Recently I discovered Tinder. You know- swipe right, swipe left. It was odd. But I rolled with it. And I started dating this guy. We spent a fair bit of time together. And for the very first time in my life, as a 28 year old, I experienced the healing power of intimate, romantic human touch. And that's not a cute euphemism for sex. I honestly mean human touch. Just to hold another person in my arms. Just to have a chest to lay my head on, lips to kiss. It was healing to make that kind of connection with another person.
But for whatever reason, it wasn't going to work out. This realisation, while not unexpected, hit me pretty hard. Not necessarily because I had my heart set on him. Not even because I had set up for myself any particular expectations. But simply because it was the first time in my life that I had experienced this kind of healing. It was the first time I had ever so much as kissed a guy I liked. And I enjoyed that feeling. And I knew that with all the other challenges I had in my life, through this shitstorm of cancer, I really wanted to have a human to call my own.
So inevitably I found it pretty difficult. It didn't help that immediately after it happened I was sucked yet again into the seemingly never-ending vortex of medical specialists and scans and tests and appointments and, ultimately, lung surgery for the second time. And so I was left depressed- zonked out of my mind on heavy duty opioids, but still in pain, feeling lonely, dealing with the fears and frustrations of a painful complication, a readmission to hospital, and a less than ideal biopsy result. Add the unresolved feelings with this guy into the mix and I was under pretty extreme stress.
And so I found myself visiting the psychologist. I love my psychologist dearly. She speaks to me on my level. She respects my intelligence and, I suspect, my resilience, and I respect her expertise and genuine concern for me as a person. And from what she tells me, she might just get more out of our sessions than I do... I think that might be why she bulk bills me! After a long chat and more than a few tears, she encouraged me to pick myself up, forget about this guy, and throw myself right back out there. For my part, I felt like that might be easier said than done.
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Stereotypes are funny things. They exist for a reason, and yet its so very dangerous to assume that any one person fits into a particular stereotype. Lots of gay guys are big into musical theatre. I'm not. If you know me, you'll know I'd much rather be at the footy with a beer in my hand screaming abuse at an umpire than enjoying the glitz and glamour of the latest musical to hit the theatres. But I have enjoyed the few shows I've seen.
One of the shows that has always stuck with me is Rodgers & Hammerstein's South Pacific. I saw this show when I was in 9th or 10th grade. My brother Dan can clarify which. The students of North Sydney Boys and North Sydney Girls together put on a production, and my talented brother played the lead. I remember it so vividly. Some Enchanted Evening, as corny as Kansas in August... Its a classic.
I really don't know how or why, but after I had seen the psychologist, that very same day, totally out of the blue, this song from South Pacific came to my mind- I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out Of My Hair. Later that afternoon, with my very dear friend Axle, I visited Mahon Pool, the beautiful ocean pool on the headland at Maroubra Beach. And I decided I'd literally wash this man right out of my hair.
It didn't work.
So I decided that what was needed was an intensive course of 3 hair washes over 3 days, with scope for more should that prove necessary. Kinda like what they did to Elaine on that episode where the valet's body odour was clinging stubbornly to her hair (didn't they use tomato sauce or something?!). The next day I put on my running tights and boardies, took off my singlet, and ran barefoot from my home to Mahon Pool. I washed him out of my hair a second time. And then I ran home. A total of 4.5km. It wasn't a bad effort considering it had only been 11 days since the lung surgery. And slowly the memories started to fade. With the combination of exercise, endorphins, the feeling of the road and rock under my bare feet, a connection with the earth, and the healing power of the ocean and of immersion in water, and of course the intensive hair treatments, the memories started to fade. I felt close to God. The earth. The ocean. I felt renewed and ready to face the world once again.
And so I repeated the ritual one more time the following day. I felt liberated. I've hardly given this guy a thought since. My psychologist encouraged me to delete his number, but in the end, that wasn't even necessary. My hair (don't laugh) and I had moved on. And I couldn't help but think that I could wash just about anything out of my hair in a similar way. And so now I have this ridiculous but effective ritual that I can use whenever there is something in my literal mind, my metaphorical hair, that I need to be rid of. Whenever there are those moments in my life when I feel burdened by fear or guilt or frustration, in just about any difficult situation, I can strap on my soles, run up to the ocean pool, and wash it right out of my hair. And maybe more than one treatment will be required. But that's OK, because its a beautiful process to repeat.
