Being Different

Walking home from the gym this afternoon in the surprisingly warm Montreal weather (16°C/60°F) I was struck at the number of people adjusting to the temperature change in various ways.  One woman, late fifties, was bundled up in her winter coat and scarf, gloves, hat securely placed on her head, large sunglasses covering her face, revealing only her perfectly red lips.  Crossing the road she was passed by a young kid in his twenties, shorts, loose t-shirt, and flip-flops talking on his cell phone.  Further down the road a man and his wife, dressed for church, he in a chocolate brown suit, she with a cream dress and burgundy shawl, hurried to their car while a man, shirtless, fat, hairy, holding a dog, waved to them from a doorway.  There were sweaters and spandex, tank-tops and cut-offs.  Gloves and scarves, sports bras and sneakers.  Personally, I was walking in a plain t-shirt and jeans, carrying a sweatshirt that I had brought just in case.  One temperature, numerous responses. 

We are such unique creatures, we humans.  It is amazing to me that in a world such as ours – with so many people – we can all be so different.  One size fits all is a convenient way of marketing socks or parachute pants – but it doesn’t seem to apply to human beings.  No matter where I’ve been in the world – a constant theme of humanity is difference.   

Recently I was comparing Myers/Briggs personality types with a friend (okay, maybe more than a friend . . . or someone I wish was more than a friend . . . or someone that is more than a friend but not quite a . . . anyway . . . ) I was relatively surprised to find that we are almost exact opposites (INFP vs. ENTJ).  He’s extroverted, I’m introverted.  He’s a thinker, I’m a feeler.  He’s a judger, I’m a perceiver.  We’re both intuitive but at different degrees.  So, what did this mean?  Did this preclude us from being soul mates?  Were the differences too great to surmount? Perhaps these are just silly letters without meaning?  Does any of this really matter?  Well, I suppose it does because in the long run it means we respond differently to the world.  Our lenses are different.  We are different.  That’s the simple truth. 

There was a time when I would have wished for homogeneity.  I would have loved for everyone to be the same.  That way, I could better predict behavior, I could better understand motivation and it would take some of the surprise and uncertainty out of my life.  Imagine a world where everyone thought the same as me?!? (While slightly terrifying, it was also potentially reassuring.).  I imagined there would be fewer mind games – less time wasted on trying to “figure” someone out – less speculation.  Perhaps THEN I would be able to find a relationship that worked . . . (is that what this is all about?)  Sameness could be the cure for my frequent sense of insecurity and isolation.

But, I suppose, as they say, variety is the spice of life.  When it comes down to it, I wonder whether or not real attraction could exist without an element of difference – without question marks – without the need to check in, to verify, to explore.  Mystery and uncertainty seem to be key ingredients in the glue that connects us together.  If there was not difference, would we need each other?  Would we still be drawn to each other?  Sure, there could still be attraction – but it seems it would resemble narcissistic attraction more than anything else.  It is my belief that to come together, we have to have difference.  While sameness has the potential to unify – difference has the potential to connect.  Two identical puzzle pieces will seldom fit together.

This idea of different worlds coming together was recently illustrated for me in a TED talk and subsequent YouTube video.  (TED=genius)  The talk was by Eric Whitacre, a composer and conductor who through a series of events decided to create a virtual choir on YouTube.  The most recent piece can be found here and features 2052 voices from 58 countries.  When I initially watched the engaging talk and then the latest video I was incredibly moved.  What moved me most was not the potentially cheesy graphics or even the stunning music – but rather the idea that these individuals, each in their own isolated corner of the globe, uploaded a clip singing their part and thus became a piece of a stunning and beautiful whole.  In the talk, Whitacre tells stories of different participants isolated in far regions of the world connecting with a larger community through the project.  A woman whose husband told her she couldn’t sing – submitting her part from the far reaches of the Alaskan wilderness.  A nine-year-old from England.  Sisters on opposite sides of the world, once again able to sing in a choir together.  Along with these were many stories not told, but imagined.  As the stories were told and the songs played, tears filled my eyes (I am an INFP, after all) and something touch me.  Something shifted and I was changed.

