Finding Strength of Will

There are many reasons why being married to a woman is good enough for me, and in some ways better or easier for me than being with a guy. Jealousy .  Maybe this is unique to my wife and I but as this is about me and what works for me, it certainly is applicable:  neither of us is jealous of friendships that either of us has for either gender.  In addition, if one of us likes and is friends with a guy or a girl, the other is as well.  I suppose this isn’t entirely true — there have been a time or two that I’ve been jealous of Wrylon talking to another guy…when he was paying more attention to her than he was to me. No competition .  My attractions to men do not cause Wrylon the worry it would if I were attracted to women.  She doesn’t have the right parts and so there is no pressure on her to try to compete for my attention in that area. Sexual attraction .  This may seem counter intuitive but there are several factors in this area that m...

This is the next in line of my journal entries following my journey of self acceptance. It was written around Thanksgiving 2013. I have been hanging on for so long in such a difficult place that I am worn out and run down.  I am at the end of my strength.  To say just hang on would be asking me to do the impossible.  We hear tales of people doing the impossible and it is tempting to suggest that I do the same.  But I have already been there.  I have been holding on when it was impossible.  And now it really is. Even as I am about to let go I see the potential before me for things to be better.  They are there, if I can just hold on a little longer.  Or so it seems.  But I cannot and to face that feels like white-hot tears burning my face as the fall.  To see the goal just out of reach.   So I want to turn away.  To fall gratefully and blissfully into the darkness.  To let it’s cold oblivion take me out of feeli...

I sit here in a moment of quiet reflection.  The  house is still.  I am still.  It has been some time since I felt still.  And silent.  But my mind is a whirl of thoughts and faces and dreams.  I hold my breath, almost, afraid that something will break this moment--the children waking up, or a phone call.  The sound of my keystrokes is almost too loud.  This moment is precious to me as I look inwards and outwards.  Inwards at who I have become and what has changed; outwards at where I am and what hasn’t changed. I feel the need to recount the dream that I woke with; it is still lingering in my memory, which is unusual.  Most fade more quickly than the frost in the morning sunlight.  Many details have faded, but one incident sticks out clearly in my mind.  My dreaming mind visited a prison.  Dirty, somber and grim.  I was standing in a hallway leading into a room, small but high-walled.  I could not see the c...