What is Looks Can Kill?
I can’t do this…
It’s well after midnight, and I’m at the edge of an abyss. Beyond the overwhelming darkness lies my parents’ basement, otherwise a cheerful place full of gut-busting memories and epic ping pong rallies. At least in the light of fluorescence. At this moment, though, it’s looming. Watching. Waiting. The eerie unknown swallows up my eyes. I can’t help but squint, stare. You big baby, of course you can’t see straight…you’re all off. Though I’ve ventured down for late night meditation in the pitch black a few times over the past couple of months, each experience seems to bring more doubt as I consider who I am in the dark versus who I am in the light. Most times, I only make it down to the family room before passing out in front of the TV, the wide swinging door of the basement laughing wildly at me when I wake from the couch. There was no way you were going to be able to keep this up! the door jests to my angst-ridden mind. In turn, I glare even more pointedly at the basement and the portal in time it represents. It’s evil. There’s no doubt about it.
I know, I know; you think I’m crazy. Seeing is believing, though. Like over a month ago, after a harrowing journey down into the pits of the basement, I joined friends at a party—in the extremely bright light of the sun—only to find that the darkness was following me. As I socialized, I felt dizzy, hoping that a quick bite to eat would digest and steady me. Stay balanced, breathe, I reminded myself. Instead, the world started spinning around me, and without the water (or alcohol) in my system to ride it out, the effects felt like a roller coaster losing touch with the tracks. Before I could verbalize my predicament, everyone’s voices rang through my ears, blasting me with a deafening cry. It brought me back to what I heard in the silence of the basement…Then, I was out. My ears woke up first, hearing the chattering of passersby, realizing slowly that my eyes were closed, my body was horizontal, and my ears weren’t deceiving me: the chattering was about me passing out and falling down. Where did I go? All I could remember was the vast darkness swallowing up my thoughts, my dreams. It’s evident that the basement was maintaining it’s powerful hold over me well into the light of day.
I think back to my stopover at Marble Canyon in 2017; a dip into the darkest dimension I could imagine, the most vivid dreams awakened. When I trekked back to the light of day, I was immediately tested. Yes, by mice. Before that, though. I elatedly arrived to my car following the long climb up and checked in with my mother after a 7 day “No Service” period. Then, I found myself peering out from the edge of a majestic rock formation facing the east side of the Grand Canyon. Another car pulled up to the isolated spot, and an attractive, 20-something male got out and set up camp for the night. Mind you, it had been nearly 10 days since I interacted with another person by that point. With his tent in place, he took to his bike, riding around the ledge and looking at trails for future exploration; soon, Nick, I learned, approached the open trunk of my Jeep and issued a few questions about the area. Nick was from the east coast but taking the scenic route to Colorado…small talk eventually lead to a gathering by the fire, but conversation stalled out a bit as we opened up a beer and shared some of our experiences. I was pretty candid; he seemed guarded. It didn’t matter; the love affair was over just. like. that. I awoke similar to the experience at my friend’s place: ears first. He was calling out to me and asking if I was O.K.; apparently, I passed out and fell down, face first, on my half-empty beer can. I tried standing but the whirlwind already caught hold. I went down twice more before crawling back into my car—bloodied from the fall, broken from embarrassment—where a predestined dance with mice was set to begin.
That lead-in was an eyesore, I realize, without much payoff. I’m just trying to make sense of a few things here…Unlike my recent fainting spell, when Nick asked me where I went after I came to the second time, I automatically responded, “Euphoria.” I remember entering into this vibrant dimensional space; it had no real shape or structure, but it was so rich in texture and movement. Altitude sickness, right? What I do know: it was the opposite of the stifling darkness that I’ve attributed to my parents’ basement. What I don’t know: why I’m doing any of this to myself when it looks so nonsensical from the outside. Who is even looking at this anymore?
I’ve been feeling half empty, like my energy is being drained more rapidly than I can generate. In turn, facing the mirror has become an even bigger chore as the exhausted, overwhelmed MATTHEW falls apart before my very eyes. Who is doing this to you?! I cry out from sealed lips, begging for some reprieve, but only pushing harder to endure all challenges and PRODUCE, PRODUCE, PRODUCE! Unfortunately, as you can see from the radio silence on this blog, it’s been anything but productive, causing me even more inner angst. Just over a year ago, I was flying through the sky with Self-Esteem firmly stowed away in my heart. Why couldn’t I see myself in the same light now? “Eyes possess tremendous power,” Yehuda Berg shows me through Looks Can Kill: Protection from the Evil Eye in The 72 Names of God. “The human eye has the capability to transmit both positive and negative energy. The evil eye refers to the negative glances and resentful looks that we receive from people harboring destructive feelings toward us” (69). I have been feeling a lot of eyes on me, as of late. Critical eyes. Shaming eyes. Angry eyes. No wonder I can’t get any writing done! It’s as if each pair of eyes has stripped me, little by little, of self-esteem, pulling my hope and optimism apart and leaving a dreadful pessimist in its place.