In this large, expansive world of ours, I have hope that it is still possible for us, in our uniqueness – in our difference – to come together.  And while our comings together might only be for a brief time, I also believe they change us.  Perhaps our encounters with difference allow us to see our own uniqueness in a new light – and give us a chance to appreciate it.  Yes, sometimes this might cause us to curse our difference, to wish that connection was easier, faster, longer lasting.  Similar thoughts have, on occasion, propelled me to try and find someone just-like-me.  But, ultimately, I think it is clear to see (at least in my case) that just-like-me is in no way what I want.  When I’m honest with myself, when I sit and truly acknowledge my feelings, I realize I want something . . . different.

Running for My Life . . . finally

When I was in Jr. High School, once a month in gym class we were forced to run.  No matter the weather or political climate, rain, snow, sleet or second coming – both sections of the gym class were trotted out to the football field – on special days – for extra humiliation -- the girls and boys gym classes would be joined together.  To make the activity more palatable, they would call it the “Fun Run” because, clearly, calling it fun would make it so.  All sixty of us would be lined up outside and instructed to run as fast as we could.  We were to run around the back field and then onto the public streets, around the large block surrounding the school, finally coming in at the finish line near the gymnasium entrance.  Small children and mothers in the neighborhood would line the streets watching us pass – waving (or in my case, laughing . . . ).  A parade of blue shorts and white t-shirts.  Upon crossing the finish line we would be given our time and told to record it in our permanent gym files – these times were then posted and comparisons were made.  I hated this.  No – hate is not strong enough.  I loathed this exercise.  I was not a runner – I was barely a walker.  It wasn’t that I was overweight, nor did I have asthma or other respiratory illnesses, I just wasn’t someone accustomed to moving my legs at a fast pace.  I was much more of a saunterer than a runner.  After a short distance I would find it hard to breathe, my stomach would migrate to my throat and I would become incredibly light headed.  It was rare that a Fun Run ended without me vomiting or at the very least, dry-heaving. 

Nothing brought out my insecurities more than gym class.  I felt scrawnier than most of the kids, I had absolutely no coordination or stamina – heaven help me in a game of Dodgeball.  There was not a single game at which I had a modicum of skill – unless you counted the game of avoiding eye contact with the coach.  Not to mention the fact that the locker rooms produced daily panic attacks.  So many naked bodies – white towels – showers – boys turning to men . . . pubic hair, the lack of pubic hair.  Jock straps.  For the most part the experience was not consciously sexualized – just terrorized.  I hated the coaches.  I hated their short shorts and their crew-cuts – the bulges and the hairy forearms.  I hated their whistles and their blatant favoritism.  I saw in their glances a clear distain, rejection and disgust at my nancy-boy nature.  As I crawled across the Fun Run finish line, wheezing and coughing up bile, I not only had to cross the line of the gymnasium, but cross it fully loaded with copious amounts of shame.

Needless to say, since that time sports in general and running in particular has not carried the happiest of thoughts for me.  I have never sought out opportunities to run (other than the occasional moment when being chased).  When it came to exercise I would opt for biking, swimming or using the low-stress elliptical machines – if I opted for anything.  A few years ago I discovered Bikram Yoga and decided that I had found my ultimate exercise passion.  I would go religiously four times a week – sweating like never before, fighting my battles within the 105 degree humid cave.  Yoga was much more my style of physical exertion. 

Enter my diagnosis of osteoporosis (a potentially long and tangential story . . . ).  Suddenly my doctors were telling me that I needed to do more weight bearing exercises.  I was informed that yoga, biking, swimming and elliptical machines no longer “counted.”  If I wanted to build my bones and prevent myself from looking like a Japanese grandmother working in the rice paddy before I was 40 years old I needed to change my exercise routine.  The best exercises:  weightlifting and running.

Awesome.

I had no problem with the weightlifting portion – I had lifted weights before and it was a good excuse to start paying more attention to my physique (what gay man doesn’t go through a body image obsession at one point or another?).  But the running – heaven help me.  I started off slowly – jogging until I about passed out at just under a mile.  There was no way this was going to work.  But determined, I plodded onward. 

One day a month and a half ago, a friend of mine challenged me to a fitness competition – we would each set goals for ourselves and at the designated date (February 18th) we would meet together and account for our progress.  In a moment of insanity, I set the goal of running 3 miles on the treadmill without slowing down my pace.  By this time I was running one mile three times a week at a relatively respectable rate – with no puking and very little wheezing.

