Faithfully

This was originally a post on my Facebook page.

**This is actually the second time I’m writing this post. The first one is lost in the ether somewhere because I tried to add art after writing it. AAARGH!**

I have learned to be very, very careful about what I share online. If someone knew what to look for, they’d find that I’ve been a traveller on the net for about 20 years, give or take one. Therefore, if I’m writing this on Facebook, of all places, then I really, really had to write. There is another place I can write, but I do so under a pseudonym that only a few know as me. This time, *I* need to write this post. Me.

I’ve been sitting at my dining room table working like hell to get WickedWomanMag.com up by *mumble*mumble* while listening to iTunes. It’s just me, my really f’ed up wrist, my laptop, the occasional head butt from a puppy to say, “Don’t forget about me!” and my work. I was concentrating like a laser when I had to stop.

There are some songs that we not only hear, but feel in our bones. It doesn’t matter whether it is a sad song or joyous. Whenever we hear it, there is a swell of emotion that we really can’t explain to anyone. For me, one of those songs is Journey’s Faithfully.

The sentiments expressed, the experiences, the longing are all well known to me. I loved two men at the same time when in college. One of them was a “music man”–a roadie for a couple of bands—so he wasn’t around as much as I would have liked. I remember a couple of times when I went to spy on his apartment building which was easy enough since it was across the street from our favorite bar. Now I think my little reconnaissance missions were hilarious, especially when I had my best friend at the time help me with them. Then, all I had was the longing.

As an aside: What I would give to have a photo taken reminiscent of the John and Yoko bed photo! Visually, we were gorgeous together. He had a thick mane of very wavy, deep, bright red hair and pale skin. My skin, obviously much darker, had the right highlights to make, particularly, a black & white photo stunning. I have thought of that shot many times, especially after I ran into a salesmen at a music store that could have easily been his son. He wasn’t.

The red head and I had several little “talks” about the formality of our relationship. Neither of us were monogamous. How could I be with another guy a little over an hour away? The thing about the red head was that I could really be who I was. All those intimate urges were on overdrive, yes, but it was much more. He was a gregarious Irishman and I was just happily me when he was around. Man, did it hurt when he had to go to work, though. I *hated* seeing him drive off. He was my “music man.” Faithfully.

Another aside: I think I felt most alive when I got to watch a basketball arena turn into a concert hall. It is complexly amazing. I remember watching my red head, (although I don’t think he was mine quite yet), running cable and climbing scaffolding to hang lights. When he was finally some version of “mine,” I got quite “excited” every time I saw him working with cables, especially light boards. Remembering the metamorphosis from arena to music hall now really makes me long for that experience once again. I’ll put it on my Bucket List. Before Mom died, I was going back to our alma mater for grad school. I’d planned to ask if I could take over as the advisor to the student organization that handled concerts, among other things. I am a Roach Patrol alum, after all, so I know a little about what needs to happen.

The other man I loved was, and may well end up being, the love of my life. I hope he doesn’t, because I can easily do better. Having a chronic, debilitating condition plays havoc with the love life. Good Lord, I could go with either sex and I’m still by myself! Actually, I don’t really mind it right now. I’m too busy and I have a lot that I have to do because I’m the only one who can. WickedWomanMag.com has got to go live in the very near future. Indeed, me sitting here typing this a second time has totally screwed the pooch with my night, but it had to be done.

It took me a whole year and a little more to finally get the love of my life to take me seriously. I wanted him. Period. Dot com; dot org; dot edu. I may have been a few years younger than most kids in college, but I felt the electricity the very first time we actually met. That S.O.B. played with me like a cat with a mouse, too. It is fairly humorous now, but it was anything but then. Looking back, he was so bad, but in a way that wasn’t evil. That would come later. I still ended up crying my eyes out over him both before and after we got together, but those instances were forgivable. As I said, he wasn’t truly evil or cruel then.

I transferred to a larger university my sophomore year. Going back to visit friends where I first entered college was tricky. I wanted to spend time with them but I also wanted to get time with my love. He was seeing the woman he eventually married along with a few others on campus—or so it was believed. He didn’t always know when I was going to be in town and I didn’t always know that he had time or would make time for me. Actually, while exploring the possibilities, he did make time to see me.

Once we got “together” and he came to visit, I was a floating ball of happy goo from the moment I saw his car pull into the drive until he left. He was my heart. He HAD my heart. But, again, we weren’t exclusive. It wasn’t impossible, but it sure would have been impractical, especially with the girl he was seeing there on campus with him. I hated that, but I also knew I would not thrive in such a small school.

