Let me be your punching bag

Beat me til your demons flee

I can bear your brunt and bane

I will gather your debris

Let me be your punching bag

A rush of blood from cold to warm

Beat me til your conscious clears

I will shield you from your storm

Let me be your punching bag

The cloth from which you wipe your tears

Beat me til your fingers bleed

Pierce me with your words and fears

Let me be your punching bag

The rope from which you hang your blame

Beat me til your darkness fades

The catalyst to clear your name

 

Let me be your punching bag.

Beat me til your demons flee

 

 

 

 

 

 

As I creep closer and closer to 40, I shift and change and meld into something else or someone else. Or whatever the fuck it is. It’s that. It’s like I’m literally developing into a different being right in front of myself. Things I never thought waverable, I’ve wavered on. Things I’d never thought I’d face again, I’ve faced. Thoughts I never thought I’d have, I’ve had. And things I never thought I’d humor, I give rent to inside my head.

And then sometimes I don’t. I’m all over the fucking place.

I’ve changed a lot for the better. But these last two years have been hard.

Real hard.

I’ve fallen. I’ve become broken. I’ve dealt with a lot of depression and negative thoughts that have found room to grow and insert themselves amongst my confidence. I’ve just kind of shattered this last year especially.

And, my relationship has been tested like never before. So, I’ve been fighting my demons sort of by myself. I mean not alone, but not really not alone either. And that’s not a negative comment about my spouse, or any sort of dig or anything. It’s just the situation.

And it’s all kind of made the chaos level in my head rise exponentially. My comfort zone has been somewhat shaken and up ended. And so my safe zone hasn’t always felt that way, even if it always has been. And I’m sure that has caused me to react in ways too. And those two different trajectories ricochet off one another on ways that feel mentally explosive.

I’m not proud of every one of my thoughts or behaviors or reactions or feelings, And I’m not happy with all of those that have come from others either.

But, I trek forward in hopes of finding a better me again. Not just finding it, but maintainting it. Not just maintaining it, but elevating it.

Not just elevating it, but electing it to rule supreme.

And believing in myself. Thats really the hard part.

These last few years have just been brutal on me and my self image and self worth. I’ve been battling and battling and battling. And trying to pretend like I’m not, because I don’t like to share my struggle. I don’t like to mention my burdens.

And then it fucking eats me alive and I break and I crumble and I can’t see the light. It’s not that darkness takes over, I just can’t find the light. I can’t see the way.

I can’t make it through.

So I sit in silence. In echoes. through minutes, through hours, through days.

I’ve always kind of had struggles, it’s a childhood/family combo kind of thing. But, I’ve always found my way through. I’ve always had a light to cling to. To reach for. To escape into.

And I guess I haven’t had that very much lately. Or, I haven’t felt that I’ve had it.

I’ve probably been sadder for no direct reason this year than any other year or time in my life. And, I’m just fucking exhausted with it. I really am.

My whole life has just been one giant rat race to get through to the next day, the next month, the next pay day, the next due date, the next whatever whatever.

I’ve spent all of my time just trying to get through, and so little time enjoying what I’m doing while I’m getting through, and it’s all coming to the surface in relation to turning 40.

And I’ve just lost sight of myself. Entirely. I’ve lost my way. I have literally, lost the light that often guides my way. And now I’m just kinda lurking in the shadows, scattered and disjointed.

I guess maybe I always have been.

I gotta make sure that changes, before it never will.

Loneliness aches.

It develops.

It burrows and embeds itself in places it doesn’t normally dwell or belong.

It echoes.

Like shouting. Or whispering.

Or silence.

Loneliness destructs.

It restricts.

It wraps it’s fingers around your throat and squeezes and squeezes and squeezes.

And then it lets go.

And when it does, you long for it to come back and wrap it’s fingers around your throat once more, just to feel it.

Just to know it.

Just to feel.

Loneliness envelopes.

It harbors us. It exposes us.

It changes us.

It becomes us. And we become it.

And then it seperates and reconvenes again.

