The recent years of ups and downs had inevitably led to this day, but it didn’t make the hurt any easier to comprehend. After the wake concluded, my family gathered around the casket together to have a last look at our matriarch before leaving the funeral home; the funeral mass and burial would be the next morning. We wiped away tears and went home to spend the longest night of our lives awaiting the final goodbye.

When my family arrived at the church the next morning, the funeral director announced that the casket was open in a small room to the side of the chapel if we wanted to take a moment to say goodbyes privately before her casket was closed forever. We decided to give each other space to go into the room one by one so we each had a last moment on our own with her.

Dad went in first, and he was crying when he emerged from the room. My sisters and I spent some time consoling him before Anne went in. A similar scene transpired when Anne reappeared, and we spent a few moments in a group embrace. Liz went in next, and was in there for quite a while. When I entered the room, I found her kneeling before the casket crying; I had to gently nudge her up and out of the room. Liz closed the door behind her as she left; I was now alone for my turn to say goodbye.

I didn’t rush home when Anne called me to tell me that Mom only had a few days left to live. I had a wonderful conversation with Mom several months prior to her death and it felt like we had said goodbye to one another in that call; there was a beautiful feeling of peace that came over me after I hung up. She knew how much I loved and missed her, I knew how much she loved and missed me and that she was proud of me. I wanted that to be the last moment between us; I didn’t feel the need to see her take her last breath.

As I stood there staring at her in her casket, sure, that was my mom, but it didn’t really look like her. My first reaction was boy, I bet you’re pissed off! since she didn’t look altogether fantastic. Her chin was sunken into her neck, her lipstick was a strange color, her blush a little overdone. She hated being stared at, and as a matter of fact, she included in her Will that we better not be sitting around staring at her in life as her health declined or in death. Mom had the last laugh, though; after a week of someone being by her side constantly, either keeping her comfortable or praying a rosary, she died when no one was in the room with her. It made me chuckle to think that in that moment, she said to us all I meant what I said- don’t stare at me and let me go in peace!

I put my hands on the edge of the casket and leaned in to kiss her forehead. As I started to lean down, her right eye popped open. What the fuck?! I stumbled backwards, breathless. I shook it off and assumed that the glue used to close the eyes during embalming had melted in the humidity. I walked back to the casket, and now both of her eyes were open staring directly at me. I froze; one eye I could understand, but now both of them?! Her eyes were not their usual brilliant blue, but rather a murky gray. As I went to place my hand on her clasped hands that encased her rosary beads, her left hand grabbed mine with great force. I tried to recoil, but she was too fast and her grip became tighter the more I fought her. She started to growl from the left side of her mouth that had also somehow bested the glue meant to keep her lips together.

Her body started heaving, like she was trying to drag me into the casket with her. The bottom of the casket flew open with a tremendous explosion and she started wildly kicking her legs. Mom, stop it, please! She now had a grip on both of my arms with both of her hands and I realized she was using the weight of my body to pull herself out of the casket. I started screaming for help, but no one heard me; I was left alone to fight with my mom.

I shook free from her grasp and fell backwards as her lifeless body crashed to the ground with a resounding crack. She was silent. I sat gaped in horror and wheezing, staring at her body crumpled on the ground. I had to get her back into her casket before someone came into the room.

Is it safe to move? I slowly pulled myself to my knees and with bated breath started to cautiously crawl in her direction.

Closer… closer…

When I was within arms reach again, she shot to her knees and tackled me. Her mouth now fully open, she was roaring with anger. I could tell she was trying to speak, but I wasn’t able to make out anything but garbled noise. She was clawing at me with a rage that I had never encountered, my strength waning the more powerful she became. We fought until I was about to give up, but a surge of energy allowed me to shake her off of me and I was finally free to run.

I ran out into the narthex to find people milling around, talking and hugging one another. I turned around and Mom was right behind me, chasing me closely. She kept grunting and growling, her roars echoing throughout the entire sanctuary. Mom, stop it, please! No one throughout the church noticed what was going on; everyone carried on their conversations, found their seat for the funeral, knelt silently in prayer. Dad was in the front pew, staring at the altar, oblivious to everything happening around him. I was running past people who have known me and my family for years and not one person cared to recognize that my mom was… alive and chasing me?

I zigzagged through the pews, trying to shake her balance and lose her, but she followed along without fail, her screeching becoming more bellowing the more I ran. Each time I changed directions, she flew up to the beams of the church, swinging herself from beam to beam, trying to get ahead of me. I burst through the front doors of the church out to the parking lot, passing the hearse that was supposed to transport her to the cemetery. I ran along the perimeter of the church and found a cubby hole to hide in. Mom ran past me towards the forest, growling harder, and I thought I heard her say the word goodbye.

