I’m supposed to do a post in my “Soundtrack of My Life” project (2 actually) but I cannot be bothered. Right now I want silence. I don’t want any music to attach itself to this memory, this time.
Life sucks. Mine seemingly moreso. I have to remind myself sometimes that I’m not the only one going through what I’m experiencing. For every one of my situations there is someone else effected.
Let’s start off with the most broad and work our way down…
First is the world. It feels like every society collectively got together and put the most incompetent and insane people in charge of running the world because “we couldn’t be bothered” to deal with it. As a result everything is falling to shit. All of the progress made has been undone because a small group of people feel they have that authority. And because they know/sense that their power is dwindling and they are willing to watch everything burn to maintain their power. It sucks that as I get further into adulthood life sucks even more. At least… the utopia we envision gets dimmer.
Next is my work life… this time of year is usually our busiest. We can barely keep up with the demand for appraisals. And I’m lucky if I even get 1 bud request. And even then it’s usually some bullshit assignment outside of my usual market. So if it’s slow now… what the fuck is it going to look like in winter? Good thing my mother is dying and I’m getting my inheritance. Figures that any kind of gains I get will be wasted on just surviving this bullshit. Fuck the middle class, right America? and here I know those effected are everyone in the real estate market. So I’m not alone but… damn.
Next is dealing with the impending loss of my husband and my mother. Here the pool is smaller. But once again, I’m not alone in it.
My mother is more immediate. I imagine she will pass at some point in the next few days. She lost the ability to swallow over a week ago. And while it has returned at random points in that time period, it has been gone for the most part. Luckily she has been medicated for most of this time. I envy her. I wish I could sleep through this and wake up with the news that it has all happened. But even then… the voice in my head says, then what is the point of living? Life is the good and the bad. It just sucks watching my mom go. However I’m glad she’s not present for it.
My husband is losing more of his ability to do things every week. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like for him to rely on myself and tony to do anything. He can’t eat, drink, relieve, move, or dress himself without one of us there. That would be maddening for me. Yet he has the most optimistic attitude about it. He is truly a saint.
In the end I am selfish about all of this. I can only focus on how it effects me. But I MUST remind myself that the universe and all it’s events don’t revolve around my experience of them.
Here I am again with an entire album. I couldn’t help myself. This is one of the few that I couldn’t pick a single song from if you held a gun to my head. Every track is pure perfection, and far surpassed their first album. At least, to me. And that’s saying something since I was (still) absolutely in love with their first release.
For the longest time, I was blissfully naïve. I thought everyone loved Matchbox Twenty. It wasn’t until I worked at Border’s that upon merely mentioning their name everyone in my vicinity rolled their eyes. (It’s not like I said Nickelback.) I find this kind of behavior super fucking pretentious. The notion that one set of musicians is better than another because they’re not as “commercial” or that they hadn’t “sold their soul to music executives” is exhausting. Here is where I roll my eyes. Just because the band hasn’t been discovered doesn’t mean 1) that they’re even good or 2) that they’re better. It just means there wasn’t a mass appeal for them as there was for another.
Anyway! I’m getting entirely off-track.
The reason I chose this album is because this, along with their first, makes me think of summer time. It brings to mind the excitement and energy of travelling. Every time I listen I’m back in the rear seat of my parents car, headphones on, playing Pokémon on my gold GameBoy pocket. This one in particular recalls the summer right after my 8th grade graduation when my parents took me and a close family friend, Nycole, on a road trip to Canada. This album was what drowned out the sound of the constant bickering between my Aunt and Uncle, who had joined us mid-way through and hijacked our trip.
The trip up to the point, after we realized they had joined us for the remainder of it, was super fun.
While Nycole isn’t a blood relative she feels like a cousin. Even now I will call her that, with no relation between the two of us. She’s transcended normal friendship, primarily because we’ve been friends since we were itty-bitty babies.
