forced

Tonight, I am having my annual ‘gay boy’ BBQ. Typically anywhere between 30-60 people show up. For this year’s, I only invited some of closest ten friends or so. Didn’t feel like I could do more than that, and how do you invite all of Denver and not invite the person you want there the most—the person that would make you not function if he showed up?

Typically, on these days, I spend the entire morning cleaning and getting the house ready and start cooking about this time. Today, I’ve done nothing, and I’m not starting to cook or clean until an hour or so before, which means it will all be half-ass. I remember loving doing all this stuff before, with Chad and even before him. I wonder when that will return. It is taking everything in me not to call my friends and cancel. I don’t want to be weepy and sad around them tonight. They’ve seen enough of that, and (although this blog would beg to differ) I am tired of talking about it with people. Nobody can fix it or make me understand or make him love me, so what’s the point. Hopefully (like I tell my kids to do), I can fake it until it becomes real. Many of them I haven’t seen much this summer. It just hurts to see the friends who have stood by me through so much and have to stand by me yet again—friends that were a part of the life Chad and I were building and are now part of the life Brandon is surviving. Stupid, I know. Leave it to me to steer clear of my friends I love the most. Makes a lot of sense.

I would love to sit here in my safe little seat at the coffee shop and be surrounded by people that don’t know me (there are a couple people here now that know me, and I can’t make myself go see them either), and just tell the rest of the world to go away and leave me alone. Except for Gavin. Babies really are phenomenal. Holding him is one of the few times where I’m not hurting as much—just filled with love for him. Good thing I don’t have a ton of money, I would totally be having one of my own right now. Cause that would be a good decision. I can understand people that have kids so that they can have someone to love who won’t leave them—at least for awhile…

ripping/building

This is so not what I was wanting to blog about today. I had a pretty big life moment last night, but I can’t speak of it yet, like I was planning. Maybe at the end I can.

I just got a text from Chad a few moments ago asking me what my plans were for the first weekend in August. Thanks to my delusional psyche, I thought about him taking me to Estes, where we spent our first night out of town together, to rekindle our flame. I’m an idiot, and I am fully aware of that. He wanted to come by and pick up the stuff that I have been storing for him. He is signing the lease where he is going to live and now has room for his stuff. He also asked if we could go to lunch before/after. He wanted to take me to sushi. I know he meant it sweet, trying to take care of me like he always does, but I told him no, that I couldn’t do lunch after that, it would hurt too much. I don’t know how I thought the day would go when he finally got his stuff, but I am sure it had something to do with him realizing that he didn’t want it to leave my house, that he wanted to move back in. Because that’s gonna happen.

I am also sick to death of facebook. I decided several days ago that I was going to quit checking his status to see how he is doing. I realized when he wasn’t aware of my submitting the novel that he doesn’t ever really check mine. Of course, yesterday, on the main page was his post (I didn’t go to his page to see it, it was just there, first thing), saying how he was skipping to work that morning. It was followed by a few cryptic posts by friends saying they wondered why he was skipping with smiley faces and LOL’s. Obviously, he’s getting some or excited about a boy. I don’t get it. Not ready for a relationship. Said he loved me more anything a week before he left. Always, always wonderful to me. Over two years that were the best of my life. How does that change so fast? How can he not love me or care now? How do I get through this?

The thing I wanted to blog about? I sent in my manuscript of The Shattered Door last night. The editor will have it tomorrow morning by Ten. It felt like one of those slow motion, life-changing moments. No matter how it goes. It was a moment I have waited and worked for for so long. I pray it will have a good outcome. I hate to hope for it, but I can’t help it. It would be so wonderful for this year to have at least one redeeming quality for the personal life of Me. I should know his thoughts by December 17^th. So, now the waiting, praying game.

The Journey Between Birth and Death

I have been aching to blog for days and days, but time has not permitted. There are so many things I need to vomit out, and I will probably be all over the place. In order to keep things straight (…) I will provide an outline—after all, who likes surprises (I love you, I’m leaving. Surprise!)?

Blog for July 27, 2009 Outline:

I. Exciting and Adorable News

II. Exciting and Possibility News

III. Excruciating and Redundant News

I. On July 24, Gavin Bailey Witt was born at 8:30 in the morning. He was 19 inches and weighed 6 pounds and 12 ounces. Typically, newborns are not very attractive. However (this honestly isn’t ‘uncle’ talking—I don’t call people pretty who aren’t, the gay gene doesn’t allow it), he is a gorgeous baby. Really. Therefore, the past days have been filled up with babiness. I know how to put together baby beds, strollers, and pick out a safe and reliable, yet stylish, car seats. My family also got to see the pit bull in me, which few of those who love me don’t ever get to see or even know exists (unless they have worked with me at the residential treatment center or at school). Gavin’s mom bought what was supposed to be a very good baby car seat/stroller at Kmart several months ago. However, when in the car, Gavin’s head kept flopping forward in a rather terrifying manner. The car seat person at the hospital told them that it wasn’t safe. Therefore, we tried to return it to Kmart (the receipt had been thrown away—before the baby was born, the car seat looked fine—too much trust in products sold in America). The clerk and the male manager treated us like crap. Seriously. I can handle many things. However, one thing I can’t tolerate is being spoken down to. Maybe I do have too many tattoos. Maybe my jeans were ripped. Maybe I do have Mohawk. Maybe your fucking car seat is going to cause my nephew bodily injury. By the time we left, I was shaking in rage, had completely gone off on the manager and told him exactly where he could stick his better-than-you attitude, as well as gotten a full refund on the stroller (after treating us like white trash, he then tried to only refund half). That didn’t fly. In addition to looking like white trash, apparently, I also look rather intimidating. Thanks to that and the other manager (thank you, Andrea), we were able to get the money back, and get a quality, un-murderous baby product elsewhere! Anyway, Love, Love, Love, Love, Love, Love Gavin!

