June Seventeenth: Echoes

I believe this moment is perfect.

And I crawl inside myself into that little cocoon buried deep within. Where I can hibernate in the warmth of my own introspection and solitude.

But the realization that as I type these words, Chris shifts his position. The song changes to Dashboard Confessional’s “Screaming Infidelities”, and the wind calms outside. The moment has passed.

Now Elton John’s “Rocket Man”.

And I suddenly feel like I am removed from my body, watching a film about a boy growing up to become a man. No words, no drawn out plot. Just segments of time that flash in my mind. He’s on a plane now, leaving what he knows to begin a new chapter. He stares out the window as the clouds part for the sun. Fast forward to him and his wife, in a home that is warm and brightly lit. White linen curtains blow gently from the outside breeze as their children play in the yard. Chapter by chapter, his story unfolds. Unbeknownst to him, it has already been written and lost somewhere in the depths of his subconscious. Somewhere. Soft and pale, a distant haze of familiarity.

Although it means nothing to me now, it makes me feel as though I know what I want. To be a father. To grow old with Chris. To live in the light. Surrounded by love, by a serenity that comes from acceptance. From an honest and unconditional embrace with life.

A moment can never be captured. It is a living, breathing force that evolves with us. The mind photographs the moment and we have an imprint. A memory. But the camera is always different. Our lens changes. And with that, the photograph begins to fade the second it is developed.

The XX play “Do You Mind?”. The beats hit me in my chest as I lay on the floor with the iPod player next to me. Vibrations that massage my core. Now “Half Light 1” by Arcade Fire filters in and my head drifts again. The music takes me somewhere hopeful, somewhere that tells me everything is exactly as it should be.

I close my eyes and type.
Take a deep breath.
“They are only echoes…”
And those lyrics resonate.

Because the photographs, the memories – they are only echoes of a voice that spoke once before and fade with each repetition. Softer, lighter, into oblivion.

The music picks up and they chant the next verse. Drum beat. Instrumental. Like a purple and blue smoke that wraps my body. “They are only echoes.”

It’s not about what was said, but how it lives on. Who hears it and what they do. It’s not about the words I write, it’s about who reads them and how they affect another. It’s not about the life I live, it’s about the connections I make. The echoes I leave behind. The seeds that are planted. The children I mold.

I want to be a father.

I listened to someone speak recently about their own story. Their influences and inspirations. I held on to every word but couldn’t shake a nervous energy that was building inside me. It was a familiar anxiety that was not out of the ordinary. I knew these feelings were stemming from the anticipation that this speaker was going to mention me at any moment now. That they were going to cite Ryan Heller as an inspiration, or at the very least, someone worth acknowledging for my writing. But the excitement shrank to the size of a bullet that quickly pierced my gut as the presentation ended without the mention of my name.

I was no longer the center of the universe.
Just like that.

And it’s a silly realization that probably seems juvenile and immature. But the echo went on for days. The feeling was one that had plagued me before. A recipe consisting of two parts rejection, one part anger and a dash of inferiority. A delicious shame casserole with a side of ego deflation.

I grew up knowing that I was different. That I was a special boy meant for greatness beyond my wildest imagination. And my imagination was pretty wild. Whatever happened over the years, that feeling never left. It rented space somewhere in my little head, cuddling up with addictive tendencies and an early-developed sense of entitlement. I was going to change the world, take on Hollywood by storm, win three Academy Awards, write twenty-one best-selling novels, fall into telepathic abilities by birthright at eighteen, and have the financial security to accommodate a grandiose lifestyle. I had the past life of an Egyptian Pharaoh, the insight of an ancient shaman. Talent and wisdom that comes from many lifetimes.

A kid with big dreams and so much fear.

It was then I knew I was still that kid, with the sting of rejection fresh on my face. A grandiose sense of self, needing to feel special. To be admired. Accepted.

Thirty years old and still looking for acceptance.

I guess the difference is that I like myself today. And I can catch the crazy in my head before it goes viral. Before I break. Before I’m lost in a bottle of something to make it feel OK. Because I’m happy. Because I’m still special in my own right.

But just maybe not that unique.

They were only echoes.

May Twenty Ninth: 1997, Middle School Fragments and Other Natural Disasters

I parked in the cul-de-sac lot in front of the school, walking anxiously through the front gate. A seed of nervous energy planted itself firmly in my belly, quickly spreading its branches through my veins and into my bloodstream.

Immediately I became that kid, walking the halls with a tension and vulnerability that was almost debilitating. Past the cafeteria where kids threw things at me as I sat on the bleachers alone. Past the common area where I would watch the goth kids draped in black and eyeliner, so curiously wanting to fit in. I could still see the flannel shirts, Smashing Pumpkins concert T’s, graffiti marked Jansport backpacks, boys with long hair parted down the middle.

And me.

An eleven year old kid. Scared. Insecure. Wanting to be cool but not knowing exactly how to make that happen. By that point I had been in several theatre productions, so I knew how to act. I could be anybody. Mimic the goth kids, dress like the grunge kids, talk like the ones who listened to rap and had a free pass to popularity. Back then you were defined by the kind of music you listened to. Goth was Marilyn Manson, Alternative was Nirvana, the Bassers listened to Biggie and Tupac.

And me.

I didn’t really fit into anything, although I certainly tried. I never had that innate sense of cool or developed the social skills that could carry me through cliques. I got nervous before speaking, was generally at a loss for words, and had really no friends to latch onto. I mainly communicated with adults or, if applicable, their children. But even when I was with their kids, I tried bringing them into my world. Detached and lost in fantasy.

I made my awkward attempts. I would occasionally wear all black to gain attention from the goth kids, but it was usually a black pocket tee from the Gap and some fairly lame black jeans from Old Navy. Dry and parted brown hair. No metal chains or eyeliner to speak of. Most likely a pair of sneakers to really amp up the epic fail.

Then I would try following suit behind the grunge kids. I’d listen to one Nirvana song. Wear my father’s hand-me-down flannel, oddly paired with a University of Miami shirt and faded Gap jeans. I believe my only pair of Airwalks began to make an appearance around that time. A total mismatch of style, which only aided in isolating me that much more.

I watched the other kids, tried to be exactly like them. Listen to the same music, but I didn’t really like it then. I preferred my dad’s Motown or classic rock. I liked musicals, Barbara Streisand and Bette Midler. I didn’t care about music or artists. I wanted to read, to write, watch movies and be in plays. I liked hanging out with my mom, who was by far the coolest person I knew. My best friend.

By sixth grade I was writing poetry about my feelings and short stories about murder. I was obsessed with horror movies, although I was terrified to be alone afterward. Bram Stroker’s Dracula and The Shining were top of my list early on. I was reading R.L. Stine, Stephen King, Dean Koontz and James Patterson. The Beatles, Bette Midler, Annie Lennox, Green Day and Nirvana streamed through my bedroom. Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Charmed and Dawson’s Creek were my shows. The gay was just itching to surface. But I was petrified of it. Didn’t know what was making me feel so out of place, so different and alone.

In my mind, I was a living, breathing Quasimodo.

So here I am again. Walking the halls of Walter C. Young Middle School at 7:04pm. Thirty years old, two and a half years sober. Happy. An amazing partner, an art director for a creative studio. I just got back from a mission trip in Guatemala. Chris and I are looking to start a family of our own. My parents are awesome. So why the hell was I anxiously walking through this school?

I held onto memories from Walter C. Young like it was a sack of blow I wasn’t ready to part with. Painful and destructive, but had that ability to make me feel alive. Because I’ve always found comfort in the chaos. And middle school was just that. A confusing, emotional, frightening experience where I was beginning to grow up for the first time.

It was a part of me that still hurt so good.

There are a few middle school moments that have stuck in my brain, rooted in adolescent angst. Fragments from the same period of time that bunched together as one memory. Accessing them is like searching for a movie on OnDemand. I type in the actors name and a list appears of all movies currently available starring that person.

I was in seventh grade when Chris Ballinger entered my sphere.

Seventh grade was by far the most uncomfortable of the middle school years. I was reading books on witchcraft, the internet had just begun to really surface so I was connecting to sites about casting spells and magic. My writing got darker, generally revolving around revenge, the supernatural and murder. I became mildly obsessed with the movie The Craft, namely the character of Nancy who I swore was my inner self. Or at least I was determined for that to be my truth. I couldn’t count how many times I called out to the four corners in an attempt to be filled by a great power. I was going to move things with my mind. Make all those assholes in school suffer their darkest nightmares. Or at least break a few bones. I wasn’t too picky.

I had been made fun of relentlessly for months. Names like Faggot were often thrown in my direction. Questions like, “Do you like to suck dick?” also made their rounds. The originality left little to be desired, but the relentlessness of my peers was admirable.

Ballinger was in a few of my classes. A technology course with Mr. Tunon – who was coined Mr. NoNut, courtesy of the backward spelling of his name. And an English class with Mr. Bevis, also known as Mr. Butthead. Ballinger was one of those popular kids that just seemed to get it. Whatever it was, he just innately possessed it. A birthright that entitled him to be cute, popular and magnetic to teachers and students alike. This birthright also enabled him to be a complete dick. But I’m not bitter. The awkward preteen struggle to fit in did not apply to Ballinger because he set the standard. And he knew it. And his smile was hot. So was his hair. Asshole.

Mr. Butthead broke the class into groups of three and assigned us to write a two page story. The topic was open-ended, but all my stories seemed to have a similar theme. The task of writing two pages was met with groans by my peers, but I reinterpreted this assignment to mean: write the most amazing, epic story that your little twelve year old brain can imagine. Knowing my group mates would only stand in the way, I offered to write the entire thing myself. They were more than happy to oblige.

In a matter of a day, I completed a twelve page story titled, “An’ It Harm None, Do As Thou Wilt”. It was a saying found in a Wiccan book that I had read. Taking this project very seriously, I then designed a cover using a gothic-style font and Microsoft Word clipart to foreshadow the content. A little designer in the making.

The story was about a girl who moves to a new town. In her room she discovers a floorboard that does not match the others. She pries out the wooden board to discover a Book of Shadows wrapped in a velour fabric pouch, along with candles and some other occult paraphernalia. My protagonist recites a spell from the book and is given powers that eventually begin to raise hell. Bodies start dropping, blood sheds. Shit gets real. The usual.

I imagined the reaction I would receive when presenting my story. A standing ovation is to be expected, but the awe and admiration from my peers was the sweet spot. I could see them hanging onto every line, every word with a deep appreciation for my talent. Wanting to know what would happen next, how this kid they made fun of was capable of writing such a gruesomely exciting literary triumph. They would realize then how special I was. That I’m a value and someone to be followed. It was on.

Days had passed before Butthead called on me to read my story in front of the class. Suddenly my heart was pounding in my throat. I broke out in a cold sweat and remained momentarily paralyzed. Eyes turned toward me as I gathered the pages and walked up to the podium in front of the class. I looked up, hands trembling. I saw some kids laughing to each other, their eyes looking at me then back at one another. I knew they were talking about me. The gay kid standing awkwardly in front of the firing squad. An open target.

I began to read aloud.

Twelve pages seems to go on for a really long time when you’re reading in front of a room full of middle school kids who would rather be doing anything else. The words flowed on autopilot while my head quickly polluted with internal dialogue. Were they listening? I’m a loser. I’m so embarrassed. Why did I do twelve pages? A grain of hope held onto the idea that they would knight me as popular after hearing my story, but the rest of me sank further into a shamed oblivion with the turn of each page. After page. After page.

Right about the time I began reading the Wiccan chant I researched, I looked at my audience. I saw Ballinger staring back at me, a smirk stretched across his pale, perfect skin. His green eyes revealed something other than the admiration I hoped for. But at twelve years old with rainbow stars in my eyes, that piercing gaze showed me nothing but acceptance and respect. Of appreciation. He saw me. He saw inside me.

