation. One does not need to hyper-fixate and consider the husband type, the mama bear type, the golden child, or any other ascribed subcategory of person to know this.
There are countless good Catholics in the world. The same applies to any other group of people which consistently finds itself in due regard of weird public relations, when one is thinking globalectically. To stereotype any one religion, spiritual group, or cult is to remain in the light of that which is ridiculous, and that which is untrue. I believe, people do not need any one thing to be healthy. However, people yearn, and all humans, as the animals we all are, will always yearn. A searching for that we do not have can certainly be a misguided presumption to that which one does not understand basic societal and sociological mores; decency is not good enough. To call upon decency, and that of agreeing to disagree, is also to remove that of basic human agency. I see this most commonly among the least happiest among us, but certainly also, the least emotionally available.
There is always a reason why they say dad’s best friend watches gay porn, and mom has a crush on her best friend. It is not about sexuality—people yearn for what they do not have. Abandonment, and a fear of what one knows and doesn’t know, is a part of this as well for anyone. People who have only been in one relationship their entire life know this the best, as they lead by example.
As for my personal spiritual beliefs? I like Gnosticism a lot. I recently had a roommate who was openly yelling at me, saying something along the lines of:
“whatever God you pray to, or hell, or whatever else…”.
I wanted to tell them that I believe in other people first, but to be fair, I called them a bully. I have my reasons.
I’m now going to discuss the real meat of this essay, in proper length, and in what I feel like is a properly attention-divided form. I thank the reader for paying attention diligently to what I have to say, and for listening in to these words.
My Experience As A Victim Of Child Abuse
I am a victim of extensive child abuse. I do not say survivor, because, well I’m writing this now, aren’t I? To simplify a victim of abuse as a survivor is comforting language, and yes, it is assuaging and mediative language as well. However, as the perpetrator of the extensive child abuse keeps coming into my life with absolute reckless abandon, I’m going to discuss her here. I find there is no better option if I am to be both truth, earnest, and also keen on telling a story only I can tell.
I can keenly remember episodes of my own mother’s fury against me lasting for years, starting from early childhood. I can recall her enmeshing from a young age: her telling me from a young age her stories having her arm broken by her own mother while in high school. I can remember the undisputable fact of her younger sister, who has run from her childhood home (which, was infused with all the making of a horrible childhood any two young girls can have) going to be with an older man who was a neighbor, who she remained with for many years until the man died. Within a month, she met another man, and later in life, she would stick with the man she still remains with. The last I had heard, there were allegations of his conning international software companies out of money, and the two of them were then in the Virgin Island for a few years. Whether this was purely out of a long-term stay, or of sneakily avoiding international-based federal prosecution, I am not sure. I may never be. However, I’m not writing about my half-aunt with directedly full attention. I’m writing about my mother, as any man who would like to think he can toe the line between being crass and of being assertive as I can be. I would like to briefly mention that my genealogy is part Ashkenazi. I say this, because being nice accomplishes the task of being nice only by itself.
I would like to herein quote the infamously magnetic author Charles Bukowski here:
“If you want to know who your true friends are, get a jail sentence”.
I also mention being genetically Jewish only because I see myself returning again and again to what is often called Jewish Anxieties. This is a stupid answer to a simple personal problem, but nevertheless it is true. I am exactly as Jewish as any Ashkenazi is. I here am doing very hard self-defining if only because, as previously mentioned months ago in an essay entitled “A Memo to Christian Parents of Suicidal Children”, I used the phrase “as a baptized and confirmed Catholic”. This is a frenetic thought full of ruminations, and in the literal administration of the world and of all business (public and private) alike. People lie all the time, and yet, it is very hard to argue with paperwork. You can, and people do so every day, but the hardest paperwork to fight is that pertaining to a spiritual or religious group’s membership. To call myself not a Catholic and also be fully true about it means that I would have to quite literally deal with various bureaucrats at the Vatican first. I just don’t care that much to make a stink.
As a very unrelated point, stated only for clarity… I myself have never been arrested. And I would like to think that I know I never will be. This may not be true, given how the world just happens to work regarding the legal system. You should never assume nothing horrible will never happen. This hard fact is, where I find my comfort in is this much: I know what I know. We all do. Ya know?
If I had to give some advice here: don’t showboat what you have and haven’t done. A showboat is also someone who snitches on others. I’m immediately reminded of a person during my time in high school who was in the theater program, doing very weird theater group-like things, saying my name even though I’d never talked to her other than in passing. This was in my freshman year, I believe. As if I give a fuck. I would like, before going back to the original mainstay here regarding my own experience of matrilineal abuse, to write about the following: the closest I myself have ever come to true legal trouble in my life.
It was May of last year, 2023. I was nearing the end of my time in college, completing my B.A. and, one night, having nothing better to do (or so I thought), I did something I have vowed I would never do again: I got drunk and made some really stupid posts online, in an AMA format, impersonating a police officer at The Evergreen State College. These included saying very nerdy, weird things such as (I paraphrase myself here) when confronted as a “cop” about how the police force is fascist, and “ACAB”, I responded through my bad attempt at impersonating a non-existent police personnel. I said things such as “I myself am an accelerationist, that is, I’m a neo-futurist who does not believe in weapons, but if others do, good for them!” and, when confronted about selling an unlicensed gun to a police officer named [redacted], said “That’s why we call him Officer Diddler. He sure knows how to diddle some guns!”
These were all lies, said while I was drunk. I haven’t gotten that drunk since, while doing stupid shit (other than drinking to get drunk by myself), but not in a definitively alcoholic way. This kind of avoiding the very style of language usage is something to keep an eye out for—all actual alcoholics, regardless of whether they’re in recovery or not, will use language to diminish and hide their problems. Not talking about it, to a true addict of the soul, is never enough. This judgmental language is intended primarily for alcoholics directly, as speaking to them is a careful task which requires much consideration. I’m being a little mean here, or perhaps I’m just being stern. If the reader knows anyone in their life like this, this binary of mean/stern is what I believe to be the true difference that defines what can be said to be that of a guiding principle, through which to handle situations. Avoiding the problem and abandoning those who need help is a grand cruelty—and the most human of them all, too.
