Anniversaries

So, it's Thanksgiving.  And I feel like I should have something to say about that, but I don't.  Because Thanksgiving doesn't exist anymore.


Instead, Thanksgiving is now the anniversary of The Day I Got The Call From Mr. Badger's Sister, Warning Me He Might Not Make It Until Our Scheduled Visit On Friday Night And Asking Me If I'm Sure I Want To Remember Him The Way He Looks In The Hospital.  That doesn't make for much of a holiday.


The Monday before Thanksgiving is the anniversary of Mr. Badger's goodbye speech to me, of him making me give him my blessing to stop the chemotherapy and go into hospice.  It's the anniversary of me cursing him out and saying that if he was going to give me his goodbye speech, he was goddamn well going to give it to my face.  It's the anniversary of him asking me to come visit him one last time.


The Tuesday before Thanksgiving is the anniversary of Mr. Badger's text that his organs were failing and that we needed to make the visit sooner rather than later.  It's the anniversary of me sitting in my department chair's office, trying to find a way to be professional and not cry while asking for emergency time off, of trying to find a way to describe my relationship with Mr. Badger in a way that would make it sound "legitimate", since we were not "officially" dating.  We had dated on and off for six years, and we were exclusive lovers for the last two, but he wasn't my "boyfriend", so I sat at the table in my chair's office, my whole body shaking with fear that our relationship would not be deemed important enough for me to cancel my classes.


The Wednesday before Thanksgiving, I took off towards The North for the first of the two-day drive Upstate.  Too upset to pack, I shoved all my dirty clothes into my largest suitcase, grabbed my coat, and ran out to my car, still in the jean shorts and Frye motorcycle boots I had been wearing around the house.  And on the drive towards Alejandro's house, The Cowboy called me.  And I had been trying to keep all this business from him.  I mean, we had been getting pretty close, and it was really nice, so while of course I wanted nothing more than to call him and tell him what was going on, I didn't want to make him feel like he was the person I'd call and dump all my emergencies on.


But he called me when I was driving, and the timer on my massive Crazy Bomb ticked down to zero, and I exploded into a mass of uncontrolled panic.  And at one point, I was half-crying, half-yelling at him because he obviously didn't understand what a horrible person I was.  Because I should have married Mr. Badger.  I knew how much he loved me and how he wanted an official relationship, and then he got sick, and I should have married him.  And The Cowboy finally raised his voice to me, saying, "Okay, so what would be different if you had married him?!  He would still be dying."


And of course, I sobbed, "He would have died having someone.  No one deserves to die without having someone."  And of course, part of my brain recognized that official or not--Mr. Badger did have someone...he had me.  And when The Cowboy actually yelled at me to bring me back to reality I didn't feel like I was being yelled at.  Men yelling at me, or even in my direction, makes me feel jumpy and implicitly threatened...but The Cowboy was just doing what needed to be done, and he had been far more patient than anyone else would have been.  And somewhere among all of the nerves and fear and panic and regret and tears, he brought this little kernel of safety.  It felt like a blanket.  Maybe the blanket the EMTs wrap around you as they haul you off to the emergency room, but a blanket nonetheless.


Thanksgiving is the anniversary of doing my dirty laundry at Alejandro's house, only to discover that in that giant suitcase of dirty clothes, there were about 30 pairs of underwear, 30 pairs of socks, five pairs of jeans, and two shirts.  Then Alejandro dragged me out to the curling club so I wouldn't be at the house alone.  Shiawassee, who had always considered Mr. Badger as a brother, as coming down to Upstate to see him as well, and we were meeting on Friday to see him.  But then I got the call from his sister, that his lucidity was slipping, and maybe I didn't want to come anymore.  And I asked, "If I came, would he still know that it's me?"  To which she replied, "Yes."  So I said, "He wanted me to come, so I'm coming.  I'm leaving now."  So I left the curling club at 10pm to drive through the night to Upstate, cursing myself the whole way for not leaving sooner, for holding to the original plan between me, Shiawassee, and Mr. Badger.


And The Cowboy talked to me nearly the whole way to Upstate, with me crazed and cursing myself the whole way, afraid that because I had stuck to the original schedule, I wasn't going to make it to Mr. Badger in time.  I was going to fail him.  And The Cowboy was supportive and patient and somewhere underneath the quivering mess that was my brain and my body, there it was...that little undercurrent of safety.


The day after Thanksgiving is the anniversary of my visit to the last rest stop before Upstate, the one I always stopped at when I visited Mr. Badger to wash up, change clothes, put on makeup, and fix my hair to make myself look "accidentally fabulous", so he'd think I just showed up looking like that after an eight hour drive from The North.  Whenever the stop made me late--and it usually did--I chalked it up to "traffic".  That rest stop was also where  learned how to insert a contraceptive sponge, the place where I first touched my own cervix, so that the sponge would be in place and ready to go just in case Mr. Badger and I jumped on each other the second we saw each other.  And early in the morning the Friday after Thanksgiving, I stopped there again, because I legitimately had to pee, but instinctively, I reached for my makeup bag to make myself look pretty for him...until I remembered that in this context, he wouldn't care if I looked pretty or not.


7:36am on the Friday after Thanksgiving is the anniversary of me finally pulling into the parking lot of Upstate Hospital, where I ran in, confused about how I would find his room, and when I did find it, of me meeting his mother, father, and sister for the first time by them exiting the room, closing the door, and checking to make sure that I really wanted to see him like this, that I didn't just want to remember him the way he was before he was sick.


That Friday is the anniversary of us seeing each other one last time, of about two hours of him holding my hand and squeezing it, of me saying the things that needed to be said, of me stroking his body and his hair the way I used to when we were in bed together, before he peacefully died holding my hand.


If you go by days of the week, it's the Friday after Thanksgiving.  If you go by dates on the calendar, it's November 26.  Either way, it's the anniversary of the day I watched my exclusive lover of two years--the man who, although we both knew we were not perfect for each other, I knew would always, always love me--die right in front of me.


On the journey from Upstate back to Rust City, I made it as far as Alejandro's house, where I completely collapsed and didn't move for two days.  I had eaten only one meal since Mr. Badger's call on Monday, and my body had just given out.  I laid in the big, fluffy bed in the Fairytale Tower, sometimes with my laptop open to complete the funeral-related correspondence, and otherwise just staring out the window into the city beyond.  Because there was nothing else I could do.  I could barely move.  At one point, I tried to take a shower, and I couldn't lift my arms all the way to my head to wash my hair, so I just got out and laid back in the bed, dripping wet and freezing.


And while I was laying in The Tower, feeling bereft and lost and unworthy of the role I had fulfilled for Mr. Badger, unworthy of holding his father while he cried, unworthy of his mother's tour through Mr. Badger's baby pictures, unworthy of knowing his history before me; feeling like a bratty child who wanted to kick and shriek and stamp her foot at the unfairness of it all; feeling like I was trying to survive as nothing but a skeleton with a heart and lungs; feeling like nothing; feeling like the embodiment of Delirium itself...while I was laying in The Tower feeling all of this simultaneously, I got an email from The Cowboy, and part of it said, "Your ability to empathize is greater than anyone I have ever known...it's incredible and beautiful and tragic."