After the characters had died and I read the final words of my blood laced ending, I waited for a deserved applause. Despite my overwhelming embarrassment and shame, I still expected greatness.

Silence.
A giggle.
Silence.

I shifted my stance, looked down at the podium and gathered my horrific masterpiece. They clearly just didn’t understand. I knew then it was above them all.

Ballinger looked at me and gave one of those half smiles that split the lower portion of his face into a crescent moon. Did he like it? He didn’t want to be the only one clapping. It was more of a silent appreciation. Something deeper than a clap. Or so I told myself.

But nobody said anything. Their stares said enough. I put my hoodie over my head and sat back down, wishing I could fade away into nothingness.

I beat myself up hard that night.

 

*****

 

I came back to school that morning wearing a black, long sleeved shirt underneath a large Kurt Cobain t-shirt. It donned a portrait of the musician with his birth and death date below. I felt good in this outfit. I knew it gave me an identity. Showed who I wanted to be and where I belonged.

The long sleeves covered up faint red lines that scored my wrist. A weak attempt to end my life after a night of self-hatred, crying and fear. I didn’t want to face the army of kids at school, loaded with their words, their insults, their judgments. I didn’t want to pretend. I didn’t want to have the tension of gay lingering around me like a dark cloud.

Mr. NoNut’s class was always a joke. A pudgy man with oily, tan skin and long gray with no identifiable skill to teach. His class never had any focus or structure, so it was a hang out session with random assignments. Our drafting tables sat in front of his overly elaborate wooden desk which was perched on a raised platform above the peons.

It was one of those free-for-all days. I was sitting next to a girl, having some semblance of a conversation, when Ballinger came over to me.

“What’s your name again?”

“Ryan,” I muttered, looking down at my desk. Eye contact was not usually an option. I couldn’t believe he was talking to me. The most popular guy in seventh grade, a guy who I may have had the makings of a crush on, a guy who’s green eyes made me feel funny inside, who had a magnetism that seemed to attract anyone in a room. Almost immediately a few other kids began to gather around my desk.

I got nervous. I didn’t know how to handle multiple kids my own age.

“You like Nirvana?” He kept looking straight at me, which made my eyes lock with his. I looked down, then back at him, then back down.

“Yeah. They’re cool. I like Kurt Cobain.” I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. But I knew I needed to like him.

“Why are you wearing a dead guy on your shirt? That’s weird.” Some kids laughed. But he was serious. Becoming almost menacing now.

“I dunno.”

“He killed himself. You know that? Shot himself in the head.” I had no idea. But I was morbidly fascinated by this statement and suddenly liked Kurt Cobain that much more.

“Yeah,” I lied.

“What, you’re into that? That shit is fucked up.”

I wanted him to like me and knew this was my chance. But I was uncomfortable. And when I get cornered, when fear sets in and nerves take over, my mouth opens and words just come out. And you can generally bet that a train wreck will shortly ensue.

And it did.

“I tried to kill myself.” There it was. The beginning of a tornado. I wanted his sympathy, I wanted his care, his attention. I wanted him to think I was cool. Like I was this dark, tortured artist with a closet of mystery that he had to open.

“Are you fucking kidding me? How?”

“I cut my wrists. I still have scars.” I exaggerated this statement in an attempt to create a dramatic moment that would lead to a deep connection between myself and Ballinger. A friendship that would bud from pain and a mutual intrigue in one another. I partially rolled up the black sleeve, revealing my left wrist. The faint red scratches looked pathetic. Truthfully, I didn’t like hurting myself. I certainly didn’t like the idea of cutting open veins. I was not a great candidate for slicing open arteries and bleeding to death. But it was a tangible mark that called forth the attention I craved.

“What the fuck?” Ballinger said with disgust. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

I felt my face getting hot. I knew I was turning red.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Fucking faggot.” Like a dagger to my chest. He then turned to his friend. “Dude, he fucking tried to kill himself.” They both laughed, along with some other kids.

I was mortified.

I stared at the floor, my body beginning to shut down inside. I didn’t want to feel. It’s like a callous interior that grows from emotional scars over time. Mine grew stronger during those middle school years.

Then suddenly I felt something I had never experienced. A hard sting on my face, followed by a loud smack that seemed to silence the room. Ballinger slapped me across the face and said, “Why are you trying to kill yourself?”

I had never been hit before. Never been in a fight. I didn’t know what to do. I froze. I was humiliated. Other kids watched as I stood there and Ballinger slapped me again. “Why the fuck did you try to kill yourself?”

Ignore it, I thought. Ignore it. It will stop.

But it didn’t stop. And by that time my face throbbed. I could feel my cheeks pulsing, my entire body burning from humiliation, rage, hatred, shame.

He smacked me again and repeated the same question. I felt a tear swelling in my eye, but held it back.

“I don’t know why,” I stammered, my words barely audible. I had trouble even forming those four together in a sentence.

“What?” Another smack in the face.

Laughter from the other kids around me may as well have been additional hits to my gut. I looked over at NoNut for help. For an authority figure to step in and stop him. But NoNut did nothing. He sat at his elevated desk like a fat, ignorant turd. His eyes met mine and I silently pleaded with him to intervene. To save me. But he did no such thing. He looked back down at his paperwork and chose to ignore what was happening.

“You’re fucking gay. Fucking faggot. Go kill yourself.”

He gave me one final slap in the face. The last nail in the coffin. Then he and his friends went back to their desks.

 

*****

 

Next period was Butthead’s class. I sat in the back of the room with a girl I was deeply infatuated with. She wore a black and hot pink Batman shirt, dyed red hair, ripped jeans. She was one of the grunge and goth kids. Beautiful porcelain skin, mischievous eyes, and a girlish innocence in her voice that could only mean trouble. She was showing me her eyebrow piercing, which consisted of a safety pin that she stabbed through her skin last period. I wanted to be her.

I was still in shock from NoNut’s class, but didn’t want it to show. I couldn’t let anyone see that I was upset or hurt. I had to be tough. Had to show that nothing bothered me. That I was above it and could just laugh it off. But I was dying inside. And there he was, Ballinger sitting at a desk a few rows in front of me.

As the hour-long period neared its end, I thought of multiple ways I could murder Ballinger. What spells I could conduct. How I would hide his body and not get caught. What it would feel like to drag a blade across his neck. Would I even feel anything?

I was lost in thought when I saw Ballinger’s hand raise.

“What is it, Chris?” Butthead asked.

“Mr. Bevis,” he said to the entire class, “I just want to let you know that Ryan tried to kill himself.”

Silence.
Laughter.
Silence.

Ballinger turned his head and looked over at me. Those green eyes pierced mine. This time I knew it wasn’t admiration.

This time I knew it was contempt.

 

*****

 

I made a point to walk to Butthead’s old classroom before the AA meeting. I had an urge to visit my ghosts at Walter C. Young, to face them today instead of keeping them preserved in my mind. I stopped and examined the hallway. The room. It felt like that moment was playing over again in a parallel universe right in front of me. I couldn’t see it, but it was still happening. I was still twelve years old, sitting at a table in the back of the room, cowering.

But then I realized I was holding on to something that could just as easily be released right there. That out of the ashes I rose to be the man I am today. That I could stand in that classroom, successful and happy, and let go of the monsters. I took a deep breath then exhaled. And just like that, it was over. I won.

I found the AA meeting in room 436. There were thirteen of us seated in a circle of chairs. I was still filled with emotion from being in Walter C. Young, it’s where the path to my addiction was paved. Where I broke away from the happy, excited little boy who twirled around in his father’s tank-tops and fell asleep in his mother’s lap. It’s where I began to swim in another direction. In deeper, darker waters. It was the beginning of another chapter.

I raised my hand.

“Hi, I’m an alcoholic. My name is Ryan.”

 

Sean, Part Three: The London Bridge is Falling Down

Emma just curled up on the couch with her head resting on a pillow. She is calm for a change, but that is generally short lived.

I am writing about some of my darkest days while living in some of my happiest. Ironic. But I think to truly appreciate the darkness, I must finally experience the good. Because one would not exist without the other.

A Hope Sandoval & The Warm Inventions track came on. Trouble. How apropos. It fills the room like silk ribbons circulating in slow motion through the air, rippling and expanding so beautifully around me until it seeps into my pores so we become one.

And now Sean.

 

++++

 

There is a blur in time. I remember his confession exploding within me like a grenade had been thrown into my gut. The walls were lined with my insides, leaving a Death Becomes Her style hole directly in my core.

What I do know for certain are these three things:
1.  I crumbled.
2.  I became desperate to use any substance.
3.  Despite vowing not to communicate with Sean, I broke down and communicated with Sean.

I locked myself in my bedroom. I cried. I held onto that unbearable feeling in my stomach, in my heart. One that only comes from betrayal. From wilted love. From realizing that you have absolutely no control. That the fist squeezing your heart is far from being released. It is a feeling that manifests in every cell of the human body like a plague, a black cloud that filters through the bloodstream and suffocates from the inside out.

He called me. I called him. I don’t know how it happened. It doesn’t really matter because either way we began walking down a familiar road. I held his hand, closed my eyes, and followed Sean back into the forest. Each step was a painful embrace. I resented him, I hated that he continued to betray me. But I accepted it. Because his talk was smooth, his words were like a boa constrictor that wrapped round my neck till I gave in. That accent. Truthfully I wanted to give in. By that point the fantasy was too real. Over a year of building this life together, seeing it play out like a movie, scene by scene. Line by line. A film still running it’s course and I was not ready to give up my part. I no longer had a choice in the matter.

But here we go again.

His name is Christopher. I called him Chris, but it was never quite the same. Sean had become a symbol. The name was the voice was the fantasy was my world. Chris was a new word that had no meaning. No value. It was an empty vessel whereas Sean was a ship brimming with endless possibility.

Our late night talks, sleep drenched and lovelorn, often ended with Chris saying how sorry he was for lying. How special I am for accepting him regardless. Our love was transcendent. The resentment I felt always lingered like a bitter aftertaste, but it was never enough to leave. His morbid sense of humor, his mystery, his fascination with me, his emotional depth and darkness were too beautiful to walk away from. Despite his name, despite his history, his education, his physicality – he was Sean. He was always that second self I searched for my entire life. The details no longer mattered. He was everything I needed, everything I wanted. And he knew just how to fill that role.

Day by day we walked further from reality and deeper into the woods. My emotional and mental stability depleted with each step, as I was filled with love, with anger, confusion, resentment. I could never fully believe anything he said, which began to feel more isolating than before. But then he would tell me he loved me. That we would spend an eternity together. And my fear was replaced with a blind confidence that our Great European Life would unfold soon.

“You’ll never believe who I met,” he said one night after going to a private bar with some friends. “We were at this posh club and some friends knew friends of Kate Middleton.”

I had no idea who that was. He found my ignorance humorous and endearing.

“Prince Charles’ girlfriend. She was out drinking with her friends and invited us to go in their limo.” He told me about their night and his connections to the English social scene. The idea was overwhelming. Like being inducted into a secret, elite society. I always knew I was meant for something more, something grand.

I would be part of that life soon enough.

I stayed up till the early morning most nights. When I was not talking to Chris, my thoughts were occupied with our future. I was snorting coke, taking pills or whatever I could get my hands on. I am an equal opportunist when it comes to drugs. I think I had left my job at the restaurant already. Not completely sure. Things become fuzzy. But I had a phone in one ear, listening to Chris tell me how much he loves me one minute then lie to me the next. I was barely sleeping. My online escapades resulting in personal degradation continued. One substance after another consistently found a way into my body.

I ceased to exist.

 

++++

 

August 21, 2005.

After having trouble finding pills, I took my search online to the local gay internet community. The dealer I had been using from the restaurant had cut me off, so it was slim pickings.

