Why am I here? That's the question you're asking yourself, if you're bothering to read any of this. To be honest, I'm not sure why anyone would; angsty 18-year-old starts college and searches for his identity while listening to sappy music (tonight it's Trove Lo, in case you were wondering). Not the most original thing that's ever been done.
But it's my story, so I suppose I'll tell it. Maybe. The truth is, I've tried a few of these things before and have never had the heart to keep up with them, but maybe now that the whole personality crisis is reaching critical mass I'll actually have something to say.
We should start with a couple of ground rules:
1. You will never see my face
2. You will never know my last name
3. You will never be privy to exact details of my life, which just can't be given
4. I will be unflinchingly honest
The first three conditions are there to honor the fourth. Sort of hard to bare your soul if any old person can look you up on Facebook. And in my situation, that would be a very bad thing. My family has an image thing. Don't ask.
So, who am I? I am Cyprian. I am, as previously stated, 18 years old, and as of August 25 I am a freshman in college. It's sort of funny, the way that worked out; I spent a lifetime swearing I'd get out of Virginia, and then I went to a college an hour from my house. Maybe I wasn't quite ready to make the jump. I'm not sure why. I mean, I don't even particularly like many of my family members, though the ones I do care for are amazing.
And what a mess that whole arrangement is. I'm tempted to leave it for another post, so for now it will suffice to say that I am the third of four children. There is 24-year-old David, the bane of my existence; 19-year-old James, the pride of my mother; and 11-year-old Catherine, the light of my life. There really aren't words to describe how wonderful that girl is. And it's pretty remarkable given who she has for parents.
My family is not what a family should be. And I have to be honest, that I'm shaking as I write these words, because my parents would be so furious to know I was penning them. If they ever found out, I don't know what they'd do--cutting me off would probably be the least of it. I'm committing the cardinal sin that can never be forgiven in the House of V: airing the dirty laundry. It's tacky. It's undignified. And damn it, I have to do it. Because the weight of pretending that everything is perfect, that I'm perfect, is too much for me to handle without imploding under the pressure. And even if no one ever reads this, and even if some anonymous page on the Internet is the only place I'm ever able to do it, I'll still know that somewhere, at some time, I told the truth.
And that somewhere really has to be here, because where else could it be? There's no friend who can be trusted not to tell, no classmate who wouldn't hear my last name and be texting my secrets away before I could even finish revealing them. The secrets. So many secrets. When you're raised among them, you think they're normal, which is probably why hiding my sexuality came so naturally. My father and oldest brother are away at a "leadership summit" that is actually a rehab; my stepmother has a "colleague" who is actually her lover, and she thinks no one knows when they retreat to my father's bed; I am a "straight boy" who actually yearns for another boy's touch, and have for years. I've known since I was 12. And I've known to hide it since I was 12.
My father is where he is, after all, in part because of denouncing people like me as immoral, as misguided or abnormal or divergent. And maybe he hasn't agreed with the people who say we're hellbound, or possessed by the devil, but he hasn't disagreed with them, either. See how that works?
And all of this is quite fitting, because he does not love me. Now, I know what you're thinking: "That's crazy. It's natural to feel disconnected from your parent at your age. All fathers love their sons."
You're wrong. And you don't know how we are.
I nearly died a year ago next month--long story, and for another day--and he was completely unmoved. Like, to the point that people commented on it. In private, of course. In public, he was the picture of a concerned parent. Then again, in public I had pneumonia. In public, there was no suicide attempt.
So I'm gay. I'm hoping that, now there's some distance between my family and me, I can explore my sexuality a bit and fulfill these desires that have gone unmet for so long, but I always have to advance with caution. I tried, once, with a boy at my high school, and got badly burned. And the long arm of my family lurks everywhere. In this community. In this state. In history.
Gosh, we're an awful group of people. I'm haunted all the time by the fact of my birth. That I came from them, sired from an amoral father upon an insane mother. That I'm descended from a group of people who passed the whip from one generation to another, and ever terrified that one day it will fall into my hands. Do you get to decide what you are? If you're born to evil, do you have to be evil?
And on that happy note, I need to go to bed. If you made it through that, there will be more to come.