Well, long story short, yesterday, one week ahead of target, in a glorious moment – with a perfect mixture of positive mood, perfect playlist and sheer determination, I reached my goal.  Three miles in just over 22 minutes.  With endorphins racing through my body, I was the king of the world!  I sent a boastful text to my friend and a proud update on Facebook.  I had conquered. 

My thoughts quickly flew back to that block surrounding CVJH and the many painful attempts I had made to finish what was probably a half-mile with a respectable time.  Somewhere in those long ago years, I gave up.  I told myself I could not – and I made sure that became my truth – and it stayed my truth for 25 years.  Amazing. 

It makes me wonder what other “truths” I have created for myself.  How many I can’t’s could similarly be transformed into I can’s?  A common theme for me is the influence of  mind over body.  And here, it would seem, is further proof – the phenomenon of self-determination – mental blocks becoming physical ones.  How would it be to discover that my limitations are only my limitations because I determine them to be so?  What if I stopped giving them power?  What if I said, “Screw you, internalized coaches, I’m running that fun run?”  What could I do?  What new abilities would I discover?  Who would I be then? 

An exciting and terrifying thought.  

Sunday Sermon

Please pardon the sermon.  I know that it has been a while since I posted and I was hoping for something more entertaining, but today this seems to be what I am sitting with -- lucky you :). 

It feels that in the past few weeks, I have been speaking with people more than usual about unexpected situations – monumental changes – those moments where life sweeps in and presses the reset button.  As a therapist I have become mildly used to this phenomenon – these are the moments that often bring people to see a therapist.  But recently, to me, they seem more meaningful – more important – more . . . profound. 

When I left the church, I initially thought I was giving up on the spiritual and the sacred - concepts having to do with religion seemed toxic to me.  I wanted to keep things grounded, firmly planted in the real.  I did not wish to ascribe spiritual properties or mystical ideas to life’s phenomena.  However, the more I experience life, the more I examine the intricacies and the daily flow, the more I have come to experience the sacred in these profound real moments.  I find that I am deeply moved by the divine in these moments.  Moments where life shifts, alters, transforms.  These are not moments were something merely happens.  These are moments where something changes.   After these moments everything is different. 

I am filled up with several images:

A sister, a wife and a brother-in-law holding the hands of their beloved as his life slips away far too soon.

A new police officer, in the face of imminent danger shooting and killing an assailant.

A girl on the bus searching to find the person calling her name – frantically looking and finally realizing no one is there, it's all in her mind.

A man looking at his wife of seventeen years from across the room and realizing that he no longer loves her and has to leave.

And many more . . .

These are not my experiences, but my privilege has been to serve as a witness, a confessor, a willing recipient.  As I hear these stories and let them sit with me, I too am changed by them.  I find myself reverencing them and honoring them.  They are so much more than the stories – more than the words that contain them.  These moments hold the shifts of entire universes – the currents of vast oceans and the unexpected forks in the road of countless journeys.  More than anything I wish to honor them.  I wish to somehow put them in the appropriate location – the appropriate place to acknowledge their vastness.  I don’t see them as good or bad experiences - they are much bigger than good or bad.  They are the powerful moments without which life would cease to be life. 

So, for this Sunday’s sermon, I choose to acknowledge the sacred moments – both my own and those that I have been blessed to witness.  They are woven deeply into the fabric of who I am.  They give me faith, hope and compassion.  They are a testament to the human spirit.  In all of this, perhaps, I have found my new religion – a new way to worship.  No need for temples or chapels, elaborate rituals or ceremonies.  No books of scripture or levels of priesthood.  Instead, within this faith, we hold sacred these moments.  We cherish their humanness and we stand with each other.  Could there be a more noble pursuit - a more righteous cause?

Love Angel

Through an odd set of circumstances this morning I was reminded of an event that happened almost four years ago.  I haven't yet posted this story on this blog . . . but I figure what the heck, might as well.  Many have already heard this story, as it was a part of my one-man show, Just Another Gay Mormon, but I think ultimately the message is a good reminder.