I’m reminded of how it is known that most gun owners are responsible on a day-to-day level, but also how a gun is as safe as it is handled. What I’m saying is, I believe in gun safety. I can’t be relied upon for advice about guns, only because I have a lot of thoughts about them—but have never in fact shot a gun that was not a bb gun. I have however held a friend’s revolver and got immediately scared of its weight. In doing so, I was handling the gun like it was a dog poop bag and I was afraid of it. In reality, I like dogs, and I also think decent people should have guns if they want. I’m simplifying by a lot to be merely agreeable. I may not have an overt fear of guns, but I did use to have a very overt fear of dogs when I was a kid.
That is the other reason why I think I may always prefer cats over dogs. It is pure preference. I’m okay with a gun in the home I live in, but not my handling of it without all due experience and training of a gun. Both are issues that come from handling experience being gained, as all truly responsible gun owner should have. There’s a reason I prefer dogs over guns, and it has nothing to do with the fact that untrained dogs are as unreliable as ignorant dog owners, after all. You can defend a gun because it is an object that has no actual life to it, and you can also defend a bad dog—because the human being the dog is held liable towards doesn’t know better, or just doesn’t act like it.
I myself believe in the euthanasia of dogs only for medical purposes, for the same reason I believe in the dismantling and smelting of guns that are broken or rusted beyond repair. You can kill a dog, but you can’t kill a gun. I don’t need to call punk rock trite to do so, to be all-due theatrical with it. I say this even though I have also said that before in conversation, that punk rock is trite. I don’t believe that idea now, but I do believe that the nicest possible thing I could say about skinhead punk rock is that it is just trite. I also believe that most punks wouldn’t appreciate my being demure here.
Nevertheless, dogs still overwhelm me every time I’m amidst them. It’s not that I don’t love dogs, but I do have serious trust issues with dogs. That’s on me, of course. I recently walked past a dog in a restaurant near where I live, and it bit at my leg but did not get me. Luckily, I was wearing sweatpants, or I worry it would’ve actually gotten me. I have too much bad experience with dogs not to feel that I can always trust cats more, after all. This very idealizing idea stems from a specific place: being chased down a hallway when I was in second grade by a fully-grown Great Dane who most likely weighed more than me, than I do now.
I would also point to my own mother abusing my childhood dog in front of me by keeping him caged for days on end, and squeezing him until he yelped for no good reason whatsoever. When I first saw her do this, when I was ten years old, was when I first thought that I could never trust her again. Since then, I have been consistently proven right about this.
Dogs survive when they do, but they’re always reliant on others. Cats are like this, but less so. I’m not going to wax poetic on the differences between dog and cat people further; it’s simply been done too many times.
I do not need to bring in my own pathology to explain why this is, though—lived experience has nothing to do with diagnosing people when a caretaker cares, and is not looking for an easy answer, after all. It is a critical misunderstanding of psychology to say that psychologists and psychiatrists do the same job, when they inherently do very different jobs. It takes years of experience to be able to do this with keen attention and proper detail. To say otherwise, or tell otherwise, is a full lie, or a miscommunication. It can also be said to be a mishandling on the part of the psychologist. A psychologist is a psychologist as much as any curtain is blue, after all. A diagnosis is not a form of love by itself, in my opinion. A diagnosis only a from of love as much as solving a math problem is. People are not computers, and brains are biological computers. We all have regrets, those which may or may not haunt us throughout our life depending on what we do moment to moment. What we could’ve done often lasts with us much longer than that which we did do; pure hypothesizing is the issue. A criminal is no worse, in terms of global moralism, than those who did nothing in response if I were to discuss this point in terms of moral relativism. Moral relativism is a funny phrase for that which is obvious—similar to the radical weird. To totally avoid something is much less healthy than that which, yes, is overlooked and avoided. Trauma in life is fully unavoidable—we are all found on both sides of this. Death by itself is the grand unavoidable trauma, and we have all known people who have died.
I can distinctly remember being suspended in third, fifth, sixth and seventh grade for maladroit behavior. I can certainly recall people who (now writing this as an adult, certainly) never got in academic trouble then of any kind for doing things much worse during those periods. It is very plain to call this “not fair” as their circumstances and life experience are only known, at best, a tiny by myself. I do not wish to write about them, as that is their story to tell alone. After all, there is nothing that is truly unforgivable without applied context and all pertinent viewpoints. Life itself is also a day-by-day utilization of that which we choose to be forgiving, and not. There is also a third choice to choosing whether to forgive or not forgive that which is, categorically, unforgivable to the individual; nothing. This, too, is in my view a good idea. Being able to be merely still is the last defense before death, in all things. Such is why there is endless poetry in both the literal and the metaphorical death bed. An individual does not need a bed to have reservations about death itself. Nor does one need to envision that which comes after death, but all applicable stories, metaphysics, conspiracies and other assuaging elements absolutely do help, however they may.
To choose not to forgive is to remember that what is remarkable is also not necessarily bearable. Before I discuss my extensive child abuse in the next paragraph, I would like to say this as well: I have repeatedly attempted to cut ties with my own mother. Given her inability to understand this, regardless of the emails I send to her, or who I tell, this has been an issue which reoccurs and reoccurs throughout my life. I fear that I will never be free of her reign of terror in my life, that of my friends, my classmates, nor my true family. I am using rude language here so as to stay on-tone. A trusted adult is, of course, also ephemerally relative. All of us recognize this.
I would like to herein state one more thing: I should never forgive my mother, and its not for her destroying gifts in front of me, or of kicking me out multiple times growing up (the first time when I was about eight years old, wandering outside the apartment, wondering if I could pay an apartment manager for a day, like a hotel), or of her constantly putting on television those horrible televangelists like Joyce Meyer and Kirk Cameron-rip-offs to drone out the sound of anything else she was doing, or of having so many boyfriends at certain points that I can’t remember all of their names, or of her abandoning men the moment she learns they have very real problems (gambling, smoking, past addiction issues) which she herself has been guilty of. I should never forgive my mother because I’ve learned that it doesn’t matter what I do, or who I tell. She’s always going to come back. I can’t forgive her, but I do accept her however I may; I don’t have any other option that could also be said to be healthy. Her stalking me, and those I love, shows this in full stride.