II. On Wednesday, I wrote a query email to the Editor-In-Chief of Kensington Books in New York City. This is my dream editor and publishing company. Therefore, I figured, reach for the brightest star you can. Best to get turned down by the best than accepted by the worst (at least at first). His website wasn’t encouraging. It talked about how long it would take for him to get back with you and if he didn’t like your noel or idea; that he simply wouldn’t get back with you, so please don’t email more than once. Feeling mixtures of excitement and nausea, I pressed the send button, letting my idea for the Missouri book fly to its destiny. Seven minutes later, he sent me an email asking me to send him my manuscript! I thought it might be a generic form letter, but when he wrote back a few minutes later giving me their new address, he used his initials instead of his actual name and title. So, not generic. Yay!!! He said it would take sixteen to twenty weeks to get me a result. I am not under the delusions that he will say he wants to publish it, however, I hope. (I’m not under the delusions that Chad will come back and that he still loves me, but I hope.) At least he likes the idea of it, so that’s encouraging. Please keep this in your prayers and thoughts. It would just be so amazing!

III. Saturday, Chad and I finally went to see Harry Potter. The movie rocked. I think it was my favorite one thus far. It was wonderful to see Chad, and horrible. It had been almost two months since we had seen each other. I didn’t look sad, teary, or depressed at all while we were together. The time since, however, the same can’t be said. There are not words to describe how much it hurts to hear the man I want to spend my life with tell me he is signing a lease, changed the Entertainment Weekly delivery address, tell me all about his fun, fun, fun life he is living, and walk away into his house, leaving me behind.

wrong

I didn’t think it would go past a kiss on the dance floor

I didn’t think I’d kiss you twice

I didn’t think you be the best kiss of my life

I was wrong

I thought I would be the one to hurt you

I thought I would be the one to leave

I thought I would be too scared to stay

I was wrong

You said that you wouldn’t be the one to go

You wanted me so badly

You asked me to simply keep loving you

What was wrong

It seemed I made you happy

It seemed I made you feel loved

It seemed I was the one to be by your side

I was wrong

I felt safe in your arms

I felt forever in your kiss

I felt you’d walk by my side

I was wrong

You haven’t look back, not once

You haven’t mourned the death of us

You haven’t felt a hole in your life

You haven’t found me more valuable than ___________

You haven’t missed my love

Everything you do shouts how much

I was wrong

14

It's amazing how much joy and love a person can experience while being in agony at the same time.

The album for my life at this moment

So, I have found my Life-After-Chad album (which in no way indicates that I don’t hope with everything in me that there will be a Life-After-Chad-Returns album later). It just came out, so we never heard the songs together—it is all Brandon discovered. And it has the perfect mix of mostly poppy dancey (dancy?) songs that let me sort gig as I walk the dogs and feel all woman-powered and shit, and just a few slow sappy songs to let me gt a little teary and shout, ‘Damn Right, you sing it girl!” So, while I didn’t love her first album, Jordin Spark’s second album is pure gold. And, of course, here are the two songs that seem to be my Chad and Brandon anthems.

Was I the Only One

When you told me that I was a star in the sky,

Baby I believed every word.

And you seemed so sincere,

It was perfectly clear,

Cause forever was all that I heard.

And every little kiss,

From your tender lips,

Couldn't of been a lie.

I fell heart over head,

Without a safety net,

And I don't understand this goodbye.

Was I the only one who fell in love?

(Was) There never really [] the two of us.

And maybe my all just wasn't good enough.

Was I the only one, only one, in love?

As I walk down the hall,

See the place on the wall,

Where the picture of us used to be.

I fight back those tears, cause I still feel you here.

How could you walk out so easily?

And I don't understand, how I can feel this pain, and still be alive.

And all these broken dreams,

And all these memories,

Are killing me inside.

Was I the only one who fell in love?

(Was) There never really [] the two of us.

And maybe my all just wasn't good enough.

Was I the only one, only one,

Tell me, what I'm supposed to do with all this love?

Baby, it was supposed to be the two of us.

Help me, cause I still don't want to believe.

I was the only one.

I was the only one.

I the only one who fell in love.

(Was) There never really [] the two of us.

And maybe my all just wasn't good enough.

I the only one, the only one.

I the only one who fell in love.

(Was) There never really [] the two of us.

And maybe my all just wasn't good enough.

Was I the only one, the only one, in love?

When you told me that I was a star in the sky,

Baby I believed every word

And:

No Parade

I'm already looking back

I'm already looking around

Where did we get off the track

What was it that brought us down

I'm already waking up

How I've been asleep too long

Losing you is hard enough

Not knowing anything was wrong

Changes come but where they go?

You'll never know

Just another day like any other

Nothing in the sky said run for cover

Just another reason never thought it would end this way

There was no parade

No lights flashing

No songs to sing along the way

There was no parade

The years were supposed to last

You were never supposed to be

Just somebody in the past

Somebody I used to see

Trouble crept up all nights

Warning never came in time

Before I knew it we were dust

Just left behind, left behind

Changes come but where they go?

