I am an overweight gay male. That sentence alone carries a lot of meaning (pun intended).  That is a death sentence when it comes to socializing and achieving romantically as a gay man.  I have known this for a while.  Overweight gay men are allowed to love certain men but are banished from the upper echelons of gay society.  Are you emotionally damaged? Okay, join the party.  Are you an alcoholic?  The more the merrier.  Do you have a few extra pounds? No. Do not pass go.  Do not collect two-hundred dollars.  You have to go.

Fact: I am a bipolar gay man.  A common side-effect of most bipolar medications is weight gain.  God knows I have tried to lose weight, but I have to work three times as hard to shed every ounce of fat on my body.

Fact: It has been seven years since my last relationship.  I’m fine for an afternoon of fun but do you want to put a ring on it? Hell no.  My little black book is full of phone numbers good for a night.  That is the expiration date I am most familiar with.

The gay community is one that runs on inclusiveness.  Give us your tired, your fabulous, your chiseled masses, but those with more to love be damned.  That is the reality of our community.  We should be ashamed.  While women are striving to embrace body types of all shapes and sizes, we can only count to six abdomens.  For shame. Inclusiveness be damned if it’s not truly inclusive.  That’s my take away from my twelve years as an openly gay man.  I will continue to strive to be my best self, but know, it’s not for any of you judgmental gays.  I love myself at this size.  I love myself fifty pounds lighter.  Can you say the same?  If you can’t, how full of pride can you really be?

There’s a part of my soul that is stuck in a single moment. He touches my hand. His eyes gaze into mine. I know in that instant that I am all that he is thinking about. We are connected through more than touch. For a brief moment our souls are gliding along one another. We are one with each other and that is all there is. He was mine and I was his. It was enough.


There is a part of my soul that is stuck in a single moment. It is alone. He still lives in that city far away. His heart glides alone with another. He is happy in a way I could never make possible. I live here frozen in time. I am cursed to watch his life move forward.


There are days like today, when I wonder if he still senses me. I wonder if he is nearby in some way. I can feel his lips on mine and see his smile. But it is a fleeting flutter of my heart. Thus he vanishes and I am left grasping at ghosts that were long dead many years ago. He is the phantom of my heart. I am the prisoner of the past.







May the west Texas dust sweep my heart to you amidst Cadillacs turned skyward. I breathe in the desert air and hope that someday you might remember that for a fleeting moment, I was yours and for an even smaller moment, you were mine.

My father recently let my sister know that if I would simply allow a relationship between him and I to exist, he would assist me financially. Ironically, he did not come to me with this offer himself and I highly doubt he ever will.

My father is a cruel human being. I wish I could say otherwise, but it is the truth. When I was thirteen he told us he was leaving my mother. It was the day before Thanksgiving and my mother was due to come home the next day after a lengthy stay in a mental institution. My sisters and I would later learn that he had told her (after her last round of ECT, also know as Electro-convulsive Therapy) that she would not be coming home, that he would take custody of us and that it was up to her to find somewhere else to live. We would much later learn that he had taken a mistress.

My father spent the next year ignoring the children he so ardently demanded custody of. He would spend vast amounts of time outside of the home, having his mother care for us. When he was home he was verbally abusive, particularly to me, who was most like my mother. After spending a summer with my mother at her parents house, my sisters and I eventually decided to live with her and my mother, who my father said was to ill to ever care for us, fought for and won custody.

My relationship with my father began to deteriorate at an alarming rate after that. I’d have phone calls begging him to be the dad I remembered him being before the divorce. He would always turn it around on me, a thirteen year old, saying it was my fault for feeling the way I did.

When I discovered I was gay, things grew even worse. After years of toying with the idea of coming out to him, at the age of twenty I finally did. His words were, “I’m not thrilled with the idea, but what can you do.” Four years later when gay marriage was legalized in all fifty states, he went on Facebook to condemn it. For me, who was filled with nothing but pride, that was the end of things.

My father is a terrible person. He is holier than thou and filled with nothing but false promises and accusatory statements. In the end, I suppose it’s true. Some things, only God can forgive.

Today I decided my family and I should grab take-out for lunch. It was a simplistic goal made even more simple by the fact that my sister is home from college and was able to go get it.

Unfortunately for me, I let her leave without giving her the means to pay for it. For a few minutes, it looked like I was going to have to run back out and get lunch for everyone.

I know this sounds simplistic. It is, in it’s very essence, a first world problem. But, for the few minutes where it seemed like I was going to have to run out and procure lunch, my mother and I had a discussion about what depression is like. Depression makes every single action seem impossible. Getting lunch, doing homework, doing something enjoyable; all of it is insurmountable. When I’m depressed, I walk around the house like the undead, not sure where to put myself, simply occupying space. So today, when it looked like lunch was on me, I felt yet another wave of exhaustion wash over me. I think a lot of people associate depression with sadness. Depression is in part sadness, but it is also suffocating. It is the absence of everything but exhaustion. Things you once found joy in suddenly and without warning lose all meaning. That is my life right now. That is why lunch was desperate.

I’ve tried my best to deny it. I’ve tried to wait it out. I knew that depression was dropping by from time to time, but I was hoping it would always leave once the day was done. Unfortunately, this weekend depression brought a suitcase full of all of my shortcomings and a heavy blanket to shield my brain from any happiness that might exist. I no longer suffer from dark days. I am just suffering from the dark. I was a fool to believe that I could fight this off on my own and now I am left to sit in this crushing numbness.

I can see the frustration on my mother’s face. She wanted me to catch this sooner.  I can see how desperate my sister is to help. But I’ve waited too long and it’s too late. All I can do is wait for my psychiatrist to charge me one-hundred and twenty dollars for fifteen god damn minutes of time so that she might adjust my medication. I am at the mercy of the chemicals in my head and all I can do is operate on autopilot until this is fixed.

One dark day after the next. Numbness toward all I see. God help me, I’m tired.

Not sure this post is all that coherent. Hard to give a damn. May those of you that read it be in a far better place than I am.

I’ve written about dark days before on here. I wake up into these days full of gloom and desperation. Everything I try to do is more difficult. Every conversation I have is torturous. Lately, I’m having a lot of dark days. This typically means one thing: I’m getting depressed.

This is particularly inconvenient at the moment. I’m currently taking my first college course in three years. My family and I are trying to save money for another trip to Universal Studios so we can immerse ourselves in all things Potter related. My psychiatrist is expensive. Also, I hate my psychiatrist. So my usual patterns are of dealing with depression are gone, or at least, unappealing.

So instead of fixing my depression with a pill, I’m trying something that is (for me) radically different. I’m trying to fix my depression with God. I’ve been reading my Bible more lately. I’ve been trying to pray with the idea that someone might actually be listening. I’ve been reading some of Anne Lamott’s work. In all honesty, it’s a bizarre moment in time for me. God and I have rarely spoken in the past and Christianity and I haven’t gotten along at all. But, as much as my more skeptical and cynical self would hate to admit it, something about this is working. While my connection to God still needs some major adjustments (my dark days don’t completely vanish when I involve Him) I do feel that a little light is let in when I let Him have a say.

Eventually, I’m going to need a med adjustment. I know it’s coming. But right now, I’m happy to know that there is someone else rooting for me to find the light.

It never fails that when depression washes over me so does something else; a desire to be loved again. I miss love. The apprehensive brushing of hands, of lips. I miss the safety that comes with being adored by another human being. I was loved once, a very long time ago and while I’m not the person I once was, I still think that somewhere out there, someone is waiting. I’m just hoping he doesn’t wait too long…

Short post this time.

talk to you soon…