All in all, we were together, if somewhat ambiguously, for 17 years. One of the darkest times was when he asked me to come visit him at home several years after we’d both graduated. When someone brings you across several states to meet his parents, the natural thought is that things are about to get serious—finally! I think that trip was a test that I failed. I think I know why, but it is really immaterial. He told me of his engagement to his college girlfriend, then about to become a doctor, just as I was leaving his home (bastard) to visit a cousin nearby. For better or worse, he told me, “I almost chose you.” I don’t remember what happened next other than more tears than I’d shed in my life until that point. It’s all a blur.

It is hard to say which I remember most, the longing for him when he wasn’t physically or emotionally available or the joy, for the most part, when he was. I’ve written so much about him over the years that a publisher inquired about a book some years ago. I couldn’t write it then. Now I can and will, although I’ll have to change the names to protect the whining, bitching and moaning incredibly guilty. Once I get WWM up and running smoothly, including hiring a managing editor at some point, I can breathe a bit.

I mentioned that he hadn’t turned evil prior to his marriage. He was quiet, had mad skills as a DJ, super smart and probably in or near the genius IQ range, sweet, gentle when needed, but he did have a very evil side that I’d known was there for a long time. I knew nearly from the beginning that he was the kind of young man who could either choose to be a good and decent person or be a cruel, evil and non-consensually sadistic person. At some point during his marriage he chose the latter. I would give a lot to go back and stop him from choosing the wrong side, but I can’t. These days, if there COULD be a sinister motive for someone’s actions, that is his default assumption. I’m sorry, but I believe that’s quite twisted.

What happened to my caring, generally upbeat, beautiful young man? I dearly want to know what made him turn into someone who could be so utterly hateful, cruel and sadistic, particularly to me—someone who’d been totally loyal to him and, with one exception, shown him nothing but love. Hell, even when I was hurt and angry with him I still tried to be decent about things. I wish I could say the same about him. I can’t. He has become a textbook narcissist and it just makes me sad. What he did to me as the narcissist he’s become is very private. I’m struggling with how to write about it in the book because I’ve never experienced cruelty on that level.

This decades old rock ballad called Faithfully has a kind of magic for me. Most of the time, if I truly listen to it, I start crying. I’ve barely held back the tears tonight, but I wanted to get this post done. I know this song. I’ve felt this song. I’ve been this song. Indeed, I’ve been this song twice in my life in two different ways. The fact that I’m sharing this on FACEBOOK is fairly well amazing to me. However, as I stated when I began, I needed to write this and not my alter ego. I did this for me because this is what is in my heart. For reasons that probably won’t become clear to me for a while, I needed to remember. Faithfully.

Whew! I didn’t know all that was in there. Now I need a cigarette. It’s too bad I quit smoking. 😦

One Final Bit Of News

I just got off the phone with my second source in the search for the elusive Morgan. One of the reasons I had such a difficult time was that I didn’t remember that Morgan isn’t his first name, it’s his last. When I was reminded of this, it immediately came back to me.

My source didn’t keep in touch with him after leaving the city of our undergrad university, although he did go back and Morgan was there. It’s enough to say that they didn’t see eye to eye on some things and each went their separate ways. Based on what their differences were, and knowing both too well, the source’s admonition that he isn’t worth looking up is advice I’m going to take.

So, there goes my last hope of trying to free myself from a tie to Glenn. It was a long, long-shot, but it was one that could have possibly worked.

Sigh

As I’ve written, I am looking for a former lover/FwB, Morgan, I knew my last year or so in undergrad. I’ve asked two sources, only one has gotten back to me, a longtime friend, and he didn’t remember him, but did remember the first name. I can understand why, actually. It wasn’t my longtime friend’s job. He booked, we had a stage crew chief and I directed publicity. However, since I know when and where I first seduced Morgan, and since it was our favorite watering hole, I’m almost surprised he didn’t have a face to go with the name. But, boys will be boys and my longtime friend is definitely a straight male. I haven’t heard anything from my second source as yet, but I kind of thought he may not check his e-mail regularly based on what my former besty wrote back. I really miss her. It’s a damn shame she’s married to an ass.

I have been very dissociative since July 4, especially today. I had to go to the main post office to mail off the final known insurance and benefits forms and almost rear-ended a car in the lane ahead that had stopped to make a left turn. Thankfully, I have quick reflexes when I think about my insurance rate getting higher. I just barely missed him by turning into an adjacent lane. If I was six inches from the rear bumper of the other car, I would be surprised. It’s one thing to dissociate at home and quite another to do so while driving. If I tell my therapist how bad things have gotten, she’ll probably insist that I see someone who specializes in dissociative disorders. As long as things were at least somewhat under control and didn’t interfere with therapy or daily life on a consistent basis, she could deal. I don’t remember ever having this kind of dissociation while out in the world. I’ve had other kinds, but in their own way, they were better.

