#diordered

[wisdomfish]

Let’s God to San Francisco

WALKING INTO SAN FRANCISCO

In 1989, I walked into the world famous Castro District of San Francisco as a disaffected young man of almost nineteen years of age. I had grown up bullied and lonely, and I was looking to finally belong. Almost since I was a child nearing adolescence, the other boys at school instinctively rejected me. While they made the decisive testosterone fueled jump to more masculine pursuits, such as aggressive schoolyard play and sports, I was timid and unsure. While their voices deepened and sounded increasingly confident, mine remained high-pitched but strangely muted. While they grew taller and filled-out, I just became thinner and ganglier.

The pre-macho boys were typically the best at playing kick-ball and inevitably turn out to be recess and PE team captains. Focusing on my embarrassing apparent lack of skill, they were always quick to ridicule and loudly point out my utter worthlessness. No one ever wanted me on their team. After even the smaller girls got picked, I was always the default last man standing.

There were a few other unathletic boys in my class, either overweight or exceedingly short, who also got similarly passed-over. But they could turn rejection into an advantage through comical self-deprecation or by poking fun at me or someone else. I couldn’t do that. I tended to take everything to heart. I froze at the merest slight. The often cruel unthinking banter of boys seemed deliberately vicious. Yet, the more they rejected and taunted me, the more I wanted to belong. My childhood fantasies began to center around a benevolent superhero who would adopt me as his sidekick. In the afternoon, I would rush home to see after-school reruns of “Batman” and imagine myself as Burt Ward. To this day, it’s highly significant that homoerotic fantasies about Batman and Robin are pervasive in gay male culture.

When I arrived in San Francisco, I was still tall, thin, and uncoordinated, but I quickly discovered that men wanted to be with me. Here, a boyish stick frame was a distinct advantage. That first night, as I crept into my first gay bar, I was the same insecure and desperately shy kid. I didn’t know what to do. My only experience with the world of male-on-male sexuality was through watching gay porn.

And, in those images, I was fascinated.

There was a fundamental order and a ritual to everything portrayed: old with young, big over small, the experienced and the naive. The mature and supremely masculine always ushered into manhood the fresh-faced and less physically impressive youthful rookies.

From porn, I sort of knew what to expect; I had seen such ominous similarly titled films like: Daddy Dearest, Hurts So Good, and Try to Take It. I imagined my transition to masculinity as an initiation rite. And at the near height of the AIDS crisis, like male youths in tribal cultures, who had to endure some sort of physical torment or trial in order to join the community of men, I was willing to suffer anything in the process; even to die.

As an inexperienced eighteen year old, I found the aspirations of gay men to be strikingly similar. For an encounter that did not at least include the possibility of anal intercourse seemed incidental and quick. Anal sex lent male homosexuality a certain amount of intimacy. The possibility of that fusion was unbelievably alluring. But I was petrified by the ever-present likelihood of AIDS, thus I refused to risk my life even though I knew I would remain incomplete until I found the courage to submit.

A frustrated boyfriend accepted a sort of second-best when I agreed to a form of frontage through which he would thrust his penis between my closed legs. It was an elaborate form of mutual masturbation.

Years later, I would tragically discover that the longed for insertive form of this action was similarly shallow.

CARRIED OUT OF SAN FRANCISCO

I had walked into San Francisco, but I had to be carried out. The man who picked me up that dark day was unlike anyone I had ever met. He took my lifeless body back home – to my parent’s house.

There, I woke up in my old bedroom, surrounded by a few incidental memories from childhood. The same bed I once delighted in my first wet dream, I now soiled with blood.

The following months were dominated by a series of appointments with various physicians, specialists, and surgeons. The embarrassment and pain that I long evaded was unavoidable. Before surgery, I was required to almost mockingly relive every cleansing routine I endlessly practiced.

During the procedure, a section of my rectum was removed due to the existence of severe internal scarring. Like an imprisoned victim of the Marques de Sade, my sphincter had been sewn shut with thick cording. The doctor and nurse gave me a long list of stool softeners and laxatives to take with copious quantities of water in order to make it possible that I could have a bowel movement through an inconceivably narrow orifice. The precautions didn’t work, and I busted the stitches.

To stop the bleeding, I stuck a hand towel down my shorts and went to the emergency room. With my back to the waiting room wall, amongst the coughing children and light-headed elderly patients, the blood began to seep through my pants.

For what seemed like hours, I laid on the hard hospital gurney. I rang for the nurse, but the place was a flurry of activity; next to me, separated by a thin privacy screen, were a pair of teenagers: one suffering from an overdose of prescription pills and the other with a severe pelvic infection due to an untreated STD. This was purgatory. I had to use the toilet, so I shuffled across the freshly waxed floors towards the restroom. On the way back to my bed, I left a trail of little red dots behind me. This wasn’t an intermediate state between heaven and earth – it was hell. I had died and been sent to suffer an eternity as a character in a perverse fairy-tale – the boy with a broken bottom. To the great consternation of the attending doctor and nurses, I checked myself out of the hospital and went home.