Over and over and over and over

Until it doesn’t anymore.

If you’re anything like me, you’ve felt like a fuck-up lately.

Truth is, I probably feel this way more often than not. It’s something in my wiring. Something that happened to me. Some several things, or situations, or decisions. A whole series of choices and non-choices that make me feel like nothing I can do is good enough.

I’m sure it goes back to something with one of my fucked up parents, or their fucked up parents, or probably their fucked up parents too. Just a whole connect-the-dot type game of family history and fucked up actions, scenarios, and out right abuse. Or more, or less.

Or something else entirely.

I’ve always struggled with it. And I’ve always fought so hard to get it. It’s like I have this side of me thats petrified of my own capabilities, and one side of myself thats so annoyed that the other side is struggling to move forward that it’s just like fuck this, fuck you, fuck everyone. Fuck fuck fuckkkkkkkk.

But I’ve really just been in in a spot I’ve never imagined myself in.

So insecure, and kind of alone. Even if I’m not alone, sometimes what I go through, it feels like I am. It feels like it’s all I am, all I’ll ever be.

And I know that’s not true. Well, the other side does. But then it just gets irritated, and annoyed, and lashes out. And huffs and puffs and blows the house down.

I know it’s what I struggle with, because I know hundreds of thousands of others struggle with it too. But, I don’t deal with their shit every minute of every day.

Just mine. Just my shit. And, that’s probably fucking good. Cuz, I can’t even deal with my own, let alone anyone elses’.

And so I’ve just been searching. Over and over and over.

My whole life.

Literally, since I was 8 or 9 years old, I’ve just been bouncing from insecurity to insecurity. From fear to self doubt. From self sabotage, to foot-in-mouth syndrome.

Trying my best to cover up whatever is wrong with me. Whatever was wrong with me in that moment. Even if there was nothing wrong, I FELT like there was. And so I tried to cover it up too. Patch it. Postpone it.

Prepare it. Practice it.

And search for a way to avoid it. An obstacle, an apartment, a man.

A moment. Any fucking thing.

I’ve spent so much time bouncing between different parts of me that are split, and working on opposite sides, that I’ve been in constant turmoil with myself for too long, and instead of spending time fixing me, I spent time patching me with anything that I could to numb the pain and suspend the real confrontation.

And as I face the hard truth that I’ll be 40 in May, I’ve decided that it comes with other hard truths as well. It HAS to.

It starts with,

I can.

I am.

I will.

I deserve.

I must.

I accept.

I forgive.

And, I refuse.

I found this excerpt that I wrote in June of 2020.

I just wanted to share it.

” I should be asleep. Or trying to sleep. Tossing, turning. Listening to the sound of my bedside fan envelope my eardrum like I was standing in a wind tunnel. But, with the added reoccuring noise that is my spouse snoring.

Instead, I keep glancing at my bookshelf. Ignoring the dust from months of procrastinated dusting. Looking right past all the clutter that rests ontop like the snow at the top of a mountain in some generic photo, I only focus on one sort of small, white box.

I can’t see the label on the top of it from where I’m sitting. But I know what it says.

Marvin Dale Cole. 8/31/57- 3/2/15.

Just typing it gives me goosebumps. The back of my neck gets cold, like on a winter morning. A slight rush of brisk air seems to travel down my spine and down my bare arm simultaneously, like when you’re walking up the stairs late at night and you get this sudden rush of what feels like someone behind you. But, there isn’t.

It’s been over five years. It seems like more, but less at the same time. Maybe time stood still, and this is just some alternate universe. Maybe in the real world he didn’t pass. Maybe my sister didn’t either. Maybe in the real world they are still here, and I’m the one gone. Maybe this is all just my own little torture chamber. Maybe it’s all of ours.

Maybe it isn’t.

Maybe they’re together. Maybe sometimes they gather together, like….on Fridays. They meet by some beautiful golden gate, and they hold hands til they get inside. They turn the TV on, and OPE.

There I am. There we all are. And there they sit. Smiling and laughing. Cringing and covering their eyes like, Oh gosh. What are we gonna do with this guy?

