Today my husband encountered something that shocked and excited me. 

He’s taking the photojournalism class I took last semester and today they did the assignment for “portrait.” One of the volunteer models was this 15 year old boy. 

My husband said that this boy had brought another along with him and they were being playful with each other in a way that gave him the impression that they were together. They were lightly touching the others waist or arms. Nothing that screamed “hey! We got a gay here!”

All of the students in the class grabbed a model and disappeared to do the assignment, other than my husband and this boy. He went up and asked him to be his model and they took pictures.

As they were walking my husband asked if he and the boy were together and the boy said “how could you tell?” 

It turns out that this 15 year old boy and his boyfriend are engaged to be married in a year. A year. He’ll be sixteen. His fiancé is 18. 

What I find so shocking is that in my conservative, bible buckle of the Bible Belt, town that not only do this boy’s parents accept him as a gay man BUT also have given permission for the two to be married. That’s insane!

I shouldn’t be this amazed, my mother alone is testament to the power of love and acceptance, but I think this a testament to change. Real change. 

While I wish the best for these two, part of me thinks that they won’t make it very long. Teenage romance has it tough already, the fact that they’re also gay men doesn’t really add to the potential success rate of this relationship. 

Pessimism aside, the fact that I even have this story to tell brings me so much joy. 

Life is weird. Especially for me. I wish I had all the answers but I don’t. Instead I have to pick what I think may or may not be the best for me. More often than not I end up having made the wrong choice. Yet I feel that this end result is common for most people. No one knows where they will end up. One just prays they’ve made the right one. 

I mentioned in another post that I’ve given up on trying to be a writer. It only seemed logical since I have written nothing new in some time, nor have I attempted to edit my novel in even longer. Plus when I look back on just what I’ve written here I cringe. I suck at it. I’m rusty and in the amount of time my mind demands of me to be done I will end up just disappointing myself. I had always thought that I would be a writer, the kind published in paperbacks and put onto a shelf. However that isn’t going to happen. I don’t seem to be as dedicated to that plan as I thought. Or I’m just fucking lazy and don’t want to attempt it without being astounding from the start. 

I blame a lot of my failures on my husband. I say that he manipulated me into this or that but in reality we are all responsible for our own choices. He may or may not have broken me down over time to be a good little earth minion, but ultimately it’s my decisions that make my life. 

All of this comes to mind because I spoke with a good friend of mine from SAA. He brought up how his kids went for their dreams and became the master of their crafts without having a “back-up plan”, where I have done he opposite. It made me wonder if my husband has somehow stifled my creativity because he doesn’t see it as being viable or a financially stable choice. On one hand it rings true but I have to wonder if I’m just making excuses for my own failures. That is why I remind myself over and over that “we are the master of our destiny.” In reality we are not. We can only attempt to fulfill some glass ball fortune. Otherwise it’s all about luck. I’m afraid I have none…

It’s strange though that I have given up but yet I have written more in the past weeks than in two or three years. Insane. It brings to mind the thing my psych professor said that artistic people have to make their art. They will go crazy if they do not. In one way or another it will manifest itself from their efforts by any means necessary. I like to think that I am that kind of person, but I know that I am nothing extraordinary. I am nothing if not plain and dull, longing to be something more than just. 

I hate that my mind and body (and life) realized so much on on two little pills. Laying on top of each other, behind that orange plastic, they don’t look like anything much. Just from looks, they’re as useless as a box of tic-tacs. (Btw it took me five tries just to type tacs.) if I don’t take them I’m basically on edge at all times and unpredictable. Just the panic at the thought of the possibilities of what might happen if I don’t take these insignificant compressed powders, is reason enough. Yet, I fight the process. In some messed up part of my brain comes the message that by taking them I am weak. I am somehow less than human. That I am broken. 

Just a week ago I admitted to myself that I’m not a writer, nor do I want to be one. It took me. Long time to realize that fact. I’ve fought with it for some time and finally I broke. The one thing that makes one a writer is to do just that, write. Mouthing the words and having the best of intentions doesn’t make one a literary elite. 

I’ve been plotting, planning, revising a work of fiction since 2010 when I completed the first draft of the manuscript. However with all of that I did very little work. Inevitably I ended up frustrated when I even attempted because at that point I had put so much pressure on myself to accomplish my goal. My life began to unravel and one expectation after another weighed me down until I begAn to make bad decisions. After realizing that fact I knew what I had to do.  I gave up and admitted defeat. 

The funny thing is, I’ve probably written more in the past week than I have since 2010. So, who fucking knows. However what I do understand is I am not a writer. I’m not going to be one and I do not want to.