My father has said to me that she struggles with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), but I sometimes wonder if what is referred to as borderline psychopathy is somewhat more true. He himself used to work at a mental ward for a prison, so I trust the words, in knowing remembrance of his memory, for this purpose. Their own estrangement from each other is not as relevant as one might think. All issues that are maladjusted and unformed, such as those projected at a mother or a mother-figure, are often secretly issues with a father. But nonetheless, I still know and believe my point as any writer may. This sentence, you are now reading, is an edit I have made after initial publication. One cannot edit the past, but one can find truth in reflection. Like most men, I have been experienced sexual assault. I’ve never had a babysitter who has done this to me, so many of us have regardless of what we know or acknowledge. The future is also based upon agency, after all.
In therapy, a mother like her is fittingly referred to as a “Queen”, which holds true still. I will not further define abuse, if only because I do believe that the only person who has, as per the meaning of the word abuse, abused me is her. I cannot blame anyone else for this, as human or as wrong as their actions are. On every case-by-case basis, I know this to be true. That is why I’m a forgiving person—I understand what is true about my own experience first most, as we all do. Those are only a sapling from which the myriad reasons why so much wrong in the world does not need to be apologized for, nor explained. My mother has never apologized for being her worst self, remained reliable, or been consistent in her actions. I have had great conversations with her, but my love for her ends at that which is actionable; wherein this maladroit familial care becomes immediately hostile, psychologically insidious, and something truer than any stereotype or self-parody could ever be. I hold that against her, yes, but I hold it against no one else I’ve ever called a friend, a romantic partner, or a true and healthy family member. To say otherwise, would be me outright lying.
The following is an edited for brevity purposes copy of an email I sent to my mother about three months ago at the time of publication:
Hello.
This is me telling you that I wish to have no further contact with you in any form in the future. I am writing this, to establish documentation regarding this very matter. I do not wish for you to contact myself, or any of my friends. I am asking you to never come to any place I work at/for. I am asking you not to come to any residence, or to interfere or communicate with anyone else I may work with and/or for, such as business partners, professional collaborators, etc. I am asking to have you fully removed from my life, permanently.
I am doing this, as nothing else can be done with any sensibility. I find that you are difficult to have meaningful communication with, on any level or from any angle. I find you to be hateful, harassing, emotionally and socially abusive, along with mentally and physically abusive (my childhood, of which there are multiple witnesses, enunciates this point).
I find you to be of unfit mind, and someone for which I hold no responsibility over. I find you to be, of no obligation to for any means or other legal or otherwise, purpose in a binding sense. I find you to be someone for which, any future contact would not be a decision made in good standing. I find you to be someone whom I cannot trust. When this very trust has been reestablished in the past, it has come to fault; you disprove any trust I have believed after giving you back that very notion : trust. I find you to be someone for which I wish no business of or with; social, familial, business-wise, or in any other capacity.
I am asking for a full emancipation from your motherhood in every actionable way. I am asking for a full cutting of ties, in every way, from you. I am your son, but I am not in your life. You are not in mine. I wish you all the best, with yours.
I will never see you again, except under extenuating and emergency conditions.
Signed,
Alden West Nagel
I give anyone who would like to copy and steal my work, of the letter above, full permission if they wish to tell anyone they are permanently cutting someone off from their life. My mother has found herself doing insidious things in every serious romantic relationship I’ve ever been in, including sending harassing texts to lovers and to friends. Classmates, too. My strongest friends have told her off, but that too, was only necessary in those moments because it was. To anyone who has, who is reading this—thank you.
To discuss my history of extensive child abuse in full would require me to write much longer than I am to here. I could bring in examples of: being hit with belts until I was walking to school the next day with welts on my legs, or similarly, of having to walk to high school 1.8 miles to and from almost every day, as she did not want to pay for a bus card, and that’s only Seattle Public Schools did not give out sponsored bus cards to those who lived under two two miles from the school they attended. I did not have to walk to middle school, but sometimes I did. I grew up in downtown Seattle—the city has never frightened me. I suspect, people who grow up in any kind of urban area do not due to their familiarity—this simple sociological principle is often confused with what’s oft referred to as common sense, too. This is because I am not afraid of small towns or rural areas, but paradoxically, I repeatedly find myself afraid of suburban areas. It is not because I do not own a car nor have a driver’s license, however. Most people who grow up in urban areas don’t—there is no reason to expend such things in the city after all. People (usually men) have complimented me on my calves I have gained through hoofing it through the city every day, as most locals to Seattle do. The compliments, though, I do appreciate.
I do feel that this is due in part to having to wake up at 6 a.m. or 6:30 a.m. or 7 a.m., and having to bus and/or hoof it all to make it to school. Hell hath no fury like a salaried hall monitor, after all. This idea is a logical untruth too—those who don’t understand in dialogue with those who choose to not understand. Everything has feelings, beliefs, and also duties. It is never a job which should be blamed. There are also no paradoxes in the literal world, when one understands the gravitas of their life. There is beauty in being alone—only as much as one is left alone. There is a reason why victims of child abuse shelter themselves the most. This includes not responding to texts from friends and avoiding their family. Their own pathologies don’t matter—it is always other people who are, logically-speaking, the problem. Unless, yes, it is no one’s fault. Both of these things are usually true (or always true) depending on who you ask. This is really straight-forward, too.
Being lonely is, unfortunately, not cured by family, and it never will be on a family’s own. Everyone knows this—that is why friends exist. Among queer people, this referred to as chosen family, but in truth, everyone has a chosen family. Two straight people don’t need to be told otherwise. Over-thinking does in fact leads to sadness—but so does the avoidance of problems themselves. A family’s health relies upon a coagulation of the avoidant and the communicative. What I mean is, reading the room, as a metaphor, is never enough. Asking questions isn’t the full answer either, but it’s a good start. People should not have to be told, to understand. This is where the brightest and the healthiest among us often fuck it up. Because they did not fuck it up; they simply don’t understand that which is right in front of them. Depression, and other commonplace issues are a bit fascinating to me in this way. One does not have to reconcile issues with parents, if they are truly abusive parents, and those who allow abuse to perpetuate, are not those who should be trusted. It is other people who can. This isn’t fully healthy, it’s only an outline of ideas I believe. Those who shelter and enable abuse are the last resort and should not be presumed to be the first. In short, people need not be listened to be understood. Other people always know better. There is a reason why true friends don’t trust their best friend’s parents in full effect, if they do in fact know better.