I’m not going to lie to you, dear reader. The whole reason my parents planned this trip to Canada was so that I could 1) have my first taste of a “foreign” country and 2) so that I could purchase a plethora of Beanie Babies with Canadian tush tags. At the peak of the Beanie Baby craze, the more sought after plushes were those with this specific piece of legal type. Dumb, I know. Even as I wrote this I saw my dad shaking his head at the explanation. I didn’t choose the beanie life, it chose me.
However, because of my Aunt and Uncle, my time in the Great White North was limited to only a few hours. This was due to them having decided they were going to drive everywhere in their extended cab, diesel truck. It was here that I learned to NEVER AGREE TO TRAVELLING WITH ANOTHER FAMILY. EVER. I refuse to relinquish my ability to be able to do what I want, when I want. If I don’t have an escape route available, I will not take the chance.
By the time we had made it to our neighbor’s to the north, my parents had had enough of them, and so had Nycole and I. Looking back, they’re addition truly soured the entire trip. It went from the freedom to discuss what we wanted to do to: this is what we’re gonna fucking do whether you want to or not. It sucked.
It was on this trip that we were forced to spend an entire day taking a ferry over to Victoria Island so we could go to Butchart Gardens. (Fun fact I dated a dude who’s family had owned it!) I tried to buy Beanie Babies there, but I found none and wasn’t even given the chance to really look because my Aunt and Uncle INSISTED on using public transportation. Now their forced schedule was even more rigid to this.
Once we were free of them, the dark cloud that had built over my family lifted. I mean… it truly was night and day. These people were super toxic. And we had no idea until it was too late. Afterwards my parents knew their limitations and limited the time they spent around them to a minimum.
My dad repeatedly apologized for having said anything to them. He took the blame for having our trip turn into the vacation from hell. Even though it really wasn’t that bad, looking back. It was just them. They were such negative, miserable people.
That was the last big vacation my family ever took. From then on it was just weekend trips to somewhere within close proximity to where we lived, and far enough away that family couldn’t invite themselves.
With the exception of (half of) this adventure, I’ve loved road trips since I was a kid. I know most don’t because they’re trapped in a single place for copious amounts of time, and kids like to run. But I was a sedentary child. Proven by being overweight for the majority of my youth. My idea of fun was having my headphones on, staring out at the passing scenery. My mind would wander from one story idea to another, or I would just relax with the quiet from my constant buzzing thoughts.
Today the polycule and I leave for our own road trip. We’re going to be travelling up to South Dakota and then back down to Denver to see Chris Stapleton. (I got tickets for the hub’s birthday.) He actually just performed here in town last night, but when I went to purchase entry there were no handicap seats available. At all. So, I thought why not make a whole thing out of this and pick somewhere far away.
I just wonder what song or album will define this trip?
I really pity the folks who never had a close relationship with one of their grandparents. They missed out on the most profound relationships that truly shapes who you are as an adult. And I understand that not all grandparents are good. Nor are they always present, whether that be by choice or just circumstance. That’s why I feel horrible if I ever do adopt, because they will miss out on my mother. She would have loved the shit out of them like my grandmother did for me.
Much like my husband’s experience, my grandmother was like a third parent. She was also the one who cultivated my love of reading and my want to be a writer. She literally read everything I printed out and gave to her. The best part was when she was honest and gave me critiques while attempting to no be too harsh. Even as I think back on it I can see the struggle on her face, as she chose the appropriate words to describe what she wanted to say without offending me.
My grandmother was the only “grand” I had. At least, one that had any effect on my life. My paternal grandmother was in and out of hospitals when I was a toddler. She was a chain smoking narcist who I was fortunate enough to have never known in my formative years. My paternal grandfather was absent my entire life, much like he was for my father.
One of my earliest memories was when I was almost 3 years old. Some might think this is unbelievable but I vividly remember going to my grandfather’s funeral. I remember the sight of him laying in his casket, with a single red rose. I can recall my father taking me outside to get a drink from the drinking fountain and I asked him, “why is mom crying?” And him telling me in his calm tone that she was sad that her dad, my grandpa, was gone.