It wasn’t until friends pointed out my outlook was getting more and more bleak that I determined to set my mind right. But how? Without a clear path, I followed along where life took me. First, I learned that while my zodiac sun sign is Aries, my moon and ascendant signs are both Aquarius. Though I had no idea what this meant at first, a dive down the rabbit hole shook me. Am I destined to be a stubborn, egocentric, non-committing poser? My outlook wasn’t improving…I mean, how do you change what you are born as? Further research turned up that I was living my life as a martyr, landing even more doubt on my shoulders as I considered all the missteps I’ve taken to arrive at this point. I wish I wasn’t even born…This is getting worse. Fortunately, the martyr probing lead to a suggestion of better self care and the recommendation of The Self-Esteem Workbook, by Glenn R. Schiraldi, Ph.D., which I promptly purchased, received, and started.
Now a month in, I must say: self-esteem is a b*tch. Geez! All this talk of inner value and how productivity isn’t a marker for it goes against everything I believe, everything I know. Being good means doing a good job. Facing myself again and seeing good—without producing any significant work—feels empty, fake. Am I a poser? Ugh! You see how this negative thought pattern related to my output can impact my self-esteem. As Schiraldi looks at it, “When worth equals externals, self-esteem rises and falls with events…Here, we distinguish feeling bad about events or behaviors (guilt) from feeling bad about the core self (shame). Guilt for foolish behavior is a healthy motivation for change. Condemning the core, however, saps motivation” (38; 39). There we have it, the reason for my writer’s block, this off-track roller coaster: my core has been condemned! My angry eyes seek out the cause of this condemnation and find that “If you want to have self-esteem, it helps to choose your parents well…Parents of children with self-esteem have high standards and expectations, but the expectations are clear, reasonable, consistent, and given with support and encouragement” (23). I KNEW IT!!! Of course…my anguish over being born reflects directly on the person who gave birth to me: my mother.
Water Works
I shouldn’t be surprised that my moon and ascendant signs are both Aquarius; water flows through my memories in unique ways, particularly with my mother. I recall many nights throughout childhood, after I was read to and tucked in, my mom would begin running a bath as I dozed off. The splash of the surge always tickled my ears, hearing the echoed gulp of the growing body of water as it threatened to engulf the flow from above. It always did the trick; I surrendered to dream land, where imagination took flight. On the occasional night, my dreams had to be grounded to refuel with water. Rather than venture out into the dark, twisting hallway to retrieve it myself, I called out to my mother, who would wake up to bring me a full cup. After the refresh, I would carry on in my dreams while my mom, no doubt, struggled to get back to sleep. I can’t say for certain how old I was or how long of a period it continued. I was old enough for it to be embarrassing, though, when an ex-boyfriend brought it up at an extended family party, stirring the pot with something I told him in confidence. It wasn’t our proudest moment; my mom and I looking at each other from across the table, our eyes heavy with shame, felt down to the core, for our behavior. Her tenderness, though on display, was barely recognized.
Our proudest moment(s), through my eyes, involved getting me hooked on phonics. I leaned heavily on the lessons provided by the program to improve my reading skills and confidence. I remember practicing with my mom, finding comfort in her encouraging eyes as her face told the story if I was getting it right or not. Any improvement brought more joy and less anxiety, and since my mother was the most beautiful when she smiled, I set out to produce results. Week after week saw greater progress till—success!—we achieved literacy together. Our least proud moment(s) came during my coming out process. It began as a series of secrets and complex lies, mostly on my end. I always wondered, though: did she see through it? Apparently not, because when the truth was revealed at the 20 age mark, her tears wouldn’t stop. Not enough to look at me, to see me. As my father said “no,” all I wanted was for her to come to my side, to nurture me, to smile at me and tell me it would be “O.K.” The steady flow from her eyes didn’t uplift me into an imaginative expanse. When I came out again at 30, via email, her response was even more disheartening and confusing: “we had no idea.” More water works; this time, from my end. Not long after, we were discussing her reaction when her most condemning words came out: “I pictured you living in a nice house, with a white picket fence, with a family…” The list flowed on, but the undercurrent swept me away: you can’t have a happy future as a gay man.
