On a pleasant sunny Sunday morning during the spring of 1994, my appendix became inflamed and was well on its way to rupturing. By the time I was whisked into surgery, I was in agony unlike anything I’d ever endured. It was the most painful experience I had ever known, until now.
It was now Wednesday morning, just six days since embarking on what had become one roller coaster of a trip, and I was running out of options for keeping Brain distracted from ruminating over and over again about what happened and where things went wrong during my weekend in Toronto.
And Jon appeared to be hell-bent on keeping me guessing.
I reached over to the nightstand beside the bed and picked up my glasses and iPhone. As my eyes came into focus, I could see that I had two messages from the previous evening from “Jonny Bear.”
“Oh fuck,” I said to no one in particular, “I have got to change that contact listing.”
The messages, while not formal in nature, were a bit stiffer than our previous almost “gurly” chats, as Brodie referred to them. There was something about how his day had been, and something about hoping things were going well for me back in “the desert heat,” but nothing about what we’d both just been through.
“What the hell is he doing?” I asked the two main elements of my personality, my heart and mind. I might as well have been consulting a Magic 8 Ball as Griselda was being uncharacteristically serene and Brain was looking more and more like a babbling mental patient.
“He kisses me off then resumes idle chit chat and small talk as if nothing had happened.
“He is the world’s worst lesbian,” I thought to myself implying, unlike many of the independent gay women I’d known over the years, he was incapable of making a clean break of things.
There was precious little in the apartment in the way of food so I went out to Rick’s Restaurant for a late breakfast, then stopped at the Ralphs supermarket at Sunrise and Ramon on the way home to restock the larder.
While in Ralphs, I decided it was time to change to the hard stuff. I bought a 1.5 liter bottle of Merlot.
As the day wore on, it became increasingly obvious that Brain and I were losing the battle against sliding into a downward spiral of recursive thinking.
I opened the liter and a half of wine at dinner, which I barely touched, the dinner that is, not the wine. I’d had three glasses by the time I got the dinner things into the dishwasher.
All throughout that day and the entire evening I never stopped thinking about where I’d gone wrong and why, why was this happening. After all, I had been so careful. I’d vetted Jonny like a defense attorney screening jurors at a murder trial. I’d opened my life to him and told him more about myself than virtually anyone else, all the way up to and including admitting that I’d fallen in love with him.
ALL BEFORE I EVEN WENT TO FUCKING TORONTO!
The Merlot was beginning to kick in.
There was precious little in the apartment in the way of food so I went out to Rick’s Restaurant for a late breakfast…
The process was now complete, I was now living entirely in my head, trapped in an endless swirl of rumination. I needed to get this out of me. I needed to talk to someone about what was going on, but I couldn’t.
I’d made friends since moving to Palm Springs, but after less than 18 months in the desert I hadn’t yet made a really close friend, a friend you could confide in and talk things out with.
There were only two people, aside from Jonny, with whom I’d opened up to about the depth of my feelings and thoughts about where this relationship might be going.
My best friend Kenny lived nearly three thousand miles away in coastal Georgia with his husband and by this time, thanks to the three-hour time difference, they were in bed.
The other person I’d shared many a serious conversation with about the joy of my life was Brodie. The only problem being he was also Jonny’s best friend. At least he was a night owl.
Doesn’t matter, I said to myself. I can keep this professional. I can talk about this without asking him to divulge confidences or take sides. “I can do this,” I said to Brain and Griselda.
She looked very skeptical and Brain just sat there with a blank expression on his face repeatedly muttering the same words over and over again, “Why? How did this happen?”
I poured another glass of wine and called Brodie.
Brodie was finally able to extricate himself from our conversation.
Even though I could tell from his responses I’d placed him in a dreadfully awkward position, I continued to vomit up my feelings of confusion for what must have been, for Brodie at least, an interminable length of time.
Even as I unburdened myself, I could feel a swell of something arising within me and it wasn’t pride.
Brodie was finally able to extricate himself from our conversation. After he hung up, I poured myself a glass of wine and, as I sat there alone in my bedroom, I felt a chill run through me.
In my mind, a door opened and the Boys In The basement came through. Estelle walked over and took Griselda by the arm and began to lead her away. Howard helped Brain to his feet and led him away as well. Only Robert remained behind, and once the others were gone he began to speak.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a soft reassuring voice. “We can’t contain them any longer. The locks have come off the doors and they’re on their way here.” And with that, he too slowly walked away.
And then they arrived.
From the depths of my subconscious mind, a thousand ghastly recollections from my childhood through the nastiest of my prerecovery adult years began swirling like phantoms in the night all about me. Like demons ready to rend a soul to shreds, hateful apparitions of family and so-called friends, along with a melange of authority figures from nuns to sociopathic co-workers and employers, began tormenting me, repeating every vile invective ever spoken to me.
One by one, my demons began ripping and tearing away at my self-worth and sense of well-being, and even though I steadfastly refused to accept their vitriol, nevertheless the agony of emotions brought on by these memories was unbearable.
Instead of weeping and sobbing, I did something I’d never done before, I began to wail repeatedly, woefully. I tried to walk across the room to the bed, but fell to my knees against it as the wailing continued uncontrollably.
I can’t tell you how long this went on, it certainly seemed like hours and the message was always the same, “Of course, he doesn’t love you. Why would anyone ever want to love someone as worthless as you.”
On and on it went, wave after wave of bone wracking torment, my head pounding and throbbing from the echoes of a thousand slurs made by those in my life I was most supposed to be able to trust and rely upon.
Finally, it felt as though the demons were beginning to run out of energy and the taunts began to abate. The wailing gave way to sobbing. I was able to get to my feet and stumble to my desk where I plopped down in front of my computer.
I vaguely remember something about wondering what I looked like and using a photo app on my iMac, instead of walking to the full length mirror just a few feet away in the hallway. After a few moments I picked the empty Merlot bottle up off the floor, sat it down on the desk, then headed to bed my mind at last sedated enough to sleep.
Edited by
Kenneth Larsen
Next Up: Aftermath
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I am loving these installments, but you leave us hanging each and every time! Maybe God can wait, but I’m having a hard time waiting for the next episode!! (I’m glad I know how the story ends, else I’d be crushed)