Who cares

This past weekend was black gay pride and I couldn’t help but ask myself, “Who cares.” I really wasn’t in the mood to mingle this year. I wasn’t promoting a book. I didn’t want to see old faces that probably tell me I gained weight or I’ve gotten older. The entire thing actually felt depressing to me. I wanted to stay as far away as possible.

As I lay up under the covers I couldn’t understand why I was so bothered. I guess because black gay pride brings up issues. It’s like having a high school reunion every year.
I thought about my life and how much it had changed from a year ago. I no longer speak to half of the people I was friendly with a year ago. I changed so much. I’m not as crazy. Yet for the first time in my life I didn’t feel good enough. I used to rely on my looks but those are also fading. I feel myself becoming one of those bitter drunks.

Yet, after a day of self-loathing, I decided to pick myself off the floor and clean my apartment. I felt a certain sense of self-empowerment as I scrubbed the toilet and bathtub. It was like I could finally see my life. I felt in my twenties there were too many distractions. There was the starving trying to look like the magazines. There was the promiscuous sex trying to find love and acceptance in all the wrong places. There was the over drinking trying to drown my insecurities. But alone in my apartment just making the bed I felt like I was finally home. Shit, I had nothing to prove to anybody. Somebody once told me that getting older was learning to deal with lost.

I need to start learning to look at my life different.