A guy around my age messaged me that he had some Xanax. He lived in the development across from mine, so I promptly invited him over to hang out. I had only taken Xanax in small doses before, but I was feeling extra determined to make it a good night.

He came over not too long before midnight. My parents were asleep in their room, so I snuck him into the house. We each took four bars of Xanax and now played the waiting game. I always loved that initial half hour before pills kicked in, the anticipation was almost as good as the actual high that eventually took over.

But I was impatient.

The Xanax wasn’t kicking in fast enough, and I have always been a firm believer that more is better. Life in excess. Me and my no-name-friend made the decision to drive out to his dealers house to buy more. We got into his car and drove to the Bank of America down the street from my house. I eagerly put my debit card in the ATM slot and asked my accomplice how much I should take out.

That is the last thing I remember.

 

++++

 

I woke up. It was sometime in the morning or early afternoon. My eyes opened and I immediately felt a throbbing in my head. Filtered sunlight cut through the closed blinds, drenching the room with an almost pale glow. I pulled the white down comforter up to eyes, wanting to disappear. It was the morning haze, wondering what had happened the night before. But still too out of it to really care.

Almost as if on cue, the bedroom door opened. My mom was at the doorway; she looked like someone had just died. Did someone just die? I realized I had no idea what was going on. No idea what I did that night or how I got home.

I just woke up, how could disaster strike so soon? My mother couldn’t believe that I had no idea what happened. Her anger and hurt struck a chord of fear in me, a feeling that I had really fucked up this time. I had no words before she started spitting out the previous twenty-four hours.

The news barely processed.

I was arrested on a DWI charge at 3am after miserably failing a sobriety test on the side of the road in a residential neighborhood. I blew a 0.0% alcohol level but my urine sample had an excess amount of Xanax that would have made Courtney Love blush.

Any information I have about my arrest and short stint in jail is solely based off of the police report, surveillance footage, my partner in crime, and my parents. I have absolutely no recollection of being arrested, driven to prison, strip searched, interrogated, put in jail or coming home. There are quick flashes I can remember, but they are vague and fuzzy. I do know for certain that I was dressed in brown grandpa slippers, ripped army shorts, a yellow and white baseball shirt that I had spilled some kind of orange liquid down the front.

My parents were devastated.

I had called them from jail to get me, but had no idea where I was. The drugs took me out and I was unable to communicate to my family that I was in the Fort Lauderdale jail. I was completely incoherent. They had to call in favors from work acquaintances with connections in law enforcement to find out where I was located.

I can’t even imagine the feelings. The pain they suffered from my shit. From being woken up by a fucked up son in jail. Having to reach out to others for assistance in locating me. To finding a bail bondsman. Then actually having to go through the motions of not only picking me up, but also seeing the complete disaster I was. The ripped army shorts falling down, the tattered brown slippers, the stained shirt. The oblivion. Barely able to walk.

Their son. Their child.

Images flashed in my head as if it was a movie I had seen as a little boy. So far away, but polluting my head nonetheless. Visions of being put into a solitary room because I was becoming volatile in the holding area. My fingers trying to pry open the door to escape. Sitting in a room with other train wrecks waiting for my name to be called.

But that is all. The rest is a total blank.
Hours of my life that I will never know.
Gone forever.

I later learned more from the police report and the kid who was arrested with me:

We drove back to the dealer’s house and each purchased another 4 bars of Xanax, proceeding to take them immediately. I was already in a blackout by that time, so we had now taken a total of 8 full bars of Xanax each. I then drove his car to take us back to my house.

The police received a report that a car was stopped at the stop sign in a residential neighborhood for some time. When they came, the car was still in drive with my foot on the break. I was in oblivion at the wheel. They asked me to put the car into park, but I did not know how. The officer had to do it for me.

I watched the police video of my sobriety test a few years ago. A humbling moment, to say the least.

I had officially hit a new low. A black hole that sucked so many people down with me.

But I just needed to talk to Sean.

 

++++

 

He called later that night. Blocked call. A symbol of relief.

Sean listened in shock as I told him what had happened. He was serious, firm – but supportive. What I needed. But his concern for me grew, as I was never forthcoming about my drug use. Sean knew only what I told him, which was about 40% reality and 60% downplay or outright dismissal of those skeletons. He was worried, and I loved that.

He began to call more frequently over the next few days to check up on me. He dedicated so much time to make sure I was okay. The shame and guilt I felt over my arrest only added to the growing depression. My parents were angry, so hurt and sad, that I had a hard time being around it. So I locked myself away and found comfort in Sean’s voice. He was the one who understood, who didn’t judge me for what I had done. Who wanted to hold me as everything continued to collapse around my four walls. I melted into his distant embrace, could feel his warmth as we talked for hours throughout the day and night. He was there when I needed him and made sure to be present as best he could.

Blocked call.

I just waited for those two words to appear on my phone.

“Please give me your phone number,” I would plead. I wanted direct access to the Bat Phone. But he wouldn’t give it to me.

“I can’t. My father will see the incoming calls from The States on the phone bill.” Another reason. “And I don’t have to pay for the long distance. I don’t want you to have all the charges.”

But it made sense. My mind warped it all to always make sense.

 

++++

 

I was online one night when I received a message through AIM. That familiar chime always elicited a momentary rush of adrenaline.

I began to talk to a frat guy from FSU who had found my profile after searching on AOL. He introduced himself and asked if we could talk.

It was about Sean.

I had never spoken to anyone that knew him. So many questions. This conversation was one that I needed more than anything. It was clarity. It was inside information into my soul mate. I don’t know what his name was, but I believe it started with a “J”. And for some reason I remember the color orange – I have no idea why, but maybe it holds some meaning. So for the sake of the story I will call him Jeff.

We began messaging back and forth. I was glued to the computer screen like a moth to a flame. Jeff had answers. He knew things that I had wanted to know for years. He told me that he and Sean were no longer in contact, but were friends for some years, had the semblance of a relationship for a while. Sounds familiar.

“That’s what he does,” Jeff messaged. “He tells you what you want to hear, lies about his whole life, then fucks you over. He did it to me and he did it to some other guys that I met.”

Another nuclear bomb. My life was becoming like that game Minesweeper. One step to the left and boom. Two steps to the right and it was smooth sailing until I hit another. My very own war zone.

Emma has her head down on the pillow, arms outstretched, while Tori Amos sings Girl off of the Little Earthquakes album. “She’s everybody else’s girl, maybe one day she’ll be her own…”

Jeff went on to tell me his story. How he and Sean would talk for hours every day, how they never met because one thing after another kept them apart. But there was something between them that was unexplainable. Jeff was lonely at the time and in the closet while part of a fraternity at FSU. Sean was his companion, his partner. But one thing led to another led to another and Sean became darker, more inconsistent. Until finally he was contacted by someone who had gone through the same thing with Sean, and suddenly his bubble burst.

I asked questions. I didn’t want to believe what he was saying. But how else would he know? Maybe it was different with me. Sean and I had something special. They didn’t have what we had.

But they had the same thing.

And he knew what I was going through. But I didn’t want to talk to him. I needed to talk to Sean so I could find out what was happening. I needed to know the truth. But that was when I realized that I would never know the truth. As badly as I wanted to. And then I began to wonder about Jeff. His story was so in line with mine. How did he find me? How did he learn about me? It didn’t make sense.

So I asked how he knew who I was. He said Sean contacted him not long ago to try and come back into his life. “Because that is what he does,” Jeff wrote. “He will randomly call you and want to pick things up again. It’s like you’re his puppet. He’s a sick fuck.”

But I wouldn’t believe it.

And that’s when Sean signed online. GuyFsu02. Another symbol that made my heart beat just a little faster. All of these things [words, accents, locations, screen names, songs] became representations of him — reminders, symbols of the guy I was completely in love with. The guy I had never met. The guy who knew everything about me. The guy who became so intertwined with my very fabric that I had completely lost myself. He was the best fucking drug I could ever have found.

Or did he find me?

I told him that something had happened and he needed to call.

Blocked call.

“Hallo.” His voice melted into my ear like folding whipped cream into chocolate mousse. Light, silky and delicate.

Don’t back down.

I could hear it in his voice immediately when I asked about Jeff. He hesitated and got quiet before speaking. But he confirmed everything. Just like that.

Just like that.

Just like that I found out that he was in Tallahassee the whole time. He had never gone to London. He never went to a treatment program in Tampa. His name may or may not have be Sean or Chris. Most of what he said was fabricated. He took photos of other guys off the internet and used them as his own. The knitted sweater that had kept me warm for so long was now full of holes.

The Sean I loved did not exist.

There was a man behind the curtain who played a part, who led me along for two years.

He didn’t exist.

I couldn’t wrap my head around that idea. None of it was real. The plans would never come to fruition, the life together in England would never happen, the fairy tale had met a completely new ending.

And I lost it.

I threw everything at him that I could. Every insult. Every profane word. Every awful thing that I wanted to happen to him. I never felt a rage as severe as I felt on that night. My face was so hot and throbbed like I would start bleeding from my eyeballs. I still held on to the idea that something had to be different. We had shared so much, built this world together. But as badly as I wanted to hold on to him, on to our epic romance, I felt it being ripped from my white knuckled fist. My fingernails cracking and breaking as the dream is pulled from my grasp. It was over. Even if I fell further back into denial, I still knew the truth.

He didn’t exist.

I wrote him awful emails. Beautifully written, well-crafted, awful emails that let him know just how he should die. How he was a pathetic, worthless piece of shit.

But then I have to look at myself.

I walked down this road for two years by my own choice. I was broken, searching and scared. I helped write this story just as much as he did. I could go on about how I felt, how moving forward day by day was more excruciating than losing Sean. But I won’t. This person who I loved so much, who I had a future with, who knew me inside and out, who loved me, who understood me, who was that other half I wanted my entire life… I had him for two years. At least in my mind did. I had a purpose. I had everything.

It’s like Sean passed away and I was grieving a death. The person I knew in my mind was loving, passionate, honest and cared for me unconditionally. He was taken from me, along with all that went with him. Hope, love, safety and purpose.

He didn’t exist.

So who was I then?

Sean, Part Two: A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing

We began to make plans to visit each other. The nights of talking would always circle back to when we would meet. How that first encounter would go. What we would do to one another. “I’ll grab you and squeeze you so tight that your eyeballs will pop out of your skull,” he told me. “I’ll crawl inside your body like a parasite so we could be connected forever.” His romantic morbidity was so fucking sexy. The darkness was a black smoke that invaded my nostrils and made me feel whole. He shared my affection for bizarre and off-color endearment, something that just made him that much more special.

By this point he had sent me his actual photos. He finally felt comfortable showing me his true self, which I knew was a major step for Sean in facing his own fears. He had a beautiful shaved head with dark brown stubble that dusted his scalp. Soft, pale skin adorned with tattoos that crept up his toned forearms. Strong, chiseled cheekbones led to dark brown eyes that held a deep sadness I could immediately identify with. Another photo showed off his bare chest, toned abs and snow-white skin. A pair of black jeans hung just low enough to show me that I needed to get in better shape before meeting him. My heart could barely contain the excitement.

“Why were you afraid to show me yourself? You’re everything I could ever have wanted,” I said to him, unable to hide my feelings.

“I don’t know, really,” he said. “It’s all very stupid now I guess. I just wanted you to know me. Not just in pictures. But me. I’m sorry I waited.” He couldn’t hide the bashfulness in his voice. A sincere moment of beauty.

He told me that he had been planning to get a tattoo of the first piano piece he ever wrote. The music notes would start at his wrist and climb all the way up his arm and around his neck. It was a song he wrote for his mother after she had died.

“Your father will kill you,” I laughed.

“Well my father might not see it.” He paused. The silence began to linger and become almost uncomfortable. “I may be going back to London to live for awhile.”