Sometimes I thought that I had made all of this up, until my own grandmother had passed. We held her services in the exact same funeral home and it was precisely how I remembered it. There was no doubt that I hadn’t concocted a false memory.
My grandmother’s passing was the first experience of real loss. I had lived a very charmed life never having known such sadness. When I did… I was distraught.
My grandmother had been forced into having a hernia surgery by her two oldest daughters. The medical professional had advised against it, this was her third surgery for the same affliction. However despite his and her own reservations she agreed. The surgery was a success. She left the hospital and came home without any issues. We all thought she was in the clear.
My mother had had a Las Vegas trip planned with my Aunt (her best friend), and she sought my grandmother’s blessing before departing. She gave it and told her to have fun and not worry about her. When my mother got back, my gran complained about feeling unwell. My mother offered to take her to the ER, but she had a scheduled doctor’s appointment the next day. So, she said she would wait until then. There was no sense going when that was just around the corner.
My mom regretted agreeing to that.
At the time I was working overnights at Best Buy, helping them renovate the local store to a format they called “Buzz.” It was a layout that was geared for the shopper who was interested in the “latest and greatest tech.” I worked from 10 P.M. to 7 A.M. for a month, in close proximity to the store manager. (He was a sleeze bucket.) And one of the rules of doing this work was I had to leave my Nokia bar phone in the car or turned off. Over-nights was all about work.
On the morning of my last day of scheduled overnights, I was sitting in the living room having something to eat before I went to bed. My grandmother shuffled in, in her trademark pastel nightgown. She didn’t say anything, and neither did I.
I finished up my quick meal and got up to go to bed.
“Do you want the TV on or off?” was the last thing I ever said to her.
That night we got out a little early, we had successfully recreated the floorplan of the store to be buzzworthy. Everyone agreed to go out to eat at some restaurant as a “celebration.”
As I got to my car, turned my phone on, I immediately got a voicemail from my mom.
She spoke very soft and methodical. She told me to come home right away.
What I can’t understand is why I didn’t bother calling her back. It never crossed my mind. Not even once. Instead I raced across town to find out. As I pulled up to the house, I already knew something was very wrong. There were a bunch of cars taking up any free space and I was forced to double park in the driveway.
Inside everyone gathered together, in the living room, in silence.
My breath caught in my chest, my heart pounded in my ears.
I came to a stop and stood at the end of the counter.
“Grandma is gone,” my mom said.
I spun around and collapsed, cross legged, on the floor, sobbing.
My mother, her voice trembling, told me to come to her. But I couldn’t move.
Once I had composed myself the first person I called was my husband. He didn’t answer, because he was on the road for work and it was his turn to sleep in the cab while his partner drove.
One of the biggest things I regret is that I was so rude to my grandmother in the months before her passing. I was battling with my sexuality and the expectations of my family and faith. Her constant “worrying” about Charlie, my husband, was irritating. I know she knew I was gay and who he was. Her room was right next to mine and our walls were thin. I also have a very loud voice. There wasn’t a night that I didn’t spend at least a couple hours talking to Charlie on the phone. It was how our relationship began.
I did have a dream, shortly after she passed, of her and I spending time in the kitchen of her home in the mountains. She was busy doing something, what I don’t remember, and I felt so sad. I told her that I loved her, missed her, and how I was so sorry that I was mean to her. She just brushed it aside with a smile and let me know that it was okay.
My dad told me, after I shared my dream with him, that she had come to visit me. He was so matter of fact about it.
I chose this song because my grandmother would sing it every once in awhile. Sometimes it was to me, and others it was because she missed my grandfather. He and her had been together since she was 14 years old. They had gone through so much together. He had “saved” her from living in a group home, after her step-mother had given her to be a ward of the state.
