Gay Marital Status : 30 Days of Truth

Day 18 : Your views on gay marriage.

I am not typically one to discuss controversial topics on my blog.  Politics and religion are two subjects that I have some pretty convoluted and alternative philosophies on.  So, as a rule of thumb, I am inclined to exclude these from any social agenda that I may have.

However, I am prompted.  Therefore, I must preface this with a few things.  Comments on this particular post will be closed, not as a result of a discouragement of sharing opinion, but as a precautionary measure.  I appreciate all of the feedback I get from an audience, however, I am not interested in allowing a flame war on my blog.  If anyone is interested in an adult discussion, I am willing to do so in private.  You may email me at lulu.em.stark@gmail.com and I will screen responses appropriately.

Additionally, realize that my views are only opinions.  They are, in no way, meant to be construed as offensive or bias.  If you believe that you may find the following material offensive, please consider skipping this installment of The 30 Days of Truth : Sunny with a Chance of Armageddon.

With that said:  Lulu’s Views on Gay Marriage.

Quite honestly, gay marriage is really none of my business.  I realize that it’s my civic duty as an American citizen to fight for the causes of others, and believe me, I do.  However, this is a subject that I shy away from.  I am not gay.  Although I have fallen in love with a girl once, I do not believe I would have ever considered marrying her.  I have a history of experimentation with members of the same gender, however, I am not generally attracted or romantically interested.  Therefore, I have proven I am not gay, therefore gay marriage is not on my list of crusades.

However, if I were to be coerced into taking up a social issue beyond my own scope, I suppose gay marriage would be on the agenda.  I believe that every American should be free to make their own choices.  We do live in America, one of the freest countries in the world.  We have made so much progress in human rights and freedoms.  We are guaranteed equality.  Anyone is permitted to legally join with another person of the opposite gender.  Why do we have to limit it to opposing genders?

Now, being from an Episcopalian background, I do have one objection to gay marriage.  I believe in marriage as a ritual between man and woman in front of our higher power.  Marriage is not just a legal union between two opposite gendered entities.  It’s a spiritual thing.  Now, while I believe that homosexual folks should be entitled to the same rights under the higher power, I also believe that a distinction should be made.

The distinction is the same as the distinction between a heterosexual relationship and a homosexual relationship.  Gay and straight are necessary terms to describe the nature of a relationship, just as married and single.  It is important to define relationships in terms of our higher power and our legal status.  Marriage implies that the union occurs between a man and a woman.  Therefore, a different terminology should be used.

I do not mind any terminology that can be synonymous with marriage.  Union sounds nice.  Matrimony, minus the holy part is good for any kind of wedding.  Wedded, and anything else, seem to fit nicely.  Any combination of those would be effective.  I actually find it rather offensive to call it “gay marriage”, just because of the terminological distinction.  However, this is not my decision to make.  Again, I am not gay.  I don’t know what is offensive in the gay community, therefore I avoid the topic altogether.  I think the rest of the public would probably be okay with homosexual unions if they were called something other than “gay marriage”.  It’s possible that it offends much of the religious population.

That’s just my opinion.  If anyone has anything to add, I would be glad to hear it.  However, no flame mail or hate mail.  I’d like to clarify that I support any consenting union between two adult parties that are not adulterous or incestuous in nature.

Thank you.

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The Friday Confessional : First Edition

Thanks to C, writer at Seasons Change and So Have I, I have taken on the idea of the Friday Confessional.  There’s something so cleansing about it.  I am not Catholic, nor have I ever been.  But, I can see why confessional is an important part of their Christian denomination.

October 25, 2000

It was quite an eventful day.  Not even a week earlier, I had come out to a teacher about my cutting that had gone on in secret for two and a half years.  I was on psychiatric suspension until I was able to see a doctor.  I suppose that was probably a punishment that was meant for my parents.  Their only respite from me was school.  It was likely intended to force them into seeking treatment for me, rather than ignoring the problem, as I confessed in that principals office.  They had known about it for more than a year at that point.  And it was my father’s taunts about it that gave me the little white scar with two teeth just under the freckle on my left forearm.  That was the nasty gash that led me to this very day.

