This morning I came across a post on Instagram that resonated with me far more than I expected. The post was made by Master Dart (@masterdart_2.0) and caught me out of the blue.
“Many of you continue to put yourself on trial for not being who your family or others wanted you to be. This makes you both the prosecutor and the defence in an endless loop. The trial ends when you stand in your truth and claim your sense of self.”
I’ve found myself thinking about it on and off throughout the day, because it describes something I’ve been doing for years without ever really having a name for it.
I put myself on trial.
Not just over the big things, but over almost everything.
I’ve spent so much of my life analysing, questioning and second-guessing myself that it has become normal. Every feeling gets examined. Every decision gets challenged. Every desire gets questioned. It isn’t enough for me to simply feel something; I immediately start trying to determine whether I’m allowed to feel it in the first place.
Over the last few weeks I’ve seen it happening more clearly than ever. The return of my libido has been a good example. Part of me has been excited, curious and even hopeful. Another part immediately starts asking questions. Is this real? Is it temporary? What if it goes away again? What if I act on it? What if I don’t? What if I’m making a mistake? What if I’m moving too fast? Instead of simply experiencing what I’m feeling, I put it on trial.
The same thing happens when I think about meeting other men. I can recognise that I want connection, friendship, intimacy and maybe even play. Yet almost immediately another voice appears to cross-examine those feelings. Am I ready? Am I betraying the memory of someone I loved? Am I setting myself up for disappointment? Am I being unrealistic? The discussion goes round and round until I’m exhausted.
The frustrating thing is that both sides of the argument are me.
I’m the one making the accusations and I’m the one trying to defend myself. I’m simultaneously the prosecutor, the defence and the jury. No wonder I feel tired sometimes.
What struck me about that Instagram post was the suggestion that the trial only ends when you stand in your truth. I’ve been turning that idea over in my head all day. For years I’ve felt as though I needed to choose between different parts of myself, as though one side had to win.
- Am I the grieving man still carrying the loss of someone important, or am I the man who wants to reconnect with life and intimacy?
- Am I shy and cautious, or am I kinky, curious and adventurous?
- Am I the geek who enjoys technology and history, or the leatherman who finds himself distracted by broad shoulders, beards and tight T-shirts?
The older I get, the more I think the answer is simply “yes”.
I’m all of those things.
Perhaps the problem isn’t that these parts of me conflict. Perhaps the problem is that I’ve spent years demanding they justify their existence to one another.
When I started what I’ve jokingly called Operation Restoration, I thought it was mostly about improving my health, losing weight, rebuilding confidence and getting back into the world. Those things still matter, but lately I’m beginning to think there’s something deeper going on.
Maybe this isn’t really about fixing myself.
Maybe it’s also about reclaiming myself.
Not the version other people expected me to be. Not the version shaped by grief, fear, trauma or self-doubt. Just me. The whole, slightly complicated collection of contradictions that has always been there.
The geek. The bear. The survivor. The friend. The man who still misses someone. The man who wants to build a future. The man who is learning that desire, connection and hope aren’t things to be feared.
Perhaps none of those parts needs defending. Perhaps they’re all allowed to exist.
And perhaps that’s how the trial finally ends.
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