March 4th, 1982
Piled on the sofa amid pillows and blankets in front of a blaring television— nursing a mild cold on a nasty wet night.
The Howie episode ended officially Sunday— wind, after being at the dance together last Saturday night (Mac, like a knight in shining armor, insisted that I go instead of sulking at home) and after being at Washington Square Sunday and not even acknowledging each other’s presence. Such immature behavior. Basically what Howie said was that I was just too much, too fast. I implied that his perceptions were wrong. Although I was smart enough this time to refrain from verbalizing my romantic drama— my actions belied my plotting. Howie was right, of course. I spent the next couple of days giving my version to friends as his own neurotic problems with intimacy. Finally, I faced what I was up to. A kind of honesty new to me in sobriety. I realized— how important it is— how unnecessary— to attach blame— TO EXPLAIN why something happened— always with myself as the wholesome victim. And I have to admit the fact too that there I was wooing a man I found myself barely interested in— with roses, jewelry and dinners, and passionate lovemaking. And I knew— and he knew— and we were aware of each other’s awareness— that whatever IT is— whatever vital chemistry that is fundamental to honest desire— was just not there. I was indignant that he had the honesty to face reality and I apparently did not. The lack of self-esteem prevents me from validating my own feelings.
Self-validation is a phrase I heard during a qualification Monday night at St. Luke’s by Joan, Marsha’s lover. The idea has been with me all week. For someone whose entire expectation of adulthood is marriage— the ultimate destiny— the idea of accepting— validating one’s life as a single person seems impossible. How can I allow myself to be happy when the one thing which I require for a happy life— a mate— is missing. So I live in some grey zone— some twilight— never accepting happiness as valid— always in a state of waiting. And the berserk record of failure at finding a lover. Now the statistics are that I average 3-4 major romances per annum. And this has been the case for years. So I pass my life waiting for HIM to find me— to enter my life and define me and justify me— then I can finally be happy. Meanwhile, I am missing out on some very precious 24-hour blocks of time.
Impulsively (although I have entertained the idea for a long time) I called and made an appointment with a therapist tomorrow morning. I saw his ad in the classified section of The Voice today. His name is David— a gestalt therapist. Tomorrow is a consultation. Miraculously— his fees are not impossible to imagine— $25 per hour.
My mother telephoned tonight. She got her high school diploma today. I’m very proud of her. She then proceeded to tell me that I should marry and have a family. She said she regrets not having been more active in my “personal life”— I guess that hse could have perhaps prevented me from becoming a homosexual. I want to love her so much. And I hate her so much. And hate myself for hating her. Or needing her. To love me
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