A blow to my gut.

“Sean, what? No. Please no.”

“I got accepted into the Psychology program at Oxford. I have to do it. My father really wants me to and I need to finish my studies. I fucking hate this, Ryan. I just want us to be together.”

“I can go with you, Sean. I’ll go to London and live with you.”

And just like that we began to talk about moving to England together. About our life in London, living in the flat his father still had. Walking to the market together before university. I would get a job as a designer, working for a magazine like Rolling Stone. We would travel the countryside, take the train throughout Europe. We could stay at his friend’s cottage on holiday, pick fresh strawberries and swim in the lake. I could smell the London air. Feel our life together. I would just have to get a passport and let my parents know about our plans. My fear of losing Sean quickly turned into excitement at the prospect of actually building our European life together.

The weeks leading up to his departure back to England were filled with endless hours of phone calls. We continued to talk all day and night, even while I began looking for jobs in South Florida. My parents were not too keen on me freeloading indefinitely, but I certainly tried milking the mental instability card as much as possible.

Sean left for England sometime mid June. I began to work as a waiter so I could save up money. I was unable to call him since he did not have a phone in London yet, so I had to wait until he contacted me when he got there. It was excruciating. I was used to talking to him everyday, so I began to calculate the hours that it would take for him to arrive in England, get to his dorm, rest, then locate a phone. Those hours passed. A gnawing anxiety began to burrow in my chest.

Days began to pass.

I did what any twenty-one year old would have done in 2005. I updated my MySpace profile to read that I was in a relationship. I created an album using the only few photos I had of Sean, captioning them with not-so-clever blurbs like, “my brit boy”. I watched as the comments flooded in from my online buddies congratulating me on bagging a hot guy. I called my friends to let them know that I would be moving to London with Sean. I was on a high, held a power of purpose that made me feel like I had something so much better than everyone else. I had true love, I had my tortured British boyfriend, I had the taste of an epic life dancing on my tongue.

But he still hadn’t called. And that absence plagued me all day like a ball and chain tied to my ankle as I trudged along.

I made some friends at the restaurant I was working at in Weston. We would take turns going to the bathroom together to snort lines of coke off the top of the toilet. What can I say, we had a connection. It’s how many of my friendships began to be built those days. Like minds seem to attract each other just as easily as low self esteem swims together like a school of sad little fish. This job was a stepping-stone and these people were insignificant in the grand scheme of my Great European Life. But I made due for the time.

Then finally I received a call from a blocked number and I knew it was him. I jumped to grab my phone and press the little green TALK icon. “Hello?” I said eagerly.

“Hallo.” I could hear the smile of excitement in his voice. A voice that immediately travelled through my veins like an electric current.

“Holy fucking shit.” I exclaimed. “Where have you been?”

His laugh was always so amazing. I loved when I could effortlessly make him laugh.

“I’ve been in fucking London crammed in a dorm room. Ryan I miss you so much. I can’t believe I’m hearing your voice! My flatmates are crazy. You would love it here.”

He had been so busy acclimating to England, getting started at Oxford and moving that he hadn’t been able to call. He apologized over and over but insisted that he would make it up when I got there.

We stayed on the phone all night catching up. He made fun of me for getting a serving job at a restaurant, saying that the working class is beneath me. He loved to poke fun at my encounters with “mediocrity”. He told me the music was amazing in London, so many new artists that had not made it over to the The States. The food, the fashion, the culture. It was a lifestyle that became more superior and grandiose as we spoke about it. My childhood dreams of being chosen for something special were laying before me for the taking. I had to go to England.

Sean was going out with some new friends that night, which ignited an uneasy feeling in my stomach almost immediately. Up to that point he rarely talked about having other friends. I was the only person in his life, or at least the only one that mattered. The idea of other people pulling him away and complicating things made me jealous, made me feel rejected. But I kept it hidden.

After we hung up, I couldn’t stop thinking about Sean being out with other people. We were on a five-hour time difference, so I knew he was probably drinking with them by now. I hated the idea of sharing Sean with anyone else. Let alone enjoying the company of someone other than me. We were inseparable. The same person. We were special and no one would understand that. I grabbed my phone to call him. I had to hear his voice. It was then I realized I still didn’t have his number. He had called from a blocked line and never gave it to me.

I suddenly felt so alone.

I must have fallen asleep with the phone clutched to my ear, because when it began to ring I woke up with an uneasy excitement. I had trouble sleeping, wrestling with demons all night. I needed to hear his voice.

Blocked Call. That identification became a symbol of salvation.

His tone was deflated and dreamy. “I wish you were there.” I could hear the alcohol in his voice. I pictured him red-eyed, curled up in bed like a little boy in a dark room. His voice was almost a whisper. “Move here,” he said, “I want you to be here right now.”

I wanted nothing more. His longing for me voided any concern I had about other people tearing us apart. Our fantasy was still very much alive. We lay in bed, continents apart, souls intertwined. I listened to Sean drift to sleep. Words of love alternated with extended moments of silence like thunder during a storm.

 

*****

 

I logged onto the Oxford website and began researching their student directory to find Sean’s email address. I wanted to know more about his university life, whatever I could find. I hadn’t heard from him in a day since he went out with his new friends.

I typed in his first and last name, scrolling through the list of students by department. But there was no match. I checked out other departments for his name or similar names, but again the search came up unsuccessful.

There was a feeling in my gut that had lingered for months, but had chosen to ignore. A feeling that raised an evil brow every time I caught Sean in a lie. Every time something he said didn’t add up. I can’t explain the rate at which my heart began to race. Anxiety filtered into my system just as quickly. My thoughts went from bad to really bad as I sat and stewed on every possible worse case scenario. I needed answers, but had no way to get them until he called me. I couldn’t even pick up a phone to get ahold of Sean.

I began hanging out with the restaurant crew more, filling my time with as much other stuff as possible. We would hang out after work at someone’s house and snort coke until the bags were dry and liquor began to run low. I was the advocate of driving out to get more blow as soon as I saw it was dwindling. Mission trips. I never liked to see a bag get low. The emptier the bag, the closer to reality. I wanted to avoid that at all cost.

A few days had gone by when finally Sean called. I immediately confronted him about the Oxford directory. Suddenly his affinity for my stalker tendencies was nonexistent.

“What is going on, Sean? Why haven’t you called? Why can’t I find you in their student registry?” I was so tired. So drained. I just wanted answers more than anything. I wanted the bullshit to stop so we could go back to the way it was. When we would sit all night talking shit. Talking about the future together. About our lives. Our perspectives. Had he found someone else? Was I not good enough? Was he finally seeing that I’m a loser?

He sighed. He was annoyed with me. Angry. Frustrated. I don’t know. I’m not even sure what he said as he began to talk. Everything was a complete blur up until the words came forth: “My name’s not Sean.” That fucking accent. His fucking voice. It was like a wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing. My inside’s completely dropped to the floor and I became putty.

“What do you mean?” My voice couldn’t hide the fear that escaped as a tremble. I didn’t want to know anymore. But I had to. I had to hear whatever it was that he was going to say.

“I’ve been lying. My name isn’t Sean.” He was cold. It wasn’t the guy I loved.

“Why? Why would you lie? What the fuck?” My thoughts were completely scattered and I just mumbled out whatever I could. “Tell me your name. I don’t understand this. Please tell me.” I was pleading through building tears.

It was all crashing down. The dream was tearing apart and I couldn’t stop it.

“There’s nothing to tell you. I’m not a good person. I don’t know why I’ve lied to you. Why I keep lying to you.”

I exploded. Every ‘fuck you’ I could muster was thrown at him. How was this happening? “Are you even at Oxford?” I screamed.

“No.”

“I can’t fucking do this.” The tears started to flow. I was suddenly realizing just how alone I was, how alone I had been. I put everything into this lie. Dreamed of a life that was suddenly not real. “What is your name?” I pleaded with him to tell me who he is. I had to know.

“It doesn’t fucking matter, Ryan. Stop doing this to yourself.” His words were still so beautiful to me. The drug.

“Is that why I can’t call you? You didn’t want me to know your phone number?”

“Yes.”

And right about now you would think that this was over. That the phone was hung up and we parted ways for good. But that didn’t happen.

sean: part one, the great brit

Sean was the embodiment of so many things. He was brought to me by the powers that be, to help me reach a point of complete despair. Where I can now understand the depths of sadness, of loneliness, a spiritual pain that still holds scars like trophies of war.

This story is his just as much as it is mine. He wrote it as passionately and recklessly as I did. As I lived it.

I met Sean in December of 2004 while snorting cocaine and talking to guys on the internet. I was a student at Florida State University in Tallahassee, living in a 3 bedroom townhouse with two friends. My token Asian, Kia, and an on-again-off-again vegan bitch named Maria. Pronounced MarEEEuh. An affected pronunciation for an affected waste of space. The two girls were polar opposites, but the three of us connected somehow.

I kept my bedroom locked and dimly lit most of the time. With a mattress on the floor. Ikea paper floor lamps glowing in the corner, and makeshift shelves that held random artifacts with no particular meaning or order. I stayed in that room most days, while most nights I snuck guys in to have secretive, drug induced sex until the sun came up. This hush-hush activity was a normal occurrence through my teenage years. Probably part of my twenties, too.

I kept my computer on a snack table perched next to my mattress where I laid down to watch TV and meet boys online like it was my job. Chat rooms and random gay websites were saved or kept open so I could quickly manage incoming prospective opportunities. It was a hunt, a mission to find the one I was meant to be with. The companion I sought for so long but just ended up with my pants down before the conversation went too far. When in reality I wanted to find my twin, that other self who was an extension of me. Who understood the sadness I felt, the loneliness. Who thought like I did and shared the insanity.

This twin, my second self, was someone I longed for in a brother as a kid, or a friend growing up. Another person who was as broken and isolated as I was. So I met guys online. Scoped them out to make sure they didn’t like to go to clubs or bars. They exuded a melancholy demeanor that bordered on depression while still maintaining a level of wonder about life. Someone who liked to shell up, lived in blue light and an incubated state of beautiful sadness. Who dissected life and wore his emotions like a brilliantly carved sculpture.

And then he came.

Sean messaged me sometime in December as GuyFSU02.  It was a window left open just before the storm swept in.

Light communication back and forth. The standard operation and procedure of guys cruising on the internet.

Name
Age
Location
Stats
What are you looking for?
Pic?

 

Side note: Modest Mouse’s “Gravity Rides Everything” just started playing on my iTunes as I write and the timing couldn’t be any more perfect. “Everything will fall right into place…”  This song wraps me like a blanket as I type in a blue-lit room nearing midnight.

 

We got our initial interrogation out of the way, approving each other’s entry exam. Sean said he was 6”1, 20, living in a house about 10 minutes from mine, looking for whatever. Generally that meant a golden ticket for immediate sex, but this time we actually started to talk. Our sarcastic banter began almost immediately. Back and forth like a pro tennis match.

“Do you just want to call me?” I messaged him, noticing an overwhelming build-up of excitement as I felt like he could be the one.

By this point I began to pack a bowl. I stuffed my Pyrex pipe with some of Tallatrashy’s finest selection of pot sourced directly from my neighbor. I held the piece to my lips and sparked the lighter, slowly inviting the burn of smoke down my throat and into my lungs. I held it for a few seconds, focusing on the warm glow that softly illuminated the walls, casting sharp shadows off every shape in the room. I’ve always been a glutton for ambience. Especially when doing drugs, the lighting always had to be perfect. I felt like I was living in a movie, creating an experience. The moment, the soundtrack, the dim but not dark bedroom that encapsulated my everything. Held my emotion, my feeling, my spirit.

AOL messenger chimed and my heart momentarily stopped. That chime was crucial when cruising guys online. It was the sound of interest and approval. That the fish was still on the hook.

