J’s Diary Entry
Tuesday, 4 July 1995
I’m walking down Collins Street, around 6:30pm, and I see this couple walking towards me, and I think, How do they do it? How do they make it seem so effortless? This drifting apart and coming together again, like the sea and the shore. I don’t know how people can just meld so comfortably. I feel twisted and convulsed, like I’ve bent myself into an unnatural shape from which I can’t release myself. It seems like other people can just be together, but I have to leap this yawning chasm of self-doubt and loathing. I teeter at the edge with stage fright and astonishing fear of rejection. I want to tell people this, but don’t want the attendant pity, or at best, sympathy. I just want to be accepted. I fantasize about showing someone my scars and they accept me still. But I know this won’t happen. Who wants a self-mutilator? I don’t want to be a novelty in someone’s sexual history, “Hey, I once fucked this guy who used to cut himself up.”
Is it ever going to get any easier?