A lot has changed within the past 3 years. Our openness and honesty ebbs and flows as we experience different emotional triggers that set us off in one direction or another; more often than not, it brings us closer together if/when we take a chance to share what we are truly feeling. Still, I can’t help but look at her with evil eyes at times, blaming her for so severely hampering my self-esteem in relation to being gay; pointing my glare from the basement to her, seeing only her role in the trauma. I knew it all along! Andrew Solomon shows me a different perspective via Far from the Tree: “Our parents are metaphors for ourselves: we struggle for their acceptance as a displaced way of struggling to accept ourselves. The culture is likewise a metaphor for our parents: our quest for high esteem in the larger world is only a sophisticated manifestation of our primal wish for parental love. The triangulation can be dizzying” (26-27). Crap…if I’m staring down my mother because I’m expecting her acceptance, I’m just exasperating the issue because I’m creating more discord for myself and in our relationship. And based on her rushing to my side at the hospital last month, I know she cares about me deeply; her intent was/is never to condemn my core. Much like my father, I know she was trying to protect and guide me through my struggle. But Solomon’s words flood me with angst; who is to blame?! Why did I start I lying to my mother in the first place? Oh right…it was you.
The Blame game
Now, I don’t like to place blame unjustly…O.K., maybe I do, but it’s difficult to understand what happened during those transitional years of identity when my integrity disintegrated into dust. I mean, I was just a child trying to grasp soulful expression. Scanning back through previous entries, it looks like several outside influences made me feel that my identity was wrong, shameful, or disruptive, whether that be from peers/bullies at school, friends, friends’ parents, family, media, church, the list goes on and on. At the core of it all, the condemnation: I can’t be whole myself if I want to be harmonious with all else. As such, throughout my life, I censored my being—locked down my heart—so as not to overextend. I needed to hide being gay, cover up my femininity, and curtail my happiness to appease society. My eyes track from my mother to you, the placeholder for my oppression.
Coming out later in life is an interesting experience; had I announced myself at a younger age, perhaps the reactions wouldn’t be so puzzling. On a chart, it would be a scale from “I had no idea” to “I knew the entire time.” To be honest, it’s a bit of a mind f*ck, especially for someone as perplexed by identity expression as me. When I hear, “I had no idea,” I’m reminded of instances when the individual and I interacted in a manner that would have tipped them off. Times when I panicked I was discovered. It’s an emotional journey, one that brings bitter lies, missed truths, and, yes, even twisted pleasure as I consider my mastery of impersonation. When I hear, “I knew the entire time,” I want to burst. Where in the hell were you when I needed someone to tell me it would all be ‘O.K.’?! If you could see through the cloak of masculinity to the struggling soul within, why didn’t you try reaching in a little further? Ooh. It boils my blood. “The problem with blaming, much like catastrophizing, is that it tends to make us think of ourselves as helpless victims who are too powerless to cope. The antidote to blaming is to acknowledge outside influences, but to also take responsibility for your own welfare” (48)…Ugh…Schiraldi, really? This is the exact cycle I found myself in when I was Revealing the Concealed; have I really made no progress?
I suppose what really makes me cross eyed in all this mess are my interactions within the gay community. I remember, prior to being out, I felt a lot of pressure to come out. One acquaintance really let me have it one night at a gay bar in Chicago, harshly remarking on my phoniness, particularly my masculinity. I was livid, but mostly because he was right; I was a phony. Since coming out, identity expression has remained a stumbling block, though, because my masculine front—Str8 Bro Matt (limited edition now available from Mattel)—often battles for supremacy in anxiety-producing social situations. Posturing becomes a priority, and I lose sight of my core. But why?! I’m out! I’m proud! I’m…fem? The other side of this confusing equation is if/when I do express my core—Flim Flam Matt (on back order)—many gay men won’t talk to me because I’m too feminine. Are you sure you’re masc, bro? Since putting up a new profile on Grindr with more of my exuberant face showing than ever before, the responses have been…different. Most messages are from guys sharing that they enjoy my vibe and my smile made them smile. That’s not necessarily the standard, and while that’s not a bad thing, it does make me wonder what expectations we are holding each other to for connection, as I know that I have been on the opposite end of this, demonizing femininity and oversexualizing masculinity. So much so that I shredded my integrity apart, convinced that I could never achieve any level of happiness because what I was didn’t fit with what everyone else wanted, expected.