In trying to find a reasonably thorough explanation for the condition, I ran into one that said dissociation is a risk factor for PTSD. Nooo! Ya think? Thankfully, I haven’t had any flashbacks and the memories I’m getting are, for the most part, either benign or pleasant. That is, they are where Morgan is concerned. The most present memory of Glenn, I truly hate to say, was the last time he actually communicated with me. Believe me, it was anything but pleasant. Then, he cut me off with no explanation, apology or anything. I was devastated for weeks. It got so bad that I attempted suicide and almost made it. There are days when I wish I had. Today isn’t one of those days, though. Today, I just want Morgan to be OK and I want me to be OK as well. That doesn’t seem like too much to ask, but I guess it is, at least for now.

Robin Thicke shares love and sensuality on his Sex Therapy CD

There are other, happier memories with Glenn too. They give me good flashbacks that are more visceral body memories than visual. Let’s just say that I can’t listen to Robin Thicke’s Sex Therapy CD at all anymore.

In re-reading the above paragraph, I am just sad. His non-responsiveness is why I had to ask myself if he was a narcissist. Narcissists love hurting people and watching the fall out. I don’t think he is, but there is that possibility. I am hoping my mom was more on the money when she said that I represented a threat to his marriage. Otherwise, I just have to lay this down to simple cruelty. I don’t want to do that. That would hurt even more than I’m hurting now. If my longtime friend can interrupt his working vacation with his wife and stepson to play phone tag with me and temperamental cell coverage, then Glenn can pick up the fucking phone or type. I guess 17 years doesn’t count for much. Yeah, there’s something that I’m missing and I think I know what it is. He can be cruel, but not this time, although that is the unintended consequence. I’m going to look at that in my next post.

On another front, I got to hear Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band’s three-hour concert from the Prudential Center in Newark taped in early May. It was great! The only song I missed was Thunder Road. I’m going to guess he played it within the first 20 minutes or so because it wasn’t there for the close. Between the van and my iPhone, I got to hear LOTS of Bruce and that made me happy.

Bruce warms the thrilled audience for then-presidential candidate Sen. Barack Obama

I saw him in person performing an acoustic set when Obama made his last campaign appearance here in 2008. Alas, the view was horrible because it was raining lightly and I was slightly behind and on the side of the podium because that’s the space that was set aside for disabled people. I think I’ll have a word about that when I get back in touch with the campaign. I took photos, but I can barely see him. I had a great view of his younger kids who traveled with him on Obama’s plane. That was the second time I’d heard an acoustic version of Thunder Road. The first time I heard it was at the funeral for NBC’s Meet the Press anchor, Tim Russert, who died tragically, but quickly, while doing what he loved–working politics. I sobbed for hours because it fit so well with the very romantic story of Russert and his wife, also a journalist, but whose name I can’t remember at the moment. She works for Vanity Fair. Russert and Bruce both had an affinity for this city and Russert had more than an affinity for Bruce. He was a diehard FAN! It was only logical that Thunder Road be performed at the funeral. The acoustic version changed my entire perspective of the song, even more so the second time.

I don’t mean to write a disjointed post, but I’ve just remembered something. Yeah, the bar I hung out in with my group of friends was almost always crowded, and I could/would often find Morgan there smiling wickedly once I made my presence known. Even so, at that time, an interracial couple composed of a black woman and a white man, especially a redheaded wild man who was visibly older than his “companion,” should have been noticeable. I have to grin thinking about it. I got pretty good at pussy blocking. There were times when Morgan got a kick out of it and there were times when he left me sitting there steaming. It was probably about 60-40.

Detroit’s Bob Seeger & The Silver Bullet Band’s Greatest Hits CD is a must-have for any rock & roller.

Now that I think about it, it’s kind of funny. No, it is funny! I admit to being a bit hypocritical since I just wrote a letter to Glenn this past weekend that decried the possessiveness of straight women. Well, although I knew I was bi, I didn’t come out until I was in my late 20s, many years later. So, I guess I had reason to behave like a possessive hetero girlfriend, although we weren’t girlfriend and “boyfriend.” We were friends who very often found ourselves exchanging bodily fluids of one sort or another. Bob Seeger & The Silver Bullet Band’s We’ve Got Tonight is appropos for both Glenn and Morgan at different times. I hate to admit it, but I kind of miss those exchanges. He was definitely one of my better lovers. Halcyon days. *sigh*

I also remembered why Morgan and I didn’t make our liaisons public unless they happened in public or semi-public spaces, which was frequently where they started. There was already a really intense relationship going on between a staff person and a student that was not making things great in the organization. For that matter, it was making things difficult throughout the department. I remember sitting up with both of them at different times, drying tears, seeing that they didn’t get too drunk and just listening. I was younger than both of them. I’m sure our faculty adviser, a colonel in the Army Reserve, wanted to aim a Sherman tank at our office at times. We kept him in aspirin and Mylanta. I think it was my longtime friend who said he wasn’t having any of it, especially since our stage crew chief was in the midst of a nasty divorce. The only person who knew who was in my bed, or whose bed I was in, was the intermediary I contacted to reach the aforementioned second possible source of information regarding Morgan. At that time, about the only thing we didn’t do together was sleep with each other or anyone else.