Love Angel
a very short relationship

After having a glass of wine with a friend, I entered the strangely foggy Chelsea night to find my way to the A train.  Rain was coming down in the classic New York mist making an umbrella pointless.  At the 14th Street station I went underground and after waiting a few moments stepped onto an uptown A train.  As is my usual way, I scoped out the train for any cute boys who might be heading to my neighborhood.  Finding none, I settled myself in.  With my iPod on full blast -- some cheesy Daniel Bedingfield album -- I leaned against the doors.  At 42nd Street I noticed a striking man enter the train -- just over six feet tall, dark hair, worn black leather jacket, black pants, black boots, dark red shirt and a soul patch.  Upon closer -- but subtle -- examination, I also noticed that every other fingernail on his right hand was painted green, or rather, jade.  The essence of "free spirit."  After taking my brief inventory and determining that a) he was much too attractive to bother with me and b) he was ultimately not my type, I turned my attention back to Mr. Bedingfield. 

A few minutes later (I must have had my eyes closed -- taking in the blatant harmonies and the warm glow from the chardonnay) I sensed someone close.  Opening my eyes I saw him directly in front of me saying something inaudible through the Bedingfield wails.  A bit nervous and freaked out, I took my headphones off to hear him ask, "What's your name?" In that brief moment I realized several things:

1. He was much more attractive up close than far away.
2. We were on the longest stretch of the A, about 8 minutes without a stop.
3. The train car was quite full and we had a large audience.
4. He was obviously intoxicated – or under the influence of some substance.

Something inside of me shifted.  I told him my name.  “What’s yours?” I asked.  He responded (of course, for the life of me I can’t remember what it was – I think I lost it in the heartbeats).  He was staring intently into my eyes.  He reached out his hand to shake mine.  I took his hand.  He had a strong grasp and held onto my hand for several seconds until I finally pulled away. 
“You seem nervous,” he said. 
“I’m not usually approached by strangers,” I replied, “Do you do this often?” 
“No, only when I find a very attractive person,” he said, watching me closely. 
Grasping for anything to stay in the moment and not let him get the upper hand I asked the classic NYC question, “Where you from?”
“New Mexico.  You?
“Utah.”
“Ah, Utah.” Slight grin – staring intently at me – amused.
“What do you do?”  I asked.
“Graphic design.  You?” 
“I’m a drama therapist, I work with the homeless.”
“Wow.  That’s amazing.  You win.”
“I win?”
“Yes.  If I brought two men home to my mother and told her one was a prostitute and the other worked with the homeless – you would win.”
“Yes, I suppose I would.” 
At this point he stopped speaking and just stared at me.  The proximity was almost too much to handle and I took a quick glance around the train.

“Why won’t you look at me?” he asked, lightly touching my arm.
“I’m not used to talking to strangers.  I have a hard time with encounter.”
Again he smiled and invited me to look at him. Mustering up courage I manage to gaze into his powerful, deep brown eyes.

“You have the most incredible blue eyes.”
“I . . . um . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“You seem like a poet.”
“You are very seductive.”

We lingered a bit in the gaze.  I kept drawing myself back into the moment – attempting to hold on – fully aware of the absurdity of it all, but titillated at the same time.  After a lifetime or two he leaned in as if to give me a kiss – I turned my head slightly, not so much denying his kiss as playing hard to get.  But instead of kissing he whispered into my ear, “I’m afraid this is going to be a very short relationship for the two of us.”  Suddenly I realized we were coming close to 125th Street and he must be getting off.  I smiled at him – and strangely I noticed that my eyes were welling up with tears.  He grinned, put his hand on my shoulder and looked deep into my soul, “You will know plenty of love in your life,” he prophesied.  With that, the train pulled into the station.  He took one last look at me, patted me softly on the cheek and left the train.  I watched him as he walked along the platform and went up the stairs, never turning back.   As the car doors closed I glanced around, checking to see if anyone else witnessed my moment – and it seemed, surprisingly, that on that crowded car I was actually alone.  I put the headphones back in my ears and started the Bedingfield song over.  Holding back the tears, I smiled at the distant wall and reminisced about my very short relationship with the beautiful, intoxicated prophet with jade fingernails and deep brown eyes.

