Atlanta, a city I once called home. Why I have been reluctant until now, to return.

It was the early 1990s, and Atlanta was the city where I found myself.  It was a place where I could get very comfortable with who I was as a gay black man, empowered by my sexuality and not shy about enjoying it. It was my coming-of-age party. But I had not yet learned the value of balance. Prior to moving to this dynamic city, I  had lived in Austin, TX.  Diversity is not one of Austin's strong points, yet it is my home town, my birthplace. It is the only city in Texas I would ever want to live. Atlanta has, by far, a larger population, and it offers one of the largest percentages of African Americans--what are we calling ourselves these days?--around 50%  when I was living there. Austin, in sharp contrast, may support 12% on a good year.  In the immortal words of Jessie Jackson, "I believe in the Rainbow Coalition." In short, race is not a factor in who I chose to fuck or date. This made Atlanta so appealing to me--there were plenty of shades of the rainbow there. For over 8 years I enjoyed all the colors and flavors Atlanta had to offer--until the night I met a man who decided we  were "destined to be together" if only I would "give him a chance to prove it." But even back then, decades ago, before I even considered seeing therapist, I still did not believe in "destiny" or fate. I knew then as I know now: I create the reality that I live in. If there is something that I do not like about my world I live in, I have to power to change it. To believe otherwise is to set myself up as a victim. There are reasons so many people chose to become a victim or to remain one. At first glance, it is because that is the path of least resistance. There is a bit of freedom in being a victim. These people never have to take ownership of any action--in their mind, the fault is never theirs. Follow this type of behavior and we see the trap that it is, one of their own design. If they are never at fault then there are no situations where they ever admit to the part they played. By default, then, they feel, if not perfect, then at least blameless. This inability to see any fault in their own action leads to a limited view of the world they live in, unable or unwilling to see the value in what anyone else has to share. This leaves little incentive to mature spiritually in this journey called life. When I hear someone say "God will provide" or "I am waiting for the miracle to happen," I am quick to remember, "God helps those who helps themselves". Much harm can be caused by those with a victim mentality. They can justify any action by blaming other people, places, things. A clue is when I hear, "Yes, but..." from their lips (or fingertips via text) far too many times. They are untrainable and unteachable. This lesson I learned in a most unpleasant way. It haunts me still. How did I come to such a harsh conclusion? I will share a part of my life that I speak and think of only in a superficial way. To delve deeper as I am doing now opens the door to much sorrow, so I will share without going into great detail. There is no reason to subject others to the discomfort that was caused to me by another--except as a teaching tool. The person I mentioned earlier, who told me Destiny had brought us together, was someone I had met in a bar. He was from "old money"--and made sure that I was aware of it. That was his first mistake. I care not for the trinkets dangled before me. All that glitters is not gold. He would have been better off telling me how great a cook he was. Since I often don't hide my emotions, it was clear I was not impressed. His reaction? Unaccustomed to rejection is an understatement. Yet, he remained determined to show me the errors of my perception--and an error of perception was exactly what happened: I didn't notice at first I was being followed home. This man stalked me for over three months; I was a hostage in my own home--and then twice this man broke into that home. The second time, I found him sitting on my couch, drinking a beer that he had taken from my refrigerator, remote control in the other hand, watching TV, waiting for me to return. I was beside myself with rage. Yet--I was held back by the words coming out of his mouth. "You made me do this, Sylvester. You forced me to break into your place when you refused to accept my calls or gifts. I had no choice but to break in just so we can talk." A chill like one that I have never had (and pray never to have again) ran down my spine. This irrational thing before me, I realized, was capable of great harm, even killing another. He felt he could justify any of his actions by not taking ownership of the part he played. I "was the reason" he was "forced to" break into my home. There is nothing I could say that would make him see the world any differently. To do so would mean the end of his delusional reality he had created for himself. And that's a dangerous reality. A few weeks passed, but the calls continued, the visits persisted. His mother even called me, asking why could I not be friends with her son?  I thought to myself, "the rotten apple does not fall far from the tree."  Shortly thereafter, I returned home to find my door half open. Inside, my dogs were silent, not greeting me at the door as they always would to welcome me home. At first I figured they were outside, that my tormentor had let them out. Oh, how I wished that were true. Inside, I found my dogs, each in a pool of its own blood, poisoned. A note was placed next to their bodies, signed "I want you to feel the same pain you caused me." The rage that burned through me I can hardly put into words. I became the stalker then, borrowing a friend's gun and going from club to club with the intent to kill this man. I had no intention of leaving him alive if I caught up with him. I wanted to see the life flow out of his body as he surely watched it disappear from my dogs. But looking back now I am grateful the cops found him before I did. He was not worth the continued suffering and severe complications I would have had to endure even after his death at my hands, once my burning rage was extinguished by his blood. In less than a months time, I left Atlanta. When asked why I have not visited Atlanta for so long, I realize I must first figure out how I can forgive the man who caused me such pain, who violated my safety. A home should be one's sanctuary. When that sense of safety is stolen, that place becomes a prison, and merely surviving is the best one can look forward to. But that is no way to live. I have not revisited this trauma in over twenty years. When I've tried, I could clearly see how much power I continued to give to this man by not forgiving myself as well. I should have taken better care of my dogs. But short of killing him, there was nothing I could do but hope he would tire of me and find another object of obsession. So here is the lesson for me today--I am reminded of the words spoken by someone who suffered greatly: "Forgiveness is not for the person who caused you harm. It is for yourself. Without it you can never fully recover. Most importantly is the forgiveness you afford to yourself."  Let go and let God. Happy Thanksgiving  Buster Sly