I made this account in December of 2000, during the dying dot-com days when there wasn't enough work to keep us busy and we just looked at the internet to stave off the inevitable. It's a weird thing, one of the oldest parts of my life. It's felt as changeable as my soul at times, and certainly has as many cringe worthy spots.
Today I did some serious pruning of my list. A lot of journals left empty, abandoned, people I am not very close with. After such a long time of fiercely trying to be an open window, I find myself wanting to pull back. I've certainly not had some of the profoundly ugly experiences as some friends have but it wears. Recently I've found myself wanting to chuck the entire thing and delete it all. (Really the only reason I haven't deleted my Facebook account is that it put me back in touch with someone I'd never thought I would hear from again.) The reason I started writing here was because pushing the delete key was less visceral and satisfying than starting a fire. Most of my previous journals found their ends with matches and lighters.
Part of this has to do with shedding those invisible walls, I'm sure. It feels weird to write the phrase "coming out" even thought it fits the situation. I've been more or less out of the closet in regards to my desires since I was fourteen. Coming out about what I am, admitting to myself that how I feel just isn't some quirk or reactionary habit. People make that joke "oh, I'm a lesbian trapped in a man's body" or "I'm a gay man in a woman's body" and it doesn't really mean anything. They aren't serious. Saying "I'm a bisexual man who ended up in this bisexual woman's body" is sort of a clunky line.
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