In Celebration

There was another time in my life when I emerged from a period of intense difficulty to find that I had trouble remembering how to be happy again. I never imagined that such hardship would repeat itself, and in a way it didn't; I have a set of tremendous resources, financial, social, and intellectual, that I didn't have then, and come out of my second most serious downturn with a decided advantage compared to what I had at twenty.

Still, this last year has been one in which I've discovered uncomfortable truths about myself and about, well, life. I rode out of my last crisis on a wave of optimism. The knowledge I've acquired since then has made that phenomenon difficult to replicate.

For all the differences that the two periods have, however, some truths remain constant. Then, as the summer of 2008 sweltered and shined, I committed to paper all the things in my life for which I was thankful, not because I believed it or felt it but because I needed to. I did it because that's what you do to remind yourself what you like about being alive.

And so, in honor of my recent twenty-fifth birthday, I'd like to share with you the things that make me grateful. The last time I did that it woke me up. Maybe this time it will, too.

• I am thankful for the great gifts of talent and intelligence I have been given.
• I am thankful that I have the kind of sister who would make me the birthday card you saw above. I am thankful she jumps about our house making cat noises, rocking out to both Journey and One Direction, and occasionally dropping some profound nuggets on the unsuspecting adults around her.
• I am thankful that I work in a field and at a job I love. I am thankful that I am a literary agent, and thankful that what qualms I do have with my profession are within my power to resolve.
• I am thankful that I have had the financial means to pursue my professional passion, even when that meant interning for free or, now, working for a commission that I have yet to earn.
• I am thankful that, should I need to start over, I will be able to.
• I am thankful to have found a part-time job as a reporter, making enough money to cover my expenses without having to sacrifice my dignity. 
• I am thankful that, in my early twenties, I had the presence of mind to make the academic and professional investments that brought me to this point.
• I am thankful for the momentary fancy that brought me to publishing; I cannot imagine finding my place and my fiscal security anywhere else.
• I am thankful that my endeavors have allowed me to live in one of the greatest cities in the world and to see another.  
• I am thankful that, this time around, I have friends. They have been such a bulwark through all this. I am also thankful that I have had the strength to walk away from friendships, even long-established ones, when they become counterproductive.
• I am so thankful for recovery. Developing an academic understanding of my complex health problems has been a depressing exercise, if only because it's made me cognizant of some very long odds, but that academic understanding has been my sword and my armor. Twenty-year-old BB is a shadow of twenty-five-year-old BB. Twenty-year-old BB could never have done the things that twenty-five-year-old BB can. And damn it, I'm here, aren't I? I'm here.
• I am thankful that I am twenty-five years old and beautiful.
• I am thankful that I have come to have a genuine, if conflicted, faith, one that fuels my wonder without compromising my critical thinking.
• I am thankful, after a fashion, for my cynicism. A part of me still pines after some romantic notions, but my view of the world has become much more guarded and sterilized. That's made a few things easier to handle.
• I am thankful for the few sizeable paychecks I've been able to bring in through freelance editing. I am thankful that I have no pressing financial hardships, even if I am not yet where I'd like to be. 
• I am thankful that I stopped loving my father some time ago. He's so much less disappointing now.
• I am thankful for my improved relationship with my adoptive mother, and for her growing maturity and understanding. Thirty-nine is better than never. 
• I am thankful for a summer that will, thanks to work, be full of travel to destinations across this country.
• I am thankful for this blog, for the incredible forum it provides and for the chronicle of my progress it has become with the passing of years. 
• I am thankful for you, and for some of the very good friends I've made here.
• I am thankful for an intellectual curiosity that has never been more vital in me than it is now.
• I am thankful for the young man my brother Thomas is becoming. 
• I am thankful for my ability to recognize and address my own considerable flaws. 
• I am thankful that I had so much to put on this list. 

Hopefully this will be a good start. Remember what happened in the few years after I last made one of these? Incredible things. Incredible things.    

Five Years

On April 7, 2008, a nineteen-year-old who called himself BB set up a Blogger account and made his first post. At that time, half a decade ago, my life had been defined mostly by loss: the loss of my childhood, the loss of my faith, the loss of my innocence and my sanity and myself.

The last five years, though, have been defined by the things I've gained. Thanks to a group of incredible people (most in real life, some of whom I've met here), I gained a perspective and a confidence that arguably saved my life. They met me when I was damaged and loved me anyway, and then they handed me the greatest gift I've ever received: the genuine belief that I was better than, and more than, the traumas of childhood abuse and illness. They showed me that I could define myself instead of letting others define me. They showed me not to be ashamed of being gay, or of struggling with obsessive-compulsive disorder, or of blaring Kelly Clarkson records with the volume all the way up. They taught me that I was great, whoever I was.