You'll never know

Just another day like any other

Nothing in the sky said run for cover

Just another reason never thought it would end this way

There was no parade

No lights flashing

No songs to sing along the way

There was no parade

No waves crashing

There was no one else around for days

There was no parade

After all the losing never hurt than last goodbye

It was sudden as butterflies

There was no parade

No lights flashing

No songs to sing along the way

There was no parade

No waves crashing

There was no one else around for days

There was no parade

Delusions

Now that I have finished the two drafts of my novels (one is ‘ready’ for submission—the other Chad is still reading for me to give me his feedback), I have been reading the book about how to get your book published. It has always been a scary thing, but it is overwhelming at the moment. I feel like I am crazy even trying. I know it is a lot of my ‘issues’ and maybe not reality, but still…

Everything from the past keeps running through my mind. I was so sure that Grandma was going to be healed from cancer, that she would live, that God had spoken to me and confirmed it. I was planning on living the rest of my life with Chad, having him call me husband, having him beside me as I went through this process, so sure he truly loved me. Obviously, there is a problem with my perception of reality. You can say it is the rest of the world’s problem only so long until you have to admit that it obviously is something about you or your discernment. I was so sure about both of them, and I am nowhere near as sure about this writing. It is tapping into my sense of rejection and unworthiness. If the love of my life doesn’t really love me or want me, why the fuck would some big-time editor give me a shot or even glance twice at me? Not to mention, I pictured this time of my life so differently. Chad believed (or at least seemed/s to believe) in my writing probably more than anyone else. I want him by my side as I write these letters, as I get the rejection responses, and maybe get a letter saying they will publish my manuscript. We could jump up and down screaming, go out to dinner, kiss and make love in celebration. Between the two, of course, I would pick life with Chad over life as an author any day. Any day. It was obviously too much to hope for to have both, and now it seems too much to hope for to have either. However, just like part of me has not been able to let go of some fucked-up twisted hope that Chad will change his mind, I cannot let go of the dream of being a writer. I can’t just cut off my feelings and not keep part of my heart available for Chad should he want it, nor can I just throw away all the work and dreaming of writing for fear of being rejected once more. Part of me wonders if I simply enjoy the drama, enjoy the pain. Maybe what makes me feel special is this—that I get to play the victim. If I didn’t, then surely, I would quit loving and hoping for Chad, quit trying to be something more than what I am. Quit the damned crying. What makes me think I can be something most people don’t get to be? What makes me think I will have a love that lasts that is beyond what most people experience? Maybe it narcissism or sadomasochism. Maybe I am the larva that dreams of being a butterfly, refusing look at my reflection to see the maggot and the fly that will be the future.

Gym Myths, Debunked

Since the world (yes, the entire world is reading this blog—I’m that important) is tired of my bitching and complaining over the same heartache day after day, I will bitch and complain about something else (lucky you!). I worked out this morning. Really, I did. My fat has not decreased, nor has my chest definition increased. However, my time at the gym did give birth to this:

Gym Myths, Debunked:

1. Unless your weight machine is suddenly transported to a beach with a rainbow umbrella over it and you have a fruity cocktail in your hand, you are not on a vacation; there is no reason to read a book, talk on the phone, or stare into space for five or more minutes in between sets while lounging on the workout equipment.
2. If you have to rear back and thrust your body around like a hermit crab in convulsions, you are not actually lifting the two hundred pounds you think you are, nor are the tiny little muscles you think are swelling getting any type of workout in the slightest.
3. Just because you are sweating at the gym doesn’t mean that you are fit and in shape yet, there is no motive to force the rest of the population witness your rolls of fat struggle against your stretched beyond reason spandex, we haven’t done anything to you!
4. Being surrounded by other men does not give you freedom to cut your nails, trim your body hair, or use a pumas stone on your calloused and flaky feet in the sauna.
5. Unless you’re actually as hot as you think you are, there is no plausible excuse for standing at the sink shaving for half an hour, naked. None.
6. The fan blowing on you as you pant and puff on the cardio equipment, even though you’re under the delusion that it does, cannot hide the fact that you haven’t brushed your teeth in weeks and that five skunks died from your halitosis on your way to the gym.
7. Yes, we know you are straight. Yes, we know you think other peoples’ cock is gross and you love pussy (shudder). However, we also know that you love having our eyes on you as you flex and strut in front of the mirror; your huge muscles bulging from the two inches of fabric that covers your body. Quit scowling and acting disdainful—you’re not fooling anyone.
8. When your body hair curls around the straps of your tank top and out from underneath the hem, covering part of the sweat soaked material, it does gross out the rest of gym—the disgusted looks are not just your imagination.
9. People moving away to machines several feet away from you doesn’t mean that they are intimidated by your masculine prowess—it means you fucking stink. Take a shower and wash your clothes!
10. And, yes! I do mind if you work in with me! I waited for you to read a novel, have six conversations on the phone, and take a nap between sets—sit down and wait your turn, and enjoy the show!

if you're happy and you know it clap your hands

I think I may have figured out why the past couple weeks have been getting worse instead of better. For instance, I know that he is getting on the plane shortly in San Diego and getting ready to come home. Of course I said a prayer for his safety and all of that, but he won’t be coming home to me, I won’t be getting a call to let me know he landed. He will be going to the house where he lives now—not to my house/our house. I think for awhile, I was somehow making myself see this. . . this. . . existence (?) that I’m living now as how my life is. Not how it is for now, but just how it is. In some strange way, it was helpful. I think I have once again started thinking of life as what is for now. As if there is a chance he is going to change his mind and come back and then my life can start again. I’ve got to remember that I am already living my life. This is it. This is all she wrote, folks. He’s gone. He doesn’t love me. He left. I’ve got to quit believing that it will change.

