Lancing a wound

I don’t think I’m emotionally capable of reading another post about Orlando, because it hurts my heart every time. I don’t even know why I’m writing this, honestly, but it feels like I have something sticking in my brain like a needle, and maybe writing it down will help.

Most of it goes back to a memory with a family member, which supersedes every positive memory I’ve ever had with him (of which there were many). I remember sitting in the living room by myself, watching the movie Giant with Rock Hudson and James Dean. This family member came into the room and apropos of nothing said “I always liked Rock Hudson, til I found out he was a faggot.” That singular moment has stuck with me, and I think of it often. He was talking about Rock Hudson, but he was also talking about gay people. He was talking about me. He didn’t know that at the time, and I have no idea if he’s changed his thinking on that. I just know what I felt then, when I was questioning everything about myself, that this person might never love me again if he truly knew who I was. I don’t know if he feels the same as other people in the country, that the world is better without more gay people in it (brought to us by the cesspool that is Twitter). It keeps me up at night and makes my stomach hurt, but I’d rather stay in ignorance, because the alternative is just awful.

This shooter wasn’t some ‘other.’ This was an American man that wanted to get rid of as many gay people as he could. And the people that applauded him weren’t some ‘others.’ They are more than likely my neighbors, people I walk past on the street, that kid on the bus in 8th grade that said gay people should be rounded up and shot (another one I’ll never forget).  And everything worthwhile on the subject has already been said, and said better, by others. But writing it down might make it feel a little less like poison, so I figure it’s worth a try.

Lancing a wound