Goodbye.

Is that why she was chasing me? Because I didn’t go home to say goodbye to her in person before she died? Or maybe she was upset because she didn’t get to say goodbye to me? Goddammit.

I started to get choked up, but shrugged it off; I didn’t have time to cry right now because I had to get help to find Mom and get her back into her casket before the funeral mass started. I poked my head out of the cubby hole to see if I could see Mom; she was nowhere in sight, so I took off towards the front of the church. I threw the church doors open and ran straight to Anne and Liz, out of breath and terrified, trying to explain to them what was happening.

Mom….outside… chasing me… zombie… empty casket… too strong… help…

They looked at me like I had gone completely mad and told me that was impossible. I recounted the events to them: Mom had been attacking me, chasing me all throughout the church and outside into the parking lot, how did they not see this?! She ran into the forest, we have to go find her before the mass starts!

Anne said, You just came from the room her casket is in, Aaron.

No, I didn’t- I just ran through the front doors of the church, you saw me!

In an effort to calm me down, we spent a few moments in a group embrace and then I walked with Liz to the room where the casket was, the entirety of the walk my trying to convince her that Mom wasn’t going to be in there, asking why she didn't believe me. She didn’t notice that I was speaking to her or even that I was walking with her. Liz walked into the room but I waited outside. I realized that she had been in there for a while, so I entered the room and-

(gasp) That’s not possible…

All of the air left the room. Mom was peaceful in her casket. Not a hair out of place, her outfit as pristine as the first time I looked at her, her brooch perfectly placed and not at all askew; eyes and lips perfectly sealed.

I don’t understand. My emotions started to intensify the longer I stood there; I felt crippled.

Goodbye.

Liz was kneeling before the casket crying; I had to gently nudge her up and out of the room. Liz closed the door behind her as she left; I was now alone for my turn to say goodbye.

I put my hands on the edge of the casket and leaned in to kiss her forehead, hesitating for a brief moment; my lips met her forehead. After that gentle kiss, I said Goodbye, Mom through flowing tears.

Aaron… Aaron… AARON!

Liz finally shook me out of the haze I was in as I was staring at Mom. How long had I been in this room? What happened while I was in here? Liz finally said-

Did you hear that? They announced that it’s time to close the casket. The nightmare is over.

I am intuitive and intelligent, able to see situations and speak with authority effortlessly;

but I am the first to deafeningly tell myself that I don’t belong in any room, imposter syndrome invariably louder than my own voice.

I am passionate and loyal, no one would question my love or intentions;

but I’ve never learned how to break the cycle of constantly breaking my own heart when I don’t know when to let go.

I am affable and affectionate, always willing to lend my advice or my support or my world-famous hugs;

but I am solidly in middle age and still haven’t mastered recognizing when I am being taken advantage of until it’s too late.

I am confident yet doubtful; I am unyielding yet breakable; I am tranquil yet anxious.

I am Human.

I live with what I've known, that it was never me; you left me far behind because you knew you treated me unfairly. I guess you had your reasons, but I wish you could own up to your mistakes; let’s talk about it, share the pain. I could have made my own mistakes, crumble to the ground in defeat, but I would get back up and talk and apologize. Some would say your life was sad, but never me. That cold day when you lost control, I understood but you shut me out of your life. I’ll never understand why.

I was 13 when I met David. He was the choir director at the high school I would eventually attend. He was at the junior high school facilitating auditions for the 8th graders, determining which choir(s) all of us would land in come the fall. He was an intimidating presence: he was a genius, and he was a legend throughout the state due to the renowned success of his choirs and individual students. He had these crystal blue eyes that made you feel that no one in the world mattered but you when he was looking at and talking with you. He fiercely cared about his students, and some of us were luckier than others to be in his “inner circle”.

Throughout our time together as his student, I became his shadow. I dressed like him, emulated his conducting, and was constantly in his office trying to soak up as much of him as I could. There came a point in my junior and senior years that it was just understood that I was his right hand; if he was late for school (he always was) or rehearsals, I would get everyone warmed up, get into the music, and then he’d take over when he got there. No one ever thought it was weird or ever questioned it. I was his stand-in and I fucking loved it.

When I left for college, leaving him was harder than leaving my family or any of my friends. The long summers during the school years were hard enough to not see or talk to him, and now I was moving 3 hours away? I couldn’t fathom my life without him; I really only ever felt normal when I was around him. He gave me his phone number and told me that I could always call him for any reason. He told me that he knew that I was going to need someone since I was moving away and that he would always be there. It was a very intense sentence, and I was puzzled by his comment… little did I know that he already figured out that I was gay. I left for college in August 1994.