Things That Matter

The recent publicity around LGBT bullying and suicides has caused me to reflect on my own history.  I don’t often think about my dark days as a gay youth.  Unlike the recent stories in the media, I did not experience much bullying.  Occasionally someone would make a veiled comment about me being in drama -- sometimes I would be asked if I made out with the other guys in the shows or if I had a boyfriend.  But, to my recollection, I was never called the “f” word or gay – the teasing was a bit more subtle.  It would have been much different had I been out.  In my story, I suppose I was my own worst bully.  I didn’t really need an external force telling me I was bad and worthless, I did a very good job of berating myself.  Sure, those inner impulses had to come from somewhere, but I think it was more a broad cultural/religious influence than a specific individual one. 

No matter the situation, the fact that an LGBT youth is four times more likely to commit suicide than other youth is a sobering statistic.  Like many, I had my own flirtation with the idea of suicide.  In high school it was usually just an abstract feeling of wanting to drive my car into walls or off cliffs.  I would pour my soul into dark poetry.  As I was thinking this weekend, I uncovered two very short poems that I wrote around that period of time.  I had not re-read them in a while.  In looking at them now, I am a bit surprised at how ultimately revealing they are.  Each one, a cry for help, I suppose.  Here they are, from the perspective of a young, gay, confused, closeted, Mormon boy:

77

Loneliness grabs with
Urchin arms,
Lunging after love,
Lingering after loss,
Leaving after life.

The Ladder

In the hollow of a lifetime
A soloist raises its voice
Bellowing out the song of sorrow-
The ballad of beauty,
Wells of learning
Sandwiched between the solemn dreams of a fighter.
The wall is high, but the ladder higher
“Fight for Truth!” is the wail of the crowd.
“Fight for Soul!” cries the aching heart . . .
As a tear sears white lines down
The cheek of time,
Another rung is overcome.

A bit tragic and relatively depressing knowing the context, eh?

Along with the rest of the world, as I ponder and think about what can be done to help kids like me, the answer is not unlike the answers of many:  Gay men and women in our society need to live out and proud.  We need to let these kids know that there are options, that gay people are not just the caricatures that they see in movies, TV, etc.  But rather, their next door neighbors.  Our society is definitely making a move in the right direction, but we can and must be better.  (See amazing initiatives such as  The Trevor Project , It Gets Better, and my friend Don’s project, MorMenLikeMe, where you might find my gay Mormon story . . . )

The unique predicament of a gay youth is that they grow up in a vacuum – disconnected from others like themselves.  Unlike most other minorities, a gay kid is usually raised in a home of difference, where they are the outsider.  Traditionally, black children are born to black families, Jewish children are born to Jewish families, Asian children are born to Asian families, so while they may be a minority - different, “other” - they grow up within that otherness, with parents and role models ahead of them in the same boat.  A black child does not have to discover his blackness – a Jewish child does not have to discover his Jewishness – granted, there are exceptions, but usually, this is the case.  A gay child however, has to grow up in the lonely position of discovering and claiming his difference.  Eventually he/she has to come to the realization that “I am not like the rest of you.”  And when these kids are born to families that hold conservative beliefs, beliefs that paint homosexuality as bad, evil, corrupt and perverse, it is even more complicated.  In fact, it’s a wonder any of us survive.  I often think how my life would have been different had I gay role models or people close to me who were out and proud. 

Yes, things have changed; the world is a much different place than it was 20 years ago when I was in the throes of depression.  There is a much greater sense of acceptance in society – but we must not rest.  There are forces that are pushing hard, forces that fuel the bullying and discrimination, forces that give words to the speakers of hate and intolerance.  There are groups striving to “protect traditional marriage” who are instead, sowing more seeds of hate and intolerance.  We can’t allow ourselves to sit idly by and watch.  And as a gay community, in particular, it is our duty to pave the way, to model and to share our stories.  As these recent tragedies have reminded us – it’s a matter of life and death. 

When I think of these kids, I think of their last lonely, desperate moments and it breaks my heart.  If only they knew.  If only they had a concept of the bigger world outside of their limited and tortured experience.  I picture their last moments, as the walls fell in until they couldn’t find room to breathe and the only way out was to pull the escape hatch.  How I wish I could hold them, cry with them, wipe their tears and show them the beautiful reality that was hidden from them.  None of us are blameless, many contribute to the environment of hate that breeds the bullies and self-loathing, others sit idly by, watching the painful drama unfold and others of us have forgotten our struggles, have failed to reach out and light the way for those behind us.

These kids cannot have died in vain.  Please join me.  You can start by educating yourself here . 

Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.

  Martin Luther King, Jr.