I’ll end with Bonnie Raitt and I Can’t Make You Love Me. That song was released long after undergrad, but I’m pretty sure it was at a time Glenn and I were still seeing each other. Whenever I’ve heard it since then, he’s the one I always think of and it almost always makes me sick to my stomach. It reminds me of the day he told me he was going to marry someone else. I thought I’d die right there, but I didn’t. I cried all the way home, including the days I spent with a cousin who didn’t know what to do with me. Neither did the flight attendants. Had it not been for Jeff, someone I don’t think I’ve written about here, I doubt I would be alive. Or, if I were, I would have been self-medicating my way into an overdose or cirrhosis of the liver or both. As much as I loved Jeff, and I did, I’ve never loved anyone like I love Glenn and doubt I will. I’ll have some sort of relationship with someone, I guess. However, emotional intimacy? I can’t see it.

Understand Mom, Understand Myself

Before getting to the material referred to by the title, I want to thank the Sound Gods for big, male cousins who run to their defenseless female cousins’ rescue when called. In this case, to move my bed so that I can put my real speakers on top of my headboard and lean them against the wall. I will have REAL sound after Wednesday and he can say a word to a certain “grabby” neighbor to grab something else besides me. Gotta love it!

I’m noticing more and more changes in my perspective now that my mother is gone. Of course it was she, more than any other person, who influenced me in both negative and positive ways. I will be forever grateful to her for teaching me how to use my intellect. She never copped to her own brilliance, preferring to say that it was my father who was the brilliant one. Oh, she’s definitely right about that! He was absolutely, stunningly brilliant and it kept him alive far longer than one would think given the vocation he had for most of his life.

Now, this is where my brain and heart part company. One says go for it and tell what he was and the other says, STFU. I think I’ll take the latter tack. I want to write my Master’s thesis on my father, so he will get his due one day. He’d be deeply ashamed that I knew more about who he was and why than he ever wanted. He was who he was and things were the way they were. I can’t judge him. He, however, judged himself far, far too harshly.

Be that as it may, Daddy had a very deep love for my mother and had from the time they were barely teenagers. He also understood her in ways no one else did. Her family pretty much hated him and that didn’t help at all. I can posit the greater family and many friends asking her why she was so in love with him. Yes, he was handsome. Yes, he was smart, but that wasn’t unusual. In truth, no one could swing a cat without hitting someone with at least a Bachelor’s degree and, frequently, a graduate degree, in Mom’s family as far back as the late 1910s. When I get that longed-for M.F.A., I will be the third generation in my mother’s father’s tail line and I think the fourth on his distaff line to do so. My great-uncles and my grandfather were the product of both violent Southern racism and the combination of two highly intellectual black families. Business and fear brought them North.

Mom was different. As brilliant as she was academically, she was a deeply gifted artist. It is the latter that I’m coming around to believing caused her to be misunderstood a lot of the time. I’ve misunderstood her and I lived with her for most of my life. Had her relatives been more open-minded about her artistic talent, I think she wouldn’t necessarily have seemed shy to the point of being ice cold. How many times can you justify a dream before wondering if your dream is foolhardy? She was a visual artist and a dancer. She spent most of her life in education. It was there that I realized how incredibly talented she was. There is no way I could ever hope to have half her ability to handle the most undiagnosed, but deeply disturbed, children she did on a daily basis. She teased the desire to learn out of them instead of throwing them away as many would. The thing is, she wasn’t even a special ed teacher. Her memorial service was a grand testament to a highly distinguished career. It could have easily lasted another hour but for a minister I could throttle. Believe me, I wasn’t alone. x:(

People who’ve known me for lengthy periods of time remind me that I’ve always been a writer. It’s not something I really give a great deal of thought. Writing is as much a part of me as the blood coursing through my veins. I remember the woman who was my best friend in college and for many years after we’d both graduated saying, “You’ve always written. Don’t you remember . . .?” Actually, one of the amusing memories I’ve had while looking for Morgan (that sounds like the title of a book and/or screenplay) has been remembering a rather surprised Marketing prof who returned a marketing plan I’d submitted for a fictional product with a good grade and a notation that said something like,”This is definitely one of the most unique products anyone has imagined in my years of teaching.” Well, I did float the idea to my female friends and we thought it would sell if it were real. Actually, only in the last few years have products like the one I’d described been on the market, usually by Trojan.