“Sure,” he responded.

I sent him my phone number. Every second that passed felt like someone was twisting my innards. Until he called about thirty seconds later. I eagerly picked up the phone but strategically sounded nonchalant so as not to come off like a crazy person.

That is until he spoke.

“Hallo.”

A beautifully smooth English accent greeted me. Like yards of silk billowing out in the open air, dancing and gliding with every slight gust of wind or breeze that catches its stride. That was his voice. And it immediately became a drug. There are unexplainable connections sometimes when you just know that whatever is going on is absolutely, without a doubt, meant to be happening. I don’t know what it was about his voice, about his accent, but I knew in that very greeting that he and I were meant for something special. But I had no idea what lie ahead.

We talked for hours. Well into the early morning. I paced back and forth in my bedroom, smiling and laughing, occasionally walking outside to smoke a cigarette. His words echoed mine. His thoughts reflected mine. His laughs were perfectly timed to my attempts at witty sarcasm and a cynical world view. His bitter superiority matched with an idyllic isolation was like heroine to me. Sean very quickly began to mold into my lost twin, the phantom limb that I felt for so many years but could never find. My appendage had arrived.

Sean was from London. His father is neurosurgeon who was transferred to Tampa, Florida several years ago. His mother died of cancer when he was younger. He and his father had a rough relationship, especially after his mom passed. Sean lived an extremely privileged life, one that I imagined myself having been suited for. He lived that special, tortured existence that I so admired. A wealthy Brit with a dark sense of humor, studying Psychology to understand his own mental deficiencies. We bonded over depression, loneliness, and a mutual love of music and film. Our conversation would go from feelings of abandonment during childhood to how we would creatively murder someone then to Hollywood celebrities in a matter of minutes. We both had a very dark side that wove its way into our dialogue almost immediately.

“Let’s meet,” I urged him. “I know it’s soon but I really have to meet you.” I lied. It wasn’t soon. I was generally already kicking a guy out of my bedroom after meeting him online at this point. But I certainly did not want to seem like a charlatan. At this point I was not worried about sounding too eager or excited, I knew he shared my kinship.

But I felt the first stab of disappointment by the hesitance in his voice. He had to help a friend move in a few hours and needed to get rest beforehand. He told me how happy he was to have found me. That we would see each other before parting from Tallahassee for winter break in a few short days. He was heading back to Tampa and I would be en route to Pembroke Pines for the few weeks off from school.  I knew my holiday vacation would be crushed if I did not meet Sean.

We talked for another hour or so before finally hanging up the phone. For the first time in many years, I felt hopeful. A smile formed on my face as I clicked off my lamp and curled up on my mattress for the remaining couple of hours of night.

My thoughts went from Sean and I traveling the world together, to us being an unstoppable duo with an innate air of superiority. We were better than everyone. More special than anyone. We would live in seclusion somewhere in England because we were too good for the world. I had found my perfect mate, my identity, my other self.

Nothing else mattered anymore.

 

*****

 

Winter break came and I never was able to meet Sean. For one reason or another it never seemed to work out. But we talked on the phone everyday. He hated the holidays. Being home was a reminder of his father’s distance and neglect. Being home for me was a reminder of everything I would never have again. Security. Comfort. Childhood.

We spent nights talking about a mutual disdain for people. For those who did not understand. Understand what exactly, I am not too sure. But there was certainly something that the world did not understand about us. About our innate entitlement and general superiority. It was a bond over years of pain and self torment. Sadness and loneliness. Lone companions united over a melancholy existence. Sounds all very Smashing Pumpkins. But that is what we were. Living in a movie together, filled with idealized dreams and romanticized depressive tendencies.

I lay in my twin bed back home at my parents house night after night, racking up cell phone minutes as our conversations never could really meet an end. We were one, and without the other life quickly seemed far less interesting. It was just that — life. Whereas together, it was the most beautifully crafted epic novel that had never been written.

And then one day his call did not come.

Then another.

My mounting worry grew into an anxious and lingering disease that manifested as anger toward my parents. Isolation from any friends. I was once again a snail looking for a shell. I must have scared him off. Shown him too much of myself. I am fucked up. What’s wrong with me?

And after two days of self-loathing, the phone rang.

“Hallo.”  That voice. My heart stopped.

“Sean what happened? Where have you been?” I attempted to sound less concerned and frantic than I actually was. I doubt I was successful.

He sounded different. Detached. Solemn. I was in my bedroom, midday with the blinds shut. Lights off. The faint struggle of sunlight through the wooden slats resulted in a dim glow in an otherwise shadowed room. A metaphor for my current mental state.

“I had an accident. My father put me in the hospital.”

An accident. It wasn’t me. And my concern for him grew. “Sean are you ok? What happened?”

He went on to explain that he had cut open his leg on the edge of a glass table. It went deep and his father sent him to the emergency room. Ten or so stitches later, he was back home.

In a matter of time we were back to conversation as usual. “There was so much blood. You would have loved it. I want to pick at the stitches. I missed you so much.”

And just like that I became human again.  Or something close to it. Life resumed as we melted into each other once again.

“I want to see you. I want to touch you. To hold you.” Sean’s voice sleepily whispered one night as we both lay in bed with the phone pressed to our ear. Late night laughing always became early morning longing for one another. Like clockwork our tone would get softer, eyes would close in exhaustion. Words continued to flow in a dreamlike state, whispers, drawn out sentences. “You are so fucking strange. I love it. I want to be in bed with you right now. Put you in my arms. Feel your chest as you breath. Your heart beat.”

His words were intoxicating. They were a warm blanket that wrapped my soul and made life okay. My need to be with Sean became painful. More unbearable every time we spoke. We planned to see each other immediately after winter break. Christmas and New Year couldn’t end fast enough.

The days dragged on. Sean began to obsess over his wound more and more. “I want to open it back up. I keep playing with the stitches.” I told him to stop. But he kept focusing on this deep cut in his leg, eventually beginning to irritate it. I could hear something in his voice, something dark and irritable.

“What’s wrong? I can tell you’re off,” I said.

He hesitated.

“Sean?”

“Just fucking stop.”

He had never pushed back.

“Just tell me. You can tell me anything. You know that.”

He was silent but I knew he was beginning to open up.

“I’m fucked up, Ryan. We can’t keep doing this.”

My heart broke. I went into panic mode almost immediately. “Stop it. You can tell me whatever is going on.  I’m here for you, Sean. Please just tell me what’s happening.”

“I didn’t fall on the glass table,” he said, “I cut myself with a razor.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been doing it for a long time. I didn’t want to tell you.”

I felt a fear and worry that I had never experienced. He explained that he had been cutting himself for years. His father had sent him to therapy, he had been on medication. Nothing helped.

“I don’t think I want to stop,” he said one night, “ I like the way it feels. I like to see how deep I can go.” Our conversations would get darker as he opened up more about cutting himself.

But I followed him down the rabbit hole. I loved the emotional wreckage, suddenly feeling like I was not alone. That I had someone to walk with. Someone I began to imagine sitting up all night with to talk, bringing to my parents house for dinner. The more he opened up, the closer we became. I was upfront about almost everything in my life, from my desires to my demons. I told Sean things that no one knew, skeleton after skeleton crept out from my deepest of closets and he accepted them all. I had nothing to hide.

It went on like that for months. Something would always get in the way of us meeting, but it became normal I guess. A drug in itself. The need to see him, to meet him always at a fingers grasp but never close enough to touch. We were in the same town, attending the same university, but something always stood in our way. I was absolutely addicted to this person, to this voice on the phone. He was beautiful in my mind, and his photos were even more amazing.

“That’s not me in the photos,” Sean said one day.

Every time he began to confess things to me, it was like a blow to my gut. Like all of the air in the room was completely sucked out.

He kept hiding behind secrets, hiding out of fear. He explained how he was too nervous to show me his real photos all this time, so he kept finding reasons why we shouldn’t meet. He cared for me so much that his fear of rejection stopped him from being honest about his physical identity.

That’s the conclusion that we came to at least. And that’s what I believed whole-heartedly.

I pleaded with him to send me his real photos. I told him in every way I could think of that it did not matter what he looked like, that what he shared spanned beyond physical attraction. He was everything to me. He was my thoughts, my life, my purpose. Why would he lie to me? Why would he be afraid?

But he wouldn’t send photos. And ultimately it didn’t matter. At that point I had him painted in my mind. I knew every facet of Sean because what I did not know then was that I was creating him. With each thought that passed, each conversation we had, each fantasy of us I imagined, Sean became more dimensional and perfect to me. He was my idealized mate, my second self. He existed to no one but me.

Months passed, but the same continued. We would talk for countless hours every day. The more we spoke, the further from reality I treaded. It was a slow process that took me further and further into my own head. When I was a kid I would get lost in fantasy. As an only child I played by myself alone in a room, very easily letting my overly active imagination get the better of me. I detached. Escaped. Protected myself from myself by wandering off into every corner I could find within my little mind. And here I was again. Alone in my bedroom, on a phone, walking down a path that led deeper and deeper into a dark forest. I was alone with a voice on the phone. An English accent that did more to me than the pot I was smoking. The coke I snorted. The liquor I drank. I didn’t need the other stuff anymore.

I just needed him.

We spoke the same language. Analyzed lyrics to music. I read him my poetry. He told me stories about his childhood in London. We plotted perfect murders. We were passionate about art, music, writing and love. He swept me up with stories of his wealthy upbringing, a limitless bank account that afforded him world travels, designer clothes and a tortured existence.

I detached from friends. I stopped going to class. I sat in my room, smoked pot amongst other substances, watched TV, painted, wrote poetry, listened to music and talked to Sean. Throw in the occasional midnight rendezvous with perfect strangers and frequent drug abuse. That was the extent of my college experience for my entire sophomore year. Unbeknownst to me, I was successfully paving the road to my rapidly approaching nervous breakdown and subsequent medical withdraw from Florida State University.

Day by day I lost myself just a little bit more while finding myself in Sean.

It was sometime mid-year, I was skipping class again and laying on my mattress with the curtains drawn. I began to feel stale. Stagnant. We had spoken about our future together so much, crafted this intricate web of possibility and adventure for the coming years. I could see it all like a movie in my mind that continued to become more real, more cinematic and romantic as our relationship grew. It was a grandiose existence made only by the finest writers of our century. And it was ours. The carrot hung before me so I kept moving along, but the wait was growing increasingly difficult. I was tired of the people around me, they seemed common and uninteresting. They were not Sean. But It was a burden I had to bear until we were together to rise above the mediocrity.

“I have to leave Tallahassee and go back to my dad in Tampa,” Sean said.

Again the world stopped. This wasn’t happening again.

“He wants to put me back in a psych unit. I fucking hate him.” I held on to every word to try and make sense of what was going on. But it all just came out like a thick, heavy liquid that poured over by body and weighed me down. His words were a coat of quicksand and I was immobilized. “I won’t have my phone. But I can call you. Ryan, I love you. I love you so much.”

And then he was gone.

 

*****

 

When you take the drugs away from an addict they go through withdrawals. When you take the love, the identity, the codependency away from a drug addict, they do a lot of drugs.

After Sean left, I spiraled.

I assumed the role of a grieving mate and continued my role as a self indulgent, depressed junkie with a fervor and conviction that would have made Kurt Cobain proud. There were weeks I did not leave my bedroom except to get more drugs. Days I went without sleeping. Nights I spent trying to find someone to fill the void.

 

Side note: “Say Something” by A Great Big World and Christina Aguilera just came on. Chris turned it up and said, “I love this song.” It created a perfect moment as I begin to submerge into darkness and tell this story. He sits next to me, wraps his arms around my shoulder and kisses my cheek. I stop writing to enjoy the present. A timely and grateful contrast to the circumstances being written about.