Autumn

The past few weeks here in Montreal there has been a noticeable shift in the weather with the ripples of distant hurricanes, the change of leaves and the sun’s slow slide southward, Autumn has firmly stepped its foot in the door.  As I watch the changes, I find myself having brief moments of panic at the exit of summer –and brief moments of delight at the prospects of fall.  Sadly, I realize that my summer of academic laziness has passed and the shifting winds and colored leaves herald a new era.  Change.

Personally, like most, I’m no stranger to change.  I find myself begging for it most of the time, and yet, resisting it full-force when it actually shows up.  Unlike the change of seasons – which comes whether we want it to or not – life changes often require more effort.  In the world, fall will always follow summer and winter will always follow fall.  But in our lives, we can prevent the leaves from changing for years in the autumn of our indecision – forcing them to hang onto the limbs of trees, ripe with the desire and potential of change but left in stasis; we will them to stay on those branches, no matter the cost. 

As a therapist and educator, I find that I am in the business of change – or at least the business of proposing change.  Guiding clients toward new perspectives – leading students toward new ways of viewing the world and those they encounter.  I observe its many faces.  I see the mythical allure of change as well as its harsh reality.  I witness the loss and mourning that comes in its wake – and the excitement and revelry that can also be its fruit.

There is a familiar point in therapy with a client where after weeks of complaining about a life situation – after months of painting the bleak and overwhelming picture of their life struggle – a solution presents itself, revealed through the therapeutic process.  A magical, blessed moment, one would think.  And yet, more times than not, that moment is met not with joy, relief and excitement, but rather a barrage of reasons why that solution couldn’t possibly work – why now is not the time – why we should keep searching for something else, another answer to the problem.  And so the leaves stay on the trees, full of potential energy – but trapped in the status quo.  It is our nature to resist and resist and resist.  Even if that change could bring us an unfathomable amount of joy and happiness, we fight it with the determination of Jacob wrestling his angel. . . Or maybe that’s just me. 

I recently went to a high-priced psychic (don’t judge me . . . perhaps I’ll post more about that experience later).  One thing she said to me, after extolling my potential, was, “My one doubt is whether or not this man is really interested in becoming who he is.”  It came as a shot to the gut.  In the moment I was a bit incredulous – OF COURSE I’m ready, of course I’m interested.  But, as I’ve thought about it, I realize I’m not so sure.  Perhaps I like my leaves hanging on the branches, just the way they are . . .

But, as the seasons once again change, as I watch the leaves outside my window blaze in their orange, yellow and red – daring for a short period of time to be free and let their authentic colors show before swan diving to earth -- I commit to leaving my door open a crack.  Surely there are ways to allow change in – ways to allow my own authentic colors to burn more brightly.  I suppose it just takes some courage.

And there we are . . . or rather, there I am.

Too cheesy? (asks the lactard)  Perhaps.

In any case, here’s to walking through crunching piles of leaves, to occasionally stooping to pick up a perfect specimen, and to that beautiful, terrifying, liminal space between summer and winter. 

Broken Hearted

This post is being composed while sitting in the park with the intent to process my brand new broken heart.  In a rush of emotions – the cycling wheel of loss – trying to find a way to capture and control the uncontrollable.  I make no guarantees about its coherence. 

What is it about heartbreak?  That pit – that heavy weight in the chest – the labored breathing – the brink of tears.  On the verge of losing it – of saying, "fuck the world" – "fuck sanity."  A wound from the unrelenting double-edged sword of risk – commitment – love.  This time I am finding it interesting to experience it on a smaller scale – still painful but perhaps more manageable.  We had only been dating for a little over a month.  A blink.  No time at all, really – unless, of course, one were to place it in the context of my life.  He was only my second longer-than-one-date relationship.  We hadn't labeled it, we hadn't said any of the big scary words like "boyfriend" or "I love you" – we had played it safe.  In all honesty we were in ambiguous territory.  In fact, I always felt that I would be the one calling it off – I wasn't sure about him or my feelings for him.  But then, a line was crossed.  Friday night he meets my friends for the first time – he charms them – he charms me.  They adore him – he seems to adore me.  I see him in a new light and I fall a little bit deeper. 

And then – with her characteristic indifferent bluntness – Life takes it from me. 

"I can't see myself falling in love with you." 

