[cw: flashbacks to past CSA, described but not super graphic. this part is a bit of a doozy generally speaking, tho]

*

Well, I do have to give Nathan quite a bit of credit: the guitar parts he came up with for the couple songs we're adding to our setlist (much to some peoples' chagrin...) really are divine. I'm surprised it took him this long, but I didn't tease him about that-- the results were more than enough for the time. And I haven't been able to fully reward him for it yet, but I will, when the time comes. The past few months have been harrowing, and Nate has harmed as well as helped, but I suppose he's always known how to drive me crazy in various ways. But yes, it was... ugh. Everyone was playing together so I couldn't do exactly what I wanted to do because of hearing that damn guitar with everything else, but the world Nathan and I were in, there, was still decidedly less typically-heavenly than usual (and in very entertaining ways). And I still couldn't help but give him a look for a moment after it was all over-- really, I stared at him until he looked at me, like I could make him look at me, and once he did look at me, the look I gave him back was closer to one I'd give to a stranger at a club (or back-stage somewhere, or a more-obscure park trail, or...). Not quite the same-- those looks are for a far more immediate need. And I need to know that Nathan can behave himself. So there was still some distance. Still more suggestion, or maybe preview, than anything. Ugh, once I get him off a stage though... I'm not sure if I'll be able to help myself.

Anyway, he did meet that look, his eyes flitted through a few looks of their own-- a slight shock, a benign amusement-- and I could've sworn they mirrored my look, just for a moment, before we had to move on.

It would be nice for things to stay this interesting at work, but it's never consistent. Things can be amazing like that or disastrous or just frustrating in a way that makes me check out from it and makes touch feel like burning again. At least that hasn't been so consistent lately, either. I feel like I can almost function again in that sense. But I can barely eat and it isn't just because I don't want to eat. I'll wake up some days and it feels like the entire length of my lower intestine is being wrung out by god and it doesn't seem to matter what I ate or not the night before, and it doesn't stop even after everything's out of there. Even though it doesn't seem to matter what I eat-- so eating nothing doesn't help-- it still makes eating so fucking difficult. It's hard to have an appetite when your gut's in a fucking vice. If there were an understandable reason for it, it would be one thing. But I haven't bottomed in MONTHS, nevermind in a rough way; I haven't even prepped very carefully for it, and it feels like I've been torn up from the inside out anyway. What the fuck.

Once I'm working I can forget about it, and it often dissipates after awhile. Hours, though. Pot's one of the only fucking things that does anything for it and I can't fucking smoke. --Well, I have, obviously, which is how I know it helps. Jack said a bong's probably better for me than joints (and he provided one), the water vapor and all that, but really, it doesn't make THAT much of a difference. And I can't be checked out the way pot makes you while I'm working (or I suppose I technically could-- Nate's been in a worse state for sure-- but I don't want to be like that). Fuck, am I going to have to pop fucking painkillers alongside everything else? Maybe it'll pass. Maybe it's some weird bug or something my body's having a hard time getting rid of for whatever reason. But ugh, if it's not one thing, it's another. And it better be fixed by the time we're on the road. I really don't want to see a doctor about it. I have enough wrong with me.

*

Jack shaved his head and I absolutely hated how I felt about it, about him, when I saw it. And he walked in so sheepishly, like he was anticipating a reaction, and that made the flash of rage I felt even worse, and I had to scratch my forearm hard to snap out of it decently to not actually do anything awful. What I wanted to say was "how dare you", to both the lack-of-hair and the sheepishness, but it thankfully came out as "Why?"

Even that got the panicked rush of "I'm sorry"s. I told him to actually explain himself or shut up and he shrunk even more, his voice flew back up to a constricted small high pitch-- and it was still just "I'm stupid" instead of anything real. I didn't even get a chance to answer to that before he slumped down against the wall, curled up and in tears, arms covering his face and head. "You've been going through so much scary fucking shit and I can't even put up with one fucking thing for you, I'm such a fucking pussy".

Once I saw him in that position all I could see was Mom in that position, or Anna, or Esther. Or me. And again, at first, I felt an anger at that-- a how dare you treat me like my grandfather-- but I didn't want to make it worse. I didn't know at that point whether it was the look on my face or the way I said that one word that caused him to treat me that way. I didn't want to give him any further reason. So I slid down next to him, carefully. Asked him if the hair was just making him feel too girlish or remember too much, or something. He took a deep breath, rubbed his face on his sleeve, looked up, but straight (not at me). "It was just some asshole at work. But he fucking-- he just-- grabbed it. And it freaked me the fuck out. I don't know if he even meant shit by it. I just--" And he collapsed into himself again for a moment. "People did so much shit with my hair, man." He said it so quietly, so weakly-- so tired, so finished. I told him he wasn't a pussy for buzzing it. You do what you can to survive assholes at work. And he has even more to hide than *I* do (another reason I don't think I could stay with Jack long-term-- that would worry me sick; I'm too visible as it is but I'm far too visible for someone like him). "You looked at me like-- fuck. You looked at me like-- like my fucking MOM did the first time she saw my hair short."