 

I connected with people who fueled an already flaming addiction. This searching led me to meet a guy online who came over one night with a pipe and some meth. I had never tried the drug before. We stayed up all night smoking and fooling around in my blacklight drenched bedroom listening to the likes of Portishead and Tricky. Meth was like nothing I had used before, a euphoria wrapped in quiet madness.

What would Sean think? What was Sean doing? Where is he? 

I tried building a shell to hide inside, but the thoughts, the whispering pangs of abandonment and love lost cracked my frail exterior. It was the heart beating beneath the floorboards, slowly building my insanity.

The sun rose and my unnamed guest gathered his things to leave. I had not realized the irony of the situation until he put on scrubs for his next shift at the hospital that morning.

I was just happy he left the rest of his stash.

I spent the next few days smoking and snorting crystal meth while alternating between booze and pot to manage my high. I had a friend come up from Fort Lauderdale who brought along some painkillers that we also added to the mix. We spent the days locked in my room fooling around, getting lost while driving on random roads, or wandering around the park and cemetery. As the meth ran out we bought an eight ball to finish off before he had to drive to his brother’s house in South Carolina.

And then I was alone again.

My body began to withdrawal. I was crashing from the meth. And everything began to hit at once. I locked myself away and cried for days. My roommate would try talking to me to find out what was going on, but I could barely formulate a sentence. Feelings were overwhelming and loud sobs would just dominate any attempt of communication. I fucking miss Sean. I need him.

I was never open about my drug use, I tried to keep that part of my life hidden. So to most people I just looked like a completely deranged, emotional wreck. And I was. But there was so much more going on beneath the surface. More than I even cared to recognize with an honest self-assessment. In my eyes, the world was not only on my shoulders, but currently defecating all over me. I was a victim of circumstance. A victim of abandonment. A victim of childhood bullying. A victim of homosexuality. A victim of drugs. A victim of sexual abuse.

At the end of the day, I was a victim of myself.

Unfortunately, hindsight is twenty-twenty and I just continued to dig myself further and further into an early grave.

And then Sean called. Just like that. Out of the blue. He was at his treatment center in Tampa and filled me in on everything – his blonde roommate who follows him everywhere, the ridiculous doctors, his desire to get out of there. His father had barely visited him, but was insistent that he stays in Tampa to fully recover. He would not be returning to Tallahassee.

By that point I was accustomed to crying. But he had never heard me break down. The floodgates opened and I told him everything. I could not stop. Could not stop saying how much I couldn’t take this life anymore. I wanted to die. I wanted everything to be over – Tallahassee, independence, responsibility, life. But it had reached a point where the pain and emotion was so strong that I could barely breathe. I had never felt such a strong and overwhelming need to die. Because it was too unbearable to handle. To sit in my own skin any longer.

Sean was the most calm I had ever heard him. He talked me down. He listened to me. He did not judge me. He let me know how special I am to him, that I am everything. His voice filled my spirit and gave it the moment of solace that I needed.

And then he had to go.

I did not know when I would hear from him again. I did not know if I would ever meet him. I just knew that I was alone. In a place that held so many ghosts from only the few years I had lived there. Loneliness, lies, sex, drugs, broken friendships. In that moment all of it just weighed on me and I broke.

I called my parents, unable to breathe. Unable to think straight. It was daytime, I remember that. I was lying on my mattress. I was looking out the window through my Wal-Mart purchased gray frayed fabric turned make-shift curtains. I stared at the sky while tears streamed down my face. I had to leave. I had to get out. It was a moment of clarity that may have saved my life.

I can’t imagine the fear I caused my parents as I sobbed over the phone. It was enough for them to tell me to come home. To leave Tallahassee immediately and get back to them.

I left the next day.

 

*****

 

Sean called me on my drive back to Pembroke Pines. “Hallo,” he said, “How are you feeling?”

That voice was like a dose of medicine.

I begged to stop in Tampa along the way back so I could see him, but the treatment center prohibited it. He was moving back into his father’s home in the next few days. We would be back to us. Both living at home, starting this new chapter together. It was all playing out just like a movie.

I came back home in May of 2005.

A twenty-one year old mess returning to mom and dad’s house. It was defeat. But it was an indescribable comfort nonetheless. It was like walking right back into a childhood security blanket and wrapping it around my bruised body. I was safe.

Sean called me after he got out of treatment. He said he was going back to Tallahassee to get his things from the apartment.

“I have to tell you something,” he said, “I have not been honest with you.”

I had built up a pretty strong armor by that point. I had gotten used to Sean occasionally having to “be honest about something”.

“My father is not really a neurosurgeon. I don’t know why I lied to you.” Another lie.

It hurt but I didn’t care. I didn’t care because I was so low at that point it didn’t matter. But then I began to realize that the stories he had told me were lies as well. His family did not have the money he claimed they had. All the stories about their wealth and his privileged childhood was bullshit. Stories. Fantasies. And I believed it all.

“Ryan, I really am so sorry. You deserve so much better than me. I’m an asshole.” The way he said asshole was so sexy Fucking accent. He was serious, his tone was stern and guilty. But it was that voice. It was the voice I built into this perfect person in my mind. My mate. And that image was chipping away. It did not register – or at least my mind was not able to fully process what had happened. His voice, his accent was the same – but the story had changed. It’s like taking everything you’ve known about someone and then hitting a delete button. The book has been rewritten and I don’t know this character anymore. At least not like I did.

I don’t know what I said. I don’t know what he said. It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that I loved him. There was nobody more aligned with me than Sean and I wasn’t ready to let some lies tear him away. It hadn’t before and it wouldn’t now.

“I can’t keep doing this to you, Ryan. I am not a good person. Please don’t call me again. I will leave you alone.” And again, he was gone.

At this point, it all might seem crazy. But I was completely in love with the idea of Sean. I was head over heels in love with this person who was such an extension of myself. We were intertwined. And I needed him to continue on.

But he did not answer my phone calls. So I eventually stopped calling as frequently. And then barely called at all.

A week later I returned to Tallahassee to gather my things, withdraw from FSU on a medical leave with a note from my psychologist, and officially move back to South Florida. I knew Sean was still in Tallahassee gathering his things for his move back. He had told me the apartment complex that he lived in. And I knew the car he drove. So I did what any borderline insane individual would do and drove to where he lived and stalked out the car I knew he drove.

There happened to be a few cars that fit the description, but by process of elimination and some stealthy investigation, I narrowed it down to two. After peering through their windows to examine books on the seat, paperwork, soda cans and other potentially identifying crap, l realized that neither of them were his car and watched as the owners eventually drove away.

In an anxious fit of anger I sped out of the complex. I felt that rising sadness meets frustration meets confusion meets rage. The heat in my face throbbed. I turned a corner to exit onto the main road and suddenly felt my car drop a few feet on the drivers side with a loud bang.

I got out to examine the dent and cut tire that resulted from a pothole on the side of the street. I figured it was superficial damage but noticed my car rattling as I continued home.

Turns out I did enough to that little blue Honda Civic to keep me trapped in Tallahasse for almost another week as the body shop had to wait for parts to be shipped in. For those following day, I was looked over my shoulder everywhere I went hoping to hear an English accent or see someone that I thought could be Sean. But the paranoia was mounting and I finally called him again.

He picked up the phone.

“Sean, please talk to me,” I pleaded. “I don’t care about the other shit. We need to be together.” I told him what happened with my car. He was flattered that I tried stalking him out. My crazy was always appealing to him.

“I don’t want to keep hurting you. I feel responsible for everything that has happened to you.” He sounded so distraught. I could just picture his eyes looking into mine with a sullen romance that was so enigmatic I could not pull away. His voice mixed with my imagination was a lethal combination.

“I love you,” I said.

Fuck.

March eighteenth: when we cease to exist, hi dad

I’ve got Max, our lab-mix, resting at my feet tucked under the covers. I feel his rapid heart race as his little body rises and falls every second. Emma is laying quietly for a change between me and Chris, curled in fetal position, her paw extended out onto my leg.

Then there is me, typing letter by letter on my iPhone since I still have no desire to pass out before midnight.  But the fact that I just closed my eyes for a moment and had a full lucid dream that I was making pot brownies at a girl’s house from High School makes me think I should go to bed.

I woke up to the sound of my phone ringing. In my post REM haze, I half thought the default ring was the alarm letting me know that 6am had arrived far too quickly and Chris and I were due for our bi-weekly morning walk on the beach.

But it was no such alarm.

It was in fact my phone ringing. Before I could totally comprehend what was happening, Chris told me to hurry and pick up the call. It was the alarm company. They had just received a panic signal going off at our office. The police were en route.

It is now 3:48am and I meet Chris over at the studio. The police had arrived and were parked side by side like two sharks patiently waiting for Nemo. My heart still races every time I see police cars. A moment of, “Oh shit I’m gonna get caught, hide the…”

But then I realize it’s ok and I awkwardly overcompensate by waving and thanking them for their service so I come off as cool and calm with absolutely nothing to be suspicious about. There are no drugs in my system, officer. I am not hiding any pills or cocaine in my glove compartment, officer. Or under my seat. In my back console. In my pocket, officer. Smile and sweat. Those days are long gone but the residue of fear and guilt still remain.

A balloon in our studio apparently set off the motion sensor and sounded for the troops. A Mylar birthday balloon that had been hiding in the wooden rafters for the past few months finally made itself known in a big way. I have a love hate feeling toward that balloon now.

So I type away letter by letter on my iPhone again unable to fall back asleep. Something my father said earlier keeps drifting through my head and is taking up prime occupancy. He had major open-heart surgery fifteen years ago. A seven-bypass procedure that changed all of us forever.

He has since recovered and life continued to move forward. Our relationship was strained along the way, especially during those High School and College years post coming out as gay. Throw in my ongoing drug abuse and sprinkle on an array of colorful mental instability. Come to think of it, I can’t imagine I gave his heart much of a break after the surgery.

I was on the way to my psychologist’s office after work today, talking to my father on the phone about a mess of shit he is dealing with. He opened up for the first time since the heart surgery about his own mortality. How the effectiveness of his procedure is not a permanent fix and he fears that more as almost two decades have passed since the surgery. That life is too short to get caught up in the bullshit. How we have to appreciate each other and live positively. The reality of death is in fact a reality that becomes more clear as the years continue to pass.

I lay here unable to shake the idea that my father will not always be around. That I was a total fucking mess of a son who put his parents through so much shit. Heartache and disappointment that goes deeper than I could have understood then.

But it is what was, not what is.

Our relationship today is actually a relationship. Not this burden fueled by anger, resentment and ignorance of each other.

As I got older I realized just how much I am like my father, in more ways than I ever would have appreciated when I was younger.

[Max is snoring next to me.]

 There is a depth to my father that I recognize today. One that I think became more beautiful as he and I got older. I am able to understand him better, now having life experience that allows us to relate. There is a mutual acceptance of one another, something that was not easy to come by. We battled through most of my teen years, never seeing eye to eye about anything.

I remember waiting at the bus stop in our development at age twelve, I was in seventh grade. I attempted to leave the house wearing a Kurt Cobain t-shirt and safety pin necklace that I had made the night before. My father matched my keen new fashion sense with a verbal slap in the face and an immediate order to change. Clearly he did not understand my deep spiritual connection with the late Cobain whose face I wore on my chest like a neon sign flashing I AM COOL. So naturally I put on a father-approved nondescript shirt over Kurt, hid the necklace in my Jansport and did a Superman-like transformation at the bus stop. I felt so rebellious at twelve years old, shedding my clothes in front of the other kids. Revealing the outfit my parents banned. Showing my peers that I was pretty much a badass and they should recognize my innate specialty, or at least maybe talk to me. There was a lot riding on that Kurt Cobain t-shirt and safety pin necklace. It was my in with the grunge kids. My secret weapon from total Middle School annihilation. It never did work.

