Shame you left
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.
My Entire World
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.
Eighteen
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.
Vexation
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.
Valiance
My parents didn’t know what sex I was prior to my birth. They decided on two names: Aaron if I was born male and Valerie if I was born female. Both names carry the definition of strong: valiant, brave, exalted. Either way, I was coming into this world with no other option but to be the strongest human being I could be.
Aaron still would have had to battle being forced into being a parent of two younger siblings and morphing into a little adult without his consent. He would constantly feel like he couldn’t be a kid and that so much more was expected from him as the oldest child. Despite always feeling that he was expected to act older than he was, he would be told that he was too young to do things, denied experiences because there was no precedent to show his parents whether or not said experience would be okay. He would have to babysit his siblings when his parents went out. He would have to be the leader when things needed to happen around the house and have his siblings be pissed off at him for trying to keep the peace.
As Aaron grew up, he would have been able to navigate his personal appearance with ease; boys' clothing was far more basic and it’s normal and acceptable for boys to just wear t-shirts and jeans, flannels, look sloppy with disheveled hair of all lengths.
Valerie was always told that girls had long hair, dressed a certain way, needed to be careful with her weight. She was often told she didn’t look feminine enough. She had to fight for her short hair, the clothes she felt like herself in, her overall comfort.
Aaron would have been encouraged to speak up, claim his space, not be afraid to be assertive with what he wanted and expected. He would have been taught to ask that girl out, talk about what you need, try out for that team, ask for that promotion, don’t be afraid to take risks! Boys are taught - rather, expected - to be strong.
When Valerie spoke up, she was reminded that women were supposed to be demure, be thankful for what they had, and not rock the boat. Loud women didn’t get ahead- it’s best to let the men lead, both in relationships and at work. Build others up and make them happy before your happiness. She was taught - rather, expected - to be passive.
Aaron would have been talked to about the awakening of his dick and what sex was, why his body was reacting in the ways it was presenting. He would have been taught about how normal and healthy sex is and he shouldn’t be ashamed or afraid of it. He would have been encouraged to explore until he found the right woman; even if he didn’t, bachelorhood can be sexy on certain men.
Valerie was told that women who had a lot of sex were considered sluts, that sex outside of marriage was dirty and sinful, and if she came home pregnant, she would be kicked out of the house. Valerie was told that she was the kind of girl that boys wanted to marry, not the kind that they wanted to date. I would have kids one day. Be patient… he’s out there…maybe if you weren’t so assertive and looked more feminine…
Aaron would have gone out with his friends, drank alcohol, smoked weed, fucked some of his girlfriends (or boyfriends), done all of the “boys will be boys” type activities that are celebrated in youth as boys are finding themselves.
Valerie was told that if she was caught drinking or doing drugs, the substances wouldn’t kill her, her parents would. She was never really allowed to do anything outside of church-related functions or choir-related activities. Sleepovers with friends were rare and curfews were early and strictly enforced.
Aaron would have entered his adulthood with a strong and more assured acceptance of his appearance and his body. He would have known better that he didn’t need to fit himself into a box - present himself a certain way - to feel confident about himself.
Aaron would have entered his adulthood strong and with a sense of ownership of his feelings and his place outside of his familial boundaries, that he would have commanded a room and felt comfortable demanding the attention he felt he needed in the moment.
Aaron would have entered his adulthood strong and with the understanding that sex isn’t something to be embarrassed to talk about, that it’s healthy to explore, and that there is no mistaking that love is love, regardless of the person’s gender.
Aaron might have entered his adulthood a much stronger Adult, but Valerie the Valiant would run circles around Aaron after the journey she has been on to create the world he would have just easily enjoyed.
The strength is found in the journey, and I've lived up to my names.