God... at first what immediately came to mind was talking with Shann all that time ago about how terrible her mother was to her; how she'd force her to dress in things that didn't fit her and punished her for it. Then I remembered being bent and pinned over the sink, being buzzed short with animal shears, gritting my teeth til I was sure they'd break so I wouldn't cry. --That wasn't Mom, though. That was granddad. Unsurprisingly. Mom had actually allowed me to grow my hair out awhile, because Marv had (and that was with great reluctance on his part). It was summer break, nothing mattered and I said I wanted to look like Paul McCartney. I got away with it for a little longer than that, though. A lot of girls actually liked it, which helped. I could tuck some of my bangs behind my ear; could just barely pull everything back into a tiny ponytail (which teachers made me do). Then Mom and Marv had to go somewhere and left me with granddad. He started going off about what a little faggot I was, how much shame I bring our family, that I looked like a girl with my hair like that, "Why you wanna look like a girl, huh? You a pervert??" And there went my hair. When I moved out for college, I'd just do it to myself for awhile, in lieu of cutting anything else. It was punishment (the side-shave I have now is funny... like yeah, I'll shave my head alright, fucker).

So I told him (outside of my own sorry's) that I'd forgotten, in the heat of that moment, that a shaved head could mean anything but punishment. But god, what an awful kind of frustration that Jack has to deal with, to be punished for being too boyish as a child and for being too girlish as a man. I suppose mine was more simple. There was still no winning (or trying to "win" just made me feel sick in other ways)! But it was simple. --He did laugh a little, at that. "We were both girlish boys, in our own separate ways. Like you said. Right?" ...Right. I asked if I could hold him, and he allowed me. A flood of guilt almost overwhelmed me as soon as I had him in my arms, that I couldn't do something like this for him in return and there he was, so upset and still able to-- I sound like him. He sounds like me. Not literally, of course; his voice sounds more and more the way he wants it to, thankfully. I just mean what we say to each other. And it hit me suddenly, in that moment.

I didn't want to ask this question. It could barely leave my throat. It was like I was choking the words out. And all the question was, was what was his mother like? And he snorted derisively, shook his head. "She was a piece of fuckin' work, man. I mean, my dad was, too, though. I didn't have a fuckin' chance. I was in the middle of six kids and raised by half of 'em and helping raise the other half. It felt like fucking shit for me to go, but man, she was so good at guilt tripping you. And what she wanted was always what you REALLY were. She couldn't handle anything that wasn't what she wanted. She'd cry at everything. Everything was about making sure either she was happy or dad was happy, 'cause if they weren't, nothing was getting done and we'd all be black and blue."

"So what about your Mom?"

And I knew that was coming. And it made me want to vomit and I only barely know why. At first I just said that she was dead. That could've worked as a conversation terminator. I could've let it happen. Part of me still thinks I should've. I couldn't keep my eyes open when I said what I said. And I had to start off in that quiet, weak voice Jack had used earlier. --I did so much for her. I took so much for her. --But she had to take so much. She had to do so much for ME. I looked up to her so much. She was so beautiful and I always wanted her to see that, I always wanted to help her see that, because she couldn't see it-- and god, her style was IMMACULATE, but she always saw it as some necessary disguise over ugliness. She could be so brave, sometimes. There were times she'd stand up to granddad, and NOBODY stood up to him. But she was also very... emotional. And she broke down when she had me. Like, I literally made her fucking crazy. Just being there, and being... wrong. And I just kept being more wrong. And my father was a fucker too, like yours, a fucking drunk, and she put up with him until he just left. --I mean, she also made me take voice lessons with him, but he was a singer, and it was free, and we didn't have the money, and I wanted to sing. And she made damn sure I'd be good at it and have the discipline for it, I mean, even after that fucker left for good she signed me up for the Church choir just for the experience, and it really was necessary experience, I really did learn so much there. And she felt so terrible about leaving me without a father. She'd try to find guys through work, but sometimes she worked at a fucking nightclub, so not really ~dad material~. You'd think Church would be better, but HA. She really knew how to pick 'em. The guy who eventually became my step-father was a miracle in comparison to the rest of them but he was still never really a dad. Then again, I don't think I let him try. I wasn't going to trust like that anymore. And my mother knew that, too, and she was so upset by it, but I couldn't help it, and fuck, I tried, I always fucking tried, and she tried even harder to fix me, but I could never help but insist on ruining myself.

"Dude, you're a millionaire, how the fuck have you ~ruined~ yourself?" --At that point, I couldn't help but get a little snippy. I let go of him. Said he didn't know my life, and I had a guy at work already that tried to psychoanalyze me, and I didn't like it there, either. He shrunk a little again-- ugh, he was still in too vulnerable a place to hear anything even the slightest bit snippy. I ended up getting up, cooking us dinner (mostly for him). We were both more on the quiet side for the rest of the night, but nothing too tense. Just a lot on our minds, I think.

