At 20, I yearn. I desire. I fear. I dream of belonging. I struggle to understand my place. I perform. I morph. I transform from nerd to jester to hunter to jock. This act of wearing manhood… this lifelong game… It’s an act of empowerment, subversion; a form of espionage. I try on different selves. Different inflections of a polished surface. I watch. I listen. I hide my shame. I ignore my self-hatred until it corrodes me from the inside out.
I long to feel seen—to be known. Somewhere behind my eyes it’s like I ask every man I meet: Will you see me?
Journal Entry, 2014 (Age 19):
What, after all, did I know of love if it were for a man? How would I be able recognize it in myself, let alone in others? Had the movies of my youth ever shown what that would be like? Had any protagonist ever filled clichés in my mind of what to say, of how my heart would feel, of how the interactions would play out?
For nineteen years, I had been conditioned to co-exist with men. Force. Pressure. Domination. Melancholy. A dearth of ideas prevented me from drawing lines in the gray between friendship, sexuality, intimacy, and love. They all felt distant and dissolute.
At the intersection of a clash of strict morals, rampant homophobia, and rageful conditioning, how could I even begin to fathom what an intimate male friendship would look like if it were never represented to me? And how could I contrast a loving, supportive friendship to a romantic love between men that I also had never seen existing either? How do you really compare two things that never were given any visibility in the first place?
Underneath everything, did
you all long to be loved too?