I haven't written on here in a while because of my PTSD mostly, the rest is telling more of this story has only brought up more anguish and sadness.
My 12th birthday had come and gone and I was still in the Hospital, I had become adept at masturbating and except for a few dry humps on Joy that were absolute bliss. I was moved to a old building where they kept the older boys. This was very different, segregated by sex and placed into a situation where they were not only crazy but full of adole
I awoke with a fervor the next morining anticipating my next move, when would I have a chance to talk to her? I grabbed a pair of my undies and carried them with me all through class and therapy. Finally, during the late afternoon around a half-hour before dinner I got my chance to talk to her.
I asked her if we could talk down by the slide where no one was playing. She warily agreed and we proceeded to walk by the rest of the playing children. My heart was racing and I was nervous, screwing up
Before I continue, I just want to mention that a great deal of anguish and torment has been brought to the surface in revisiting my past. The past two weeks I have been more depressed than normal and actually find myself actually welcoming death as a relief from all the pressures of the past and the indignity of my current poverty which seems to be coming at me from all angles more than ever.
But I will soldier on even though I just want to fall apart and cry sometimes, currently I am working
This is going to be one of the harder parts to write about as it involves me talking about something that will perhaps stigmatize me even in the eyes of the LGBT community. The shame and instant judgement others openly and secretly pass upon me when I mention this time of my life.
The strange thing is, I remember the summer of `73 as being one of the best summers ever, the weather, the music the long weekends at the Jersey beaches. How did it come to this? The stark austerity of the cold Nov
We originally lived in a second house that my dad's parents owned. It bordered a large graveyard in a gritty working-class neighboorhood sandwiched between a steel mill, a large slaughterhouse and two breweries. With the half dozen backyards facing a sea of marble behind a chain-link fence. One room houses that had grown into a ramshackle collection of wood and tar paper houses. I stil find it hard to imagine my great-grandparents raised 10 girls in that tiny house!
The house we first lived in
I'm not sure if I would call me lucky for knowing I was "different" from a very early age.
I started at the age of three. It happened one Spring morning in 1967 at the VOA daycare center my Mom would leave me at. Most of the other kids had gone outside to play in the early spring sunshine. I had stayed inside with this one girl, and we decided to play house.
In a moment of inspration she decided I should play the Mommy, and so I looked around and there was a life-sized doll in a pretty white