PS: Had the church door dream again.

*

The door opened too much this time and I was awake for it. Voice lessons with Jack after day of work having to deal with Walter. I usually pace a bit while I listen to Jack, or when I offer advice or instruction after I finish listening to him. Sometimes I just think better on my feet. Today it felt like a sort of stalking, or a hovering, a looming. It didn't feel right. For awhile I leaned against a wall, crossed my arms tight, dug my nails into them. Being at a distance was even worse, though, or at least, it was just as bad. I felt like a voyeur. A pervert either way. I went back to pacing. That became a slow circling, a circling in, until I was so close behind him it was unbearable. It was like I couldn't help myself.

I reached out and it was like watching myself do it. Put a hand on his shoulder. He tensed, and I just put my other hand on his other shoulder, gripped them, messaged them, and he leaned into me with a little moan, and I told him he could keep going. I wanted him to keep going. Sing something for me. Kissed the back of his neck. And I have no idea what he actually sang. All I heard was Jesu, Joy Of Man's Desiring. And then Jack was me, at the age of twelve, my voice desperately holding onto a boy soprano purity, and I was...

Fuck. I don't even remember his name. He was the choir director there for years, Mom loved him and I always wanted to love him for her, and I don't remember his name. But I was him all of a sudden, and it was like me as an adult was rubbing my own shoulders, kissing my own neck, coaxing things out of me in my ear-- and I shoved off of Jack hard in a panic, a panic I'm still fucking in, something I don't know what the fuck to do with, I couldn't think at the time, I just went right to the bathroom threw my clothes off set the water to scalding, got in, dug my nails into my shoudlers, put my head underwater and screamed. He checked on me at some point and I told him to leave, just leave, I'm a fucking monster and a pervert and my skin is on fire just LEAVE. PLEASE LEAVE. And I was crying, sobbing, begging him to leave me alone. He almost did, hesitated, popped carefully back in the doorway to asked if I was going to be okay. I was never fucking okay. I had to be okay. So I was there, too. Anything to get him to leave. And he felt so terrible, like it was his fault, somehow, but I didn't have the wherewithal to comfort him in any way; I was trying not to scream again, everything was spinning, nothing felt real, for a while I almost wondered if this was all a dream, that I'd wake up in the tub and be twelve again. It still feels like a dream, but I'm still thirty-six.

I felt so fucking terrible for it, but as soon as Jack left I wanted Nathan there so badly I started sobbing again. Not his fucking body. Not him fucking touching me. Just his guitar. Him playing next to me. Then it would be okay. There's enough fucking wrong with me. I keep saying that but it's like there's no fucking end to it. There's always more and it's always worse. There was so much fucking more after that choir teacher. But he was what started it, I think. What really started it. He's who made me "what I am". Or at least, what Walter knows I am.

At least all singing isn't tinged with that. Just the most formal, choral things. I think of Sam Cooke and it's okay. He was always okay, more than okay, he was always there and never hurt me. Even Kate Bush... she has that operatic quality, there's a song on her last album that uses an adult male choir, and thinking of that doesn't send me into a panic or make me feel sick. I can feel thankful for those things. Even more thankful, because I still have to work, so I still have to sing.

With all that said, though, and despite not knowing quite what I'm going to do about it, I do know one thing, and I think I have to grasp it with all I have so I can stay alive and strong and be everything I need to be for now. And that's this: Walter, you were right about me in some ways. I did what I fucking had to. I did what I fucking could. And all I had, for so long, the only thing other men would see or notice or care about, was what I could do for them. You might say "like a woman", Walter, but it's less than that, or at least, it's different. Gregory didn't treat me like a woman. He treated me like a faggot. And so do you. And you want Nathan to, too, and he has, sometimes. So you know some of what I am. I'm a fucking coward faggot whore. Sure.

But you’re not completely right. That’s not ALL I am-- it’s just all I could afford to be, for far too long, so it’s what I accepted, for far too long. But it was never all I am, no matter what you or anyone else think. If I have a final say in anything, I hope it’s that, at least. I always had parts they could never touch. And I barely let you touch me. Just around the shoulders, you pervert. And you got so much of my voice, just like HE did, and that’s the one thing I never let Lorenzo ever have (and it's what kept me alive with him, I think). It’s too late for you for anything else, though. It was already too late for you by the time you met me. I’ll never let you really touch me, no matter how much you think you can destroy me for it, no matter how much you try to make Nathan hate me for it. Not even those little touches anymore, if you’re still even tempted. I hope not. I’ll look you dead in the eye while I break your fucking fingers if you try.

Trying not to drown in it all. Hard even to read after I’ve written it, but it just came spilling out once I started and it’s pen, so no erasing it. I could rip out the page, I guess. I’ve done that before. I don’t know. Maybe I had to let it out. I still don’t know how much of it is my fault, and how early it started being my fault. Opinions differ in my family so it’s hard for me to tell, whose opinion to trust. But even if everything before Walter IS my fault, I won't let him touch me and he'll never get the chance.

*