Beginnings

I always  figured my mind , my way of reasoning, as a sort of ladder,  I have to make one step at the time and configure the thought.  I analize one thought,  I  make sense  of it  and then step to the next one, normally the consequence of the step before.  Does is it make sense?                                                                                                                                                                                                                 In my past state of mind,  my thinking  always stopped at the step just before the understanding of the issue I was dealing with.  I have analized, retraced and ultimately lost my footing so many times that by the end nothing was making any sense.  My whole being was  so repressed, and almost depressed, that I was really at breaking point.  I let myself down very badly, I do not know how I could let it happen.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  I always thought of myself as an honest kind of guy, but obviously I was not, or at least not enough to make my life really worth living. I was resigned to live with my "problems", I thought I realised what my life had become and I did not care. But I could not actually look at myself in the mirror of my bathroom. I felt my eyes looking into my soul and  it felt wrong, I was ashamed of myself for whatever reason. Now I know I was lying to myself.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               After the first years here in England, I started to come to terms with the family issues I had, or at least that's what I thought I was doing, in reality I was simply bottling everything   up. I thought of family for a long time, and by the end I laid all my guilt at mother's door. She was neurotic and deeply depressed and I did not know any better as a child, so. Now I could not doing anything about it, so I put it away. All true, but I never managed to really explain to myself  the knows and hows of the story.  I tried so many times, and always got to nowhere. Lost. My mind was not capable of  functioning rationally without emotions getting in the way of it. I lied to myself and accepted  my feeling of sadness and loneliness. I probably felt sorry for myself, but deep down I was never happy with it. Again I was telling myself it was all because of her. But I knew there was more to it.  You see the circle of my thoughts? Depression was the only option for me, as it was for her. And she was suicidal. Now, that get me thinking more than once.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          As early as I can remember, I have always been comfortable in my own company, even the loneliness I feel at time never really bother me, I learned early to cope and survive on my own.    You see, for me family always meant mother and mother equalled fear.  She was the boss, the one  giving orders, the one to make my life a misery . My father and brother never really entered into the equation. One because of his night job, the other as an older brother that never wanted anything to do with me. So right from the start I felt I was on my own, and what is more I had to watch out for mother. At least that is how I  felt as a child.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 In my childhood I made mistakes, I guess every child make them. I had to learn my ways,  and it was mother's job how to teach me  how to behave, how to live. She herself had a difficult upbringing, and I guess she did not know how to cope with a child that was needy, I always looked for cuddles and reassurance.  I think she could not be for me what I needed, for whatever reason. Her way of teach me was with her hands and her feets and that tongue of hers. I try to understand now, but at the time it just shutted me.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Mother simply used to beat me. One time I remember I was in bed sleeping, and the next thing I can remember  is myself in the bathroom with blood on my face. My brother forgot the keys in the locked door and she could not come in after a night out. It was always me, even if I was not. She  always asked the questions after, and it looked to me she never learned from my answers. I was bad.  I seem to remember I stole a toy at the age five/six, I do not think I knew what I was doing, I do not think I meant to. But I was bad, so she simply felt that I would learn only throwing  me out of the house. I remember walking the streets for a while until father come to look for me, poor man He did not have any saying on any issue in that house. I think he felt he was in no position to argue or to simply have a say in our upbringing. I do not really know why, but I can guess.                                                                                                                                                                               To be fair she threw me out only two times, and the second one I was prepared for it,  I simply did hide in the cellar. I spent the night in there. I felt almost safe in there. This is my first recollection of me having to cope on my own, reallly on my own. From then on I learned  to equip myself emotionally and practically for  the event of  being  left  out again. And the place that felt the safer was that cellar, were I could go and be with me without fear. In there I learned to live without her. Scared but able to be free, to like what I liked, feel what I felt with no fear of making her mad if I made a mistake.  After that I was not a child anymore.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                I can now make that last step and finally look down and see clearly, at last I have the courage to accept my life for what it is. My mistakes took me here. Mother did what she could, I am sure of it. Her life have been worst than mine anytime, that's why I cannot take myself  to blame her. True it could have been different, but hey, that's life.   It is amazing how now I can  have a thought and being able to carry it throw up the ladder without slipping and hurting mysellf or getting lost. The simple notion of being gay have make sense of my life.  I am gay, and finally accepting who I am had taken me back to my childhood. I can finally learn how to live.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       That cellar was the beginning of my journey. I am glad it took me here. Alex