They had had seven kids, lost one in war and the other to cancer, and they had travelled back and forth across this country three times, trying to make a living for themselves and their family. It was never explicitly told to me, but I am certain their move from Missouri to California was my grandfather’s attempt to break into the music business. There are demo tapes of him singing different gospel songs in boxes throughout my mom’s home.
This was one of the songs that he would sing to her, unprompted.
This September will be 18 years since she passed. And I still miss her as much as I ever have.
I just want to preface this next post with a warning. This deals with some sensitive content around “sexual abuse” trauma, and if you are at all uncomfortable with such topics I do ask you to stop reading. I don’t want to trigger anything for anyone. This is, above all, a safe space. So, if you wish to continue I very much appreciate your continued patronage of my ridiculous little life.
This song was from one of those albums that completely defined an entire “era.” This came out right at the time that my husband and I had finally “split.” After 4 years of cheating on him and getting caught, we had decided to break-up. The only caveat being, we would still live together and sleep in the same bed. What we were doing at the time was staging what our future relationship would turn into. For all intents and purposes we were “broken up.” In reality it was an open relationship, but my husband and I were so opposed to that kind of “gay culture” (at the time) that we had to call it something else.
Out of this entire CD, there were 5 songs that just hit specific points in my husband’s and my relationship and some of my past experiences. This song, “Love for a Child” made my husband think of me. It told the tale of how, I’m assuming, a young Jason Mraz grew up just a little too early under the distracted attention of his disengaged parents. The line that specifically spoke to my husband was:
“…and making love at far too young an age And they never checked to see my grades What a fool I’d be to start complaining now”
It’s true, I was exposed to sex much, much too young. As a result I became overly sexualized and started to believe that I was only good for what I could offer sexually. I’m certain it is what set the foundation for my sex addiction.
The first time I was sexually abused was by a neighbor kid when I was 3. I have snapshots of what happened with him, but the one thing I remember with clarity, was my mother’s rage from finding me buck naked in the backyard. She had only checked on me because the neighborhood boy left in a hurry and I hadn’t been trailing behind.
“Why are you naked?” She had shrieked.
I remember following her back into the house, staring at her back. Her dress was beige with different colored strips and she was wearing flip flops.
All I can recall was after that event I was no longer allowed to play with that boy. Why, I didn’t know. Being the good kid I was, I followed the order.
It’s weird because that entire neighborhood was rife with kids down to do sexual stuff. When I got older there was a boy who would only ever want to play with me if he wanted “something.” He had a code name for it and I knew, once I heard that phrase, that it was gonna happen. He called it “working bears.” Which… As a gay adult man is funny to me. Bears… come on.
Once this kid got what he wanted he would turn on me. There was one time where this asshole got all of the neighborhood kids to gather on the lawn of the house across the street, and they called me a faggot. That is not an exaggeration.
My saving grace was getting out of that hell hole. My mom’s department was moving from Southern California to the Central Valley, and my mom jumped at the opportunity. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I knew, even at nine years old, that a fresh start has limitless possibilities.
While I wasn’t sexually assaulted by neighborhood kids in our new town, I was teased and bullied. So, progress, right?
I was mainly teased for being fat. I was also weird. I had adopted the mentality really early on that I rather be strange than normal. I would say “thank you” every time someone said, “You’re weird.” The need to conform to what everyone else was doing was something I never believed. That is, unless, it was awesome. (Aka power rangers bitches!) Otherwise I marched to the beat of my own drummer, and usually kids don’t like that.
The internet made making friends way easier. I had a ton of online pals who had similar interests and were also a little kooky. It was in the digital space where I found my community.
What I also found was internet pornography.
The problem with having technologically illiterate parents is that the kid ends up setting all the shit up, and therefore learns how to manipulate the programs to do what they want. Even though my parents had me on the setting for “child safe” content, I knew exactly how to remove any restrictions. And when my hormones were raging during puberty, I would change my browsing capabilities to include adult sites and I would spend HOURS perusing every photograph.