I have a fertile imagination at times and, so I’m told, a very different way of understanding and applying concepts. I was really glad to hear that recently because it meant that my law school experience had finally been changed from conformity to inspired. My general theory is that the law is a living, breathing organism that must change as society changes. While it may be a laggard at times, laws do change either through legislation or through case law. If one assumes that my theory is correct, then why can’t laws be applied in new ways for new reasons? If there is nothing prohibitive in legislation, then it may be possible to make the argument that the law is applicable in a different way. This is an area of law left to litigators, yes, but then handed to appellate attorneys who will inevitably end up before higher courts.

I phoned one of my mom’s besties for a zillion years to check on some information and to try to explain what is going on in my life. She’s a retired college professor and now spends most of her time writing. She’s also an ordained minister I wanted to officiate at Mom’s service, but couldn’t due to some crap about her not being Christian enough. If only I could get to arrange her service again, but I can’t. So in speaking with her, I confirmed the premise of this post. Yes, my mother was greatly misunderstood. Yes, although this friend wasn’t exactly a fan of my father’s, she confirmed that he understood her in a way few did. She also confirmed that I’m correct about something else by telling me how wrong I was about it. That’s not at all to say that she was wrong. She wasn’t. However, it comes down to perspective. Mine includes multitasking. Hers didn’t. Because I only have so much emotional energy to pour into my personal life; so much to pour into pulling a miracle out of the mess that is Mom’s estate (Where the hell is the money??), and; so much to throw into my own project, Mom’s bestie has an excellent argument. My head needs to be in the game and it isn’t yet. How can it be? I’ve just hit bottom and begun to scratch and claw my way up. I’m already exhausted from the effort, but not being able to keep anything down may have something to do with it too.

I don’t even waste my breath trying to deny accusations of those who say that I’m too cerebral or that I don’t travel a straight line to get from Point A to Point B. It’s pointless. I do, however, try not to waste people’s time. Sometimes that means speaking so quickly that I sound like I’m on speed. No, just trying to be considerate and forgetting that most people’s brains don’t work as quickly as I can speak. *shrug* When I get the inevitable, “Huh?” I go back to the beginning, explain that I’m trying to say what needs to be said quickly and continue from there. I must admit that there are days when I’d like to scream out of pure frustration that the listener doesn’t get it. I think that’s my real problem with Mom’s lawyer. He doesn’t get me at all and he’s a journeyman at best when he should be far more skilled and careful than he is.

As I said, I tried to explain what’s going on in my life and that meant Glenn and Morgan. Glenn doesn’t even know why I’m looking for Morgan, assuming he didn’t simply delete my e-mail. If he did, it would be a shame. For once I can say that I am truly satisfied with what I wrote to him. I’ve been able to put a lot of things together since Mom died, especially since I’ve spent hours navel-gazing these last few days. Some things simply made me sick because I was so freaking wrong in an effort to be both right and not afraid. I realized that I’d done to him the same thing he’d done to me. We were both wrong. What I couldn’t stand was the thought that one of us would die and leave so much unsaid. I have good reason to be afraid of that circumstance sitting on a shelf in my china cabinet. I also needed to have a fictional conversation with him in my head as I waited for word on Morgan. That, too, was the impetus for my letter. I know I’d be absolutely destroyed if I learned long after the fact that Glenn had been killed or died. No one in this world or the next would ever be able to console me. Take what I’m going through now and multiply it by ten and that might be an accurate assessment, but probably too low on the scale.

One of the things I wrote in my letter was an acknowledgement of the importance of the people in his life. He has a lot to lose by getting involved with me again. The potential damage I might unknowingly do isn’t worth it. Why would I want someone who’d hate me for ruining his life? I’d be crazy and I’m not crazy at all. I would one day love an acknowledgement of what he’s done to me. He’s never done so. There have been those who’ve said that, in and of itself, is grounds for punting my feelings. It’s just not who I am and I can only be true to myself whether anyone else likes it or not. That’s not to say that I haven’t reached the end of any attempts to verbally touch some part of him. Every time I’ve thought I had, something else crops up. Like I said, we’re in different situations. Nevertheless, two people who have to hurt each other so badly just to stay apart probably belong together. I can’t make him do anything he doesn’t want to do. I needed him, and still need him, to help me get through the grieving process in a way only he’s ever been able to do. I don’t know if he’s realized how completely open I was to him. Actually, in many ways, I still am. If he were to ask me what I want at this very moment, I’d say hold me, let me cry and don’t let go. Absent the ability to do that, tell me what he’d do if he were here and I don’t mean sex. He never really understood, perhaps until fairly recently, the innate ability he has to bring out certain emotions in me.