My mother cautioned me before we left.  “Don’t say anything crazy, or else they’ll put you in inpatient.”  I was going to an inpatient facility for outpatient care.  It was twenty minutes away from my home, and filled to the brim with all likes of troubled kids, far worse than me, from all around the area.  I heard the horror stories of that place from friends that had complete meltdowns and whose parents were scared out of their wits.  “I roomed with this girl who had fifty stitches around her neck.  She tried to slit her own throat.”  Talk about cutting.  I was an amateur digging at my wrists with a dull steak knife.

My father was a bastard the whole way there.  I always hated being in the car with him.  It felt like I was trapped, forced to listen to him go on and on about whatever was grinding his gears, usually me.  It seemed like there was something I had done or not done that set him off on a raging tangent.  Today, it was the fact that I was going to therapy.  “This is a waste of fucking time and money!  I’ve been in therapy for 20 years, and do you know what it got me!?  A fat sack of nothin’!  So wish in one hand and shit in the other, girl!  See what fills up faster!”  At least I can say that he was memorable in those states.

It didn’t matter.  That day was about me.  It was the overdue response to all of my distress calls.  They took to prepping me in the car.  I was not to say anything about the family.  I was not to smack talk anyone, or else I was going to get taken away.  If I lied or exaggerated in any way, they’d go to jail, and my brother would be put in a home.  It would be all my fault that they broke up our family.  The fate of the family was in my hands now, and I’d better now screw it up, or else I’d never be forgiven.  They would leave me to rot in a foster home.  Eighteen was still two years away for me.  Two years is a long time in your teens.

We arrived, and I was greeted by a woman who looked to be about my mother’s age.  She was thin and had bright eyes.  Her name was Dr. H, but she preferred Ann.  I was hesitant.  It was impolite to refer to any adult by their first name.  It was a sign of disrespect.  She handed my mother a huge stack of paperwork and told me to come right in when my mother was finished.  My mother looked through the stack, and then started thoughtfully.  I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t signing my own consent, and then I realized I wasn’t of age yet.  It looked too large to be consent.  My mother leaned in to me and asked, “You don’t torture animals, do you?”

I was astounded that she even asked!  What the hell was on that form?!  She explained it was just an assessment, and that there would be ridiculous questions on there.  Some kids were a lot worse than me, she noted.  Clearly.

I went into her office, and it smelled like lavender.  The lights were dimmed, a candle was lit, and there was an inviting sofa with pillows and a blanket next to her desk.  “How are you feeling?”  I burst out crying.  I couldn’t stop.  I spilled everything.  All of my misery and isolation fell from my eyes and mouth into her lap.  I purged, like word vomit, until I felt empty again.

She told me, “This isn’t your fault.  You have a disorder.”  It was a relief.  All of these years, I had known that I wasn’t like other children.  Children aren’t sad and scared.  People don’t go around crying every single day of their lives, wishing they were dead.  She continued to explain was Major Depressive Disorder was, and assured me that I would see a doctor about getting medicine for relief.

“Will I have to be on this medicine for the rest of my life?” I asked.

“Sometimes, medication is just a crutch until you can get better.”

Famous last words.  (I’m on five psychiatric medications as of right now.)

I went home and went to bed.  Bed was home.  Bed was the only safe place there was in the entire world.

My boyfriend showed up later, and we went out to celebrate his eighteenth birthday.  When we came home later, everyone was gathered in the living room.  My mother announced to me, “We’re taking your father to the hospital.  We think he had a heart attack.  Your grandmother is coming to watch you.”

Fine by me.  My boyfriend and I went into the game room in the basement and had sex again.  He stayed pretty late, as my mother announced he had to go into emergency open heart bypass.  And all I could think to myself was, “Good.  I hope he dies on that table.”

Not Your Usual Serving Of Canvas

As some of you might not be well aware, and you’d probably be correct at this point at any point in confusion, I am a co-founder with Ruby Tuesday and a writer for A Canvas of the Minds. The following is a post on Canvas that request every mental health bloggers help for Mental Health Awareness.

via Not Your Usual Serving Of Canvas.

Thank you for your support in advance.  I would guess that everyone who is involved with Blog for Mental Health 2012 would be interested in joining Canvas and participating with us in our time of need of your support!!!