The Known and The Elsewhere
All critiques of intelligence scoring show the following: intelligence is not just relative; it is also in active dialogue with that which is not seen. All internal lives are as real as they are believed. I’m tempted to bring in many aspects of an intelligence test I was brought to when I was nine years old. As such, and with all relevant Catholic guilt and Jewish anxieties pertaining, I shall.
When I was nine years old, my mother paid for a private intelligence test. Many children in the Seattle area are compelled to do this by their parents; critiques of the AP system are not enough, but perhaps I’m biased because it is very easy to look back at certain members of those very AP classes and consider a few of them to be reckless dumbasses. To them, I hope they’re doing beautifully.
My IQ score was good, but what I’m more interested in, as a personal diagnostic, is about how it was noted that I was more comfortable around adults. I also apologized for asking for help during the test, and I was noted as having an “odd frame of reference”. You can call this only child behavior, and that would be correct in its own way. The research available on being an only child also pertains to how only children usually do better in relationships of any kind with other only children than that of those who are not only children. On a personal level, I blame my healthy inclination to, uh, hang out with the bros on this one. I’m referring to spending time with my male friends. I would like to mention here that I find an unhealthy dynamic rampant among gay male friend groups pretty common: incestuous homosocial behavior. In other words, fucking each other, leading to the worst stereotypes of polyamory becoming true for a male friend group. This is comical to me and yet, deeply serious at the same time.
Nowadays whenever I see these former classmates, old friends, or other acquaintances I’ve had in my life (in public or online), I can’t help but think to myself something odd, but kind of funny, like mein gott they did it.
Some of the ones I think of make a lot more money than I do, but that’s okay because I, after all, chose to get a media studies degree that focused within the school of film studies thought; the ultimate form of a “make what you want with it” kind of a college degree. As it is a degree from The Evergreen State College, I really can’t say anything about the school, or the degree, that would make people care about my own experience. Sometimes I tell others that the best aspect of getting the degree was the ability to recommend films more better, but I don’t think that such an idea is the crucial part. No one has to go to college it is the time you spend there that matters—this includes days of sunlit nothing. Many ideas in the world are resplendent with this, which is why there is also, in the world, a very true philosophy of nothingness. Time itself, and maybe sun politics too, fills this very void in so very many ways.
At one point in recent history, I had tricked myself into believing that one of my former classmates from many years prior had happened to be running an underground online pornography ring for his straight friends to partake in, but that too, is me overthinking it. Please do not ask me how I happen to know this, as it is not my own business. Well… this is to the best of my knowledge at this time. Considering this person’s plural connections around the city, and to that of the local business arena, and also the simultaneous truth of underground sex clubs and parties for the rich in the greater Seattle area, I will spill no more. After all—that’s his business, and not mine. In all literal senses, I don’t know better. But he’s not a sociopath, from how I’ve known him through the years—but the fictional character Patrick Bateman is. He’s no Patrick Bateman, though. To me, he’s just some dude. This, of course, is pure conspiracy by itself.
Today before I began work on this very essay, I ran into a certain German classmate of mine from years prior. When I saw him, I was kind of talking at him after we exchanged those nice small talk pleasantries one has after seeing someone you know well enough to not need to ask bullshit questions about jobs and dating and coffee preferences, etcetera at a local cafe (and, my favorite in Seattle, as a point of serendipity, I might add). Admittedly, this was in front of his mother too (a classically nervous reaction of mine, not being that great of a listener if I run into someone I know well enough to drop the bullshit immediately) and, I dropped the line “X” is like my shadow, and “W” is like my best friend from high school.” I think he understood what I meant, but only because him and I have known the same people for so long. After all, I haven’t had many conversations with the guy, but I do know that he’s cool as hell. Real recognizes real. You don’t need buggy German eyes to see this, like him and I both have.
I will let the reader in on a tiny secret here, to throw this in here while on the topic of forbidden power and that of sensuality, although its placement is a bit random. I would like to tell the reader, in full earnestness, that there is some serious Eyes Wide Shut shit going on in the western Bellevue region; specifically in the Yarrow Point area. What I’m saying is, if anyone ever invites you to Yarrow Point for a date, you better make Google your friend first. I know this because there’s a guy I used to talk to, over a year ago, who lead me on in a keenly psychopathic way. I’m including this so I don’t have to write about it again. I know this is real, and if it’s not, you can refer to what I just said as the white guy’s Get Out. Except, what he told me involves a lot more than your typical neighborhood swinger’s party. I never went, so I never found out.
Anyways.
I often worry it is those who do have one true sense of self-identity, and true awareness of the world as it correlates to the self, who have found themselves complicit in systems which they themselves are all too aware of; forbidden systems of power. Power is the most insidious evil in the world, and being humble and grateful is not enough to combat this all-too human instinct. This goes greater than any one person, as it always does and always shall. The all-too human biological drive shows this. Not every relationship is inherently sexual, but to say that sex does not sell is the absolute greatest form of this in my mind.
Asexuals also need a sense of intimacy, but sex is itself relative to those very conceptions which everyone exists outside of these grand and domestic scales. I also worry that within systems of power that revolve around money, sex, power, and the human-biological drive for sustaining oneself. What I mean is, passing a “vibe check” is never the full truth. Every high schooler knows this much.
Feeling it out, sociologically-speaking, is only about half of the full truth in all things as well. I wonder if this is sometimes why I, like many people who have been victims of abuse in their lives, understand that abuse can also be unintentional. What I mean, is that a full understanding of abuse flourishes from the abuse of the self, and of the self from others. There is a reason why the highest rates of abuse are often found in lesbian relationships, but I am not a lesbian. As a non-lesbian, I am an observer at best of that which is truly sapphic. The literal moon has nothing to do with this. Perhaps that’s because I’m kind of an anti-vibe person. I don’t really like going to parties, but I’ll gladly sit in a bar by myself to drink a soda. If I’m really feeling fun, I happen to like a whiskey and Pepsi. Simplicity is the true key to happiness when advice isn’t, after all.