Maybe they share a pitcher of margaritas. Or a bowl of popcorn, anxiously awaiting the other to grab a handful so they can go in for another big grab, spilling random kernels everywhere as they take turns shoveling it in.

Maybe they don’t gather at all. Maybe it’s too hard. Maybe they aren’t watching together. Maybe they aren’t watching at all. Maybe they aren’t anything. Just gone.

Poof.

Maybe they just visit how they can. A firefly in the summer evening. Maybe a dragonfly, or a butterfly. Hell, it’s my family…maybe a scorpion, or a yellow jacket ready to sting that ass. Maybe not.

Maybe just a sudden change in the air behind you. A cold breeze that lingers for a bit.

Maybe just that brisk coldness that travels down your spine and arm simultaneously as you walk up the stairs.”

It is Pride week in my city.

My city celebrates Pride at the end of summer, so that it allows the community who is often torn in different directions every year on which pride event to attend, to still go to the “big city” pride events, while still allowing plenty of time to celebrate here, amongst our own community.

Pride means many things to many people.

Pride in your accomplishments. Pride in your uniqueness. Your sexuality. Your gender. Your *insert thing to be proud of*.

Whatever it is to whomever, is what it is for them, and noone can challenge that, take it back or invalidate it. And that’s kind of the whole point.

Every year around this time, I see others in my community trying to adopt this cookie cutter idealogy of what pride is to them, and force that onto others.

Trying to make their pride, your pride. Trying to make their story, mine.

Trying to make their narrative, our narrative.

People giving you advice on how to be, who to be, how to act, why it needs to be this way, what is best and why. And they mask it in cute little messages of half-support, half-critique. Like, you have to be proud on their level. On their standard.

As long as your mood, behavior, feelings, mission or goal aligns with what they want you to be, or think, or feel, or strive for, you’re doing whats best for you.

But the minute it no longer registers on their pridometer, then you’re letting yourself down. Letting your community down. Not living your best life. Not living up to THEIR standards. And then its problematic for them.

I just want to say that I am 39 years old. I have lived my entire adult life as proud, open, HONEST and when committed, FULLY commited gay man.

I have went against the grain my whole life. I have spoken out when people wanted me to stay silent. I have stood up when expected to lay down. I have fought while others watched my battles.

There isn’t a single person on this fucking Earth that gets to define what pride is for me. Or for any other person.

Instead of weaponizing pride to guilt trip or make a mockery of someone else and their feelings, situations, or scenario…..Their actions, decisions, goals or destination..Turn that bullshit around, and ask yourself why during a month about being proud of who YOU are, a month of celebrating living your best, most authentic, happy and genuine ass self….Are you turning it into a question of why someone else isnt living up to your standards?

Boo, you aren’t living up to your own with all this criticism, so kindly wrap yourself in that rainbow flag you’re using to hide that knife that you’re gonna use to slit someones throat on social media, and realize that you’ve become the very thing you’re preaching to someone else not to be.

Dont worry about someone else. Focus, on your focus. And if you start trying to boost yourself up, instead of knocking someone else down, you just might learn a valuable lesson about pride, that isn’t some bullshit metaphor you tried searching for,to victimize someone else because you can’t handle that not everything is for you, about you, including you or UP TO YOU.

Be proud of yourself. For you and your shit, and all you do. Be proud. Fucking aaaaye.

But don’t use that pride to rip someone elses’ right out of their hands because it suits you.

If you were really celebrating pride, you’d be celebrating yours, mine, and everyone elses. Not trying to gatekeep the ends of the rainbow so that people only make moves with your stamp of approval.

Happy Pride.

But get fucked if you think you get to dictate what pride is to you, to me, and everyone else too.

And shame on anyone for using it as a weapon to force someone to act how they want or expect.

That’s not pride.. That’s manipulation.

I play Euchre online. I play it a lot actually. More hours than I’d like to admit have been spent just playing cards online with random other people.

The worst part of playing online with other people is……the other people.

What happened to decency?