And in that moment, those words cut through the relentless, merciless grief and said, "Look...somewhere in all this panic and snot and delirium, he's found something good in you.  He's looking, and he sees you.  He knows you."  And over the months when the grief was at it's peak, I'd go back and read that line in that message, and it would remind me that in the embarrassingly uncontrolled mess the grief had reduced me to, there was someone who could look at me like that and still see me inside there, and see me as good.  That there was someone who could look at me like that and still know me.  There was such a sense of Always about that, too.  Just as it's critical to have someone who will always love you, it's monumental to have someone who will always know you...know you and see you as good.  There's such safety in that.


Funny how much things can change in a year.


So here I am, in this never-ending one-year anniversary week that is supposed to be a holiday, and I am reminded that I am without one who will always love me as well as one who will always know me.  I am entirely without safety.  And I don't know what to do about it except feel it.


The thing is, I find myself wondering if I'm allowed to feel it.  If it's appropriate for these to be anniversaries of mine, rather than being the exclusive property of his family and friends.  Because we were never friends...the first night we met, he asked me on a date.  We were always lovers.


And It hink about that, and this whole year, I've been trying to find a way to articulate the significance of my relationship with Mr. Badger.  since we weren't friends (under my definition of friends), and we weren't official boy/girlfriends, I think the common conception is that relationships like ours were "just" sex.  And while our relationship was a lot of sex, and I'd go so far as to say mainly sex, I would never say it was "just" sex.  Because I don't think "just" sex exists.  For me, anyway.


I mean, if you think about what is actually shared in an ongoing sexual relationship, that partner gets to see you at your most vulnerable, your most exposed, your most ecstatic.  That person is the one pushing you into that vulnerable, exposed, ecstatic state.  That person sees the you that your friends will never see...the you that is at once the most animal as well as the most fragile.


And something happens then.  Not the cliche women-fall-in-love-after-sex phenomenon, but a bond is created unlike any other relationship you have.  If someone has been inside your body, if someone has truly explored your body to discover ways to bring you joy, if you trust each other enough to have a new experience together...something happens that is so intimate and strong and important that it changes you as a person.  And this is regardless of whether you're going to get married or you're experiencing True Love or not...if you have really loved that person's body, if you truly tried to learn that body and mind for the purpose of giving and sharing pleasure, if you trusted that person enough to honestly expose yourself in order to surrender and to take, there is a bond that is created that is sacred and ancient and 100% legitimate.  Common culture doesn't allow for that, but that doesn't mean it isn't true.


Because it is true.


If you really open yourself up, and you're not just a mouth and genitals and get-off-and-get-outm that's what happens with lovers.  There is no "just" sex.


All that being said, I wish the anniversaries weren't at Thanksgiving time, where every year the holiday will force a space in which I remember them, in sequence.  Not that I can do something about that, but I still wish.  It's a complicated experience, having such a devastating experience simultaneously remind me of a love an a knowing and a safety that are now absent.  It makes the anniversary doubly tough.


An of course, I continually think of Mr. Badger's goodbye speech, in which he talked about how special I was, and how I deserved all of the happiness in the world.  And then I look at myself on the anniversary of the speech, and I see that I could not be farther from it.  And I hesitate to admit it, but it makes me feel...lonely.  The absence of someone who would always love me.  The absence of someone who would always know me.  It's a loneliness I know I must have felt at some point in my life, but I can't remember the last time.  That's how long it's been.  And while I don't typically mind being alone, loneliness, on the other hand...it's enough to make me feel like I don't actually exist at all.


Grief counselors and such say that the first anniversary is the hardest.  And I hope that's true.


I really, really hope that's true.

Day of the Dead

I couldn't make my Day of the Dead shrine this year.  I thought about it a lot, but I just couldn't do it.

It's something that's really important to me--remembering the dead at this time every year--and making the shrine is usually something I enjoy.  Creating the shrine purposefully sets time aside where it's okay to reflect on what the people were like, the moments you shared, the good times, the challenging ones.  It's really important.  But I couldn't do it this year.

I mean, somewhere in the back of my head, I admitted that Mr. Badger would be up there on my little altar, and I think I might have been prepared for that.  But with Tom gone too, now...I just couldn't.  I couldn't add two new people to the shrine.  I couldn't face decorating their pictures with ribbon and ric-rac and glitter.  I couldn't face looking at both of them in photograph form, knowing that's the only form I'll ever see them in again.

So I couldn't.  I didn't.  And now tonight, I feel as though I've neglected my duty.  That I haven't paid the proper respect.  And I feel guilty about that.

See, I've been pretending that I wasn't able to do it because I've been so sick.  And I don't mean the PTSD.  The past week I've been in and out of the emergency room, and the time not in the emergency room, I've been completely loaded on SuperVicodin, and not in the fun way.

A week ago I woke up and feeling like someone was stabbing me in the ear with a knife.  (P.S.  That's not hyperbole--that's what it actually felt like.)  Thinking my eardrum had ruptured in the night, I threw on some clothes and made my way to the emergency.  I tried to relax and breathe and hold it together in public, and for the most part I did.  And the doctor said I had an inner and outer ear infection, put me on some antibiotics and regular Vicodin and sent me home. 

But the Vicodin didn't really do anything, which I should have seen as a sign of trouble.  It took the edge off a little, but only enough to keep me from, say, constantly screaming in pain.  But I'm tough, right?  With a high pain tolerance.  I can man up until the antibiotics kick in.

I made it about 36 hours.  The pain got worse and worse, and it basically took over my whole head, which I could have handled if not for the feeling of sharp blades sliding in and out of my ears constantly--both sides now.  I tried as hard as I could to endure it, but by early Wednesday morning I was curled in bed, sobbing as hard as I could because the pain was so bad.  And it took all that I had to drag myself to the car and drive myself back to the emergency room, crying to beat the band the whole way there.

And good god, there ain' nothin' so lonely as driving yourself to the emergency room.  Christ on a bike, nothing feels as lonely as that--being in that kind of distress and having no one to help.  And everything kind of crystalized for me in that moment in my car.  I thought about Mr. Badger and Tom and The Leaving of 2011 and the PTSD that is still 1,000 kinds of Not Under Control, and I thought about being in Rust City by myself and saw how, while sure, I have some friends here, when you don't have anyone in town to take you to the emergency room, you really don't have anyone.  And I thought, of course it has all led to this.  Of course.  There's no bigger sense of isolation than the one you get when you're in unbearable pain and you're all alone.

In the waiting room, I couldn't stop sobbing--even though there were other patients there who were handing their respective emergencies far, far better than me, even though the receptionist and the nurse looked at me with these shocked expressions--like they couldn't believe that someone was actually crying from pain.  And when the doctor examined me--telling me that both of my inner ears were infected now, and that they were really bad, and telling me "you have got to get this under control fast", as if I had somehow been neglectful and had caused it myself--I still couldn't stop crying, even though I was absolutely humiliated beyond belief.

He put me on some SuperVicodin and forbade me from going to work, even though I couldn't exactly just take the rest of the week off.  There aren't substitutes at the university level.  So I spent the last week pretty much just curled up in a ball, totally high on SuperVicodin, still in pain and crying and absolutely miserable. 

And with my brain as fuzzy as it was, all I could think was that this would somehow be bearable if someone just came over and curled up in my bed next to me.  That I just needed someone physically present.  And really, I wouldn't much care who it was.  But just to have someone here while I was in so much pain--that would make me able to tough it out, to know that there was someone here.