I am so in their debt.

Many of them, like Laquesha, Hungarian Guy, and Black Dress Girl, will never see these words because of the anonymity that I must, especially now, maintain. But I know how much I owe them and how lucky I am to have had them in my life.

To the friends who can read this: thank you so much.

Thank you, Jo(e), for showing me what an adult should look like. Thank you, Sue, for caring about me when I didn't care about me. Thank you, Communist, for being an insufferable dumbass. It's why we get along so well.

So, for those of you who don't know and for those who would like to be reacquainted: my name is BrightenedBoy, which is odd when you take into account that I am no longer, strictly speaking, a boy. I am twenty-four years old and a fledgling literary agent who does freelance reporting on the side in Southern State.

I live with my parents, David and Marie, in Mountain Town, though I may soon be leaving. For the moment I share a home with them and with my siblings: Thomas (age seventeen), Pie (age nine), and, in about a week, Powell (age twenty-three). I am plotting my escape and hope to make it in the coming months.

2012 was the hardest year I've had since I started writing here in 2008, but it came with its golden moments and its bedrock lessons. It made me a little stronger each time it wore me down.

April 2012: I turned twenty-four years old and learned that birthday parties do not mix well with attempted murder.

May 2012: I continued my job search and internship even as an emotional tailspin ratcheted into full gear.

June 2012: I visited my grandmother's home in Native State and got some much-needed family support.

July 2012: A major storm hit our property and my brother Powell decided to throw one of his many impromptu house parties.

August 2012: La Reine hired me as a literary agent with Sentinel of the West Literary Agency on August 9 and I was soon out to Pacific State to meet my colleagues in person.

September 2012: Laquesha and I took turns having sleepovers at each other's houses.

October 2012: Green Eyes and Hungarian Guy hosted me for a three-day bender that, in addition to being a bit epic in scale, proved my social life hadn't ended with college.

November 2012: President Obama was resoundingly reelected, to many cheers and much clinking of wine glasses at the election watch party I attended.

December 2012: The friends who keep popping up here threw a New Year's Eve party that almost made up for the preceding 364 days.

January 2013: I came to the conclusion that my father was truly irredeemable.

February 2013: I sent out my first queries to publishing houses even as I struggled with an emotional and mental beating.

March 2013: I mostly just spent this month breaking and trying to pretend that wasn't happening.

So, that's it. Let's hope things start looking up soon, guys. 2013 sort of just has to work. I can't do this much longer.

In Honesty, Again

Four years ago, I took to this blog to confess my fears about the future as I approached my senior year of college. That soul-baring exercise helped allay my worries then, and I hope it will this time as well. 

The following is my journal entry for March 18. 


March 18, 2013

After a nearly snowless winter we've had some unexpected late accumulation, about an inch or so this morning with more anticipated late in the week. It didn't affect the roads at all but, predictably, was enough to get Thomas and Pie out of school.

They depart on Friday, along with my parents, for a week in Florida, and I'm looking forward to the distraction of hosting a few friends next Wednesday night.

Of late I've been plagued with doubt concerning my future and the career path I've chosen thus far. As an adolescent I had the kind of lurid fantasies all teenage boys do, of private jets and mounds of gold and rock stardom, fantasies I discarded when I realized the importance of joyful work as opposed to some nouveau riche vision of excess.

Money has come to occupy my mind again, though, because money matters. Increasingly, it seeme to be the only thing that matters in this country, and only through the possession of it can one have the things that should be--and once were--basic human rights: an education, healthcare, security in one's home, fair treatment under the law. Everyone else is simply left behind, and for them no legacy is permitted; surviving to the next paycheck is all they know of longevity.   

Next month I will turn twenty-five. I had thought for sure that by now I'd be on my own, not only supporting myself but contributing in some way to Thomas's college education, which will commence in the fall. Instead I'm still here. The gap between the potential everyone saw and the total failure that actually transpired is enormous and painful.

Of course, I recognize now that I was hampered to a huge degree by my health problems, which many on placed many of the dreams I had out of reach, even though I didn't know it. More aspirations may yet be foreclosed; can a person like me hold public office? Should he? My hardships have given me empathy and, I hope, wisdom, while my intellect allows me a firm grasp on the issues of the day. In those qualities I have something to contribute, yet I wonder if some hindrance lurks in my brain. Will there be something I don't understand? In a moment of panic will my judgement be comrpromised?

And in asking these questions am I being responsible or merely giving myself an excuse to withdraw?