October 1, 1994: the first time I kissed a woman. The reason I remember that date is because- not only was that a magical experience and cleared up a lot for me- it was also the day my paternal grandmother died. I went back to my hometown overwhelmed with my feelings for that woman and what to do with the state of overwhelm I found myself in. I had no one to talk to… but wait! OMG, is this what David meant? Surely not. I can’t tell him this! I knew he was gay, but could I really talk to him? The more I thought about it the more his comment really started to become clear to me. A few weeks passed and I finally got up the nerve to call him. We were on the phone for 3 hours that night. He laughed and told me when he met me when I was 13, he knew I was gay (what?!). He knew that he was going to get this phone call, but he didn’t think he was going to get it so soon after I moved away.

From that moment on, he became my rock; I sort of became his kid. Quite frankly, it is because of him that I am still alive. Not that coming out and coming to terms with queerness is any easier in one place over another, but I was in the south. I had no one to talk to (mid-90s… no one is really open and out). I don’t know what I would have done without him. We talked all the time; he kept me up to date about what was going on with the choirs and such, we talked about music and conventions, I confided in him about anything and everything.

After a few years and despite our 19 year age difference, we just became odd best friends. When I moved back to my hometown, he would bring me to parties and introduce me to all of his friends (they all knew who I was because I was his “kid”), we would go out to dinner & bars & clubs & shows & concerts together. He hired me to teach voice lessons, choreography, and the like at the high school with him. The David-and-Val-Show was back together again and I was over the moon.

Prior to me moving back to my hometown, I found out that he was HIV+. I was living with a university professor for a short while in between moves and he told me, accidentally; since everyone knew how close David and I were, he thought I already knew. A few weeks after that, David was at the university for the annual choral summer camp and he took me out to talk about it. He was so upset that I heard about his status from someone other than him. He had been positive for a few years, but he was relatively healthy, had good doctors, took care of himself, etc. He let me cry and tried to convince me that he was fine.

I was absolutely destroyed; I knew our time was limited now.

Years came and went. In and out of hospitals. Medicine changes. Doctor changes. He’d be healthy for a while and then would just drop like a ton of bricks. Rinse, repeat. I’d go to his house and keep him company; I’d spend time at the hospital with him. I met his whole family and grew close to them. I had a whole other family and they were just wonderful and so appreciative of my presence with him; I was grateful to be included in his family.

He ended up in the hospital for a little over a week, and he asked me not to come; he said he just needed to rest. I didn’t buy it. He finally reached out to me to tell me he was going to a home to recuperate and that he wanted me to come by. When I got to the home, he looked great; he was sitting in the chair next to the bed and greeted me with his usual smile and giant hug. He had me sit down with him. He looked at me and said “my doctor fired me yesterday. There’s nothing else he can do for me. This is a hospice home. This is it.” While I had figured this out (he had never not wanted me to come around) and knew it was coming, I felt like my world ended in that moment sitting on the bed with him. I held it together while I was with him, but as soon as I left the room- and for the rest of the night- I cried a fucking ocean of tears. The next several days were torturous. I stayed at the home to help his family with whatever they needed and just to remain in his presence as long as I was going to be physically allowed at this point.

I stayed at the home as long as I was allowed to on June 14. He was barely breathing and had stopped talking two days earlier. I can still see him in that room and the details of every inch of that room that night. I went to bed knowing he was gone. Around 1:45am on June 15, I shot up in bed, gasping for air like someone had knocked the wind out of me. It was obviously a kind of violent movement as I woke my partner (at the time) up with my actions. She asked “omg, are you okay- what the hell happened?” and I told her just didn’t know. I settled down and went back to sleep.

David’s dad called me at 7:45am to tell me that David had died at 1:45am.

His parents asked me to speak at his funeral: a day in the life of being a student of his. It was extraordinarily difficult for me to do, but I somehow made it through it. There were so many former students, choir directors, etc there and it was such a celebration of a remarkable human. I went by the funeral home the day of the funeral and when I said I was there to see him and check in with his family, I was asked “are you family?” I heard his mom say from another room “Yes, she’s family- let her in here.” I’ve not heard from or spoken to any of his family since. I reached out to them shortly after a move to the same state they lived in, and the letter I sent them- addressed correctly- was returned for some reason. I kind of felt that was a good thing; I don’t know that I could have handled getting closer to them and then losing them- it would have felt like reliving David’s loss. Or maybe not. Maybe that’s my mistake, but at the time I felt like I had to protect my heart.