I proudly showcased the shirt that I was certain would define my identity as an angst ridden, alt-rock rebel. But as I stood waiting anxiously for my fellow bus riders to offer their admiration, my father slowly drove by in what felt like cinematic style slow-motion. He glared at me through his tinted Honda Accord window with eyes that mangled my insides very much like that first bare-handed dig when gutting a pumpkin on Halloween. I knew then it was over.

And that’s how our relationship went for many years. He had his ideas, I had mine. He had his opinions, I had mine. I snuck around, lied and kept things hidden. But he always seemed to be a step ahead or way more aware than I gave either of my parents credit for at the time. They knew most of what I was doing, or at least figured out my delinquency fairly quick. I see today he only wanted what he thought would keep me out of trouble. Keep kids from dragging me through hell. But man I just needed to figure myself out.

I can’t shake the sudden realization that this movie could come to an end at anytime. That it will come to an end. My father will eventually die, like anyone, and I’ll be left with memories that become more distant over time.

This man who has been with me since my conception, who knows more about me than I am sure I’d like him to, will one day be gone. And life will continue to cycle on. His footprint will have been made, many people will say things like, “His memory lives on.”  Blah, blah, blah.

But I really don’t want to lose him.

What I’ve learned in time is that my father (and I focus on my father specifically because of our rough past) is pretty awesome. He is a man of strength, understanding, patience and love. He is passionate, dedicated and creative. He is a man of follow-through and experience. I feel so fortunate to have him as part of my fabric, a main thread in my continued creation.

Those unbelievably long talks he had with me as a kid, the unbearable hour long “lectures” that I tuned out, have begun to resurface and actually make sense today. Talks about doing the right thing, treating others with respect, not caring what people think. God I wanted him to stop talking back then. I don’t think I could have rolled my eyes any further into the back of my head or given clearer body language to communicate that I was an unwilling participant in these conversations.

I only wanted to hear what I wanted to hear. Story of my life. I’m sure Chris would say the same about me today. I know Chris would say the same about me today. Stubborn and sensitive, to say the least.

I have never feared the death of my parents. Except for once as a kid I remember waking up crying after having had a dream about my mom dying then coming to visit me as a ghost in my elementary school cafeteria. But other than that, I never acknowledged that they would someday cease to exist. Especially now when Chris and I are planning to have kids of our own, I need my folks to see their grandchildren grow up. I need them to teach what they taught me.

But that’s where I come in.

Where I do what they say and keep his memory alive. Because I am a direct extension of my parents. I am my mother. I am my father.

I will pass on my dad’s love for awesome music, the bands he brought me up listening to. My kids will know The Beatles, Crosby, Stills and Nash, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd and Motown. They will understand the expression: we all shit the same.

Even in death we are remembered. But in life we must have gratitude for who and what we have. Because death is never a good reason to find an appreciation for life.

My dad is way cooler alive than he will be dead. So I’d much rather him know that now, for us continue growing together so I can pass his message along.

I’m sure I just did by writing this.

Hi dad.

march fourth, march seventh, march eleventh: a chink in the armor

It has been a long few days on the ship with several more to go. A much needed break from work and life. Note to self: those two are purposely being kept separate, as they have been synonymous for too long.

I keep closing my eyes every few moments and the exhaustion that has been plaguing me feels like it settles momentarily. Each blink extends a few seconds before I open my eyes to manic children throwing balls and screaming.

[Extended blink and I feel better]

This lingering fatigue is like day two of a pill bender. Awake but not awoken, dragging my body through the motions while yearning for a moment to sit and close my eyes. A human slug being propelled solely by the need to not feel like a human slug.

[Extended blink]

The most amusing are the surreal in-between-blink-dreams that I can only equate to the “pass out game” we used to play in high school. Where one kid chokes another until he blacks out. In that split moment, vivid images and plotlines play out like epic movies you’ll never see again and forget in the following minutes. You drop out of consciousness for only a few seconds. Your tongue suddenly tastes bitter, head feels fuzzy and you begin to see pulsing lights that float through the air like particles of glitter shaken in water. The oxygen that quit flowing to your brain now begins to make it’s way back and the out of body experience fades just as quickly as it came.

I absolutely loved that game.

So much so that I would strangle myself just to experience the dreams. Alone in my bedroom, I wrapped my hands around my neck and squeezed tight until darkness crept in from my peripheral vision and my head began to tingle. I was convinced that I was accessing some past life or parallel universe. Crossing a plane that was meant to be hidden from the human realm.

[Very extended blink that triggered an image of the Cruise Director dressed as a construction worker saying “Hey, come here” in a Groucho Marx voice.]

* Three days have passed since I wrote the above few paragraphs. *

I have since made my way over to the ships chapel while Chris gets ready for dinner. We return home tomorrow and what has been a weeklong escape from the crazy of reality will close. I feel that this vacation comes just before the storm hits. There is so much change brewing back home that I know this was our time to crawl inward and find whatever it is inside ourselves to move full steam ahead.

I used to hold on to the idea of childhood with clenched fists. I never saw myself as an adult, just this kid getting knocked around and told where to go and what to do next. Not that anyone necessarily was telling me what to do, but I would find myself in situations, play the part, then watch as it crumbled and let the stream float me on to the next thing. Because it’s easier when I’m not the one making the decisions. Taking responsibility.

This chapter in my world right now is one where I actually feel like a big kid and an adult. I’ll never lose the kid, nor do I want to. But I needed the responsible side to kick in.

* Four days have passed [a very long extended blink] We are now home. * 

So much of my personal growth was halted when I began the drug dance at fifteen. I was this insecure, fearful kid with no friends who was followed by the dark cloud of homosexuality no matter how hard I wanted to hide from it. Lonely, introspective and isolated, drugs incubated those feelings for the next fourteen years of my life. I kept secrets, ran from responsibility, lied about everything and gravitated toward anything that had even the smallest possibility of making me feel something other than empty.

I’m sure I held onto childhood so preciously because it was what I knew of a carefree life. A child who was loved so unconditionally by family, who could do no wrong and was treated like a direct extension of the Grand Master. I was special in my own mind and treated like a prince by my family. There were no obligations to worry about, no commitments or relationships other than my immediate family. I was filled with imagination, escaping in fantasy most of my adolescence.

But at some point I began to feel like I let that kid down. Let down that little boy who was still dancing and singing to Michael Jackson on Birchwood Place somewhere in time. I disappointed myself as I grew to see that my isolation was a concern to people. That the inflection in my voice and my less than masculine walk was not so warmly accepted by my peers as I entered middle school. The light that shined so bright within me as a kid faded with each passing day I had to walk the halls of Walter C. Young Middle School. Like a candle deprived of oxygen, my flame slowly retracted and extinguished into a thin line of smoke that dissipated almost as quickly as it came.

I entered what my parents refer to as my “Dark Period”. It was the beginning of the most beautifully tragic time of my thirty years on this planet. A pain that I can look back on now with such an appreciation for. There was a complexity and depth to what I experienced for years that makes me who I am today. It allows me to tell the story with an insight I never would have had without walking that path.

I will share more about that period at some point. But not now.

I got lost on this tangent because I recently realized something that I have not yet fully digested. I am growing up. The years of melancholy incubation is shedding from me like the molting of an old skin that no longer fits this life.

I just Googled “molting” for a visual reference and was lead to Wikipedia, the source of all knowledge. There is a .gif timelapse clip of a cicada molting. An arguably repugnant looking bug that breaks open it’s exoskeleton to emerge as a slightly more attractive creature with large wings. The metaphor is quite beautiful actually.

That exoskeleton, the full-body armor that I shielded myself in has slowly been disassembled over the past few years since rehab — one appendage at a time. Maybe just a pinkie at first. Then a thumb. Pointer finger. After a couple of months, my entire right hand was free. Bit by bit the self-loathing, uncomfortable, sad and bitter shell began to fall. With each chink in armor, the light I lost from childhood began to shine again.

I have my bitch moments. My victim days. Whine sessions. I want to tell people to fuck off more often than I should. I struggle. I get in my head and have a hard time getting out. I’ll always love dark days with deep emotion because that is what I’ve always known. I listen to sad music with heavy lyrics and sullen voices. Tortured artists make me smile and blush.

I think the point is that I’ll always be that squeaky, bouncy little kid who performs for his family in makeshift tank top dresses. I’ll always be that awkward sixth grader who wrote poetry about his purpose in life. I’ll always be that preteen who read books about Witchcraft and attempted spells as revenge on kids who bullied me. I’ll always be swimming in blue shag rug under glow-in-the-dark stars, because that is where it began. I will always be the drug addict who found solace in pain and pain in solace. The artist who found a voice by losing himself.

For so long I had to compartmentalize these things as who I was, who I am and who I wished I could be. The past was painful because it was something I could never have again, the present was miserable because I was never happy, and the future just seemed like it was always out of reach. I was this being who treaded water in limbo, waiting for something that would ultimately never be enough.

But I am beginning to see that I am all of these things. I am past, present and future. Nothing is lost because it all shapes me and in turn I shape what lies ahead.

This is my fabric — all the tears, patterns and beautiful imperfections. With it I have everything I had been searching for all along.

This talk of growth and personal revelation is so much easier said than done. But I guess that’s the whole point of the journey. To keep on walking, experiencing and learning. From the balcony of a cruise ship seven days ago to sitting on my couch at home with The Walking Dead paused on TV. Shit changes so quick, but at the end of the day I’ve always got me. And that will never change.

And so the story continues.

[Extended blink]

February Seventeenth:The storm passing

The trees move.
The wind surges.
Cars flip.
People run and scatter.
Lightning hits ground.
The sky is grey. Thick and dark.
Oceans are lifted.
The ground breaks.

I sit in the center of this change, the uproar and chaos, squinting my eyes as rain veils across my face. My hair dances in the wind, a brown ballerina against an ominous, operatic backdrop.

I am a direct extension of the earth, my body is a mountain planted firmly, legs crossed. Everything around circulates, moves, debris flies around my shell. Cuts, scrapes, blood glistens like metallic red thread against my ash-stained skin.

I watch it all without fear. Like I know this storm in my core. I’ve lived it. Breathed it. And now I am here to observe. To experience it from another consciousness than I have before. It is an extension of my very being, all connected to something from within.

There is a clarity that comes with the destruction that only a survivor could understand. One who has walked these many paths and felt the spectrum of emotion that accompanies it.

But what the hell am I talking about? And what does that mean for now, for this moment? I guess the truth is that I have no fucking clue. It seems like the older I get, the more I realize that nothing remains constant. There will always be change, always be variables and storms that blow through my beautiful house of cards [cue the Radiohead song]. No one likes a stagnant snow globe.

It is so easy to connect the dots after the fact. To look back at thirty years of choices, decisions, people, events and see that 1 led to 2 led to 3 led to 4. That hindsight is twenty-twenty.

Embracing the storm is what I need in order to continue to grow. And the storm is not a bad thing. It is just the idea of life continuously evolving. We are not sentient beings with flat line minds. We manifest and create every moment. We create the people around us, the environment we live in, the conversations, the memories. Everything is a direct extension of who we are and what we want, we can choose to be conscious of that fact or not.

This idea can relate to something as simple as a color. The color blue only exists as my concept of the color blue. It is my perspective that ultimately shapes what blue is in my reality. There is no true shared experience because our experiences are never the same.

The color blue immediately brings me back to my bedroom when I was in High School. Crayola, brilliant-blue walls, deep royal blue shag rug. Nirvana and The Doors posters, magazine collages, art prints, glow-in-the-dark stars and photographs all inhabited the room with me. It was my escape from the outside, the place where my head could quiet or go crazy. It was a four-walled haven that protected me from the fear and insecurities that lay just beyond my door.