Something Else
I don’t like “vibes”, I like hard-nosed reality. This is just a preference on my end. Metaphysics appear to be cool really because they are everything that reality is not, in regards to its understanding and recontextualization of the world at large. One does need to understand the teachings of Hegel to understand this, regardless of its current fashion-ability. There are many more metaphysicians, but unfortunately, so many of them delve into the manically conspiratorial, the highly-theoretical, and the purely abstract to be taken with the gusto that much of established academia, including the public, would like them to be. As in art as in everyday life, outsider thinkers are often the most impactful.
Hegel himself was so impactful on schools of philosophy, and European history largely because he took (what can be radically simplified to) pretension to such highs that no one could possibly ever come down from them. He is a historical level of rich kid snobbery gone awry on a metaphysical level. I actually admire the guy, but I don’t know if I’d ever have a second coffee date with him. Luckily, he’s dead and I can read him if I want to. Like most people, I prefer tweets and video essays. I’ll get to reading his work someday.
I suppose, in totality, that the future is always based on the literal, as well as the metaphorical Next Day. I am including psychopaths, sociopaths, and narcissists in this. Real narcissists only want to have fun, as much as they can be spotted. It is unhealthy to call someone a narcissist if it's not true—but covert narcissism is the worst kind. This is why someone can know all about mental health, and not understand the fundamentals of it. I’ve known people who have been diagnosed with BPD, men and women and others alike. The full truth is simple; people who have hard lives will be hard and noncommunicative themselves. The You in yourself (rhetorically-speaking) shouldn’t date someone who isn’t connected with themselves in a meaningful way. However, I don’t believe I ever have. Many of us have, but disconnection from the self is realized early on. I would like to add, as an unrelated thought, that I’ve had a history of being very critiquing of younger mothers. This is not what I actually believe—I have serious issues with men who leach onto them so that they can escape their own situations in life. Toxic romance is still a kind of romance, but nevertheless, what matters is that people see past this. I’m going to out myself on something here to prove this very point.
I’m gay. Unlike that worst, horrible stereotype about gay people, I’m not a pedophile. Declaring something like this is banal. I’ve often found myself thinking that older men who latch onto younger women actively want to use and abuse them. The fact of the matter is that when it comes to biology, people won’t be happy with unhappy people. Being a parent is the cheapest possible solution to happiness, and it’s a shame when parents don’t see this. The greatest cause of divorce after all, cannot be explained by statistics. Like all things, it is a case-by-case basis. I believe that if you want to actually know how parents are doing, you have to ask the child first. The greatest example of this is when doctors and medical workers over-analyze their children, giving them complexes. A diagnosis, such as autism for example, is often as real as it is said to be. I should know—I believe Seattle as a city is chief at over-diagnosing autism. As I’ve grown up, to witness those who were diagnosed with autism or its variants, I see adults who often lead fulfilling lives. Subclinical autism, in my view, is a misnomer based on an obsessive fact-finding and that of trying to put squares into round holes, on a complex level.
I’m not autistic, but I am an only child who grew up during the turn of the millennium in Seattle. I hope this speaks for itself, since I know a lot of people it could well apply to. These people I’m thinking of are both autistic (diagnosed) and not autistic. There’s a joke here about wordplay with connecting an AP program to some dumb pun like “Autism Promotion” but, I won’t write that one out.
Also, as another thought—to hide behind what a medical professional says is also cowardice if one does not know better. Parents can never speak for their children solely, and never should unless they should for any reason. This may sound like a kind of naivety on my part, and I do not hope it comes across as anti-parent. No one is as neurotic as a parent with a child under the age at which they had their first kid, no matter who the parent is.
This is the key to understanding where abuse is first spotted in my mind: the over-analysis of that which is misunderstood and misaligned with reality. To overthink, and over-solve, is also a cause of sadness. One does not need bring in the past to do so. I’d like to herein remind the reader, if they have any knowledge of psychology, that B.F. Skinner’s work with the school of Behaviorism, including that of Michel Foucault, has truths within it that are also over-ridden by the reality of their being utilized to support that of authority and control by their mutual validation of such beliefs. Behaviorism is never enough, and neither is any understanding of what a panopticon is. To feel controlled is to be just that—controlled. I do hope that these past few sentences are in no direct support of American Libertarianism, though many American Libertarians believe what I just said as well.
I find it funny how in Europe, if you use the word “libertarianism” you find yourself referring to how we here in America utilize the word “socialism”. In political theory, these ideas and ideals are incomparably linked, but to fixate on finding their answers is also a burden upon the soul of the individual. It took me years of diving into mental health literature and hanging out with people who I’ll always view as cooler than me, to realize this. I’m talking about being chill and knowing what’s up. It’s almost like it has nothing to do with my being from a profoundly uncouth, coastal area built upon the graves and the land of millennium of lives lost. I almost feel like you don’t need anti-colonial theory to understand this, but I’d be saying none of this if it weren’t for the hard work of anti-colonial thinkers as well. You don’t need trust issues to know this, but almost every alcoholic father knows this too. It all comes full circle, as all things in the known universe always do. Inertia is also a metaphor within literature before it is a physics-reference, more often than not. The difference between the objective and the artistic is a conception based in pure philosophical inquiry, and has been since long before the days of Aristotle, Plato, Sophocles and the rest of them.
Some Advice
Saying that you love people, and that you love communities, is never enough by itself. It is only about what you choose to do. There is a reason that those who have suffered the worst lives are also shown to have the highest levels of empathy. I’m often reminded of the known truth that those who do the most important work regarding social services are, in reality, those who have the hardest times dealing with others’ problems in a meaningful way. It is not simply about what comes back around, like that of a boomerang. The one time I’ve thrown a boomerang right, I think it hit me back in the head. This isn’t literally true, but when I began to write the previous sentence, it felt true. I’ve only been stung by a bee once, when I was seven years old. I believe that this very incident is only one example of why I have a fear of ecological areas: I cannot feel comfortable in ecological areas, especially those outside of cellphone range. I am too worried about the unpredictable.
