It's been six months since I started this blog on Thanksgiving. How time flies, eh?
I think the most dissapointing thing is how little engagement and feedback I get here.
Note that I say that's dissapointing, not that it's surprising. It's been my experience over the last five decades that people find me hard to engage, and when they do, their responses tend to be about them. I'm not surprised that it's no different now.
It's not like the blog has caught fire, where people who sampled it really wanted to come back and read more, wanted to tell their friends. Technorati lists my ranking as number 1,203,480, and I tip my hat to the one million, two hundred and three thousand four hundred and seventy nine blogs that rank higher than I do. Congrats!
As I have continued to write here, I have begun to understand that this blog is my testimony. It's mostly all about me because my life is not much at all about me. It is here that I expose myself and reveal what's going on inside, so people who say "well, they never shared their feelings with anyone" can be refuted. I mean, they will probably still say that I didn't do enough, didn't do it right, didn't do it in a way they found correct, but they are going to say that no matter what. That's another thing I have found over five decades, that no matter how much you do, it's easy for others to dismiss you as not doing enough if you haven't met their expectations.
This is my testimony. It's not a place where I want to try to walk people in baby steps though my history and my views, trying to get them a few feet forward and still miles from where I am. It is a place where I share where I am, testifying my truth, even if it's hard (or impossible) for others to hear right now.
And as a testimony, I offer a piece from February 2004.
Why Am I Dead?
I am dead.
I am dead because I just ran out.
I am dead because I ran out of energy to sort though the chaff to find the wheat.
I am dead because I ran out of resilience to handle people's startle response when they feel surprised and threatened by me.
I am dead because I ran out of a story to contextualize and ease the daily challenges.
I am dead because I ran out of place to put my internalized pain and rage, and I long ago found that there was no external place to put my pain and rage.
I am dead because I ran out of tolerance for being erased and marginalized.
I am dead because I ran out of patience with people who only want what they want in the way they want it from me, who demanded I enter their world but refused to enter mine.
I am dead because I ran out of reserve to handle those who want to project their own beliefs onto me and my choices.
I am dead because I ran out of capacity to be torn between my received wisdom and people's expectation.
I am dead because I ran out of strength to handle those who need to tell me how I am wrong, who need to beat me into accepting their comforting beliefs as facts.
I am dead because I ran out of stamina to face the everyday requirements of life in this culture – work, government, bureaucracy, all that.
I am dead because I ran out of support networks where I feel seen, understood, affirmed engaged and challenged in a loving, compassionate & present manner.
I am dead because I ran out of the power to be the healer to those in pain, and never have healers come to me. Being the one who handles the pain means you can drown in it.
I am dead because I ran out of desire to live in a place where desire and Eros are lowered to their most common forms, a place where my love is lost.
I am dead because I ran out of exuberance and enthusiasm, worn away by age and stigma.
I am dead because I ran out of hope that I could make enough change to get what I need.
I am dead because I ran out of space and energy to stuff away my too intense, too sensitive, too questioning nature so that I could fit neatly into a box.
I am dead because I ran out of ways to keep the lost, hurt, abused child inside of me quiet.
I am dead because I ran out of dreams that could keep me going though the long, dark nights. I ran out of a song to sing.
I am dead because I ran out of the power to stop myself manifesting on the outside all the abuse I feel on the inside.
I am dead because I ran out of the illusion that someday people would open their hearts to me.
I am dead because I ran out of the ability to be not man, not woman, but angel, as Wang Foo would have it.
I am dead because I ran out of the power to hear other people tell me what is really wrong with me, always things that can be solved with their solution. When all you have is a hammer, other people get sick of being treated like nails.
I am dead because I ran out of endurance for those who needed to make my life understandable to them, needed to make my life about them.
I am dead because I always lived just a little too far in the future to be really visible and vibrant in the world.
I am dead because it is time for me to be dead.
I am dead.