For the next few days, I ate nothing but a grainy powdered fiber substance mixed with water and prune juice. I stood in the shower and defecated on my feet. I couldn’t sit, nor strain. More than once, I didn’t quite make it to the bathroom from my bed.

Only a few feet from the toilet, I slipped and fell on the tile floor made slippery by the mess.

Slowly, my body healed. However, I kept soiling myself. Another surgery would follow; then another. Years later, I remain semi-incontinent.

Despite the inconvenience, occasional pain, and embarrassment, I consider myself blessed because I escaped homosexuality relatively unscathed when compared to many of my friends. Some of the scars will remain as long as I am alive, but I can live with them.

In a sense, they are a constant reminder of who I was and what God saved me from!

Others bear the marks on an indelible scale where the HIV virus hides in every part of their body. But as the years pass by, my health problems are compounded; I feel old.

The few friends that survived our previous existence are all similarly plagued. We accompany each other to doctor visits and continually send get well cards and have healing prayers said for one another. Our quest for love came to an end in unrealized dreams, damaged bodies, and the graves of the dead. In our overwhelming desire to understand the world and ourselves, we were willing to go against Nature and God Himself.

We disregarded the fundamentals of physiology and for that violation, we paid dearly on an unbelievably devastating collective and individual basis. In the process, we threw our bodies and the surrounding culture into chaos; in a feeble attempt to right ourselves, we demanded that society recognize our rebellion. But a law instituted by men hasn’t changed our physical structure.

[Sciambra, Joseph. josephsciambra.com]

[yayspring]

slightly whiny post 3 days out from The Wedding

am having serious trouble switching off from work mode + it's driving ben a bit nuts (me 2 sweetus x), i think once we get to the airbnb tomorrow ill find it easier

wedding dress tailoring fits perf now, forgot to say - i just. ok dont yell at me bc I Know. i just feel like i didnt lose enough weight :( i LOVE the dress so much but im just worried everyone will think i look so ugly bc im not sure i match the dress in terms of beauty. this is really depressing me bc i spent the last year or so restricting food quite heavily + i feel like... i didnt do enough lol... ate too much + should have just let the ED take me lmao :( i did lose so much weight but it just isnt enough to satisfy me i dont think, also now i have actual loose skin on my arms which is kind of driving me insane + i keep finding myself like pinching off the loose skin + wondering how much damage it would do to just like actually cut it off with some kind of large scissors (there's actually fingerprint bruises on my left upper arm bc of how often i subconsciously do this)

cat lesbian is visiting tink this afternoon :)

i was so exhausted + drained yesterday that i managed to sleep 12h last night which actually has done me good i think

i forgot to take my fluoxetine for a few days + im not sure this fucking about with brain meds has done me any good either

in unadulteratedly positive news: i henna-ed my hair yesterday and i rly like it thank god

oohhhhh ill be fine it's just stressful innit. this time next week ill be back at home living my normal life lol. im sure it will be lovely once im there just lord above the stress is a lot

[fagcrush]

Maybe the fact that I'm feeling so bad has less to do with COVID and more to do w the fact that all I've eaten the past 2 day is snacks

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[lesvegas]

i. overthinking this but

in ur airport/ikea poll its syas more than six hours of sleep per 24 run, as does it magically stop narcolepsy/other heavy sleep diorders then?

as someone who cant get under like 12 hours Without passing out I wanna know if the tules are like, rules i have to make myself follow, or if there will be some magic helping me since i usually cant force myself away due to The Sleep Power

It this is ridiculous ignore it Im just curious whats youd think as the maker

thanks tho, poll idea is fun :)

Good question, honestly the whole point behind that rule/condition is that you're spending at least the majority of your time lost and looking for an exit, so I'd say 6 hours is enough to keep you going regardless of sleep disorders because uhhm ✨️evil magic✨️ or something yeah <3

[niadotcom]

i don't even know how or when bpd was ever used to refer to bipolar diorder nor does any mental disorder go away if you 'start living again' easily

[queen-of-paradise]

my god.

heartstopper four just emotionally destroyed me.

i relate to nick so bad in it and its so sad. someone close having a really bad eating diorder? check. having someone really close self harm? check. having said really close person end up in the hospital and the psyciatrich ward? check. i feel for nick in this and he was so perfect through-out all of it and i absolutely love how it was portrayed through both nick and charlie. yes, everyone's expirience is different but heartstopper captured the issue so well.

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