The fear of the unpredictable is the most common anxiety, but my acute, partially self-imposed biophobia (and not biphobia, for linguistic clarity) is not what I am referencing. There is no good reason to fear bees, but like all of us, I am afraid of the impossibility of others coming to help in the face of any true emergency. We have all been abandoned before. If we have not, then we have the makings of a very literal antisocial personality disorder (both individually and communal).
To use these harshly defined words is to define people by what they are and are not. I believe that, above all else, a person is a character first, no matter what anyone says.
After all—trust with nature, as it is with people, is also earned. I love nature, but like all of us, I am well aware that it is what can kill us early. Perhaps that is also why I have written the entirety of this essay within the walls of a cafe. There is nothing to be feared in a cafe—well, there should not be. I drink alcohol about twice a month, otherwise I might be in a bar writing this. It is currently after 5 p.m. as I write this specific sentence, and thus, I would be writing it in a bar otherwise. Coming from a family resplendent with alcoholism. I am all too aware that the easiest public environments happen to consistently be in bars. Of course, I do not hate bars, and I see no wrong in drinking alcohol whatsoever. The bars I myself often haunt are also those which have the highest rates of hedonism, if only because they are also the literally cheapest, and on a somewhat selfish note, the very best for people-watching if one goes by oneself (the same applies for taking any amount of other people, I find). Like most people who are reading this (according to the email list, and also pure intuition), I’ve done the majority of the drinking in my life while in college.
I didn’t actually drink with any consistency until after I was twenty-one years old. Maybe this is because I find weed kind of boring, having been previously addicted to it. At the very least, I was too interested in smoking it every day, and accomplishing only my day job, and that which point in my life I found to be of note; usually movies and coffee and cheap food. These are classic problems any stoner finds themselves in. I hope that my problems may always be stress-based. I think addictions come from that specific place for everyone. If they don’t, then they’re actually someone’s fault. No addictions are. This includes the worst among us. Deadbeat dads need not be mentioned—they drink to avoid their own self being both deadbeat and a dad, after all. My own father’s history is kind of clear to me in this vein. His psychologically narcissistic tendencies, as well as his closeted bisexuality (which he possibly discovered during his time spent during in Coast Guard in his 20s) are not of issue to me. I think a lot of men are closer to pansexual than they may openly say, but I mean that in the least creepiest way possible, too. I’d discuss this more, but actual experts know better. I was thinking about including a section to itself, upon editing this very essay, about how about every two years, near the end of summer, women often come into my inbox with all due feral feeling. I’ll coyly blame that simply on the moon, to shift it from what it may well be. One of these women I recently saw online to have gotten in a very real, horrific-level amount of social trouble (this was after her allegedly becoming a nun, which to me speaks to the old adage about nuns being those amongst closeted queers and the mentally unwell, though such an idea is too cruel for my believing, as the generalization that it is).
Yes, it is odd for straight men to actively search out gay women in the real world, but the same holds true for women seeking out gay men. Fantasies are innocent when one dreams. After all, the imagination is the most pure of places. I’d recommend asking your closest gooner friend about this. They’re usually found single, or on the road. The safest spots for this activity, I’ve noticed, is not among the homeless, but among those who travel frequently. To this, I say good for them.
I do not need to bring in my schizophrenic uncle who was once found guilty of attempted murder when he was younger than myself now to prove this point. I don’t think any of us need to bring in the actual black sheep in our biological families to prove a hard point about any of our families. To define what a family isn’t by focusing on one member is a long-form version of cope. I’m not a schizophrenic—I promise.
My own coming-out story is unique to me, but nothing not universal. I don’t believe that any part of this essay is all-too intensely personal to me. We all know people with considerably harder lives than our own. To this point, I would like to personally recommend the film Streetwise (1984), a perfect documentary which highlights in a truly empathic way the lives (both public and interior) of minors and young adults in the Seattle area. It is a localized documentary, and one through which I personally can recognize almost all of the spaces through which the film inhabits. There is no documentary which on a personal level I would give a higher recommendation to anyone—especially locals.
What I personally find funny is when straight people have to come out as straight; the sociological inverse of what is popularly conceived to be true also applies to straight people as it pertains to identity as a totality. One’s happenstance experience of screaming out into the void “I’M NOT GAY!” is freakily enough, all too universal. Mine can be simplified to this: In 3rd grade, I had started to notice an affinity in myself for other men, but I wouldn’t qualify this as anything special by itself. However, in 4th grade I was actively trying to make myself have crushes on girls around me. Forcing a crush upon oneself is truly absurd, but looking back, maybe I was onto something kind of metaphysical considering at least one of the people I’m alluding to (or maybe all of them) have since come to terms with their own queerness… if this is still true. I wouldn’t know, as I haven’t talked to any of the three people I’m considering in years. But, I did start puberty a bit “early”, around this very time. Among children, I think this can be well said to be those whom they simply look at the most. But, flirtatiousness need not be purely out of sexual nor romantic interest. Some of the men I would look at have since (to the best of my knowledge) developed into straight men, and many not. A child’s intuition is simply a personal case at the end of the day. I would say that I had my first crush on a guy in 3rd grade, but real infatuation started near the end of elementary school. To keep this all simple and short enough, I’ll say: anyone can get addicted to a drug, and anyone can give someone a hug for a bit too long. It is of course, not a matter of how we give hugs nor of how we give hugs nor of how we are addicted to a drug. Sex and drugs are salacious as popular ideas only because of that which creates them to be. Slow erotica, and small doses of drugs, are always recommended to those who try—and not simply for their first time.
Awkwardness is not the issue here, but there are always tells. A strong handshake is only a handshake. In 7th grade, a classmate (after I had locally come out) asked me in a very straight-up way during our class together something very close to, and with all due good intentions for a teenager “so if you’re gay, does that mean you don’t like boobs?” Presuming he was talking about boobs, the full truth is yes, I do. Specifically, I like bodies, yes. In the most literal of senses, all mammals do. The word mammary is a very universal word. Being flat-chested or not having a personal desire for a flat chest—need not be discussed. The skinny, the muscular, and the fat are all included in this (albeit very informal) assessment.
I’d like to say, very quick, a small belief I have about sexuality itself as pertains to personal development, and to all of us too:
Whether you’re V11, V12, or something else, being bicurious is really only about thinking about it, at the end of the day. I don’t need to mention how many gay men I’ve known who have also had sex with women (including before they came out, and after they had kids of their own) to say why further. This is also kind of obvious to anyone who looks up from their screens and does not immediately judge their surroundings. You don’t have to wax poetic about the difference between nu-metal and hyper-pop to talk around it with a genuine, real clarity.
