The Pain of Moral Resurrection

by Reg Doty

I liked myself until I didn’t anymore. In its way that would be the opposite of me not liking myself ’till I did; in either case I’ve ridden that bucking bronco far too long. But given the extent of my experiences, when I examine possible etiological roots concerning the underlying circumstances, and the possibility of finding some meaning, I could only conclude that at the end of the day I’m still having to confront the whole daunting nature of human existence.

Things began to click by the time I entered high school, except that having passed my peers intellectually I was also naïve socially. I hadn’t acquired the skill for small talk, or the rampant patter of bull-shitting and guffawing that exemplified “one of the gang” comradery.

I misunderstood that men and woman were far more alike in their primal natures, especially regarding sexuality, than the obvious physical differences. I never had a girlfriend, believing girls were different and superior, and according to pop granted a special kind of privileged dispensation from their anthropoidal male counterparts because of motherhood.

I believed that listening with an open mind was a mark of character, civility, and