I guess I'll find out some day, becase I will not abdicate my lifelong dream of making a meaningful contribution to my society. That dream has morphed, though. At eighteen I imagined becoming a celebrated politician and I indulged an inner monologue that fueled my need for self-aggrandizement. Now, having struggled to complete college, having seen friends go without medical treatment for chronic conditions because they can't afford hospital visits, having watched the traditional avenues for social advancement close even as the shackles on the working poor are wound tighter, I care about public service for an entirely different reason.

Yet I question, not for health but for financial considerations, whether I'll ever be able to act upon my impulse to serve. And therein lie the seeds of my doubt. Lately I've seriously wondered if I shouldn't send La Reine my regrets, resign my position, and intern with a publishing house or seek work at a Goldlands public relations company where I can tap into the kind of earning power that would allow me to build a life.

Agenting could do that, too, with the right project, but even with the huge potential payoff I can't wait forever. I'm going to have to impose some kind of ultimatum. In the time leading up to my twenty-fifth birthday I'll figure out what that is.

The Challenge

Those of you who have been reading the blog for a bit longer will remember Nelly, the deranged kleptomaniac who for the last five years or so has remodeled our bedrooms without permission, turned our attempts to find our DVDs into the world's longest-running Easter egg hunt, and tried on at least two occasions to oust us in a coup, all while allegedly serving as our housekeeper.

I'm not sure why we keep Nelly around, but of late I've been pretty happy for it.

"Damn it, Marie," my father groused as he shuffled through papers on the dining room table. "You always do this. I need something important, and I can't find it because you decided to 'put it away.'"

"David, I didn't touch any of your stuff," my stepmother replied. "Nelly came today and she probably moved it somewhere."

"Right," my father snorted. "Well, all the other stuff is still here. So unless Nelly put my notebook in the dishwasher, someone else did something with it."

I bit back a laugh at my father's joke. Wouldn't that be just like Nelly? The old loon.

The thing about hyperbolic jokes, though, is that they're only funny because they're too ridiculous to be true. If our cleaning lady had, in fact, secreted my father's vital work documents away in some obscure location, that wouldn't be comical so much as disturbing. Right?

I went into the kitchen to grab a snack and, in the course of my rummaging, found something that didn't belong.

Here:

No, wait for it. Here:

That's right. Nelly, who at one point managed to fit our entire movie collection into the envelope drawer of my mother's office on a different level of the house, had somehow upped the ante.

"It has to be a game," Thomas declared when he saw the notebook. "It has to be a game."

I stroked my imaginary beard thoughtfully.

"Touché, Nelly," I whispered into the dim light of the suddenly sinister kitchen. "Touché."

Only

I only want to love
For you to love me back
I only want to know for sure
There's life beyond the black

I only want to hold
And also to be held
I want to let my mind be free
As hands and spirits meld

I only want to know
Exactly what it's like
To want to have you be my world
For more than just one night

I only want to be a man
I likely cannot be
The kind of man who gives himself
The kind who is not me

I only want to hear that love
Is more than just a word
No part of me believes that's true
And I cannot unlearn

I only want to part the fog
In which my soul is tossed
And for a day not be alone
For one day not be lost

A Realization

I stared in the mirror at my gentle features and long blonde hair.

BB, I reflected. You're fucked up for drinking so much.

I thought about the situation and laughed.

You're more fucked up for not eating today.

And that made me feel better. Like, in comparison, the drinking really wasn't that bad. Even though it totally is.

I guess some things don't change, do they? A career doesn't change them. Friends don't change them. Life doesn't change them. Therapy, which goodness knows I need, doesn't change them. Where does that leave good old me? Does it ever go away? Do I ever get better? What does "better" mean?

And is all of this just genetic, or was it done? Was I always going to be crazy, or was I made crazy?

I told on my father once.

I went to a teacher and I let her know.

"He dragged me out of bed and slammed me onto the floor. He hit me and I couldn't breathe."

When he found out that I'd reported him, he told me the authorities were going to take me away to foster care, where I'd be gang raped. Once they were done with me, he said, they'd come for my younger brothers.

I was nine.

And you know, it worked, because I never told again. I don't know. I just don't fucking know.

Selected Entries: November 2004

In November 2004 I was sixteen years old and, though too young to vote, had avidly followed the progress of the 2004 presidential election. John Kerry's loss on November 2 was deeply felt in our Democratic family and widely discussed among the high school students in the nation's biggest swing state. That same month our family hosted Grand Ma Normal Family and Aunt Crazy, down from Native State; and I addressed feelings about God and our move.

November 2, 2004

It is late on election night, after eleven o’clock, and I’m still awake, anxious to see who the winner is in this presidential race. As of right now, John Kerry has 188 electoral votes and George W. Bush has 197. I am very frightened lest Bush should win. I will write more tomorrow, but now I'm going to go pray A LOT.