But that didn't happen.  Sensing something was wrong, Rudy and Baby Girl took turns nestling down next to me, or sometimes on me, or sometimes both at once.  And in my drug haze, I thought about how if this happened at this time last year, I would have called Mr. Badger.  And he would have either given me so much sympathy it would have made me feel a bit better, or he would have said something that pissed me off so much I would have been too angry to remember how much pain I was in.  Either way it would have helped, feeling connected in one way or another.  It would have helped for a little while. 

So instead I made lists in my head of the offerings I'd have to make to Mr. Badger and Tom on my Day of the Dead altar.  Chocolate chip pancakes, Irish tea, and Scotch whisky for Mr. Badger; raspberry torte, smoothies, and, well, pot for Tom.  I'd have to make a playlist with Bruce Springsteen and The Pogues mixed with Patti Lupone and Betty Buckley to play in the background.  There was so much to get done before the actual Day of the Dead, if I could only stand up long enough to do it...

And I couldn't.  I didn't.  As it ends up, I did have to miss work, although I was really stupid and drove across town on the SuperVicodin to teach a couple of classes--which I don't remember at all because hey, I was totally loaded.  And my balance was so bad, I'd have to hang onto the walls just to walk down the hall, and I'd hope so hard that I wouldn't run into anyone, because I knew they'd think I was drunk.  And I kept thinking that if I could just toughen up a little bit, I could do the proper thing, the respectful thing, and get it together enough to put up my altar, with Mr. Badger and Tom at the center of it this year.

But no.  Not this year.

So this will have to suffice as a substitute.  I've decorated the pictures and put out the offerings.  The candles are lit, and the paper flowers are strewn about. 

Now all that is left is the remembering.

Windows

Something really big happened yesterday.


So, running late for work, I was clomping around the house in my cute high-heel clog sandals, trying to remember to grab everything I needed on my way out the door. It was starting out as a high anxiety morning. And as I bent over to add a stack of student papers on top of the mounting pile of stuff already in my arms, I saw my sweet kitty Baby Girl nestled down in the shoebox out of which these very same clogs were born. And Baby Girl was staring me right in the face. Then I looked up, and I saw her sweet brother Rudy perched on the pillow on the couch, also staring at me.


“Oh god, I’m sorry, little babies, I forgot,” I said. “It’s time to turn on the Cat TV!”


And then I hurried over to the bay window in the living room, and I opened the blinds.


And that’s it. I opened the blinds. That was really big.


Ya see, if I had been back in South Central, that would not have been a big deal. It basically would have been every morning. Wake up, shower, dress, gather my things, turn on the Cat TV by pulling open the blinds. Then Rudy and Baby Girl could entertain themselves by watching the squirrels frolic in the yard, the woodchuck that hung out by the shed out back, the cars pulling in and out of the parking lot. Every morning—“It’s time to turn on the Cat TV!”, and the kitties would come running, and I’d open the blinds.


But I’m not back in South Central. I’m in Rust City and in firmly in the grip of a full-scale, four-and-a-half-month PTSD episode. Which means the blinds have not been opened since the end of May.


Let’s get into it, shall we?

The Hamster Wheel of Fury

That day, I was feeling what I like to call American Pissed, a term I developed when I was living Over There, where people defined “pissed” as “drunk”. So whenever I told my friends I was pissed, I always had to add in the clarifying sentence, “No, I mean I'm American Pissed.”



I was that kind of irritated-angry that covers every last inch of your body. Like the kind of irritated you might be if you were wearing a rough wool unitard without any undies—constant annoyance that begins to increase exponentially the longer you wear it. I was bristling like a crabby little hedgehog. I was American Pissed.


Just for clarification—I really don’t walk around angry much. I mean, it’s exhausting, plus I’m almost incapable of getting angry. Well, getting angry when I have been wronged in some way. Like I’ve said before, I can get righteously indignant at social injustice, and damn straight I can get hoppin’ mad when a friend has been wronged, but when it comes to me…I don’t know what it is. I can feel devastated or heartbroken or hurt, but the anger part, even perfectly justified anger—it’s tough. Hence, the birth of my SuperHero alter-ego Great Big Girl. I think all of the anger I should have felt in self-defense at various points in my life now all gets channeled into defending others. It’s a system.


But the point is, I guess, that I’m not so used to feeling this all-over maddening exasperation that’s like an itch I can’t scratch. But enter Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. So it’s been over three months now with this stretch, but I’m still in full-on PTSD mode. And one of the most common symptoms of PTSD is “irritation”, which can really mean anything from actual plain, old irritation to angry outbursts and fits of rage.


Now this anger has never been a big symptom for me, and honestly, whenever I would find myself feeling it, I would just turn the anger against myself, rather than let anyone else fall victim to it. Because I absolutely hate the idea of taking my anger out on someone else. Now when I went on the road trip down south with Trudie and The Cowboy, I totally had PTSD irritation, combined with the pressure of doing our show at a really big-deal venue. And while I think it made me absolutely unbearable, which in turn, made me hugely embarrassed because I couldn’t just turn the irritation off, Trudie says it just made me kinda uptight and huffy at times. But so even with this disorder where anger is a major symptom, my natural default is not anger.


Except this day. The proverbial pot was coming to an even more proverbial boil, and I was getting fed up to my proverbial teeth with my situation—not being able to sleep, not being able to talk to people, not being able to get anything done, the impending school year, the state of the Gingerbread Cottage, the precarious future of my job, feeling scared, feeling sad, feeling so unsafe—OH MY GOD, O’BRIEN JUST PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER! But then the fact that this isn’t a matter of just pulling myself together would make me even more pissed, and it was like I was stuck on the a giant hamster wheel of fury. And it was only like 1 or 2 in the afternoon.


And of course, this is exactly the time I get asked out on a date. Of course.


And I don’t know this dude—which now that I think about it, that’s probably most often the case with a first date, right?—and I’m busy up in my own head, treading the hamster wheel of fury, and I kind of don’t really realize what’s going on. So of course, I’m all, “What?!” This guy says he likes a woman with a little sass and wants to have a drink with me tonight.

Oranges

This is for you, Tom.  Because tomorrow is your birthday. 

Good friends, let's to the fields—I have a fever.

After a little walk, and by your pardon,

I think I'll sleep.  There is no sweeter thing,

Nor fate more blessed, than to sleep.  Here, world,

I pass you like an orange to a child:

I can no more with you.  Do what you will.

~Edgar Lee Masters,

from "To-morrow Is My Birthday"

Tell Me I'm Pretty

The thing is, he was really sexy.

I mean, he was the kind of sexy that made me thank my lucky stars that I had an IUD because otherwise I would have spontaneously ovulated.  And while I do not have a specific “type”, every second I spent near this man convinced me that if I had to choose one, he would be it.

He had this deep, rumbling kind of voice with the slightest hint of a Canadian accent, heavily tattooed forearms, and about four days worth of a dark beard.  His grin provoked two perfectly symmetrical dimples and crinkled up the corners of his blue eyes which, as Vera the South Central Oracle would be happy to see, had a very mischievous twinkle.  He was taller than me wearing my highest heels, so he must have been about six feet tall.  He was built like a lumberjack; and he had the hands of a man who worked for a living.  He was also the lead singer of the band, wrote music reviews for the city paper, and had a particular interest in vintage pin-ups. 

So.  Intensely.  Sexy.

He was also completely, unabashedly interested in me.  So when he suggested that we go back to his place, of course I said yes.