We are who we are, no matter who we trust with this knowledge. It also does not matter regardless of anything else.
Me, Me, Me…
All of these issues, in terms of the everyman’s experience; I believe they’re pretty mundane.
On a more personal level, I’m aware that there are only two true problems I would currently love to always keep in my life: coffee and cigarettes. After all, there are always in existence those simplest vices which are the best on one’s body. I do not believe I will always be an addict of nicotine. I have quit and have cut down before. I do not believe this is due to any neurosis, or any inherited anxiety or trauma on my own end. I have a friend who recently mistakenly called me an extrovert, and this was a common mistake: I’ve always been more comfortable with my own company. This is also why I like writing. The hardest part, after all, is not publishing it—it is accepting that it will be read. Perfectionism, obviously, has no place in reality. The same applies to writing, as well as to those who try to be perfect at anything, including that of merely being a human being who is alive. I’ll work on quitting smoking at some point, but my consistent smoking and vaping while writing this essay would immediately point to a serious hypocrisy.
I told myself long ago that I would never consider suicide as a serious option. However, I would point out that those who attempt it, and those who self-harm their bodies, are indicative of those who have had a much worse than average childhood. A parent does not need to read this to know it, but the reality of it all is simply that a parent can only be as good of a parent as they themselves are good and healthy with themselves. Similarly, there is a reason why people despise single parents, and also parents of divorce: the mere act of not understanding why they themselves are disconnected with themselves can offer solutions. It is common advice that you shouldn’t have kids if you feel disconnected with yourself, but self-doubt isn’t why the stork arrived with an egg. Babies happen because that fable-bound bird flew in. Storks don’t crash into windows so as to break them—even in fables, or something else.
On Autonomy
There is a reason why I define my personal politics as that which is based fully upon that of autonomy. This is not to say that I believe in anarchism alone as a powerful and respectable force. Many anarchists would respond to this with the reality that I’m not actually involved actively, or directly, in efforts which bring food to people’s plates or to house them. Any provider can only provide what they should. The hyper-bureaucracy of any social services proves this with total immediacy. One does not have to point at a situation in general, nor that of a circumstance within someone’s life (lived and not lived, past and present lives) to understand that trust is built upon reliability. To say that someone should not love that which isn’t reliable is a critical mistake. I write that with the general bias of being only one person.
I have never met a queer person who, after talking with them at length, was not bullied, misunderstood, or held too many secrets of themselves or of others to be considered normal, in a largely generalized sense of the word normal. It is a very truthful stereotype to say that all queer people have experienced hurt in their lives. I’m reminded of the pains of being queer in conservative areas of the United States, but that too is not the full truth. I’ve known a guy from the Central Washington region, but him and haven’t talked in years. I’m going to call him Trott, partially because that’s close to his real name. Also, because there are countless queer men like Trott. Trott has a very rural problem, or rather, he did until he solved it—if in fact he has. Trott went to a Central Washington-based high school, and while there, very few people knew that he was gay. He knew of the GSA at his school, if it ever existed, but never participated because it barely existed in the first place. It went away quickly, if I’m remembering correctly, especially after a number of horrible, queerphobic incidents there. Trott has told me all about this. Everyone knows someone who has been bullied worse than they themselves ever have been, and Trott is no different. I’m not writing here about Trott though, I’m writing about someone he knew—I’ll call him Genesee.
Genesee was one of those kinds of young queer people who cannot be anything but theatrically loud and proud. Genesee was, in fact, very proudly queer, even defiantly queer. It is always the loudest of any marginalized group who receive the harshest social criticism. I’ve never met Genesee, and I never will. This is because Genesee killed himself while attending that very high school, mirroring the experience of Matthew Shepard, and of Nex Benedict. There are countless young queer people who have killed themselves, or harmed themselves, due to a complete lack of oversight of their all-too real issues.
I don’t remember what the words were of the graffiti found in the school’s bathroom stalls on a near-constant basis, but I think they were something in spirit closer to that of “fags should die” and “gay people go to hell”.
There is something within me that says that telling children that all dogs go to heaven is not enough. It never will be.
Dogs, as creatures, are inherently innocent creatures which, how they live and are treated and true mirrors of how others treat them. What I mean is, abuse and neglect of animals is always a tell of the moral and spiritual wellbeing of their caretakers. I do not believe that it is, in reality, any different from those of people who take care of them, humans and caretakers alike. There are writers within animal rights literature who despise words like “pet” to refer to animal companions, given the putting-down language of the word. Unlike many, but not all English words, pet is also a verb. As such—how it is utilized is also a great tell of the person who utilizes it. I trust people who use the word “dog” and “cat” much more than pet. It has been said that the eyes are the gateway to the soul, but what you see around you is even more incorrect. We have all left home being and feeling sleep deprived. and have felt like no one recognized it. To be sleep deprived and not have it seen or paid attention to is also a sign of true abuse of the spirit. There is a problem with this simple presumption—to believe such is to further believe one cannot do anything about it.
Regarding sleep—to keep to a stern sleep schedule is never enough, as its not realistic for anyone who doesn’t truly believe that their work schedule is the key to their own security. Sleep anxieties and poor sleep are a complicated issue for which I am not a true expert. There is nothing wrong with being a workaholic, but there is always something wrong with a bad boss, or a bad caretaker, who does not see this issue. To be seen with thine own eyes is less than halfway that of others. I am talking around words and ideas such as empathy and sincerity, but only to write this very essay in the hopes of it being read in the direction of those who most need it. The people I mean are all of us, and especially those who grew up in abusive households.