When my wife and I met in 2005, I was still pretty raw from losing him. I remember her telling me that she wasn’t at all nervous about meeting my parents, but OMG if she had to meet David she would have been terrified; he was obviously my world, so how in the world was she going to impress my “world”? She finally said “I hope he would like me.” I remember telling her he sent her to me. There is no question in my mind that he orchestrated getting me the fuck away from my abusive partner and into my wife’s life so that I would finally realize happiness and that I was worth more than the life that I had resigned myself to living. Trust me, babe- I know he adores you.

In my mind and in my heart, being in love with someone isn’t just defined by a romantic relationship. I can't think of a time in my life where I wasn't completely, ridiculously in love with David. I blame him for my obsession with perfection, despite knowing that it is just inherently part of who I am- but he really always pushed me to be the best Me and I'm grateful for that (albeit exhausting at times). I achingly miss him, but he is very much alive in me. I hope I honor him in my life somehow. The people we fall in love with never leave us, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I kissed a woman for the first time when I was eighteen. I still remember that night- the whole weekend, really- like it was yesterday. I’m going to phenomenally impress you and tell you that it was October 1, 1994. There’s a reason I remember that exact date, and not just because it was the first time I kissed Claire.

Claire and her roommates had a party that night and damn near everyone in the music department was in attendance. As I was learning pretty quickly as a college student, after a hard week of school it was time to party. Since I wasn’t yet 21 and was a total rule follower, I wasn’t super into drinking just yet. I enjoyed hanging around my new music friends and getting to know them through sober lenses. I guess you’re not getting to know the real person when they are a few Everclear shots into the night, but I digress.

Claire’s house was pretty far from campus, so I had hitched a ride with a friend. Several hours into the party, he let me know that he was leaving. I gathered my belongings to join him, and I realized that my dorm identification was missing. As it was pretty late, I wouldn’t be allowed into the dorm without it. Claire offered to let me stay the night, and said she would drive me home in the morning. I helped her clean up, and she invited me back to her bedroom to keep talking. Nervously twitching, I followed her.

I should pause here a moment and explain a few things: I found myself oddly and fiercely attracted to Claire. She was 24, and I seemed like such a baby at 18. Besides the fact that she was gorgeous and every guy in the music department was in love with her, her voice was incredible. Her speaking voice was soft and soothing, but then she opened her mouth to sing, and this effortless, glorious soprano voice filled the room. She would finish singing in seminar and flash her stunning smile as people applauded. I was mesmerized.

But there was one thing that constantly plagued me: she was a woman- why did I melt into a puddle when I was around her? This was a totally new feeling to me, and something that I couldn’t reconcile.

Okay, back to her bedroom. We were talking nonstop getting to know each other, and we laid down on her bed and kept talking. And talking. We kept moving closer to one another and suddenly we were holding hands; then a little while later, we were holding one another as we were talking. She started stroking the back of my hair as we were talking and laughing. I melted everywhere, not being able to breathe. My face was buried in her neck. I felt deliriously happy. I pulled my head back to say something, and without hesitation, our lips met.

Now, I can’t say that at that point in my life I had kissed that many guys, but I can say that I had never experienced the feeling that I was having while kissing her. It was euphoric. I didn’t know if it was the softness of her lips, her intoxicating perfume, the feeling of her body pressed against mine, or feeling like I had an emotional connection to her. Or it was all of it. All I knew is that it was the most normal I had ever felt being close to someone, and I didn’t want to let her go or stop kissing her. I guess she was feeling the same as I was since we didn’t stop holding and kissing each other for hours. We eventually kissed each other to sleep.

When we woke up, Claire and I both seemed a little stunned and confused. We talked for a little while about what had happened overnight. We both got dressed and she drove me back to my dorm. Just like the ease of taking a breath, I leaned over to kiss her goodbye; our lips met and I felt my breath leave me again. It was just so normal and I felt like I floated up to my dorm room.

That feeling of weightlessness left me as soon as I walked into my dorm room to 14 missed calls, and nearly as many voicemails. My grandmother had died the day before- October 1, 1994. I immediately made travel plans and Claire drove me to the airport. She got out of the car, wrapped her arms around me, and deeply kissed me before smiling and saying “I’ll see you when you get back.”

I was not at all mentally or emotionally present at my grandmother’s funeral. I was so consumed with thoughts of my night with Claire, desperately wanting to get back on the plane to go back to school so I could see her... I so badly wanted to kiss her and be in her arms again. But was that going to happen? Would this week apart from one another kill whatever brought us close together to begin with that night? Was it all just a dream?