Back it up for a second:

I was in The North visiting Alejandro.  Well, except I don’t think I was much of a visitor.  I mainly spent a lot of time up in The Tower, the guest room located on the fourth floor of Alejandro’s city townhouse, or as Alejandro calls it, "My Room", since I’m the only one who stays there. 

And it was really nice being back at Alejandro's place, and seeing him and his partner Andrew, and Kathleen, their fabulous Irish neighbor, and our friend Philip, all smiles and laughs and high energy.  Of course, as nice as it was, I still couldn't sleep at night to save my life, and I still spent a bunch of time alone up in The Tower, sitting of the big, fluffy bed and enjoying 

the peaceful silence.  And it was a bit like being locked in a fairy tale tower—solitary to be sure, but also safe.  And I could gaze out my little window down the sunny patio four stories below me, with potted herbs and flower boxes with bright gerbera daisies, or look out onto the skyline of the huge city surrounding me. 

It was…tranquil.  The difference between solitude and loneliness.  Because I when I couldn’t handle, you know, having people look at me, I could sit in The Tower by myself, but I  still knew Alejandro and Andrew were nearby.  I could hear them milling about the house, living their lives, and when Alejandro decided it was time, he’d climb up the 100 stairs to The Tower, stick a glass of water or a cocktail in my hand and decree, “It’s time to come downstairs, gurl.”  Or he’d hand me my purse and say, “We have to take Cuchulain to puppy class, and he says that Aunt Lulu can’t miss it,” knowing that I can never say no to a puppy. 

And Alejandro, who is just about as different from me as you can get, personality-wise, has this method of normalizing my crazies in such a low-pressure way that I actually started to relax.  He’d let me hide when I needed to, but then he’d tell me what to do when he decided it was time for me to stop.  We drank sangria on his lovely, safe patio on the breezy summer nights, and he brought me out into the bustle of the city just enough to challenge me.  Alejandro was beautifully nurturing in the most understated way that I felt some of the tension slowly releasing inside of me.  Just a little bit of the tension, but I had so much that even just a little bit made a difference.

So on my last night there, I don’t know.  When I got to chatting with this awesome, charming, sexy stranger...for the first time in months, I almost forgot that I was broken.  Almost.  So when he asked me back to his place, I thought sure, you know?  We’ll go back to his place, and we’ll have a drink, and he’ll tell me I’m pretty, and we’ll make out on his couch.  That would be really great.  And then I’ll figure out if it will go any farther during the Waffle Window.

What Would I Do?

I never expected I’d be writing something like this again. Somehow, it just never occurred to me. The last dregs of the arrogance of my youth, perhaps? But here I am. Here goes:


A week ago, my dear friend Tom committed suicide. (Strangely enough, on Mr. Badger’s birthday.) After struggling with depression for a long, long time, he took an intentional overdose and died. He was about three weeks away from his 50th birthday.


It feels strange for me to write this, but I wasn’t entirely surprised. That’s not to say that I ever suspected that he was suicidal, but more to say that there are some people who have The Demons, which makes the day-to-day struggle of life a little more precarious than it is for the rest of the population. Tom had The Demons. I do, too. I think that’s one of the reasons we understood each other so well.


Tom and I first met when he was acting in the musical Falsettos during a summer theatre season, and I was working the box office all day and then house managing the theatres all night because hey, a girl’s gotta pay the rent. Tom was a A Town Near You native, and a local actor, and significantly older than me, so I was a little intimidated by him at first, but he was just so warm and welcoming that in no time he and the cast and I were going out every night after rehearsals, which turned into the cast coming in early for rehearsals every day so they could hang out and chat with me while I worked the box office, which turned into going out every night after the shows.


And after bar time each night, we’d creep into this abandoned downtown apartment that had had the electricity cut off. We’d pack the essentials to take along with us each night—candles, liquor, and toilet paper—and we’d set up shop on the carpet underneath the huge windows and have intimate candlelit conversations into the wee hours of the morning. And early the next afternoon, Tom would show up at the theatre, bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready to work, and he’d hand me a Jamba Juice “with extra protein—for the hangover” and we’d chat until it was time for him to go in.


Tom loved musical theatre. I don’t. I really, really don’t. But mainly because I hate the way that in the US, people think that the only theatre is musical theatre. Tom and I used to debate this. But nevertheless, each night when I would house manage, I found myself keeping a close eye on my watch to make sure that I was in the lobby of Tom’s theatre each night during his final song so that I could listen to it over the monitors. For those of you who don’t know, the uber-nutshell version of Falsettos is that it’s the story of a married-with-a-kid man named Marvin who leaves his wife for his younger male lover, and that lover dies of AIDS. At the end of the play, Marvin sings a song that says:


What would I do if I had not met you?
Who would I blame my life on?
Once I was told that all men get what they deserve.
Who the hell then threw this curve?
There are no answers.
But who would I be if you had not been my friend?


And Tom…he sold it. I mean, he sold it like only someone who knows the depths of the human experience could. And each night, I’d listen to him singing over the monitor in the lobby, and I’d cry and simultaneously hate that I was crying, and then I’d run back to my office to straighten myself up before the house was released.


And one night…I don’t know. Tom’s song just hit me and stuck, and I couldn’t really get myself together again. So much to my embarrassment, I was still trying to get the crying under control when Tom came out of the dressing room. Clearly, he thought something was seriously wrong, and all I could get out was, “It’s your song!” before I burst into a new round of tears, and he held both of my hands and looked me in the eye and said, “I know. I know.”


And the thing is, Tom did know. He knew about the heart and the soul and the depths of human emotion. And you could tell Tom anything without embarrassment or shame because as the thing was coming out of your mouth, Tom was nodding his head as if he already knew that that was exactly what you were going to say. He was an expert at dealing with human vulnerabilities because he understood that all human beings were vulnerable and fragile. Including himself. So while sure, Tom could hold his own when it came to bitching about stuff in the way that only theatre people can, he was simultaneously one of the kindest, most nurturing people I ever met. He did not just treat people well, but he treated people lovingly. And every last person who met him absolutely adored him for it. I don’t think I knew anyone so universally loved by the general public. Except for maybe Trudie.


So years later, when we began months of physical theatre training together, it was easy to jump into some really risky work together—not because we were already friends, but because of the kind of friend he was. Tom was someone you could really tune into; he let you connect with him. He offered unwavering support, and he could always tell if you needed a kind word or a shoulder rub or some down-to-earth, no-nonsense advice. So we trained so hard together and we shared secrets and we made beautiful art and worked with each other’s bodies. And really—once you truly trust someone with your body, when you’ve really worked with someone’s body, you’re bonded together forever. And we knew that.


And we laughed. So much. So hard. So many times after spending an evening in Tom’s company, I’d wake up the next morning with my entire core aching from laughing so hard with him. Because he was a funny man, and his laugh was big and contagious. And he laughed with his whole being, you know? Where every inch of his soul was engaged in the joy of the laughter. I always thought it was the way that those of us with The Demons laugh—you know, like you’re given this moment that’s joyful and hilarious and perfect, so you just surrender everything up to it. And you can really appreciate how perfect a thing humor is because you know just how un-funny life can be, so you jump into it up to your neck and revel in it while it lasts. People with The Demons are always the best laughers, and if I heard Tom laughing down the hall or something, my first instinct was to run towards it, to follow the sound of his laughter, because wherever Tom was laughing was definitely the place you wanted to be.