Since hitting bottom the other night, I looked in the mirror and saw a different person staring back at me. In some ways, I think I’m much gentler than I’ve been in a very long time. I couldn’t continue to carry all that anger around with me anymore. I was really angry with Glenn, with my mother, with a couple of other people I’m trying to decide how to handle and with myself most of all. A lot of it is simply inconsequential now. I’ve said everything I believe needed to be said. I think I’ll ask another friend about Morgan and then leave it alone until the fall. If it’s still important, then I know the best next step. I’m hoping like hell it won’t be. I don’t think I’ve got enough tears left to cry. I “only” feel a deep sense of profound loss.

Yay!!!

Yay!! I can breathe again! My longtime friend just rang to tell me that he didn’t keep up with anyone from those days. There’s one more friend who may have done so, or at least know where to get the info. Trying to find the third portion of our triad is going to be a little like hunting down someone named “John Smith,” but I’m good at finding people.

Now my question becomes: How badly do I want to confirm what I already know? I remember every part that intimate relationships expose. I also remember a number of conversations. I’m grasping at straws anyway. Is it worth it? Can something else have the same effect, assuming I’m right about the effect in the first place?

I have never been so happy to get a totally inconclusive answer in my life. I think I’ll take a run down there this fall to check out my housing options should I decide to apply for the spring term. Now that I’m curious, there is one place that keeps track of all the stage crews that come into town. I have a feeling that may be the best option. I really, really hope he found some strawberry blonde chick and married her. That would be the best news ever. Well, that or him touring again. Nah, better married with someone to take care of him. He’d be too old to do the heavy labor. Even stage bosses have to work.

Gee, I can’t tell whether I’m giddier with glee that Morgan may be more or less fine or the thought of watching magic happen again. There was never any doubt about what student org I wanted to advise. Maybe by my last year I will have it.

*OnX does a happy dance in her head*

Let’s Try This Again

When I resurrected Naked, I did so with a post that was a letter to my recently deceased mother. I’m going to beg your indulgence and hope that you understand that by giving my thoughts and feelings voice, maybe they’ll reach her and/or help me cope. I’m pulling out all the coping mechanisms I can because I cannot absorb any more loss. I sent a message to my friend of very long duration to give him a heads up that I know there are only two reasons he’d put his phone number out there publicly for me to find and told him the story of why I needed to find Morgan. I’m just trying to prepare myself by taking care of the old business before I can deal with the new. Mom isn’t really “old business,” but she is the least recent.

Dear Mommy,

I know you’re still around. There are times when I hear you next door in your bedroom. I don’t go in because I won’t see anything and I already know you’re with me. Hence, there’s no point. I know that the most pressing concern is that I move on and do those things I have to do to survive. The truth is, my head is so muddled that I can’t remember where I’ve put anything anymore. I am what the Brits would call “at sixes and sevens,” although I’ve never understood the origins of that term. Basically, I’m a basket case. My emotions almost always come up way after the events that inspired them, you know that. I couldn’t give in right after you died because there was so much to do. There are still people who don’t know and should. I just haven’t had the heart to tell them. Trying to comfort another person when you haven’t figured out how to deal with your own grief is overwhelming. When I told Pat, she collapsed in sobs. She loves you so much. I haven’t called her since your memorial service, but I will as soon as I get a grip.

I believe in my heart and soul that this house killed you the way it has tried to kill me. Neither of us needed to have, in essence, three floors, not to mention the evil energy here. I know that you didn’t want to hear it when you were alive, but it was part of the genesis of my return to school. I just couldn’t take it anymore. My body was breaking down a lot faster than it should have because it just takes too much work to deal with all these stairs. My personal opinion is that the bank can have it. I know that’s not what you’d do, but you’re not here and left me a mess to clean up. I don’t want to shame you, but I also can’t help but say, “I told you so!” OK, I’m more than a little angry about the state of your estate, especially since I did tell you what would happen and I’ve found that it’s far, far worse than I ever knew. *sigh* It is what it is.

Shortly after you died, I posted on the Choir page and reported what happened. There were a lot of people who remembered you, chief among them was Mr. B, god love him. I don’t know if he’ll ever understand how much a part he played in making me who I am. Now that I think of it, virtually every person who influenced me was an artist of some sort or an historian, including you. Oh! I got the piano tuned when the funeral home sent the remains of the small policies. I haven’t sat down to play it OR my guitar. It’s like there’s some sort of barrier that keeps me from them. I want to play them, but something in my head says, “No, not now,” and I don’t know what that means.

There are things that I want you to know, but I’m not sure they’d mean much.