Claire and I were together for nearly 4 years. As we were each other’s first girlfriends, it was not at all an easy road, especially in the South in the mid-1990s. There were parents and siblings to contend with and guilt over religious upbringings in conflict with being gay and friends who did not agree about our relationship and on and on. Sex was awkward for a long time for a multitude of reasons but we learned to talk about needs and desires. Communication was tough, but we always seemed to sort out our thoughts together. Even though we were together, we found ourselves dating guys on the side as if we were trying to prove to ourselves who we really were; were we actually gay? Were we just confused? Did we happen to fall in love with who we were as humans and not necessarily because we were women? We’d go on dates or make out with guys and come back together and just laugh. We gave each other the space to figure it out, but we were always each other’s safe space to land.

That night- October 1, 1994- and the following years, as tumultuous as they were, changed the trajectory of my life. I learned to trust my intuition, to approach all of life’s chaos gently with patience and understanding, the most important thing you can offer a partner is your ability to listen and learn, to loudly be proud of who I am, and above all else…

Love is Love.

Seen just now

Seen 1h ago

Seen 11h ago

Seen 20h ago

Seen yesterday

Seen Monday

Seen last week

Seen

Seen…

Seen…

Scene.

I think it’s absolutely ridiculous that I was forced into existence: to work my dick off in jobs I detest, to be in pain, to pay bills, to suffer illness, to go from being happy to near despondent at any given moment for no reason whatsoever, to deal with assholes, to feel loneliness, to be so OCD that I have to check my locked goddamn doors 12 times before I fall asleep, and on and on.

I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t ask to be born.

“Life is a gift” is such a bullshit sentiment. Aren’t gifts supposed to be full of fun and bring cheer? If life is a gift, then why do I have to work so fucking hard to find the fun and the cheer?

When we were kids, Dad always told us kids suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.

A temporary problem.

Pfffft.

Life is a temporary problem, one problem right after the fucking other; when do I get to be free of problems?

<deeeeeep breath>

I didn’t ask to be here. I’m just exhausted.

Maybe I’ll sleep tonight. Not forever, but finally make it through a full night without lying awake wondering when the pain stops.

I know I am loved and valued and make a difference to those around me,

but godDammit–

sometimes that’s just not enough to sustain my positivity.

But I’ve battled and persevered through some fucked up shit to arrive at the person I am now,

but again–

I didn’t ask for this battle.

Christ almighty, when do I get to breathe?! I’m weary from suffocation.

You know, when I was down or could have used a little help, I was on the receiving end of annoyance, or made to feel like I was a burden, or made to feel that other people’s problems or situations were more important than mine and what I was going through when I reached out for a shoulder to cry on for a bit.

That shouldn't be too much to ask of your parents, right?

To talk? To be there? To listen?

My parents brought me into this “cherished gift of life” because they wanted to have children. Selfishly, because it was expected, to fill a want or a need or a void, I don’t know… I lost the ability to discern why they wanted kids. I guess their distance and annoyance all rudely showed me I wasn’t a child anymore, so I grew up because it was clear they expected me to figure it out for myself.

And then I fucking grew up to the point that I didn’t need to rely on them anymore, and then they had the

Audacity

to say I abandoned them.

With everything I have fought through to get where I am now, they want me to give that all up and just come back and take care of them because that’s what I am supposed to do? Because I am their child, it is my lot in life to care for them as they are ailing?

FUCK ALL OF THAT.

I didn’t ask for Any of this.

Our parents treat my siblings - who did give up their lives to care for them - like utter garbage. The parents act like angels when the social workers arrive and morph back into devils when the workers leave. No respite or peace for the ones providing constant care.

It’s not my fault you refused to go and to listen to the doctors who could help you. It’s not my fault you didn’t do your physical therapy. It’s not my fault you refused to leave the house. It’s not my fault you turned down medication. It’s not my fault you never dealt with your demons. No one discouraged you from maintaining your health; in fact, all you could do is shrug it off.

But now I am the one who is selfish, wanting to be and remain happy and not be dragged into the depths of their fucking misery.

You gave up. I NEVER gave up.

I did not ask for ANY of this. I cannot save you. I love you, but I have to save myself.

My story isn't over yet.

<exasperated sigh>

I Should be sad that they are dying.

I’m not.

To me, they died a long time ago. Only their bodies are here.

I am not a vindictive person, but I will not be made to feel guilty for putting me and what’s best for me first.

Ever.

Again.

Goodbye.