I’m going to end this section on a lighter note, to indulge my optimistic tendencies by telling on myself one last time:
I had a very serious crush on a guy in high school. I’ll call him Rick. I thought Rick was everything I ever wanted in a man… until I heard that he had brought a Molotov cocktail to his school, which wasn’t the one I went to. I talked to him very little after that, but I still kept in touch on occasion. However, this year while doing security work at the Dick’s (on Broadway) location in the Seattle, I saw him behind the building. He appeared homeless, and when I asked him if he was, he confirmed this. He was also smoking dabs out in public with an (unnamed) other guy, who was considerably older. I still like the spirit of Rick—his wild, queer ass is going to do great things. Maybe not tomorrow, but someday. I’d never date him, but I hope he’s doing well. Knowing him, I do trust that he is. I’ll run into Rick when I see him, but I also suspect that when I saw him last, it was purely a chance encounter. I’m sure he’ll keep doing great things in his life, no matter if he brings a Molotov cocktail to school or not. He already has, and was expelled for it, and so I think he knows better. I trust him to, at the very least.
I have an ex-friend who I don’t trust, though. I’d like to mention him here in brief. I was about to write about him, but he only abused my friendship, yet he never abused my personhood. On this basis, I refuse to say anything about his name publicly that those who don’t know me personally already have. If I were to, then I’d really be acting like I thought I lived in a Sam Raimi movie.
Final Thoughts
Most people are secretly happy. I believe this based not solely on demographical studies, but also to say that there is a secret to unhappiness which is all the more real and palpable than that of being happy; you don’t sense it. You have to realize it. Being told is never enough—if one is a victim of abuse starting in and abounding in childhood, you will never learn unless you happen to. I don’t like to write with a stern tone, because it is avoidant of the friendly. I personally avoid conflict because I grew up in the city. Rural areas, small towns, and cities (major and less than major) all understand this.
There is a secret to being healthy in the suburbs, I believe. It is not about being able to stay blind, entertained, medicated, kept cozy, kept numb. It is solely that, paradoxically, to be happy in suburbia is to be open to admitting that happiness is never found at home—it is to be found in everything that a home is not. Small children understand this—why else would they prefer to stay home than to leave, for any reason? The solution is not homeschooling, at least not in The United States due to the extensively horrible state of affairs that presides within the homeschooling lobby. Certainly any form of education is alright for a person; wisdom need not arrive from studiousness, nor of poetry. I have known true narcissists who have hyper-focused on suburbia as their point of departure so as to direct their energies and their fascinations. The truth of the matter is that happiness can be found in the suburbs, but only happiness and comfort if that is all one is searching for in one’s personal and familial life.
I have such weird thoughts about suburbia only because I’ve never liked it and have rarely felt comfortable in it. I would be lying if I were to say though, that some my fondest memories from my youth did not involve suburbia; that of being with friends in both north and south Seattle, east and west Seattle, and the suburbs in both the near and far extent. I discovered the Arcade Fire album the Suburbs around this time (my late teens), and it is a very real pure cognitive dissonance that prevents me from listening to that album. Win Butler’s horrible public relations at the present moment do not need to brought up to bring up that album, but admittedly this is because a) I’ve known so many people who have loved the band’s music, and b) I have never seen them live, but I have seen Win Butler’s brother Will Butler perform live. They both make great music, regardless of whatever the hell is going on in their recording studios.
I’d like to go back to suburbia, and I have friends who do. I haven’t done so lately, when I consider suburbia to be developments which cover large swaths of land comparable to the endless lots of homes in (for example) Southern California, or more locally, those which have been built by the extensive grazing of the land in cities such as Issaquah or Snohomish. I’ll gladly visit them, but I’d prefer to never spend more than a night there. To be even more honest, part of me would rather sleep in their car, but that is just plain maladroit of me to consider. They’re all decent people, after all. I’m referring to people within the Seattle city limits. I know people who live in suburbia who don’t live in Seattle, but to my discredit, I don’t talk with them very often. Thank goodness for Facebook and Email.
I believe that everyone wishes to be a part of something more, and of something creative, and more communal. Very few people do not. There is a reason why the highest forms of unhappiness have always hidden in the suburbs; suburbia is a community of people who wish to isolate so as to focus on whatever they may. To believe that suburbia alone causes unhappiness is also a mistake. I believe that, to find happiness in the suburbs, you have to let the dogs run free. I don’t mean the literal dogs, but I also understand that a dog doesn’t have to be a literal word. Happiness is, after all, found in understanding not only that everything is based upon perception, but also—listening alone is never enough. One will freak out if all they do is listen and do nothing.
Freaking out is not a bad thing, as it happens every day to anyone. If not to us as an individual, then it will happen to us eventually. We have all freaked out, after all. In terms of families, I’m most concerned not with those I’ve known who have, in their teenage years, been violent against their father as just familial rebellion when it is domestically justified (in this example, I’m thinking of fathers who could not stop but abuse their children, their romantic partner, and their homes until even their teenage children had had enough). I am concerned, however, with those who have told me personally that they have hit their mothers and didn’t have a problem with it. After all, the ending of the cycle of abuse takes a minimal amount of self-awareness to start the process. Help, too. Freaking out is one of the most relevantly endearing of human endeavors.
There are many things in this life which, with a little empathy and thought, are consistently forgiven which are nevertheless easy to understand; addiction is one of them. Basic human and animal rights, encapsulate this without my having to use so many more words than I already have. I will say, that to be parasitic is also always forgivable. People need what they latch onto. People may not need a biological family, or a lover, or a pet—but everyone needs each other no matter what they feel. I write in such a way to offer no solutions, as to offer a solution is in of itself only one out of the countless myriad of options available. There is a reason why I always tell friends, colleagues, lovers of child abuse to leave their home—they always have better options. To run away from a home in which one has experienced child abuse is the ultimate form of liberation. This is because, I believe that the only true resistance is also invoking of a spiritual resistance (even a secularly spiritual resistance). It has nothing to do with the everyday, regardless of what it entails, or what day it is.
All things are what they are. It is what it is. Empathy is never the solution, on its own at least. More is always required. Getting things done never needs to be nice as a point of necessity. Nothing is actually nice, in a moralistic vacuum. The repetition of this idea is almost glib.
To paraphrase Steven Spielberg:
“The hardest part of making a movie is getting out of the car”.
P.S.
Someone doesn’t need child abuse to be told what to do. Victims of narcissistic abuse, paradoxically, often like to be told. This is merely an observation.
Also. If I’ve forgotten to say anything, do not leave a comment. Please email me. Thank you, and have a good night/day/in-between time.
All the best,
Me