Said into the darkness as he lies beside me.  Clouds of confusion, dread and inevitability descend.  A vision flashes.  I see where this is going.  But how did it get here?  Just moments ago I was kissing him – minutes ago we were sitting on the couch, cuddling, watching a bad movie.  And now – here we are.

What did he say?

Funny how with my very limited experience, this place feels so familiar.  The ground giving way – the free fall – or rather, the sense of being shoved further and further down – a strong hand on my chest, pushing me deeper and deeper into the murky, black, suffocating waters.  I struggle for something to say, but my mind is too caught up in the descent.  The confusion.  The panic.  The only phrase that comes to mind, "Don't leave me!!" seems almost comical and hardly appropriate.

Big pauses – vapid attempts at communication – mostly landing flaccid on the side of the bed.  What is happening?  How . . . ?

Finally he rips off the band aid.  Speaks the words – . . . and it's over.  His choice is made and the choice is Not Me.  Stunned.  Blur.  Fumbling in the increasing haze I walk him to the door.  How did we get here?  The final moments.  The panic rises – I'm going to vomit – I want to vomit.  Such an onslaught of impulses.  Grab.  Hit.  Kiss.  Pin.  Fight.  Fuck.  Melt.  I manage to squeeze out, "Thanks for your honesty."  The tears come.  We hug.  I sob.  I tell him that I think he's a good man and I am sad to see him go.  The truth – but perhaps mingled with the desire to woo him back.  He asks if that's a sarcastic display of my passive aggression – I assure him it is not.  We hug.  He offers to stay a while longer -- asking me what I want – what I need.  I tell him I want to hold him for a very long time, but realize my intention would be to never let go.  He understands and after a few more moments makes his way out the door.  One last touch of his arm.  One last look in his eyes.  I watch as he descends the stairs – a familiar sight – for the last time. 

Once he's out of site, trying to hold it together, feeling the pending explosion could be earth-shattering,  I hold the walls – propping myself up – Samson without his hair making one last heroic gesture before the world crumbles.  I look for an action, a ritual, something I can do to mark the moment and bind my building anxiety.  Nothing comes to mind.  I look around the room and see him everywhere.  Smell him everywhere.  Feel him everywhere. 

How is it possible that such a short partnership could have sprouted such deep roots?  How did I allow this to happen?  I feel the fool – the broken fool. 

I attempt to contact friends, but it is midnight – no one is available.  Finally I get in touch with my brother who beautifully manages to strike the right balance between empathy, rage and practicality.  He gently talks me down.  Lifts me up.  Brings perspective.  While talking to him I take three Benadryl and Nyquil for good measure – hoping to assist myself in sleeping, knowing it won't be easy. 

Worn out, I thank my brother and tell him that I love him.  I hang up, brush the taste of him out of my mouth and get into bed – the still-fresh scene of the crime.  Trying to get comfortable I roll over onto Loneliness, ram my knee into Despair's back, accidently run my hands down the side of Panic.  To fall asleep, I mentally surround myself with cotton balls.  If I start thinking of him, I fill a large box with cotton balls and push them down, packing them in.  Soft, calm, benign cotton balls.  If I smell him on the pillow I fill a kiddie pool with cotton balls, walking on them, barefoot – crushing them like grapes.  And If I feel him – the phantom hand on my chest or leg, his breath on my neck – I fill an entire room with cotton balls and I walk into it – force myself into it – slamming the door behind me.  Surrounded.  Eventually I sleep, standing in a roomful of cotton balls. 

More tears come with the sunrise.  The anger will follow soon after and eventually – hopefully before too long – I will find my heart ready to let someone – a new someone – in.  My fear is that it won't heal, but my mind knows better.

Years ago – in another lifetime, another place of darkness – I was visited by a Love Angel on the NYC subway who prophesied, "You will know a lot of love in your life."  I was skeptical at the time, but I had become a believer.  Of course, at this point I would be more than willing to settle for "a lot of love" from and for one consistent person.  But perhaps for now I will take what I can get.

Meh. 

Enough of this wallowing.  I’m too old for this shit.  My heart will heal, my defenses will learn new tricks – my brokenness will remain – and Life will go on.  For ultimately, what would Life be without our doses of pain?  Without our moments of risk and vulnerability, without the actual events of living?