Well … yesterday began early. I was wide awake at 4:00 and when Fred heard me sneeze, he was all over the bed and howling like a wolf. Thankfully, I am not at all bothered by the noise and the insistence of both him and Sheba to get fed. I can nap if I get tired. Besides, the noise of rain on the roof told me that I was in for a long lazy day by the fire, so I got up.
I love the early mornings. I read things online, I answer emails, I pay bills, anything that keeps me at the keyboard while the fire warms the house and the pets sleep. They always go back to bed once they are fed. I don’t shower until the house has warmed up a bit, but once done, Her Highness and I went for our very wet morning walk.
When we got home, I watched some of the Olympics on the CBC and I was struck by how compelling it was to watch the various competitions. But then I’ve always loved watching the Olympics. I watched the men’s snowboard air and the women’s cross-country skiing, and there were very few ads. So, the heavy density of ads during the opening ceremonies telecast happened because of pure corporate greed. I’m disgusted with that decision, but nothing will dent my love of the CBC.
After lunch I read. I am back with Bruno in the Perigord, the principal character in a long list of titles by Martin Walker. This time, however, I am not having as much fun. In psych classes at uni, I was struck by something the prof said about liars: he said that liars often are terrific embellishers. He said that they think that by adding details that they gain credibility when in fact, they do the opposite.
I’m finding Mr. Walker is adding too many details that were once the reason for my passion for his series. Every book has virtual recipes of traditional paysanne dishes. You can almost smell and feel the air. His writing is delicious and perhaps I have been overexposed and lost some of my appetite. I still have no problems enjoying the book, but I have that ‘I’m onto you’ feeling.
Our afternoon walk was damp but not wet. However, no matter the weather, I love our walks 99% of the time. When I don’t it’s because of my foot or hip or some such thing. I have the clothes that enable me to be comfortable, dry and warm no matter the weather. And when we got home, I read until dinner time.
The evening was the usual.
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I was born into Catholicism, and I embraced it. I’ve told you before that one year I won an award that I call the Suck Hole of the Year Award. I don’t know what it was officially called, but each year in our diocese it was awarded to a ‘best girl’ and ‘best ‘boy.’ One year, I was that boy.
When my sexuality emerged, rather than run from the church, I thought I could kill two birds with one stone by becoming a priest. I loved the church and I wouldn’t have to explain my celibacy. But I was far too horny to be a priest, so I left the church in disbelief that I could belong to such a cult. There was a seismic shift in my attitude when I realized how the church had let me down over my adoption.
However, I kept my relationship with God. Post-breakdown and after years of psychotherapy, I believe I needed a friend and He was there and always on call. I don’t know anything about Judaism, but I have lived with a belief from somewhere that their religion is direct between the individual and God. That was what gave me the idea. Keep the bathwater.
I thought of God as my friend, and it was easy because I loved my life. Get this: I am given up by my first mother, abandoned by my second, and my father. I had to deal with being gay when it was illegal. I had killer 48-hour migraines every Friday for years. I had major surgery (six weeks in hospital in Ottawa), all the childhood diseases, AIDS, 3 heart attacks, 2 pacemaker failures, left by my partner, and my breakdown. And there were brutal betrayals that crushed me. But I am relentlessly happy.
Yes, of course, there was pain and there was misery at times during my life. The death of my pets was particularly hard. I had appropriate emotional reaction to my crises, but I then got on with things and through it all I revert to my default position of joy with life. And it’s never been stronger than my life here in the tranquil solitude I enjoy on Gabriola.
When I moved here, I started wishing that I’d moved here much earlier in my life, but now I feel grateful for having moved here when I did. It was a good response to my breakdown; post-recovery, everything has been ideal.
I was socialized to always thank people for gifts given, and that most of the gifts I’d receive would be verbal. Well, who am I to thank for how good I feel all the time? I think the Big Guy. Now with almost ten years with Dr Shoja, I realize that God was my therapist for all those lonely years. I would talk to Him all the time. Why not? I knew what he stood for and I liked what he taught. What I didn’t like was the Catholic church.
I wasn’t a person who went running to Him when things went wrong. What motivated most all of my conversations was gratitude and a need for a sounding board. I built a theatre into a large empty part of the civic arts centre where I lived. It cost the municipality and the art centre absolutely nothing. I got paid and built it by getting grants and doing fundraising. As the builder and then manager of the theatre, I reported to the director of the arts centre, and after just a few months after opening the theatre, the director fired me.
After a few weeks, I got his job. The board of the centre fired him. But in between was pure hell. I think I had two migraines, and that hat had never happened before, but through it all, I had this ‘person’ to talk to. Otherwise, I would have gone through it alone. So, I still talk to him. It’s a habit. I like having someone to thank for how good I feel. That’s what I like. No church. No fees. No ceremony. All it means to the outside world is that I hope I present as moral, ethical. If there was a bumper sticker made about me, it would say: Moves Worms. Were it not for this relationship with The Man I would feel bereft.
One of the toughest periods for me with Dr. Shoja was the first time that she used the word, ‘neglect.’ For very many months thereafter, I could not stop saying, “I don’t want to be that guy.” I knew it was fair for her to use that label. She’s a psychiatrist. It’s clinical to her. But I hated it.
I couldn’t stand that the Tyrell’s actions were why I was feeling so hurt and sad after my breakdown. I was crying a lot, and I kept thinking that they “got off Scot-free” (whatever that means). It was torture and I was here on Gabe by myself most of the time, so I’d obsess on this sickening thing that I was, this word that I hated. The weirdest part of all my angst was knowing that she was just using a word that I hadn’t used, but it was right, I knew it, and I’d always known it. But then, I got on with living, back to talking to The Man because I feel so good.
•
We’re back to sunshine and a cool morning. It’s a mixed bag in the coming week, but no sub-zero temperatures and no snow are in the forecast. It’s My Day, so self-indulgence is the rule of the day. I’ll watch some Olympics, I’ll read, we’ll walk, and tonight will be like almost every other evening of the season.
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