And if you couldn’t catch him laughing, you could always come use the bathroom at Coquette Centre—my old apartment in A Town Near You that I shared first with Charlotte, then later with Sophia—where we had a framed, autographed headshot of Tom hanging in our bathroom in a precise position where if you sat down to pee, he’d be watching you. And it’s hard for a girl to laugh and pee at the same time, but I’ll be damned if it didn’t happen more times than you’d think, with Tom’s half sexy/half serious headshot face staring at me.


And now…it’s hard to conceive of a world without Tom in it, without him out there laughing and singing. And there are a million things that I’ll never be able to look at again without thinking of him, like birthday hats and noise-makers, horoscopes, oranges, da Vinci’s Last Supper, Jamba Juice—with out without extra protein, John Malkovich, my silver cake server…lots and lots of things, little small things that I always connect to Tom in my head.


And Tom’s decision to commit suicide…of course, I wish he hadn’t done it. Of course, I wish that the rest of the world and I had just one more chance to help him, just one chance to get him to change his mind. Of course, I wish he were still here. But it was his choice, so I can’t begrudge him that. It was his body, and his life and his struggle, and he's the only one who knew what he was really going through, so it was his choice to make. And as much as I wish he were still here, I understand that choice.


So the thing that hits me in the chest every couple of hours and leaves me gasping for air is the thought of how much pain he must have been in to make that final decision. He must have been in so much pain, and no one could see the extent of it. The thought of him bearing all that pain all by himself…I think of it, and I can’t breathe. And I find myself wondering, did he really feel all alone? Did he think he had no one to turn to? Did he feel like he was unloved? And I find myself hoping with everything I have that Tom knew how much we all loved him, that we loved that man to bits, and that maybe he knew everyone loved him, but that it just wasn’t enough.


Because everyone did love him. And we still do.


So just once more for the record, Tom, even though it is too late:


I love you, you beautiful, kind, delightful man. I love you.

Birthday Boy

Since I've never been in this kind of situation before, I don't know how appropriate it is to mark this day.

You would have been 35.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Badger.



Coop: or, What I Got, Part the Second

[Note:  So, I wrote this shortly after my previous Coop-based blog post, but I just couldn't manage to edit or revise.  But I can't add anything new until I post it, since I can't stand to have a Part the First without a Part the Second.  So here it is, in all of it's un-revised, un-edited glory.  ~Lulu]

Another strange thing about the way Coop magically shows up at the exact moment I need an old friend around is that he has no idea that he’s doing it. It just so happens that at the exact moment the proverbial shit hits the even more proverbial fan in my life, Coop starts to feel old, so he looks me up to get a hit of youth.


Now, Coop isn’t old at all. He’s maybe six months to a year older than me. But he starts to feel old. And really, he started a family super young, and you know, he’s got three little kids and a wife and a mortgage and he has to work two jobs to keep it all afloat—dude, I start to feel a little haggard just thinking about it. And since his whole reason to move to The Snowy Cities in the first place was to make music with his band, I can see how he’d feel like his youth has slipped away.


So he calls me. And asks me what new bands I’m listening to and what places I’ve traveled to and what trouble I’ve gotten into and yeah, maybe who I’ve lent my heart out to. He wants to hear about my “adventures” because for him, I think it helps him remember his youth. (Which totally isn’t gone—it just feels like it’s gone.) But because I don’t have a partner or kids or a house or Cub Scouts meetings or anything like that, he thinks I’m still “young”.


Which I am, but not in the way he means it.

Coop: or, What I Got, Part the First

So, I’ve been chatting a lot with my old friend Coop lately. We’ve been out of touch for a little while, but about two months ago—right when I got back from my visit to South Central—he messaged me, saying that he missed my “antics” and wanted to make me a mix tape, since I’m the only one cultured enough to appreciate his advanced musical tastes. I was delighted at this message because it combined three of my favorite things: 1.) some one I love, 2.) personalized mix tapes, and 3.) shameless flattery.


Now, Coop is a regular guy. And by that, I mean he’s not a SuperHero or a SuperVillain, a SideKick or a Mystic or an Oracle. He’s certainly a unique and intriguing person, but he’s a regular person, too. That being said, he does possess this knack for popping back into my life at the exact moment I need an old friend around. I mean, it’s uncanny. Something really scary or overwhelming or heartbreaking will happen that sends me reeling, and just like magic, Coop appears out of nowhere, mailing me a story he wrote about me, or his band’s new CD, or making fun of my upper lip.


So I get back from South Central at the end of May feeling all sad and shaky, and I can’t fall asleep to save my life, and suddenly there’s Coop messaging me at 4am. And it’s been pretty consistent the last two months, which has been really comforting considering what’s been happening this summer. I mean, when someone, you know, leaves you, no one can ever take that person’s place. You’re always going to have a hole in your heart the exact shape of that person. It’s like a puzzle piece—no other piece is going to fit that spot exactly. But it’s amazing when someone shows up at just the right moment to remind you that yeah, your heart may have a piece missing, but ya still got some other pieces left.


Coop has a way of doing that. But I would never tell him that in a million years because he would bust my chops about it mercilessly until the day I die.


Now, Coop and I go way back. We have a pretty big history, which is maybe how he just psychically knows when to get a hold of me. We met during my very first class in college—Speech 101. Paranoid I was going to get lost and arrive late, I showed up at the classroom about 20 minutes early, so I was sitting in the room all alone, a little 17 year-old punk rock girl in her nose ring and army surplus combat boots, when Coop kind of wandered into the room in a referee shirt and a tweed jacket. Since we were the only ones in the room—oh, and since I have good manners—I looked up and said hi when he came in, at which point Coop just kind of looked at me and sat down without saying a word. I was mortified.

The Facebook Philosopher

God, I fucking hate Facebook.



Okay, I take that back. Facebook can be a pretty awesome way to remain in contact with your people, especially when you’re not living near most of them. But with Facebook, yeah, it’s awesome that your people can find you, but of course that also means that people who *aren’t* your people can find you as well. And then you’re continually forced to evaluate what it means to be a “friend”.



So, I got this friend request a few days ago, and it’s just sitting there, making me crazy. And it’s making me crazy because I’m not sure what do to do about it. But just leaving it there brings up all this bad juju whenever I open the Facebook. Bad juju, not to mention a complicated ethical quandary.



So here’s why it’s complicated:



During my last year teaching at South Central, there was a rumor circulating about me regarding sexual misconduct. More specifically, that I was having an affair with a student. Apparently, this rumor was raging pretty seriously that whole year, although I did not hear even a whisper of it until after I left, and the student who has friend requested me was one of the chief gossipers perpetuating it.



See: complicated.



I actually use Facebook for social purposes. I say hi to my friends, I post links to them, I update my status with ridiculous little happenings. It’s not a networking tool for me or anything like that, and I don’t “collect” friends. So I actually reject friend requests. I’m not elitist about it or anything, but dude, I have to remember you, and I have to actually like you. So, we went to high school together but I can’t remember anything but your name? Ignore. We went to school together, and you were a giant douchebag? Ignore. You’re an ex and we had a horrible breakup and haven’t spoken since? Ignore. I just can’t be obligated to give people access to my little virtual community just because they ask for it.