November 3, 2004

Today exhausted me in so many ways. Today my faith in the judgement of the American people was deeply shaken. Today my sense of possible security and hope was skewered by an electoral lance. Today I watched the words “Kerry Concedes” blaze across the television screen like some crimson death sentence.

 My heart fell through my chest and sank somewhere in my stomach. The kids at school are all celebrating Bush’s victory, which leads me to believe that they don’t understand its implications. I think a military draft could be in the wings because of our growing crisis in Iraq, the bottomless pit that the administration tries to fill with borrowed cash. There just simply aren’t enough troops to continue as we’ve been doing, especially with the National Guard already under a "backdoor draft" by which guardsmen’s terms are consecutively extended beyond the time that they’re initially meant to serve. 

I only hope that President Bush gets to the draft quickly if it happens. I’ll turn eighteen next April and would like to still be underage if they start calling people up. I’m going to college anyway, but you still don't want to tempt fate. America is in for a rough four years. 

November 5, 2004

I am so tired that I can barely keep my head up, and, as I’ll be rising early tomorrow, I’m going to bed. I plan to spend the entire Saturday at the university doing research for my AP European History class. I’m going to read my Bible and then sleep. 

November 10, 2004

When I walked in from school today Grand Ma Normal Family was standing in our foyer, a smile on her face and her arms outstretched. Powell and I were so excited to see her again. We discussed everything about living here, all of our experiences, good and bad. Tonight we went to Red Lobster for dinner, and I was so full I thought I’d sprout a red tail. You know, I really don’t like lobster that much. Next time I think I’ll stick to king crab legs. I’m sleeping in Powell’s bed tonight and every night until Grand Ma and Aunt Crazy leave. Really, it’s not that bad, as Powell’s bed is very big and we often talk about things before falling asleep.

November 11, 2004

My hair tie snapped in school today and I had to wear my hair down all day. Everybody kept saying they couldn't believe how long it is. It is pretty long! Powell stayed home from school today to just spend time with Aunt Crazy and Grand Ma, but I couldn't join him. I have so much to do for AP European History! I can’t wait for December 6, when this will all be over and I can enjoy the Christmas holidays.

November 14, 2004

Last night was awesome! Aunt Crazy, Grand Ma, Powell, Thomas, and I went around six o’clock, headed for the movie theater. This was a special treat for me because, having been busy with AP European History research at the university, I didn’t even expect to get home in time to go with them! I finished my tasks for the day around three o’clock, much earlier than planned (to give you an idea, I stayed at the college until eight o’clock last Saturday evening) and happily headed home to prepare for the coming night.

Then tonight was great, too. We had an early Thanksgiving (the real thing isn't until November 25). With Grand Ma at the stove the meal was a practical feast of chicken, turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, tomatoes, and more. As always is the case when Grand Ma cooks, it was delicious.

On Saturday night I had an odd dream. I was visiting Beautiful Town to see all of our friends but I had nowhere to say. I had wanted to lodge in our old house but someone was living there so that was impossible. I was standing in the street, looking down the hill into the valley. I was suddenly hit with a great pang of pain and my dream self started to cry. I woke up and I was sad. I haven't thought much about back home, but that dream bothered me. 

November 19, 2004

Grand Ma and Aunt Crazy are back home now. On the evening of Monday, November 15, my father announced that we were moving back to Beautiful Town and that the house would be up for sale as of this weekend. The next day, Mom told us that Dad was just going off into one of his periodic bursts of enthusiasm and grand schemes that are always sobered within days by stark reality. 

November 24, 2004

I love school on the day before a holiday. In addition to there being no real work to speak of, roughly half the student population was absent, which made the hallways and classrooms quite roomy. 

Third-period English was by far the most meaningful. Mrs. English Teacher and I had a class-long discussion about God and Jesus. Mrs. English Teacher says that everyone feels inadequate in the face of God, and that it would be a sin to think you could be good enough. She said that we can’t control our sins, but rather we use God’s and Jesus’s strength to control them. I asked her if she thought that Jesus and God would give Jews and Muslims a second chance after they die, and she said that she didn’t know.

November 25, 2004

Thanksgiving 2004

Despite the bright, sunny sky and springtime temperatures, we’ve been somewhat able to create a Thanksgiving atmosphere in the house. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade trumpets forth on our television screen and the smell of turkey, still in the oven, floats throughout the entire house. 

We traditionally begin preparations for Christmas within a week of Thanksgiving, and Mom put up the Christmas tree this morning. Tonight, we’ll put in a Christmas CD and adorn the tree with ornaments, as we’ve done together for as long as I can remember. I imagine that today will be hard for Mom, since her mother died last month.