Today at 9:26 PM, I will turn 40 years old. The big 3 in my astrological chart? Taurus and a double Scorpio. Some characteristics to describe me would be: stubborn, sexual, and powerless to luxury. I thought I might wake up today and see the remains of an old haggard gay goblin in the mirror- one who feeds off the souls of twinks and the way cubs smile in photos. But I didn’t; I saw the same face I did when I was 17, 27 and 35. I saw my boyfriend's partner, my dog's best friend and my mom’s rebellious son. I felt amazing. I felt handsome and sexy, kind and strong. I want to take a moment and thank my dad for giving me this life and say I'm so sorry that he only lived to be 36. I have always felt terrified of gay aging, a mix of years in the beauty industry, a sudden loss of a father, and a childhood that was robbed of a lot of gay male role models via the AIDS crisis. But here I am, sis. Fully ready to live out my Daddy era.
I spend a lot of time thinking about nostalgia -the deep passion queer kids developed in the 90’s and prior. It reminds me of this Caity Weaver quote from an amazing New York Times Piece called The Rise of the Spice Girls Generation: “Members of the Spice Girls generation are the only people in history to have both grown up with the internet and to retain childhood memories that predate it.” When I was a young teenager, I felt small and weak. There were so many secrets in my life and a general sense of shame. This was before I grew into my body and developed the rage that fueled me to survive at all costs. There was constant bullying and having to prove myself. Defending my life in the halls at school and then coming home and trying to convince my parents I was “a normal boy” was exhausting and confusing. My schoolwork suffered because I was so tired from the constant anxiety running through my body. The way the boys in my town would pick up on every slight variance in my actions and use it to make me feel inadequate, feminine and worthless. I could be a fast runner, a good swimmer, I could love my four- wheelers, do farm work, and go spotting deer- but none of that mattered, because the slight femininity was a glaring offense to them. That difference was the defining characteristic of my worth to them. I was a girl, a freak, a faggot. I was sensitive and worthless. Everyday I was threatened to be beat up. Thank god for my close friends and the creative studio I built in my bedroom.
The trauma I experienced in middle school was coming at me from literally every angle. Emotional abuse, bullying, disordered eating, and becoming fatherless; this was forming a quiet rage. The only space that felt safe was my bedroom, where I could stop holding my breath and be myself. My mom worked a lot, I had no siblings and not to mention not even a neighbor for miles. Looking back I guess it was a silent agreement with my parents, they let me be as weird as I wanted in those four walls and I would try to fit in in public. My bedroom was the place where I started weaving what I needed to change, the space where creativity would form my chrysalis. I would take my beloved magazines and collage my walls. Create a vision board (without having access to that wording yet), talk on the phone for hours and make my friends mix CDs. I would write love letters and make necklaces. All of this was set to the brilliant music of the 90’s. This was right before the age of a computer in every home and a cell phone in every backpack. There were still long distance calls, movie showtimes in the newspaper and Blockbuster Videos. I remember the authenticity of discovering something for myself, wandering the aisles of Barnes and Noble to discover a new magazine, standing in front of the horror section of a Blockbuster, and searching for imported CD’s. Inspiration cost money, and that would make you appreciate it more. A new CD in 1996 was $13-$18 dollars and minimum wage was $4.75. Money was always tight in my household so I had to be conscious of the things I would buy to help grow my mind and fuel my desire to leave and see the world. These were the weapons that later in high school would help me be very unabashedly queer- beautifully queer. I was someone I still look back at in awe.
As I enter this fourth decade, I feel another change. I feel my body shifting and my mind opening up. I spent a lot of my twenties fucking up and trying to break free. In my thirties I started finding myself and working on healing my trauma wounds, and now I am a man that I’m proud of. I feel the best I’ve ever felt in my life now, at 40. I think of where I came from and how much work I had to put in- even by the time I left home at 18. I can't help but think of all the beauty I discovered in my bedroom. I spent so much of my life comparing myself to others that I never realized the unfairness of the starting point. I can say for a large part of my life I had no safety net, not a single person who could bail me out. It was just me doing my best, and oftentimes making things worse. I had so much deeply rooted shame and trauma that it took me years to be able to even admit to myself that I wasn't okay- and then many more years of therapy to get myself to a space of being comfortable. Now, at forty, I feel ready to show the world my wings. I didn't expect to spend 25 years healing and changing, but that's the time it took. I feel proud and grateful I came out the other side at all.
But there is still one final thing I need to do to be fully free. I have to work on letting go of my ego. I’ve been ego- driven for as long as I can remember, having used it as the fuel I needed to get as far away as I could from where I started. A part of that work for me has been changing my relationship with social media. I recently went far back on my Instagram and archived all 3000 posts. It was surreal to go through the last few years and remember all those moments, but there was definitely a shift. I saw my posts go from just documenting what I was doing to seeking attention to trying to get validation. I was in the places and I was doing the things but the moments you saw were barely real. I see this everyday in NYC: a person in an outfit they don't feel comfortable in, moving so someone notices. The most embarrassing thing for me were the captions I would write about trying to get sober, or losing weight for attention. I swear that this was subconscious but looking back I was taking my struggles and trauma and using it as a trauma bomb hashtag to get a follow. I also want to say I understand the need to be seen and validated on the internet and all of the opportunities it can create. But, I feel like now I need to get off that train and return to the place that felt the most nourishing: the private mindset of my teenage bedroom.
Instead of selfies, I’m going to take more self portraits like I did in photography school. Instead of trauma bombing captions, I’m going to share the full story through essays I write with care. I want to call in real friends and let go of followings, I want to heal past relationships and rediscover art. I want to be a better partner and get married to my best friend. I want to fill our life with food, art, fashion, and to do it with my grown up money I make from a job I am good at. In order for me to continue down this path, I know that I must return to digesting my culture like I did in the 90’s, slowly and with an obsessive passion, instead of a mindless scroll.
Here’s to 40- and thank you for putting in the effort to click into this post. One last thing, please don’t tell someone they look good for their age. It’s condescending as fuck. Just tell them they look good.
Happy birthday, dear Shain! You have me in tears from your vulnerability, strength, and unabashed joy. Thank you as always for sharing. This, and you, are so very beautiful.
Happy Birthday!!