So now with this former-student Friend Requester, I have to figure out the right thing to do. I mean, I’ve never said anything to this student about her role in the rumor, and to be honest, I really don’t want to now. I have no desire to stir up any drama, and I just don’t have the energy to deal with it. But on the other hand, I don’t want to condone the behavior, and I certainly don’t want to implicitly indicate that that kind of behavior is okay. I’m not angry; I’m not holding a grudge; but I also don’t want to be a great big liar and somehow indicate that we are “friends”, even in the Facebook sense. So what I’m wondering is, what is my ethical responsibility here? If I want to take the high road and do the right thing (rather than necessarily the easiest thing) what is it?



After some time has passed after a hurtful event, my impulse is always to say, “Oh, it’s okay,” but I know that that comes from me being the peacemaker. Because if I could choose for anything in the world to happen, I’d just want everyone to be happy. Unfortunately, this tendency to oh-it’s-okay away hurtful events ends up setting me up to experience them over and over, so it’s not always the best option. And sometimes, too, I think it’s a way for me to push a painful experience away, rather than just let it exist and be what it is. Because if you say it’s all okay, then the hurtfulness disappears, right? It’s flawed logic, and I’m trying to avoid falling into it.



Because really, the whole thing was pretty devastating. I mean, students gossip about their professors. I know that, and on most levels I’m comfortable with that because I know it’s basic human behavior. Like, when I got to South Central I knew there was a bunch of gossip—among students and faculty—about whether I was a lesbian or not. I actually got a kick out of that one, you know, watching people trying to figure it out while speaking to me. Usually people gossip about me, and I think it’s mildly funny, or I don’t really care.



But at the same time, once I got to South Central, I realized that I would probably have to me more careful than my peers about appearing to be above reproach. I mean, being a woman, being young, being single, and perhaps more importantly, not being a part of the main church—and indeed, not being a Christian at all—I knew that these were all factors that I’d have to finesse in order to establish myself as someone who could still be a respected member of the college. And while this might sound very 1970s and aren’t we beyond all that now, let me say this: I was the only unmarried woman on the faculty who was under 55. That speaks volumes. And of course, these are just the baseline factors, besides the ones that are unique to me being me. And I quickly realized that there weren’t people like me hanging around South Central, so I knew I’d probably start some tongues a-waggin’ about something or other if I wasn’t careful.



So I was careful. I went to school in Professor Drag, instead of the cherry-print rockabilly dresses that my closet was bursting with. Good god, I wore awful polyester trousers because they’re “respectable”…such horrible, horrible trousers because they convey more authority than the electric blue tights I really wanted to wear. I wore sweater vests and brown shoes. I wore padded bras every day so there would be no chance of anyone seeing my nipple piercings through my shirt.



And while appearances are, sadly, a big part of what people deem respectable, I also didn’t talk about my personal life. I tried not to swear. (It was a heroic effort that I ultimately failed.) I didn’t talk smack about people. I refused to be pulled into student gossip or drama. I left my office door wide open when students came in to talk to me. And when conversations veered even slightly in a direction that some churchy, blue-haired grandmother might deem inappropriate, I’d change the subject or say, “You know, I really can’t be involved in a conversation like this.” It felt ridiculous at times, but somehow I knew it was necessary. Because hey, if I were 19 years old and stuck in BFE, I’d sure the hell gossip about me.



So when this rumor was revealed to me—not only that I was apparently having an affair with a student, but that it had been going on for the whole year, and that “a lot” of students actually believed it—my heart just about stopped. Because I had tried so hard to play by these strange, provincial rules while still being, you know, a genuine human being. And because with all the misery that was South Central—and really, the town, the job, the social life, the resources, the atmosphere, even the frickin’ landscape…all of it was miserable—the students were pretty awesome. As soon as I got there, I noticed that they seemed to be kinder to each other, more respectful of one another than at other places I had taught. And while they weren’t particularly warm with me to start with, I eventually made some pretty strong bonds with these passionate, enthusiastic students who were really good people. And when it felt like my job and the town were beating me down, I’d remind myself that the students were the reason I was there, and that made it better. So it was beyond shocking to discover that some of those same students believed that I’d have an affair with one of their classmates.



And part of it is probably that I was sexually harassed for three years in high school by this teacher named Mr. Jeffries. He taught English and Film Studies, but most significantly, he was the director of the drama program at my school, which means I saw him just about every day for three years. He’d do stuff like talk about how big my breasts were. He’d speculate on the sexual activities of me and my high school crush, and he’d warn me that true love means being willing to sleep in the wet spot. He’d stand in front of my English class and say things like, “Well, you know Lulu…she puts out like a gumball machine.” Dude, I was 15 and had never even kissed a boy and didn’t even realize that there was a wet spot after sex, and this man would stand in front of my class and tell everyone I was easy.



And there were other things—like he’d “accidentally” show up in the wings during a quick change. Or after rehearsal, he’d let the kids use the phone in his office to call for rides home, but when I would, he’d wait until I’d get on the phone, and then he’d tickle me, since I was insanely ticklish. But you know, since my mom would be on the other end of the phone, I wouldn’t be able to run away. It sucked. But since it was all in public, and since it was “just a joke”, then somehow it was supposed to be okay.



When I went away to college, he wrote me paper letters. On my first break, I went back home to my high school to say hi to some of my old teachers. Mr. Jeffries found me, brought me into an empty office in the woodshop to eat lunch with him, and then asked me on a date. I had just turned 18. He was 40? Maybe 45? It was only about 5 years ago that he finally stopped sending Christmas cards to me at my parents’ address.



That experience gave me an intense, visceral understanding of the importance of respecting the power hierarchy between teachers and students. Because the power hierarchy is there, and there’s a huge responsibility that goes along with it.



And if you can’t be careful and respectful with that power, then you have no business being a teacher. And since the first day I entered a college classroom as the instructor at the tender age of 21—yeah, teaching students who were older than me—I’ve been almost freakishly careful of respecting students’ position in that hierarchy. So the idea that this specific kind of rumor could not only be circulated about me, but that people would actually believe it—I was completely gutted.



And I guess the reason it’s complicated with this particular Friend Requester is that her gossiping was a very specific betrayal. During my first show in South Central, she was my stage manager and insisted that this was what she wanted to do as a career. So I took that very seriously and tried to train her as such. One day, I caught her complaining about me—right outside of the bathroom door of the theatre. I opened the door and said, “Okay, the first rule of stage managing is that if you absolutely must bitch about your director, you don’t do it at the theatre where she can hear you.” And we had a bit of a conversation about it afterwards in terms of professionalism, etc. (I wasn’t really offended—again, students are going to bitch about you. It’s part of the job description.) But after this initial little conflict, this Friend Requester and I had built up a solid, respectful, working relationship.



Then during my last semester, and actor quit a show with six rehearsals to go, and I was asked to step into the role so that, you know, the show could go on. And the Friend Requester was working as the stage manager. The show was a bit controversial—it was a nighttime, outdoor, agit-prop kind of production—and it included a sex scene with my counterpart in the rumored affair. (Remember, though, that at this point, I was oblivious to the existence of said rumor.) Now, I believe you gotta do what you gotta do in the name of art. And the script called for a kind of an ugly, animalistic, almost-sex scene. (With no kissing.) So that’s what the show got. After lots of awkward blocking and rehearsal, the scene was eventually intense and brutal and what the script required.



