I have long struggled with my name in this world and as I start this new blog the struggle continues. Nate, as you may have surmised is not my given name. That honor goes to “Harvey”. As I have blogged the excuse has been simple: if my name was common – a Bob, a Mike, it would be easy. But how many Harvey’s are there? Well, more than a few.
But as I thought about it today, I realized that it is much more complicated. My birth certificate has a blank where normally there would be a name, a first name. On the back is a rubber stamp dated over a week after my birth with my name – first and middle – written in. I know why this is even though it was never discussed – I can see the whole scene. My Dad was the dominant one, my Mom meek at best and invisible most of my childhood. My Dad loved his Dad, a man who died before I saw this earth. Actually all of my granddad’s kids worshipped him, to the bizarre degree that of the six children who preceded me, three had variants on his name, one being my sister.
So I can see that moment when the son, the prodigal desired son was born and my Dad announced my name – Nathan. And I can see my Mom in a rare uprising saying: Was not our last born enough, was not one each of your siblings children enough. A stalemate surely ensued, a blank line on an official form, a blank line that will never change.
A week – joy over the son tempered with the name debate and at the end Nathan was there but in the second slot, sort of like accepting the Vice Presidential spot in this political season. Harvey it was, homage to my maternal side, albeit in a round about fashion. I must confess to never having loved my name – not pretty, hard to pronounce (Did you say Bobby…). And while fifty years ago, neither was that common, Harvey has been relegated to the circular file of names while Nate has made its comeback.
When I started blogging, Nate was such an obvious choice: it is to a degree my name, I do like it and it still allowed me anonymity, cover from the shame of being gay. So as I continue my journey I will continue to be Harvey in my real world but it was Nate who joined this community two years ago and in these pages it is Nate that I will remain. Not out of shame, not out of hiding, but simply because I want to.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Prologue
It was January 5th 2006 that I first joined the world of blogging with Tales of a Bi”MWM”. I am two years older but a lifetime away as I start this new Blog – a marriage in tatters, bi being a technical label that I am not sure I can claim and more significantly not sure I would choose to. It has been a while since I wrote so it may be a bit before I get my sea legs back, before I set the stage. I look back and my last post was November 30th and before that October 14th. It has been a busy time and one of great change. A few weeks ago I killed some time writing in my scrawl on a note pad – tonight I found the note and it is the place to start:
My therapy is rounding the final bend. (Tomorrow will likely be my final session with Bob.) It has been over a year – far and away my longest stretch and the first time that the therapist will sound the final bell as opposed to my typical declaration of graduating, of being cured. Bob asks what my final goals are and I am unsure, this is unfamiliar territory. He prods me: Learning to accept happiness. We explore this for this happiness is new and it has come at a steep price. It is hard to let go, to free fall while a wife is crying, while the wounds are so raw.
I share this news with Carrie and she is bemused. She thinks me quite adept at happiness, an accomplished narcissist on a mission for carnal pleasure, a mission that has succeeded in her eyes. I consider this for there is a measure of truth. But the measure of truth pales next to the reality. The word happiness is really a misnomer in all of this. Sure I am happy in many ways but I realize I have forgotten what Michelle Shocked rambled about in her concert last May: It is not about happiness, it is about authenticity. And only with authenticity, one can enjoy the by product of happiness.
The better word that comes to mind is comfort – comfort with who I am, comfort with what I am: simply put, a fifty three year old gay man. I can finally say it – no modifiers, no shame. Self acceptance has been a long time coming – self acceptance of myself and self acceptance that there is no road back. Self acceptance of my desires, both the carnal (yes, I am enjoying the ride) and the casual. Self acceptance of the hardest truth of all – if offered the road back, I would not take it and if offered the “straight pill” I would swap it for a Viagra. Its funny how I am writing this tonight and as I read the notes from weeks ago, I realize that even in this short term there has been change. That evening I wrote of going back: “Not that I would not be tempted, sorely tempted…” I am no longer tempted. Four decades of denial is a feat, not one to be proud of, and my new life is finally falling into place.
There are stories of the last months, of the last weeks, stories of all types. They are a coming now that the basics are stated.
God, I missed the writing.
My therapy is rounding the final bend. (Tomorrow will likely be my final session with Bob.) It has been over a year – far and away my longest stretch and the first time that the therapist will sound the final bell as opposed to my typical declaration of graduating, of being cured. Bob asks what my final goals are and I am unsure, this is unfamiliar territory. He prods me: Learning to accept happiness. We explore this for this happiness is new and it has come at a steep price. It is hard to let go, to free fall while a wife is crying, while the wounds are so raw.
I share this news with Carrie and she is bemused. She thinks me quite adept at happiness, an accomplished narcissist on a mission for carnal pleasure, a mission that has succeeded in her eyes. I consider this for there is a measure of truth. But the measure of truth pales next to the reality. The word happiness is really a misnomer in all of this. Sure I am happy in many ways but I realize I have forgotten what Michelle Shocked rambled about in her concert last May: It is not about happiness, it is about authenticity. And only with authenticity, one can enjoy the by product of happiness.
The better word that comes to mind is comfort – comfort with who I am, comfort with what I am: simply put, a fifty three year old gay man. I can finally say it – no modifiers, no shame. Self acceptance has been a long time coming – self acceptance of myself and self acceptance that there is no road back. Self acceptance of my desires, both the carnal (yes, I am enjoying the ride) and the casual. Self acceptance of the hardest truth of all – if offered the road back, I would not take it and if offered the “straight pill” I would swap it for a Viagra. Its funny how I am writing this tonight and as I read the notes from weeks ago, I realize that even in this short term there has been change. That evening I wrote of going back: “Not that I would not be tempted, sorely tempted…” I am no longer tempted. Four decades of denial is a feat, not one to be proud of, and my new life is finally falling into place.
There are stories of the last months, of the last weeks, stories of all types. They are a coming now that the basics are stated.
God, I missed the writing.
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