Definition of Insanity

As MD and I get ready for the DCH BBQ, I am struck by how very lonely I am. I thought it was just the normal doing everyday things I used to do without Chad, but I realized it's because he is out of town. Talk about stupid. By the time I see him it will have been over a month and a half since we have seen each other, and we only text once a week or so. So, why in the world do I miss a man I never get to see or talk to anymore just because I know he's not in Denver, when I guarantee he is anything but missing me!

The Reality of Fiction

Thirteen weeks, three months to the day.

I am having a BBQ for DCH employees. Chad is in San Diego (where we were supposed to be some time this summer). I cried a few times yesterday because I miss him so much. He was having a wonderful day because he was so excited about all the fun his life has turned into. I swept the patio getting ready for the BBQ, the job I used to watch him do as I cooked from the kitchen. I am dreading cleaning up in the morning, alone.

Last night, I went over to P, C, and S R-L’s home to watch a movie with the bible study I’ve been going to. We watched “Stranger Than Fiction.” A movie that I never wanted to see and thought looked stupid. Turns out, it is a movie that I have to buy. Shockingly (yeah right) I was in tears. I related to the movie in so many ways. (There may be spoilers ahead, I don’t know—I haven’t written it yet.) In one sense, as a writer (I hate calling myself a writer—I don’t feel I have earned it yet—However, I call myself an eater, and I don’t get paid for that yet, either, so I guess I am an unrecognized writer), the movie was a trip. To imagine my characters trying to go through their lives with me dictating their actions and narrating their every move. Maybe it’s my God complex, but I love that idea—mainly because it seems to give importance to the people who live in my little worlds, gives their existence validation. Also, watching the film was fun in simply trying to imagine writing such a work. I think my brain would have had a stroke attempting to create such a spiraling, seamlessly connected tale.

I wish I could have blogged about the film last night in the height of my emotions around it, as it will seem cold and removed now, but I was too much of a mess last night and couldn’t face being on my own, so I blog now—however frigid and solid it might be. The movie seems to be a mirror of my life. There are those people who talk about how they have given up control to God, LET Him have their lives and LET Him lead it. Not me. Like Will Farrell’s character in the film, God is my author, and no matter how I seem to try to create my own outcome, I recognize (however ungraciously) that I have option in the matter. It is not by choice that I give my life to God and say, ‘Here it is, do Your will, Please show mercy.’ I know He is writing/has written my story (Which is saying a lot for someone whom adamantly rejects pre-destination), the only choice I have is to let Him and trust that somehow the story will be more beautiful this way. I know if Chad and I were characters in one of my novels, he would have left me, just like he did. It would need to happen to make the story more interesting, more meaningful, more true, more sweet, more beautiful—I am, sadly, a believer in pain often equaling beauty, at least in my writing—I hope and pray that in the novel God is writing He will find beauty in the fulfillment of the circle when Chad returns. Tragically, I know all to well how beautifully written a permanently shattered heart can be.

Finishing and Longing

I just finished what I hope (but doubt) will be the final draft of “The Shattered Door”—the book I wrote last summer. Appropriately, I ended the process in tears. I was almost done when friend of Chad came into the coffee shop. He was very sweet and mentioned how good Chad and I are both looking. He and many others are going to San Diego for their Pride tomorrow (including Chad). We were supposed to go to San Diego this summer. I still have the paper, on the kitchen counter, in his handwriting listing all the flights and hotel options we had. I hope he has a great and safe time, but it is so hard knowing he is there and I am not. We’d even talked of moving there one day. I couldn’t tell if the friend realized that I started breaking down by the end of our conversation, but I would imagine he did. I rushed to the bathroom to complete the breaking down process when he turned to talk to another friend. Doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t feel right. I hate being powerless to change it, and unable to understand why he doesn’t love me or want our life together.

Cute moment for the day—

As I was leaving the gym this morning, I walked by this skinny little man doing triceps pull downs (I don’t know what those are actually called). For reference, I typically use 160 pounds or so. This little guy was using forty or fifty, and pulling with all his might. He had earphones on, so he wasn’t aware of how loud he was. He looks like Icabod Crane sans glasses. In a conversational tone, with his eyes squeezed shut, he breathed, “Come, Davey, you can do it. That’s it, Davey! One more. Come one, keep it up! That’s it, Davey!” He would grunt between each word. It was rather adorable. He was his own cheerleader and personal trainer. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud over his innocent struggle with his miniscule weight. I also couldn’t help but feel superior, not in a horrible way, but just enough to cause a little spring in my step.

A few minutes later, after receiving a strange once-over from the guy I refused to let wash my car at the filling station as I got gas, I noticed as I steeped up into the car that not only was my fly down, but gaping widely open. Thank goodness I wore underwear for once today!