Now that being said, it wasn’t easy for me to do. At all. I mean, for all of my self-exposure and radical honesty and la la la, I’m not an exhibitionist. (At all.) So I wasn’t exactly eager to have people watch me, you know, with my slip up around my waist as I pull a man in between my legs. I mean, while I love and take delight in my body, I’m also really twitchy about presenting it in any way might connote “spectacle”, which let’s face it, a fat girl in a full slip in a kind of savage, outdoor sex scene…that’s not something people get to see everyday. There’s some serious spectacle in there, which made me feel really, really vulnerable.



And of course, being a female professor, there was a risk in playing that role that I don’t think any of the students could fully appreciate—basically, that it can be hard to for a woman to maintain her authority once people have seen her flat on her back with a man on top of her. And that risk wouldn’t have been the same for a man. And after the first performance, I was shaky with all the endorphins, and I just wanted to find a place to hide out for a second until the audience left. (It was outside, after all.) So I make a beeline for a van that was parked near the performance space while the audience milled around and said hi to other cast members. And as I’m ducking into the van, I hear this male student calling out to me, “Hey, Lulu! Hi!” And I just wave my hand and say hi and don’t really look over because I felt crazy exposed and just. Had. To. Get. Into. The. Van. But the student kept trying to talk to me, saying, “Hey, good show! I mean, really good show…” And I heard it…there was kind of a leer in his voice. It was demeaning.  And it made me feel kind of sick.



But as an artist and an educator, modeling artistic integrity for my performance students is really important to me, and I wasn’t going to try to sway the production into a watered-down version just for my own comfort level, or just so I could avoid risk. It was important to be true to the production in spite of the personal risk and exposure. Because there is no good art without risk. And no good performers without vulnerability. But the thing that I think people often don’t realize is that just because I’m good at vulnerability, that doesn’t make it easy for me.



So in light of all of that exposure and risk and junk, I took the Friend Requester aside as soon as we began blocking the sex scene. We talked about how this was really good stage management training, since stage managers have to learn how to deal with very sensitive and charged material with respect and professionalism. And I talked to her about what a delicate process it was working with sexually charged material—how it makes the actors really vulnerable and exposed, so it’s especially important to respect that vulnerability. We talked about how awkward and uncomfortable rehearsing sex blocking can be and that it is absolutely critical that what happens in the room during the rehearsals—embarrassing accidents, freak-outs, wardrobe malfunctions, whatever—never leaves the rehearsal room.



And she looked me right in the face and said, “Of course. I completely understand. Absolutely nothing will leave the room.”



And then when I got hit by the affair rumor tidal wave, I found out that the Friend Requester used the sex scene rehearsals as “evidence” of the affair and spread the stories like wildfire. I was really honest with her about how awkward and sensitive working a scene like that was, and I genuinely asked her to respect that, and she lied right to my face. Absolutely shamelessly. Now that’s cold.



And that’s the kind of thing that I don’t know if I can just blow off with a “Well, a year has gone by now…” Because yeah, a year has gone by now, and I don’t feel the pain of the rumor anymore. I own it, and I can talk about it. I can even joke about it now that I understand that it is an occupational hazard. But I don’t know if the right thing to do—for me or for her—is to condone that kind of malicious gossiping by saying that now we’re “friends”. Then again, I also don’t know if it’s my ethical obligation to jump back into that mess to explain to her what she did and why it was so wrong. She’s young—she could learn something important from it. But then again, she’s young—she could just refuse to accept responsibility.
And I don’t want any of that. I don’t want any more mess. And I don’t want to go into an ethical quandary every time I logon to Facebook and see the Friend Requester’s friend request sitting there, staring at me. So I have to make some kind of choice just to get the request off my frickin’ page.
Because really, all I want when I go on Facebook is to look at pictures of my friends, and read the sassy comments they make to me, and make sassy comments in return. And maybe, maybe, if someone loves me a whole bunch, or if I’ve been really good around Christmas, someone will have posted a video on my Wall of ducklings swimming in a bathtub.
Now really, is that too much to ask?

Trash

Oh, man. It’s a good year for the ghosts. Important people seem to keep vanishing from my life. Two major losses in six months. First Mr. Badger, and now…


I’m not exactly sure where to start. It’s almost too big to think about.

But here’s an arbitrary beginning: Once upon a time, there was this fella. And he and I were really, really close. And we went on trips together and made art and made 800-mile (one way) trips to visit each other’s houses and we talked to each other nearly every single day for over a year. And things got intimate and intense and complicated. And during our last visit, things got even more intimate—and therefore, more intense and complicated—and we had a fight. Then he was leaving for a trip that was going to last for a month, and he called about a week before his departure. I told him that I stopped sleeping after I left his place, and how our situation made me feel really unsafe (stupid PTSD), and how it sounded like he was breaking up with me—like he was just going to take off and stop talking to me. And he said no, no, no, that this wasn’t it. He swore that I’d hear from him on the trip—not as much as usual, of course, and not conversations about our complicated situation, of course—but that he’d text or message me. He found about 100 ways to promise that I’d hear from him while he was on the road. In fact, the last thing he said in that phone call before he said “Goodnight” was a final “You’ll hear from me.”



And then…nothing. He vanished into thin air. Well, that’s not exactly true—he contacted other people plenty. Just not me. So maybe I should just say he vanished from my life.



God, it sounds so simple when I write it down. Funny—it doesn’t feel simple at all.

The thing is, I never imagined we’d get as intimate as we did. Our friendship really began with a road trip, which I figured would just be a bunch of vacation hijinks and frolics and yay. You know, road trip stuff. But right out of the gate, he started testing boundaries with language and flirting and such, which I still thought was fun and funny, but at the same time, he started upping the ante in terms of emotional intimacy. He asked really deep, personal, charged questions that I never expected, and he shared an amazing amount of stuff about himself. It was really fast, and I was a bit shocked, but he presented himself as so open and emotionally accessible and mature that I thought, “Okay, sure. If he wants to go someplace genuine with this, I’m down.”


So this fella and I got really tight really fast. And it’s funny, but to me, it felt like each step that brought us to a new level of intimacy was initiated by him. He’d probably say otherwise, but that was my experience of it. We’d have these moments, and I get the jolt of surprise, “Oh, we’re taking it there now?” I felt like I was constantly following his lead, which I thought was okay partially because he was younger than me and I didn’t want age to create an unspoken power discrepancy. But it was also because he seemed so lovely and open and I felt really connected to him, so I was perfectly happy to just go along wherever.


But then the lead started getting really messy, I guess—going one way, then another, then another. And things got really Complicated, as they do. But every time things seemed too complicated to stand, somehow we’d just end up closer. Like, really intimate. He started sending me goodnight texts before he ever knew how sweet I thought it was and long before I really needed them. We’d use the L-word with each other. We’d say how much we missed each other. He told me he thought about me all the time. Like I said, really intimate.


And then he was just…gone. After everything we had been through and done and said. Gone. Like nothing ever happened.


I don’t know if it was more like a slap in the face or a kick in the gut, but it was like one of those. Or both. And it has completely toppled my previously-unshakable faith in the people I love. I mean, the people who love you—that’s your team, right? The fellow SuperHeroes and sidekicks, the partners-in-crime-fighting and all-around good guys everywhere…they’re your people. They’re the ones who stand with you in the face of this dangerous world and its villains. They’ve got your back, just like you have theirs. You can trust them. Always. No question.