Learning Yearning
A trip down into my parents’ basement with the lights flipped on offers a much better look at any lurking threats: dog toys on the floor, furniture, ping pong table edges, support posts. Nothing significant. There is one hazard that doesn’t cross my path in the night, yet still causes much turmoil; I’m pretty sure it is screaming out from the darkness: a portrait of me playing the piano hanging on the wall. Gasp! O.K., perhaps not a portrait so much as a caricature since my most defining feature is exaggerated: gayness. While I could have easily substituted that descriptive word with many others, I chose it because when my mom gifted me the portrait way back when, I thought it made me look gay, so I cast an evil eye on it. Whenever my mom hung it in the basement, I immediately fetched it down and hid it away from the light. If I was going to sustain Str8 Bro Matt’s identity, I couldn’t have such an obvious marker prominently displayed where my friends gathered.
My eyes are opening wider as I think through the darkness I associate with the basement and my gay identity. In essence, my gayness was born in the basement and grew into a monstrous creature. It began “innocently” enough: I would make the occasional trip downstairs to flip through a few old Men’s Health magazines. One of the covers featured this chiseled, handsome Adonis flexing through a push-up but maintaining the perfect smoldering face. My eyes and imagination would work together to form some idea of our fit together; mind you, this was before the internet and initial sexual contact, so my thoughts were far less perverse than they would be at this stage #justsaying. Over the years, as I began punishing myself more and more for my identity, the darkness of the basement became the scene of more exploration and expression; however, it was limited to sexual contact with strangers, hardly the esteem-building interactions that made me feel better about my outlook. I abused myself. I abused others. There was consent, yes, but consent based on a need to hurt less inside, often by unleashing that hurt physically. I ceased to exist as a human being; it was like living as a jumble of body parts with a masc mask. I see that I was condemning myself for my core; I always have been, and the secrets pouring out from the basement leave me feeling like I’ll never be able to look at myself again for all that I am (but don’t want to be) and all that I’m not (but desperately cling to).
All this looking for answers is for naught; my self-condemnation glares back at me, self-esteem flows out of reach, and darkness eats away at my core. Thanks a lot! As if I didn’t know this already: I’m the evil one; I can’t help but bring about more negativity with all I’m casting out. I turn my eyes to Transformed to get some clarity: “When you are truly in harmony with what you yearn for, you experience every moment in a deeper and more fulfilling way. Most of us go through life having the buzz that comes with bursts of pleasure. We get high on responding to a want, then we crash. This up-and-down cycle is not particularly satisfying…Tapping your yearning, then, is not an intellectual exercise, nor is it about what you think you should do or the right way to live. Instead, it’s a discovery and celebration of deep-seated needs that come from your heart, that represent your soul’s longing” (Wright 59; 62). My energy, as of late, has been depleted because I’m hooked on momentary experiences, connecting together bursts of pleasure to avoid a deeper dive; I’m rushing through life, too afraid to yearn and learn since it makes me vulnerable to vicious attacks in the mirror, of my own condemnation.
When I give my body a chance to relax, to move freely as I would in the dark, I reach the root of my yearning: to be understood. So much of my anger and confusion flows from my misunderstandings of WHO I am. It’s like a flash flood when I feel misunderstood by others. Rather than sit and sob about it in the emptiness of the evil basement with pessimism as my guide, though, I can discover and celebrate the goofball I am in my core. Shiraldi sees me through, offering up the building blocks to success: “Self-esteem is based first on unconditional worth, then love, and then growing. ‘Growing’ (or ‘coming to flower’) refers to moving in the desired direction. Many people become frustrated when trying to build self-esteem because they start with growth and neglect the first two important factors: unconditional worth and love. Without a secure base, self-esteem topples” (30). Ah-ha! Now I see! :) I need to realize my worth, my inner value, and express it joyfully; through this, I learn to forgive: the hurt I inflicted on myself, the hurt I inflicted on others, the hurt others inflicted on me, the unresolved traumas. Moreover, I discover my deepest yearnings and fulfill them, gaining a much better outlook on life as I communicate more openly with those I love and trust. It looks like I can do this, after all.