The longest relationship I’ve had has been with my journals. For over nine years, they’ve become the most constant thing in my life. No lover has come remotely close. As many good things, it started with a downer, a breakup which nowadays I can barely remember. From something unpleasant, something nicer and bigger came up.

Four years ago, I made it my lockdown project to read all my journals. Since then, I go back to them regularly. It is a funny experience to see myself from afar. 

I saw the clueless young guy after his first breakup, with no real life nor TV example of what a healthy gay relationship was. 

I notice all the internalized homo-shame, which was never explicit, but it is encoded in the multiple omissions when I did not write the full story. But I also see how I grew through the years and became more confident, secure and honest with my words. 

I read about homophobic rejection and the immense amount of work that took to undo its harm.

I read about the numerous exciting experiences with lovers, friends, and strangers which shaped me into a more daring and adventurous sexual being. Not only that, but I see my romantic side that tends to idealize everything, as well as the side that is very visceral and raunchy.

My most current tale is of how I became too comfortable being alone for years. How I convinced myself love was not compatible with being a so-called slut and that was fine. And how that belief collapsed when love came in a very unexpected shape. Lovers and lovers of lovers have now become a topic on which I never imagined I’d be embarking.

When I read my journals, I wish I could comfort my past self when he sounds lost. But I also sometimes feel very proud of myself from the past. How strong I was and how far I’ve taken myself. I even find myself often taking advice from things I wrote six years ago.

I guess there are many tales I can tell.

I have written them all…

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