Sugar Therapy

2:51 PM

I had a chocolate cupcake with vanilla icing about twenty minutes ago. Most of you would probably say, ‘So what? Brandon must be awake—he’s eating. What’s the big deal?” Well, it has taken me nearly three months to have this cupcake. People have invited me to go, since they know how much I love this cupcake shop (right now I can’t think of the name of it), and I have turned them down. I had driven by it several times, always looking at it longingly. Not really due to the cupcakes, but everything they represent. It was where I got Chad’s birthday cupcakes last year, and where I am sure we would have gotten nearly every cake for every occasion from here on out. We went there nearly every week for several months (and we wonder why I gained forty pounds), and the owner knew us by name and which cupcake we wanted. I changed most of the time, but Chad nearly always got the carrot cake cupcake. I was on my way to the final (at least, I think) of my three therapy appointments, and I knew I had to go in and get a cupcake. I nearly drove by once again, but then zoomed in at the last moment. My heart was pounding like mad as I got out of the car and walked up to the store. I dreaded seeing the owner, having her ask me why I hadn’t been in so long and where Chad was. I opened the door, and there was a new girl working, the owner wasn’t in sight. I breathed a sigh of relief and ordered my chocolate/vanilla cupcake. I took it out to the car and simply looked at it for moment, and then said a ‘prayer’ (to Chad) before I ate it. Telling him I love, that I miss him, that I have to keep trying to live and enjoy life without him. With that, I ate the cupcake. There is hardly anything I do that is not in some way tied to Chad. We did so much and went so many places, that everywhere I turn there are good memories. It may seem that it would be it easy since they are good memories (and I am sure it is easier than having bad memories everywhere), but every place and event highlights what I have lost—whereas, if they were bad, it would show what I had managed to get freedom from. I am nervous and excited about having my last therapy session. I know he says that I don’t really need them, that I am functioning better than most people do, and I didn’t really want to be back in therapy, but I do like knowing that I have this safety net. I keep waiting for him to have the magic words or something to fix it, to bring Chad back, to have things make sense to me. I know there aren’t any such words, from therapy or anywhere else. But, I really wish there were. I need them.

5:16PM

Back home from therapy. Crying is fun. (Ugh) And I now have to go grab food for the Bible study. This therapy session mostly dealt around the pondering of if I should continue to hope. Of course, as in nearly all therapy, there was no answer. I tell myself that he’s not coming back, that this is my life now, period. I tell myself to keep living life, keep seeing friends, go out with people, keep writing, keep walking the dogs, keep pretending that you’re living the life you want, and one day it will be true. However, to the very core of me, I can not wrap my head (or heart) around the concept that he won’t come back. It doesn’t make sense to me, as I have said before. It could be looked at as proof that he will come back some day, that we are to be together. Or it could be looked at as I am delusional and wasting my heart and time. So, I am intentionally choosing not to hope, but unintentionally hoping with everything in me. I love that I love him, and I hate that I love him.

The fat leading the blind

Let’s see, what can I talk about that has nothing to do with anything of relevance to anything actually going on in my life? Something that has no emotional ties, something that won’t cause tears or insatiable worry… Something that is inconsequential…

Chad? No. Of course not.

Novel writing? No. I think not.

Becoming an uncle in a week or two? Heaven’s no.

Loneliness and hopelessness? Always tempting, sure, but not today, thanks.

Oh, I know!

Blindness! The absence of light. The inability to see all the beauty around you.

That is what we will talk about today kids. Blindness. Turn your primer to page 2,643. What? Oh, that’s right, you’re blind, you can’t see the pages numbers. That’s okay, just count as you turn the pages. I’ll wait. Don’t forget the first few pages of copyright and titles and such aren’t normally numbered, so you’ll need to not count those. Oh, and watch out for paper cuts.

Are you there yet? No?

Good grief just because you’re blind doesn’t mean you’re an idiot.

Well…

Okay, fine. Never mind. Close your books. We will just do story time instead. I hope you’re not deaf as well!

Picture this: It is a beautiful Monday afternoon. You have been writing in your favorite coffee shop all day, which of course means you don’t have a life and no one waiting at home for you. That’s right dear children, there ain’t no glass slippers and Ursula didn’t get harpooned by that ship—she’s alive and well, laughing at Ariel as she cries because Eric left her to sail the seven seas to find himself.

You managed to get your favorite seat in the coffee shop, a fact that nearly brings you to tears since life is throwing you a bone. You’ve nearly finished reading the draft you wrote (well, not you, you’re blind and stupid, but go with me on this).

Around this time, a rather rotund woman, roughly the size a battling rhino and hippopotamus comes into the coffee shop. Like a black hole, all the attention in the rooms is vacuumed to her. Her and her retractable cane thing that she bonks on all the items around her, moving nimbly over to the counter, where she sprawls over the top, her rolls of lard smoothing out like the leaves of a lily pad on the surface of a pond. Her two purses sliding off her shoulder and clattering against the paneling of the case.

You gaze at her, wondering if she can feel your eyes upon her, as she requests the barista to rattle off every item on the menu and all the foodstuff in the case.

After quite an expanse of time, the colossal woman picks a small pastry. Pondering, you wonder who she is trying to fool. She’s blind. You aren’t. Well, some of you are.

Once she pays, a female barista brings her food and drink around and leads her to a seat. She begins to lead the lady to a seat close to the counter. You think you notice the large lady’s eyes glance towards you, towards the empty seat neat to you, the cushioned pew-like bench that runs the expanse of the back wall.

“Is there a seat in the booth? I prefer the booth?” The lady says to the barista before she even turns to see (or feel, whatever) where she is being lead.

“No, I don’t think so.” The barista didn’t seem to be trying to be rude, but you aren’t sure why she said no.

“Are you sure?” The elephant woman asks again, her voice holding just a touch of accusation.

The barista turns and looks towards you. “Oh, yes there is one actually.”

As they turn and begin to walk toward the empty spot, you and the man on the other side of the vacant seat, lean down and remove cords that were providing your computers with electricity, wouldn’t want her to trip and smash you and your coffee. And that’s right, kids. One day we will figure out how to run computers off of gas and coal, but until then….

The woman plops down into the seat, and instantly you begin to feel a touch of claustrophobia. What if she really is akin to a black hole and somehow sucks you into her abundant folds, and you are lost forever?