But for whatever reason, it wasn't going to work out. This realisation, while not unexpected, hit me pretty hard. Not necessarily because I had my heart set on him. Not even because I had set up for myself any particular expectations. But simply because it was the first time in my life that I had experienced this kind of healing. It was the first time I had ever so much as kissed a guy I liked. And I enjoyed that feeling. And I knew that with all the other challenges I had in my life, through this shitstorm of cancer, I really wanted to have a human to call my own.
So inevitably I found it pretty difficult. It didn't help that immediately after it happened I was sucked yet again into the seemingly never-ending vortex of medical specialists and scans and tests and appointments and, ultimately, lung surgery for the second time. And so I was left depressed- zonked out of my mind on heavy duty opioids, but still in pain, feeling lonely, dealing with the fears and frustrations of a painful complication, a readmission to hospital, and a less than ideal biopsy result. Add the unresolved feelings with this guy into the mix and I was under pretty extreme stress.
And so I found myself visiting the psychologist. I love my psychologist dearly. She speaks to me on my level. She respects my intelligence and, I suspect, my resilience, and I respect her expertise and genuine concern for me as a person. And from what she tells me, she might just get more out of our sessions than I do... I think that might be why she bulk bills me! After a long chat and more than a few tears, she encouraged me to pick myself up, forget about this guy, and throw myself right back out there. For my part, I felt like that might be easier said than done.
*********
Stereotypes are funny things. They exist for a reason, and yet its so very dangerous to assume that any one person fits into a particular stereotype. Lots of gay guys are big into musical theatre. I'm not. If you know me, you'll know I'd much rather be at the footy with a beer in my hand screaming abuse at an umpire than enjoying the glitz and glamour of the latest musical to hit the theatres. But I have enjoyed the few shows I've seen.
One of the shows that has always stuck with me is Rodgers & Hammerstein's South Pacific. I saw this show when I was in 9th or 10th grade. My brother Dan can clarify which. The students of North Sydney Boys and North Sydney Girls together put on a production, and my talented brother played the lead. I remember it so vividly. Some Enchanted Evening, as corny as Kansas in August... Its a classic.
I really don't know how or why, but after I had seen the psychologist, that very same day, totally out of the blue, this song from South Pacific came to my mind- I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out Of My Hair. Later that afternoon, with my very dear friend Axle, I visited Mahon Pool, the beautiful ocean pool on the headland at Maroubra Beach. And I decided I'd literally wash this man right out of my hair.
It didn't work.
So I decided that what was needed was an intensive course of 3 hair washes over 3 days, with scope for more should that prove necessary. Kinda like what they did to Elaine on that episode where the valet's body odour was clinging stubbornly to her hair (didn't they use tomato sauce or something?!). The next day I put on my running tights and boardies, took off my singlet, and ran barefoot from my home to Mahon Pool. I washed him out of my hair a second time. And then I ran home. A total of 4.5km. It wasn't a bad effort considering it had only been 11 days since the lung surgery. And slowly the memories started to fade. With the combination of exercise, endorphins, the feeling of the road and rock under my bare feet, a connection with the earth, and the healing power of the ocean and of immersion in water, and of course the intensive hair treatments, the memories started to fade. I felt close to God. The earth. The ocean. I felt renewed and ready to face the world once again.
And so I repeated the ritual one more time the following day. I felt liberated. I've hardly given this guy a thought since. My psychologist encouraged me to delete his number, but in the end, that wasn't even necessary. My hair (don't laugh) and I had moved on. And I couldn't help but think that I could wash just about anything out of my hair in a similar way. And so now I have this ridiculous but effective ritual that I can use whenever there is something in my literal mind, my metaphorical hair, that I need to be rid of. Whenever there are those moments in my life when I feel burdened by fear or guilt or frustration, in just about any difficult situation, I can strap on my soles, run up to the ocean pool, and wash it right out of my hair. And maybe more than one treatment will be required. But that's OK, because its a beautiful process to repeat.