When I say that I finally gave up and allowed myself to admit I was in love with Jon, I’m also saying that in the weeks following his return from England I began experiencing feelings unlike any others I had ever had in my life.
In recovery there’s an old saying, “Cliches are God’s way of telling you something until you get it.” I was awash in every cliche about love and happiness you’ve ever heard.
Since my days in therapy, I’ve been keenly aware that what I thought was love in each of my previous relationships was actually a sort of fool’s gold. As desperate as anyone has ever been to love and be loved, what’d I’d embraced, in addition to repeating the emotional patterns of my youth, was being in love with love, or to put it more accurately, the idea of being in love.
Shortly after his return, Jon and I picked up right where we left off before his departure.
There were, however, some differences.
During those twelve years of therapy, in addition to learning about and accepting the emotionally crippling effects of my toxic upbringing, I also became keenly aware of many of the habits I’d developed over the years that basically doomed any attempt I’d make at establishing and nurturing a truly loving relationship with another human being.
The first such habit was turning a blind eye to any possible warning sign that the individual I was interested in had unresolved issues of his own that could or would prevent his being able to fully embrace someone else’s feelings.
The second was denying my own short comings and problems, and never giving others the opportunity to honestly evaluate how my life and issues might affect any interaction between us. As I had done for years growing up in what was otherwise an insane environment, I conducted myself as if I’d come from as normal and healthy a family as could be found in a 60s TV sitcom.
Basically I lied. Not the best way to build a lasting relationship; a lesson it took me 40 years to learn. I said I was intelligent, not smart.
Of his determination that I not become involved—yet again—with another “overaged, emotionally crippled, little boy,” Brain was single-mindedly obsessive.
This is why, once our conversations resumed, I began little-by-little, scrupulously including details about my life, loves, and, most important of all, my failures and shortcomings.
Jonny already knew exactly how old I was.
I’d learned early in my online social life that people tend to see and hear what they want to see and hear. I’d had a particularly nasty encounter with a very handsome man in his thirties who thought I was in my mid-50s and, despite stating in his profile his preferences weren’t “set in stone,” he became quite angry, to the point of becoming abusive, when I told him I was actually in my early 60s. For that reason, I always list my real age in my online profile.
Jon also knew I was virtually bankrupt following the crash, recession, and other reversals in my life.
Making your financial status known shortly after meeting seemingly interested younger men is something, as a gentleman of a certain age, you pick up quickly after moving to Palm Springs. It can save tons of time and is an excellent way of weeding out about 30 percent of the so-called “younger for older” crowd you really don’t want to get to know anyway.
Over the course of the next several weeks, I told Jon about my family background, my inability to establish a truly meaningful relationship with another man, my twelve years in therapy, and, most importantly to me, at least, the fact that he treated me more warmly and affectionately than any man, including my own father ever had.
None of it seemed to faze him. He listened, was empathetic, and would, from time to time, share details about his life and background, which Brain methodically scrutinized for the slightest indication of mental or emotional instability.
Of his determination that I not become involved—yet again—with another “overaged, emotionally crippled, little boy,” Brain was single-mindedly obsessive. He absolutely forbade, as Brodie would later put it, “dropping the L Bomb.”
Our talks went on to become longer and more affectionate. With Griselda’s help I began slipping compliments about his smile, his laughter, and the twinkle in his eyes into otherwise silly, ordinary small talk. A habit Jon too developed much to Griselda’s and my lasting pleasure and enjoyment.
Additionally, I tried, or so I thought at the time, to make him understand that I found him more compassionate and understanding than any other man I’d been involved with in my life, including my own father.
“No man has every made me feel as special as you have and I want you to know how much I’m enjoying that,” was a phrase I repeated often.
“Well, I for one, need an insulin injection,” Brain snarled churlishly quoting Harold from “The Boys In The Band”.
With each passing day I was drawn deeper into what I can only describe as a blissful intoxication. Then one evening he began talking about his early life and his childhood, how his parents’ divorce had affected him and the impact it had on his teenage and early adult years. “Because my mother had to work so much to support us,” he said, “I basically raised myself,” something I certainly could identify with.
He went on to describe the difficulties he faced during those years both as a young gay man grappling with his sexuality and trying to manage other peoples’ expectations of a handsome, big strapping young man.
It was not an unusual story by any means, but the tender, open frankness of what he was saying reached out from across the continent, through the video and gently drew me into what Griselda had come to call the cathedral of his soul.
“Well, I for one, need an insulin injection,” Brain snarled churlishly quoting Harold from The Boys In The Band.
While he did not speak openly of his feelings, they unmistakably seemed to come flowing out of him. This was not to be the only time I would make this observation.
Everything in and about my life began once again to change; music was sweeter, the air cleaner, the sun’s rays warming in a way they’d never been before.
“I detest cheap sentiment,” Brain droned on.
As you might imagine, Griselda was beside herself with joy. She spent most of her days hopping and skipping about inside my mind plucking petals off of daisies. On the outside I was increasingly behaving like a teenage girl myself, laughing and giggling at all times of day for no apparent reason.
Both Griselda and I began entertaining the idea that I had finally come upon another human being capable of true intimacy and affection.
No one was more alarmed by these feelings than Brain. He began launching a systematic series of additional disclosures, each clearly intended to provide “this person” as he referred to Jon, not only with a way to bail out of what was taking place between us, but a pathway lined with graphically explicit road signs, complete with flashing lights all pointing the way toward the EXIT.
He made sure Jonny knew all about my medical history, diabetes, coronary artery disease, stents, and angina. My HMO didn’t have as much information about me as Brain dumped on Jonny.
Next he launched into a campaign of fully documenting each and every social and sexual skills issues I have or ever had and how they’d been negatively impacted by my health and my now terminated 20-year relationship, which had effectively taken me out of circulation for years.
Nothing turned Jonny away. He came back time and time again, just as caring, thoughtful, and adorable as he’d been before learning any of these things about me.
I truly had never had feelings as intense as those I was now experiencing at any time in my 64 years here on Earth. It was often breathtakingly overwhelming, and it was at times like these that I remembered the suggestion I heard so many times in recovery when emotions ran high…just breathe.
Next Up: Virtual Real Vs Real Real
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