Keeping at least one hand gripped firmly on your table, you continue to attempt to do your work, every once in awhile glancing over at the woman devouring her pastry, crumbs leaping away from her and scattering themselves all over the table.

Her devouring seems to take an exorbitant amount of time, and by the time she is finished, your brow has a slight sheen of sweat.

Pushing her plate and napkins to the edge of her table (where they will stay, even after she leaves—that’s right, children: blindness makes you unaware of garbage and the receptacles in which it lives), she begins to paw through her purses. They are so massive and deep, and she spends such a great amount of time relishing their contents you being to wonder if she had just eaten Marry Poppins and stole her magic bags and is going to pull out a lamp or possibly two small British children to have for dessert.

At long last, your sideways glances reveal her sought after treasure. She pulls out a large map with small print and opens it up. You glance closer in excitement. You’ve never seen a map in brail before. You peer closer, trying to see the tiny dots. At last you realize you are closer to the massive black hole than is advisable, you also accept the fact that this map is not brail, it is just your normal, everyday species of map. So much for the magical bag theory.

She puts her purses aside, spreads the map out in front of her, and begins to read. Not feel for bumps. Not peer at the small letters with a magnifying glass. Not asking for assistance. Your gapping at her continues to intensify as she continues to read and read and read.

Alright, kids. That’s all for today. Please get your backpacks ready and loaded to go home. Jimmy, please quit touching Ralf there. I’ve already told you once today, don’t make me call your mom.

I want a one-page paper about blindness and the ability to read through the lack of sight.

Tomorrow we will learn about masturbation as well as mayonnaise sandwiches.

steps back

Dunkyn is sitting beside me on the couch, licking his paws, his new lion’s cut bobbing up and down; Dolan is at our feet rolling around and acting silly, as per normal. I am doing my best to hold it together, while the Food Networks plays on mute across from us.

I know things go in spurts and waves, that they come and go, but I really don’t know where this has been coming from the past three days. It’s almost like (but not nearly as bad) he just left again. I’m not sure if it is sinking in more, if it means I’m healing, if it means he’s getting ready to date someone else, if it means that this is just my life, I don’t know. I know that I don’t miss him any less or love him any less; I know that I can’t fathom why his is happier away from us and how he doesn’t want to return. I know that I am stronger than I ever thought I was, and that I am weaker than I wish I were. There are so many people that have been so loving and supporting, and so many people that need me now, and I just don’t feel that I have it in me to give. I wish I did. I wish I could push aside my devastation over Chad and give myself fully to these people, but I can’t. Of course, there are lots of things I wish…

tears again

I don’t want to, but I’m going to. I am going to bitch and moan again, so you don’t need to read any further, just click on another tab, go to Amazon, surf for porn, whatever (surf is really close to smurf—maybe you should surf for smurf porn).

I had a friend over tonight and we were on the couch watching Legend of the Seeker, a very visually beautiful movie. He was just running his fingers through my hair, and at the same time gently running his finger over my ear (my grandma used to do that when I was a kid to help me fall asleep—I love that). My eyes flitted over to the photo books that Chad and I made by the TV and I lost it. I had to rush downstairs so that I wouldn’t weep in front of him, at least more than I already was.

I am living out the life that I’ve been given, but it is not the life I want. I had the life I want. I had the love I want, the man I want. I was happier than I had ever dreamed I could be, and I am left with a gaping wound that can’t be filled or ignored for too long. Left with questions that don’t have answers, with love that doesn’t have it’s intended receiver.

I am tired of asking questions, tried of aching for him to love me again, for my life to return, of crying. Tired of him being so happy and content without me while I simply long to have his hand in mine, his arms around me once more. I am tired of feeling the need to put everything out into the universe like this for the simple sake of having ‘my story’ or whatever this is told, trying to make it matter or count for something.

A Vent and an Realization

It’s funny how you can be in a good mood (relatively) one moment and then pissed the next. I just sat down at the coffee shop and checked my email, like my morning routine says that I must, before I started writing. I had an email from a new friend that was saying how my teasing him had hurt his feeling and made him feel unvalued. Typically, I pride myself on being able to read people and know who can and who can’t take my sarcasm. However, when I meet someone and they are instantly sarcastic and give me a hard time, I like those people. Likewise, I assume if they can dish it out, they can take it. It seems in this case I was wrong. It gets under my skin when people feel I am insensitive and that I am not thinking about their feelings. However, I guess I should be less sensitive and just say, ‘screw ‘em.’ How’s that for venting. Shesh.

Last night, I went to the Bible study with P, C, and S R-L. It was great to see them, as always. For part of the study, the larger group splits off into groups of three or four to work on certain things together. Previously, I had stayed with either P, C, or both. Last night, two men asked me to join their group, and hesitantly, I accepted. It was an odd experience. One I hadn’t had in a long time. One I thought I didn’t really have an issue with any longer. So much for being self-aware. Both men were married and good-looking, and as soon as we started talking, I felt myself shy away and enter my shell. I wasn’t aware how much I rely on other gay men or women as my safety blanket around straight men that I don’t know.