Every single time I log on, one of the first 7 comments is “Trump”- something. Praising this former, failed president like some sort of cult leader placed upon a pedastal by someone who had no idea of knowing just how fanatical it would get.

What other president in history has earned such praise this long after their term?

Did they chant “CARTER,CARTER!!” everytime someone pulled into a car wash after Ronald Reagan became president?

I don’t recall hearing people praising Bush 1, Clinton, Bush 2 or Obama like this. Sure, people loved or hated them, but…we let them go on peacefully when their term ended. We didn’t idolize them, and praise them like this. Like they HAD to come back to save us.

Like he’s fucking Superman or someshit.

We didn’t keep chanting for Obama during Trumps’ presidency. We literally just chanted for anyone. Hell, the Kool Aid man could have saved us, I wasn’t being specific.

We didn’t fanatasize about this type shit. Maybe cuz all these presidents won re-election, so noone really tasted defeat like that in decades.

We understood it was what it was. Or what it is.

We move on. Or we did. Even if reluctantly, or angrily. We still did. Without this constant assault.

But not now.

Everytime I log on. It’s all about Trump.

Trump.

Trump Trump Trump Trump Trump Trump Trump.

If it’s not Trump, its how bad Biden is. Or how stupid Nancy Pelosi is.

Or how slutty Kamala Harris is.

Or how crooked Hunter Biden is.

It’s nonstop. It devours every single moment of the chat in this euchre app. and, that’s what social media in general has become. A buffet of opinions, but not where you load up your plate with what you want, like a typical buffet. Instead you hold your plate out and everyone just throws whatever the fuck they want ontop of it. Like it or not, want it or not. It’s there.

Eat up, motherfucker.

Social media in general is a stomping grounds for Trump supporters to chant for their leader, and Biden supporters to point out how fucking stupid they are for worshipping a fatass golden cow of a president.

I’m so sick of it.

Can we just fucking go back? Please?

I’ll let Trump be president one day a month for the rest of his shitty little life, if every single one of his supporters would just shut the fuck up about him the rest of the time. He can spend that one day golfing, and taking away liberties and typical Trump henchman type shit, and his followers can edge themselves all month thinking of that ONE day a month when their AMAZING leader makes America Greatish Again, preferably every 4th Tuesday. Or Thursday. Ya’ll can even fucking pick, shit. I don’t care. Rotate the days for random fun, I swear I DO. NOT. CARE.

Just shut the fuck up about him.

JUSTSHUTTHEFUCKUPABOUTTRUMPIMSOFUCKINGSICKANDTIREDOFSEEINGHISFACEANDHEARINGHISFUCKINGSHITTYFUCKINGNAME.

And, I know someone is going to leave me a comment that says it’s not just Trump supporters. That both sides do it.

And, both sides do definitely voice their opinions on social media, absolutely. But no side has ever been like this before.

No side has ever dwelled on it like this. No side has ever been so fanatical and obsessive over it, like this.

No side has tried to attack our Capitol and attack our own leaders, like this.

Things have escalated to a level, that I’m afraid they’re never going to come back down from.

And that has me really sad for our country, and our mental health.

Because if I have to hear this Trump bullshit for any extened amount of time, I’m gonna fucking lose it on some fucks.

Sorry if you’re a supporter. But, I’m not. And I can’t fucking take it anymore.

I CANT.

Support him. Like, it’s Okay. Do you, boo.

But STOP ACTING AS IF HES SOMEONE WHO IS GOING TO DELIVER US FROM SOME STATE OF EMERGENCY, INTO THE PROMISED LAND OF POLITICS AND ECONOMICS.

And for fucks’ sake…Stop acting like him.

His “I’ll tear anyone down” is oppressive, and negative. And infectious. And, not in a good way. A very bad infection.

And its apparently transmitable amongst his followers just by being one.

And, I just can’t fucking take it anymore. I’m spent.

It’s almost been a year. And we’re still jacking off to the sound of his name.

Which, ironically, Seems to be the biggest boner-killer ever.

Fucking stopppppppp.