This was all gay pornography, by the way. Never once did I search for images that featured women. Why would I want to pretend when my windows of opportunity were so short? Let’s get right to the good stuff. The only problem is then I would have an identity crisis with post coital clarity. It’s super fucked up to have religious dogma mess up your orgasm. And I firmly believe it affected my ability to even relax in the moment now. I feel this immediate urge to not be where I am. To cleanse myself of my “sins.”
Good lord I am a mess.
Finally after a few years of this ritual I needed to know if I really was “gay.” The only way to do that was to take what I had seen in pictures and put it into practice. At 13 years old I started reaching out to gay men on-line to meet up for sex.
There were only two who were willing.
The first one knew that I was a chubby pre-teen and he still agreed to meet with me. I had arranged to meet him at a Wal-greens around the corner from my house. There he would pick me up and take me back to his place. I logged off, jerked off, and found the terror in my ridiculous plan.
I logged back on and told him that my dad was a cop and I was going to turn him in. He freaked the fuck out on me. I panicked, again, and then told him that wasn’t true. He responded with this filthy e-mail saying how he was going to find me and kill me. I deleted it, but I should have turned that shit into AOL and regret not having done that to this day.
This episode left me frightened from another attempt for a about a year. Then the draw to do something about my desires pushed me to try again.
The second person I spoke to was “Scott.” He was an over the road trucker, in his 40’s, who agreed to meet with me. I lied about my age, but even when I was “honest” about being “16” he still agreed to meet with me. (God, my rage is building.)
Like an idiot I agreed to have him pick me up at midnight at the end of my street. I thought that this was safer than him picking me up at my actual house. (I didn’t want him to know where I lived!)
Like a hooker waiting for her next trick, I waited out on the corner.
Sidenote: no shame to sex workers. I just say that because of the irony of the scene.
Scott pulled up in his beat-up, aquamarine Mazda sedan. I got in and he drove me to his house just a mile down the street from my own. He snuck me in, and as we were on our way to his room someone started to come out into the hall. He yelled at them to get back in their room, to which they immediately did. He ushered me back into his room and we did stuff on his water bed.
Shortly after I met him for the first time, he dropped me off and I walked back home saying, with “absolute certainty,” that I was definitely not gay. I did not enjoy that. He smelled, he was hairy, he was old. I was not into it. With hindsight I know now it’s because I didn’t enjoy it with him. Even though, plot twist, hairy and older are very much my type. Do with that what you will.
While I wasn’t coerced into anything (I sought him out and initiated the conversation) he should not have agreed. Once he learned my age he should have shut that shit down, explained to me that that isn’t appropriate or even legal. He should have known that I was not emotionally or mentally prepared to deal with that choice. But, he did not.
The thing I find so insane is: why would he risk everything to do it? He didn’t know that I wouldn’t have told my parents. I could have turned him in, told them where he lived, or helped with a sting operation through instant message. All of these I should have done, but that would have meant telling the truth to my parents. Instead I kept it to myself to deal.
I look back on this with regret. I took from myself something that should have, at the very least, meant something special. Instead, I treated my first sexual encounter as a case study. One where the results were skewed and that, inevitably, didn’t hold any weight in my future choices.
I wish I could say that I never went back, but I met up with this dude three more times. Each time more repulsive than the last. My “favorite” had to be my first time performing penetrative sex on him in the back of his semi, parked in a Rite-Aid parking lot.
There is this video going around TikTok that states: we are who we would have felt safe with as a kid. The truth in that statement is unreal. These encounters turned me into a grizzly bear when it comes to kids and sex. If I hear someone has been harmed I get very, very angry. I want to do everything in my power to protect them from the mind fuck that comes with it. I want to keep them from ever having to deal with that kind of trauma. The only way that will ever happen is that we must sit down with our youth and have very honest and open conversations. Without them it makes sex this secret, sinister thing. One in which we need to feel shame in. And while that is not always true, there are shameful acts (as depicted above), it should come with no emotional baggage.
The Journal of a Jaded Josh 