I didn’t feel unsafe or judged. Although they don’t know I’m gay, as far as I know, but I didn’t feel like I could be me or speak what was on my heart and mind. What is also strange, is that I went through a period when I was ‘coming out’ where being gay consumed everything that I was. I felt like I had moved way past that, where being gay was the same as being a guy, being short, being whatever—an integral part of me, but not all of what I am. Last night, without telling them who I am, it felt like that was all I was. It was nearly impossible to talk about the issue at hand and not incorporate personal aspects of my life, which obviously have a slight gay tinge (slight—right…). Of course, I could have just told them and moved on from there, but then the conversation goes one of two ways: they are no longer comfortable and shut down themselves or the focus becomes me being gay and what’s that like—neither of which I did I want. I have gotten so used to everyone knowing, that I can just talk and be open. I don’t really even remember the last time I felt the need to tell someone. I also didn’t realize how much of an issue with straight men I still have, how much it would have changed the dynamics if a woman had been present. Even as they spoke, I could understand them, but they were so other than me—women are too a lot of the time, but I can relate more to their way of thinking, even if it doesn’t match my own.

I wasn’t scared or shame filled, nor did I feel guilty for my reaction to the men. I was simply taken aback by my reaction to them and curious as to how (if at all) this might continue to reveal itself.

Lyrical Life

I know I’ve posted it before, but Amy Grant’s “Missing You” song is really becoming my anthem lately. Not only does it keep running through my head, but it seems I am living it out. “I’m living out the life that I’ve been given, but baby I still wish you were mine.” It drives me crazy. I really am living life, I’m not sitting at home obsessing, I’m not refusing to do things with people, I am trying experiences I never thought I’d try, and I am loosening up and not being such a stick-in-the-mud in many ways. But it really feels like that line. I am simply living out the life I have been given. I don’t have the power to change it, at least in the area I most want to change it, so it is either live what I have been given or shut down and completely loose myself, so I do what I do. Still, even in the moments where I totally let go and loose myself in the moment, his absence is cutting, the questions of how he can be so happy plague me, the me I loved being so much is out of reach. “Missing you is just a part of living,” a part of breathing, of waking, of sleeping, of existing.

I am not waiting for him to return. Even though I can’t understand why he won’t/doesn’t, I know that he is not going to. I know that he loved me and was happy living his life with me for awhile. I know that he doesn’t and isn’t anymore. Whoever said it takes two to love was an idiot. It might take two to build a life together, but it sure as hell doesn’t take two to love.

I am not sure where this life I have given is going to lead, what will be the conclusion, or who I will become. Here is all I know: I will keep living it. At least until I don’t.

Distraction

Being a massage therapist (have I mentioned how I hate that I have to do this again?), you run into all kinds of interesting people. On the Fourth of July I got to calls (messages) requesting that I call them back if I do ‘more than massage.’ I doubt they were meaning like menial housework or baby sitting services. Last night, actually at 5AM this morning, I got a text from some unknown number asking ‘do you wanna play?’ Probably not talking about Clue. Although I love Clue. And even if had known this person and it happened to be someone that was tempting, I am sure not gonna be in the mood at five in the morning, unless the text had come from you-know-who. Or Ricky Martin. Or Dean Cain. Dammit! I bet it was a third party text from Ricky and Dean. I missed my chance! But, really. What was that person thinking? No name, no picture, no previous contact. That’s right boys, it actually does take more than a random assortment of ten numbers to get in my pants! Shocking, but true.

My next delightfully deep observation is not just about gay men, but about the entire population at large. It was something I noticed years ago, but it has become so natural to me that I no longer think anything of it. However, last Friday, I was helping out my friend DA for First Friday at his art studio on Tennyson (Shed the Skin gallery—AMAZING, check it out on the next First Friday). I was manning the front, where he has most of his jewelry and was greeting and schmoozing customers. For being shy and backwards at parties, I am surprisingly and pleasingly verbose in such situations (If there is a role to play, I can play it). While I was fulfilling the described task an older woman came up, reached out, and yanked my shirtsleeve up and over my shoulder. Again, I didn’t think twice about it or really even notice. However, I saw a gentleman across the room give the lady a very reprimanding stare, and realized that what had just transpired doesn’t typically happen to the majority of the people. I am sortta like a pregnant woman (make a fat comment and I will sit on you, and not in the fun way) who is overly accustomed to strangers feeling entitled to rub her belly. It is not uncommon at all for strangers to come up and adjust my clothing out of the way to inspect my tattoos. I’ve even had strangers ask me to take off my shirt so they could see the rest of them. Welcome to my world.

As you may have guessed, these things are not really what is on my mind (yesterday and today [even more so] have sucked and I can not express how much I miss him and how confused I am). However, I am sick of blabbering on (as are you) about such things, but yet my fingers are compelled to bash upon the keyboard. So, these two tidbits are my offering to you and to words that want to come out.

Absence

I haven’t been lonely. Not really. I haven’t had time to be lonely. In fact, a lot of the time, I am relieved when I have a few minutes to myself at the end of the day. That is my offering of proof that my emotions are not based out of being alone or some solitary depression. I also have done a really great job of pushing things from my mind the majority of the time and simply focusing on the moment, doing my best to not rehash the past or fantasize about the future. Most of the time. Offering number two. All that being said:

I miss him.

Him specifically.

HIM!

I miss my best friend, the man I trusted more than life itself. The man who very presence made me happy, content, and safe. I miss the dreams we fulfilled and the dreams we were still planning. I miss him loving me. I miss him missing me when I was gone. I miss every nuance of him. I miss how he would turn the heat down on the dryer and I would forget to check and my clothes would never get dry. I miss his kisses. I miss his obsession of remixes. I miss everything that made Chad Chad, and I miss everything about Chad that made Brandon more Brandon than I have ever been.

I’m not lonely. I’m honestly not desperate, at the moment. I’m only crying a little. But there are not the right words to say how much I miss him. How much I love him. How much it aches that half of me is gone.