But then…this happens. And it doesn’t fit in with the logic of the universe. I mean, how can someone be that close to you, how can someone say they love you, and then just throw you away like a piece of garbage? How can you be so important to someone one day, and then suddenly become so…disposable? Obviously, I was wrong about how the universe works, and now I have no idea what to believe in.


I should be angry about all of this. I know that I should be so, so angry about being pitched like a piece of trash, especially after everything that happened, and I get it intellectually, but I don’t feel it. The only thing I feel—except for immense sadness, of course—is shame.


I’m really surprised at the overwhelming shame of it—the shame of being left without a word—because shame is something I don’t tend to feel. Maybe because I try to make sure I don’t do things that inspire it. And it’s stupid, I know, but now when I see people, I feel like everyone can read that shame on my body. You know, like I’m a modern-day Hester Prynne, only instead of being emblazoned with a scarlet A for Adulteress, it’s a T for Trash. Like now people just look at me and see the kind of girl who drives people to abandon her. Because goddamn, what kind of shrieking harpy do you have to be for someone you’re so, so close with to think his only recourse is to just vanish?


And let me say this: if I heard a friend saying this exact same stuff, I’d be pissed. I’d be all, “You’re super tight with some fella; things get intense and complicated; then things get rough; he promises to contact you soon and then he falls of the face of the earth…and YOU’RE the one who is ashamed?!?!” I’d get all RuPaul on my friend and throw some sequins on her and take her out and have strangers tell her how fierce and fabulous she is. But since it’s actually happening to me…it might be ridiculous, but I still feel ashamed. Because I don’t know how this boy could have done something so awful unless I inspired it somehow. I hate it, but the shame is still there.


This is what I mean when I say that maybe we become the SuperHeroes that we ourselves actually need, and maybe we save others when we cannot save ourselves.


So Trudie came to town to visit last week, and due to her travelling schedule, we hadn’t seen each other since January. I was so excited for her to come, and we made plans to go swimming at the state park and make art and eat soft serve. So she shows up, and everything is great and fun and happy, and then around midnight on her first day, we went out to eat at this 24-hour diner. Trudie eats really fast anyways, but we were both starving, so she positively inhaled her eggs and hash browns. Afterwards, she put her hand on her stomach and groaned a bit and said, “Oh my god, I ate too fast.” I burst out in laughter loud enough to fill the whole diner, and my right hand instinctively reached over to my phone so I could text this fella about it. When the three of us were on a trip together, he was the one who first observed that after every single meal Trudie says, “Oh my god, you guys, I ate too fast”, and he busted her chops pretty hard about it the whole trip. And what do you know, our first meal, and “Oh my god…”


And there I was, phone in hand, and I remembered, “Oh, that’s right…he’s gone.” And then I burst out into tears in the middle of this shady diner on the south side of Rust City.


And the rest of the visit was pretty much like that. Trudie and I would be having a great time, but then I’d just get hit with that huge sadness, and I couldn’t keep it under wraps. And I was embarrassed and kept apologizing. I mean, she was already seeing me jump out of my skin every time someone lit a firecracker on the street outside. (Nuts to you, Fourth of July!) And she knew that I stayed up long after she went to bed because I couldn’t sleep until dawn. (Which is how I know it’s really bad—I still can’t sleep even with someone as comforting as Trudie in the house.) And she could tell that my fight-or-flight response was constantly in high gear. All that was embarrassing enough. But then she had to see me randomly burst into tears because I couldn’t pack away the sadness for the length of her visit? It was too humiliating.


So on her last night, we decide work on this art project—taking pinup pictures. And we spend all this time turning my bed into a revised version of Elvegren’s “Love Letter”, and we fix the lighting and do hair and makeup and costuming and figure out the right composition and camera angle. And after all of that, I finally get into position in this vintage bra and panties, garter belt and stockings, and short little kimono. I’m glammed up to high heaven making art that I think is awesome and hilarious, and…I couldn’t feel any joy in it. I just felt so, so sad.


I didn’t want to mess up the shots or let Trudie down, though, so I launched into a frenzy of apologies: “I’m so sorry I’m like this right now. I’m sorry I’ve messed up your visit. You came all this way, and I just wanted put all this aside so we could have fun. I’m so sorry I’ve got this big bag of crazy that I can’t seem to get control of.”


And she climbed onto the bed next to me and was all, “Dude, it’s okay. You don’t have to apologize.” And I was shocked at what came out of my mouth in response, but as I formulated the sounds, I knew it was what I really felt:


“I’m afraid you’re going to disappear now, too.”


Trudie’s eyes got really wide for a second and she saw I must be in a really, really bad way if I could question for even a moment the sacred trust between partners-in-crime. And she nodded her head for a second to acknowledge the fear, but she didn’t contradict it. Maybe she knew that if you’re really not going to abandon someone, you don’t need to say it. She rested her head on my shoulder and said, “Dude, you’ve just had a really bad year.”


Then about a minute later, she bolted upright, really excited-like, and turned to me and said, “That would be a great children’s book! Lulu’s Big Bag o’ Crazy!”


Trudie’s gone now, and so I’m left here in the Gingerbread Cottage with a new ghost, this one in the shape of this fella that I genuinely loved, and who said he genuinely loved me. This fella who, just over a year ago, sat in the passenger seat of my car and proclaimed with such bravado, “We are going to be in each other’s lives forever.” This fella who is now just a ghost because, for some reason or another, he decided to drop me like a box full of live rattlesnakes.


And since that’s not something you do to someone you love—or really, even someone you like, or someone you respect in any kind of way—I’m left to wonder what I actually was to him then. Was I a distraction? An escape? A game? A joke? Was I a personal challenge or test somehow—you know, to see how long he could charm an older woman? Was I one of those experience-collecting trips to the sideshow—did he just wonder what it would be like to stick his hands up a fat girl’s skirt?


I know, my mind goes some ugly places. But where else is it going to go after something so ugly has happened? The thing is, once one big lie is revealed—“this isn’t it, I’ll be in contact from the road, you’ll hear from me”—how can I trust that anything this past year is what it seemed? I know what it looked like and felt like. I know the way he acted and what seemed real and honest and connected. And I know what everyone else saw when they looked at us together. But to me, all that added up to Something That Wasn’t Garbage, you know? Something That Wasn’t Disposable. And apparently I was wrong about that. So I must have been wrong about all of it, right?


But I guess I’ll never really know what I was to him. Whenever we would argue, he had this uncanny knack for getting me to say what was special about him and why I liked being around him, but never answering the same questions in return. And since he’s vanished, I suppose it wouldn’t really make a difference, anyway. I’d still feel just as bad.


I suppose if I could know only one thing, I’d want to know if it was worth it. You know, those, say, 20 minutes that it would have taken to write me 4 or 5 texts over the five weeks he disappeared. Just a few texts to say “Hi there, I’m keeping my word, and you’re still in my life.” You know, did something so amazing and transformative happen in those 20 minutes that it was worth triggering in me all these weeks of disabling PTSD reactions? Because he knew. I told him. I told him what’s happening with us makes me feel so intensely unsafe. I wonder if whatever happened in those collected 20 minutes was worth throwing away a whole person, a whole year.


So as it ends up, Vera the Oracle of South Central was right about one thing: the prophecy did come true. But I think she was wrong about me having The Gift. I mean, yeah, the South Central Prophecy came true, but I can’t laugh about it.