I just couldn’t cope anymore and reached out to Glenn. Honestly, although he is exactly the right person to help me get my head together, there’s a certain amount of fear and distrust. I know that you’ve watched me struggle with losing him. I know that you’ve always believed that he’d be back. Actually, right now I’m hearing you say, “Yeah, like a bad penny.” Um, well, you made me laugh. You see, the thing is, I think I’ve finally unravelled the “why” of a lot of things that went on between us. He was a boy who grew into a man who just couldn’t communicate his feelings. It drove him batty because I could communicate mine and, therefore, work through them. I remember him driving over one weekend once we’d actually gotten together and the bomb went “BOOM!” He was heading back but we stopped to lunch. I don’t remember being particularly chatty, but he was in a foul mood. He said, “Don’t you ever shut up?” It hurt, but I also knew that for him to say that, there had to be something else going on. I did, however, learn to be quiet and that doing so was OK.

The thing is, I really need him now and I really don’t think I’m going to get out of this in one piece without him. I’ll forgive anything and everything if need be immediately, especially since I didn’t have a chance to tell you before you drifted away that I’d forgiven you. I know he broke me. He had help, but in the end, it was him. I was hurt, furious, in disbelief and learned to tell myself all of these things that were true to some degree, but not true to a greater degree, in order to survive. You know what it was like divorcing Daddy. I was with Glenn longer than that and we had this child that never got to live. The difference is that having me made the gulf between you bigger. I think that would have been the short-term situation, but I doubt that it would have lasted. Still, he only found out about it after we were done, supposedly for good.

Mommy, if you believe nothing else, please believe this: I need Glenn now. He’s the only person on this earth who knows how to help me. It’s instinctual with him. Can you whisper in his ear? If I can’t get him, I really do have to cut the ties and I haven’t been able to do that in all the years we’ve been apart. You may not like him, but you were the first to see, too late for me, but see nonetheless, that he loved me.

I’m really worried about your brothers. I strongly suspect that you’ll see one of them again this year. Please, help give me the strength to carry on. Both you and Daddy had your faults, but you were both strong people, often hurting yourselves in the process. I’m possibly going to hear news of the loss of someone else very dear to me and between that anxiety and the near certainty of what I’ll hear, I’m more shaken than I was last night. This is someone you’ve never met, but I think you would have found him more than amusing, though very strange. I can see you peering at him through a curly, deep red mane of hair and a beard topped off with dark eyeglasses. Just know that he was always honest with me, true to his beliefs and a very, very decent human being. I never told him this, but I’d always wanted to re-create the Jonh Lennon and Yoko Ono photo in bed with him in B&W. I think even you would have liked it.

I’ve been dreaming about you a lot lately. In fact, these are the first dreams I’ve remembered having about you. I do remember waking up and thinking that you were here, forgetting that you weren’t. I don’t know whether the dreams make life harder or easier for me. They are so real and it is such a let-down when I wake up and remember you’re not on this plane of existence anymore. At the same time, I love seeing you again.

I’m dealing with the Food Monster again. I haven’t been able to eat for well over 24 hours. I have to force myself or I won’t be able to take care of the furkids, not to mention someone will get some bright idea to force feed me. I’ve come to really detest interfering relatives. That’s another reason I need to leave. I know you love this house. You can have it because it can’t hurt you anymore. It can and does hurt me daily. Right now, I’m nauseous as hell and not looking forward to going out in the heat. However, it’s not an option. I have to do it. Nevertheless, I think I’m coming straight home.

I wish I could say that I’ll be OK soon. I can’t. It may take a long time before I’m OK. I am working on it, though. Right now, that’s all I can do. There are going to be some happenings that will make you very sad. I know because they make me sad and I’m the one doing them. But if I am to keep me and the furkids together, I need to do whatever I have to do. That’s straight out of the mouth of your youngest brother who, I might add, believes you didn’t like him at all. You need to visit him because he’s crushed. He doesn’t say it, but it’s there in everything he does. I think that you’d be very proud of him. Out of all the relatives, he’s the one doing his best to take care of me and vice versa. I’ve tried to reassure him that you love him dearly, but it’s no good coming from me. It has to come from you. I fixed an error in your estate paperwork that would have definitely given him the notion that he was right about the way you feel towards him, but he needs more. Go to him in his dreams. Let him dream about being a little boy and you making clothes for him. He said that you made them for the middle brother, but specifically not for him. He’s hurting deeply, Mom. I don’t know what to do for him that I haven’t done. He needs his big sister.

Well, that’s about it. If I’m right about my redheaded friend and you somehow encounter him in your travels, say hello and be nice! He’s a really good guy. I dare say that you would have liked him more than Glenn. Oh! I almost forgot to mention that you once decoded him for me. It was using your insight that I finally got it. If we have to work so damn hard to stay away, then he’s feeling a danger. I have been reacting to what he’s done. If he reads this, he’s going to be unhappy, but at least the truth will be out there somewhere.