Road Maps and Lost Moments

This is the first Sunday in twelve weeks that I haven’t gone to church. I started Easter Sunday, and Chad left that week, so I have been to church the eleven weeks since, due to being with mom and dad. Today they had stuff they had to do, so I have the morning free, so guess where I came. . . I love my White Russian Chai. While I have greatly enjoyed spending every Sunday with my family, and I haven’t hated going to church, I have found it nice not to be there. I remember loving church so much as kid, but the was largely due to all my friends and the events surrounding it—and the music. I still love church music, when it’s good, and coming from the Bible belt by people who know how to do church music, I have been hard pressed to be satisfied by any place I have been in Colorado.

Last night was difficult, not break down and sob difficult, but just difficult. Just another reminder of what I have lost, of what I thought I would get to have every year. As a kid, I remember loving watching the fireworks and dreaming of one day having someone by my side, cuddled under a blanket, gazing at the sky with me. I loved Fourth of July’s with Chad. They were simple, sweet, and romantic. I ached for him so much, felt the absence like an amputee. I’m sure he had a crazy, wild Fourth and had none of the emotions I was experiencing. Probably the opposite—thrilled to be able to actually cut loose and have fun, free of his old, clinging, boring ball and chain.

This has been and interesting phase I have entered the past few weeks. Still wanting Chad as much as ever but unwilling to sit around and cry any longer. I have been ‘hanging out’ with several people and constantly staying busy. With the new people I’m meeting, I make it very clear where I am coming from, make sure they know that I am so emotionally unavailable that it’s ridiculous, and that I have fairly firm lines as far as how much they can expect from me. I have meet some really sweet and wonderful people, a few that latch on as if they are going to die if you don’t call them every few minutes, and a couple that lash out in hostility and anger, calling you a coward when you say that you’re not wanting to date or have any such entanglements. While most experience have been nice, some wonderful, overall, I just hate it. This is so not what I want or where I want to be. Of course, I already had what I want and was where I want to be. Somehow, the map must have got crumpled and our road got meshed into another.

Tell me about it, Sookie!

"The sweetest part of being a couple was sharing your life with somebody else.

But, my life, evidently, had not been good enough to share."

--"Club Dead," Charlaine Harris, May 2003

My Life and Times

Okay, today, I am not going to say anything about you know what and who know who (no, not Voldermort). In fact, I think I may make that my goal, not only for this blog, but for the entire day. We’ll see. I don’t know if I can pull it off since I already am wanting to write about it, but I will persevere.

In that way of thinking, I have two stories for you, both revolving my. . . ineptness. . .

Number One. For several years people have been pressuring me to (and I have considered) give Dunkyn a hair cut. He has soooooo much hair, he has to be hot. Plus, in the areas where his harness rubs him, he often gets matted and such. So, Monday evening, when I got back from Kansas City, I went to PetSmart and purchased a sixty-dollar shaving thing. It was one of the mid/lower priced ones, but I hoped it would do the trick. It didn’t. Dad and I spent hours shaving Dunkyn. He looked like a lop sided sheep. It was horrible. I don’t really even know how to begin to describe it. So, the next morning, I rushed him to Puppercrombie & Bitch and requested a rescue plan. So, I now have Dolan and Dunkyn’s head. The rest of him belongs to some other hairless dog they attached to his mane. It’s the only explanation. He looks so bizzare as we walk down the street, like a science experiment gone wrong. In what is the most tragic turn of events, Dunkyn loves his new body. On one hand, I can’t blame him. He gets to show people that he is in fact very muscular and not a bit fat in the slightest (Dolan and his daddy have no such claim). He is moving faster, jumping more, has tons more energy. So, the delimma? Put my puppy’s feelings and preferences first and continue with the scifi haircut, or return him to the burden of fur because I miss my adorable puppy and don’t want to hide my face when I walk my dogs down the street?

Number Two. (Disclaimer: I know this is one of those stories I shouldn’t tell. I know it only makes me look back. However, it’s not like I don’t vomit all my other shit [how’s that for an image?] all over the place, why stop now?) Last week, I met with another massage therapist to do a trade. We worked on each other for nearly four hours, fifteen minutes on, fifteen minutes off. It was unreal. As it had been over a year since my last massage and with all the stress from the past few months (I can say that, I’m not saying why, not breaking the rules), the massage had an adverse effect and I can now barely walk, but whatever. I got to his studio, and he was running late. I had needed to use the restroom for fifteen minutes the way it was (Yes, I always make sure my kids use the restroom before we go somewhere, even if they don’t need to—I am above such petty rules). After waiting for awhile and realizing it just wasn’t going to happen, I got out and looked for a handy ally or something concealing (downtown Denver, keep in mind). I could find nothing suitable. I return to my car and see a clear plastic cup that I had crunched up and left sitting in the cup holder for a few weeks (I know, I need to clean my car, shut up). I look at the cup. I look away. I look at the cup. I look away. I grab the cup. I lean forward in the front seat, folding my legs beneath me so I can fit, and unbutton and unzip my pants. I ‘unfold’ the cup and place it in position. I give in to one of the most basic and unifying human experiences. I then realize that the entire back portion of my jeans of my right leg is sopping wet. After momentary confusion of how this is occurring, I realize that a crunched, folded up plastic cup probably is not the smartest thing to fill with fluid. After said realization, I have to inform my body that it can no longer give in to relief and after a few more seconds, things were back to ‘normal.’ I entered the massage studio with wet jeans, wounded pride (insert witty comment about being single [I can’t, I made a vow]), and pretended that it was normal to have one wet leg and one dry. Yay for life.