I can close my eyes and go back to that bedroom. Hear “The End” by The Doors playing as I lay in the navy shag carpet, feeling it in between my fingers, staring up at the stars on the ceiling. A blue light illuminated the room from a large Chinese ball lantern that hung over my bed. I watched the fan rotate round and round as I faded into blue atmosphere, my body melting into meditative oblivion. This feeling was safety, it was comfort. It was the closest I could come to being right back inside the womb. It was no judgments. Acceptance. A spiritual embrace that kept me level during some of my darkest years.

That is the color blue.

It’s through my associations, my personal memories and experiences, that this color is shaped into existence. I will never understand what blue is to anyone else, just like no one will truly understand what it is to me.

The same applies to people. My partner, Chris, acts based on his own set of experiences and associations. His actions and responses are a product of his journey, brain processing, perspective, spirituality. But my concept of Chris is my own. No one will ever know Chris the way I know him, not even Chris himself, because he is ultimately an extension of me. The Chris in my reality is also a product of my wants, my experiences. That Chris will never exist to anyone else, I have created him based off of his canvas and my perspective.

That thought can be unbelievably isolating or incredibly liberating.

Chris and I were on a plane home from LA yesterday. I had my head on his lap, the Virgin America purple glow filled the interior. We took the red eye back to Fort Lauderdale and we were both in that 2am haze, ready to be home. He was listening to their in flight radio and placed one of his headphones in my ear.

As I lay on his lap, swept away by BellX1’s “74 Swans”, I felt like we were sharing a moment. Both listening to the same song, confined in the same space, having had an amazing trip together. But he sat upright, facing the seat screen in front of him, while my head rested on his lap facing the floor. My mind gets wrapped in the music and I feel like I am living in a movie. The chords resonate within me, striking up emotions that could be dissected into feelings of love, of happiness. On a more epic and dramatic scale, I could close my eyes and see five years ahead. To us having children and living in California, a beautiful home with a perfectly manicured front lawn. It was the feeling of hope and solace that took me more than the mental imagery.

I felt like everything I had ever wanted without knowing that I wanted it was in front of me. And the chorus picks up and I get chills. This whole moment was timed perfectly to the song and I realize that life should have a soundtrack.

That experience was solely in my mind. As Chris squeezed my hand and I looked up at his face, I know that I was in that moment alone. He will never know what just played in my mind, never know the feelings I just felt. And even if I told him, it would not mean to him what it meant to me, nor would he feel what it felt to me.

So it goes. We are alone.

But that is why finding those key people in life who appreciate you for your unique perspective, who nurture that individuality and oftentimes charming weirdness, are so important. Because without them, that experience would not have happened in the first place.

It goes back to needing mirrors in our life. Surrounding ourselves with people who reflect back who we are, what we are doing and where we are in our lives today.

Chris may not understand my blue or know who he is my mind, but it does not matter. He encourages my blue. He appreciates who he is in my eyes. Just like I love who I am in his eyes. That is the most beautiful thing about a loving relationship.

We create each other while creating ourselves.

When I was in rehab at my lowest point, I asked Chris why he loved me. I was a complete mess. He pointed to my heart and said it’s because he knows what’s in there.

And just like that, the storm passes.

February Sixth:I didn’t sleep in my own bed until I was thirteen

Birchwood proved to be an awesome street to grow up on when doing those Facebook quizzes that GetGreenDelivery tell you what your porn name would be. See example below:

Name of your first pet: Baxter
Name of the street you grew up on: Birchwood

My porn name is apparently Baxter Birchwood. And that makes me very happy.

We lived in the townhouse until I was ten. I slept in my own bedroom a very small percentage of that time. From early on I was terrified of the dark. Not a little scared, I’m talking nighttime tantrums and crying fits if my parents wouldn’t let me into their room to sleep on the floor.

My bedroom was on the second floor adjacent to the staircase. I remember one night sitting on my knees in the twin bed, holding tight to the guardrail that held me in. I had to have been no more than a few years old. The lights were off except for a dim glow from the kitchen downstairs. I would watch the shadows that lined the staircase wall like cave paintings from hell. I was so sure that as I watched those shadows, I would begin to see one move as a man slowly walked up the stairs. I would be able to see the top of his head surface as he ascended the steps slowly. Then his face, cast in darkness. I would see this man in my mind so clearly, waiting for him every night.

He carried a large knife that would be used to stab my 4-year-old body repeatedly. All while my parents slept in their bedroom, door locked and completely unsuspecting. But they would be next. He would manage to enter their bedroom and murder them while I lay lifeless and bloody in my bed.

I could feel his presence. His cold and evil intent.

But he never did come.

Night after night I would watch the darkness, the shadows, the staircase. Some nights I would brave it out for an hour. Most nights I would cry until I was granted VIP access to the safety zone. Usually it was just a given that I would be sleeping in my parents room. I slept on a floor for most of my childhood until about age thirteen.

How I understood that kind of emotion and fear so young is something that I take pride in. It makes absolutely no sense why a three or four year old would piece together horrific scenes, feel such intense emotion. I don’t know where it came from, but it paved a path as I grew up.

That fear is an underlying force in my life. So much so that even as I write this entry alone in my house, lights off with a single candle lit, in the back of my mind I imagine a man quietly breaking into my home. He is standing behind me, peering ominously though the closed glass door that separates this room from the living room. He is completely in shadow, but holds something in his hand. Some kind of knife or gun, I’m sure. My heart begins to race, but I keep telling myself there is no way. I know myself and my overly active, dark imagination.

But what if this is that one time. I hear the dog growling in the other room.

Shit.

I turn around and walk out to inspect the house.

I guess some demons never leave. But then again I wonder if I ever really want them to.

 

February Second: old ghosts

He went back into the office the next morning to get some work done while I sat around and continued my Enlightened marathon. Only a few more episodes to go. The feeling of being a total bum began to creep up on me after about the fourth episode. True to form, the inner battle of “just one more episode” plagues me until I finally shut off the TV and start cleaning the house. Like suddenly doing the dishes and taking out the trash after a full morning of watching TV with the blinds closed will miraculously make me feel like any less of a sloth.

I really could just lay there all day. But it very quickly begins to remind me of the days I would be a half bottle of pills deep by noon, curtains drawn, caged in shadow and the numbing glow from a television makes my eyes bleed. Not showered. Filthy house. Animals all over. Dishes on every surface. Sunlight would poke it’s evil eye through splits in the blinds, bright beams of truth. I hated that the most. It was like little spotlights that showed the reality of my situation, moments that briefly pulled me out of complete denial. I would try to pull those blinds as tight as possible. But I was never able to escape the light.

I was supposed to meet my family for a movie over in Hollywood, so I threw on some clothes and made my bed head look purposeful. Let me tell you that requires more effort than you may think. Don’t judge.

I had some time so I decided to drive out to an AA meeting in Davie that I had never been to before. I got to the clubhouse with seconds to spare. The room was filled with smoke, several people chain-smoking as they read the opening meeting readings.

The stench of cigarettes was killer, but I hadn’t been to a meeting in awhile so I felt it my alcoholic duty to myself that I stay.

After what seemed to be the 400th cigarette was lit and I could barely see the faces in the room, I decided it was time to bolt. I try to never leave a meeting before it is over, but this was one of those necessary evils. My clothing reeked of cigarette smoke and my eyes burned. Now not only from lack of sleep, but from the chimney I was just sitting in.

I headed over to Hollywood to check out some of my old stomping grounds before the movie.

Every time I come back to where I grew up, I drive around and the same thing happens. I get hit in the chest with this feeling of sadness. Like someone has died and an ice cream scoop has just done some damage to my insides. Hollowed out dead center.

I’m taking a tour of my teenage years. Driving by my old high school, the strip mall we’d hang out at, the roads we drove down while smoking cigarettes after class. It’s like I can still see myself, still see the memories as I drive through and I watch that kid — that teenager who is lost. I’ll never see him again. It’s a feeling like none other. The realization that everything that was only existed for that moment.

I parked in front of the Subway where I once went with a guy who I thought was my answer to everything. His name was Joe. He wore baggy skater shorts, had piercings, listened to punk music and said stupid shit like “fuck the establishment”. God I thought that was so insightful. I was a rebel by association.

I felt safe. Like I was with this person who was above it all. Who was smarter than, better than. Dangerous. He skateboarded and did more drugs than any sixteen year old should have done. He made chugging Robitussin seem so sexy and cool.

I remember hanging around this plaza with him one night. He talked about damaging cars and The Dead Kennedys, who I pretended to like but had no idea who they were. He let me know that this was where he and his boys hung out. At sixteen I guess it was cool to hang out in grocery store strip malls. Really show the man who’s boss in this here town.

We went to Subway at the very end of the plaza and sat down to eat. He was everything I wanted to be but never really was. The delinquent with the messed up childhood who didn’t give a fuck about anything. I was the nervous, insecure, artsy kid from a good, upper-middle class suburban home with absolutely no reason to be sitting with Joe talking about how fucked up everything is.

But I was smitten. He was the identity I needed to feel secure. And if I had him, I had no fear.

An hour later he broke into the clubhouse at his friend Tom’s complex where they were staying. We went upstairs to the pool tables and laid down. Up to that point I was a nervous wreck, trying to sound as nonchalant and apathetic as possible. But as we lay on that pool table in the clubhouse he just broke into, I could not hide my pathetic doe-eyed lust.

But I know he liked it. I think he saw in me what he wanted for himself.

He kissed me.

It was like the world stopped in that moment. We held each other and I felt myself completely melt into his body. This was like a scene from a movie minus the soundtrack.  His would have probably been The Dead Kennedys. Mine would have been some depressing Tori Amos or Fiona Apple track that would have only embarrassed me at the time.

I wanted him so bad. I wanted to escape into his life and live in that movie for awhile. Maybe forever.

I reached down his pants and kissed him. I had absolutely no idea what to do. I had been with a ton of guys, but none of whom I really ever liked. This was foreign territory to me. I think I froze. Or something happened. But we stopped.

We ended up back at his friend Tom’s house.

They talked about Tom locking his cat up in an oven and how much acid they had done. That if Joe did a handstand for long enough he would have flashbacks.

I was enamored.

By the time Tom fell asleep, Joe and I were cuddled on the floor staring at each other, our feet intertwined.  “I’m hungry,” he announced, “I’m gonna make us something.”

He got up, wearing only his baggy shorts and boxers that hung out the back. I watched him put a pot on the stove and pour in a can of something. I loved watching this rough boy in domestic settings. He was taking care of me.

I got up and walked over to him. I picked up the spatula and began stirring what resembled Chef Boyardee. I looked at him standing next to me and he smiled. He grabbed my ass and pulled me toward him, kissing my neck.

It was then I knew what I wanted. I knew I was gay, but I never understood what that truly meant for me. At that moment I realized that I wanted a man at home, to be with me and love me. I wanted a life with him – for us to cook for each other, sleep together. To be partners in crime. It was something I had never felt before.

That feeling was so new and untouched. I was filled with a purpose and excitement. It was the innocence that makes the memory so hard to come back to. And it plays in my head like I could just find it on OnDemand for $4.99.

But it’s a movie that I can never watch again. These memories are just that. The feelings are the things that linger on. They come back so easily and it’s probably why I do these drives. I need to feel my past to know that it was real. That it happened. I have to connect in order to feel whole.

I sit here in the parking lot typing on my phone as my high school experiences play in my head. Like ghosts that no one can see. But I can feel them. I am still in my school uniform, driving my blue Honda Civic. Listening to Sublime or Portishead. I knew so little and wanted so much.

But I’m still here. My sixteen-year-old ghost is still driving around, wondering what’s next. How is this going to play out? Where can I get fucked up? Always on a mission to escape. To find the thing that would make me feel complete.

I think I’ll always have a foot in that life.