I love you,

T.

P.S.: I think I may be able to send in those lyrics I started writing so long ago. I Don’t Know How To Let Go.

And It’s Only 12:35p

Right now, I am beyond thrilled that I set this blog up a couple of years ago even if I didn’t use it then. Here, I’m anonymous. It may or may not be possible to figure out what I do, but that’s not a big deal. What is a big deal is that I can say whatever I want, ruminate on it for a bit and figure things out.

With that in mind, I have a sick feeling that someone I’ve tried to find since yesterday from my ancient past is dead. I contacted a friend I’ve had for a very long time–as in since junior high, high school, college AND college extracurriculars “long time”–to ask if he remembered Morgan’s last name or was in touch with any of the people we worked with. I’m trying rather hard to find him to confirm something from my own history that I believe to be true but may not be. My friend posted on my FB Wall, something he hasn’t done in the three years or so that we’ve been in semi-contact again. He left his phone number and no, this wouldn’t be a booty call. We’ve always been platonic, sometimes antagonistic, fun-loving, dear friends. It didn’t hurt that we did have the camaraderie of one particular class that will probably link us until we’re both older and more grey. In fact, I’m going to be pissed if I don’t find at least one grey hair among the blonde should I decide to attend the next class reunion.

When I phoned the number he left, the girls were going crazy because a neighbor was getting ready to repaint a room I need to set up as a studio. I tried to sound very normal and just glad to hear from him, but he isn’t stupid. He knows me. He knows that I’m probably going to figure out what’s up and why I can’t find someone in what amounts to a fairly small group of people with certain skills. I’m going to have to make that call again because I don’t know if he could even get my phone number due to all the enthusiastic barking and I don’t answer the house phone, a number that would be super easy for him to get given a shared set of friends and acquaintances of old. Indeed, I was kind of surprised to learn that he’d moved across town. People in this ‘burb tend to stay here unless they leave the state altogether. But, change comes to everyone and everything. To stay static is to be left behind.

There is one thing I wish would stay static, my youngest furbaby. I was on the phone with the aforementioned neighbor, walking into the house when a wasp followed me in. Can we say “ALLERGIC!!”? I don’t need to go to anyone’s hospital at all for anything right now, even if it is just for a shot of epi, which I foolishly never carry even though I am very allergic to something else no one has ever been able to identify and that I’ve encountered twice now, I think. So, I’m on the phone, the wasp comes in to the house, instinct takes over and I try to get away from it, dropping the youngster’s leash in the process. Off she goes, running behind two squirrels she’s been after since forever. Although I was close to panicked, I had to laugh at her attempts to climb the tree and get them, silly girl that she is. She almost made it, too. In the process of convincing her to come home and forget about the squirrels, I found the spot where a local bat has been hanging out, no pun intended. Indeed, we have our first bat and our first owl. I have to remember to write about the indescribable awesomeness of watching an immature bald eagle riding the air currents, probably trying out its new wings. I thought it was a golden eagle at first, but the beak was the wrong color. That’s how close it was. I could see its beak. I love raptors!

Between the old friend’s message, the youngster’s foray into the adjoining backyard and a really bad night, I think it’s safe to say that I’m fried emotionally. I never intended to get up from bed except to take the girls out, feed them and bring a water dish up. Last night was brutal and I can’t say that I’m any better today. I narrowly escaped the third panic attack in two days by calling my friend/ex-Mistress/lawyer to talk me down. She really needed to work today and I knew that. My solution was to say what I needed really quickly and take as little time as possible. I can tell myself to breathe, that my buddy may only wish to find out why I wanted to contact Morgan, (Ha!! He isn’t dumb. He knows me and he knows perfectly well how I worded the request.) or try to convince me to come to the reunion. (Ha!! Ha!!) I finally said, “Fuck it,” and took a hit from a joint the neighbor was about to light. I only needed the one to calm me down and let this all sink in.

I came close to wrecking my van as I was driving back from a prescription pick-up that’s about 20 miles or so away. I’m not sure I wrote about it, but I think I may have mentioned a flash of memory that came around the same time as my second panic attack yesterday. What I didn’t write is that I feared he’d died of either cancer, an accident involving alcohol or cirrhosis. Those boys party hard and he was already in his 30s when I was with him. The term “friends with benefits” hadn’t been coined yet, but that’s essentially what it was, although I had this crazy notion that I could help him heal inside. What I now understand is that his body was in incredible pain from a construction accident that should have killed him, but he was doing the thing that he loved: hanging lights, running cable and unloading semis. I honestly envy him that. There is nothing that beats watching a warehouse-sized or bigger venue come to life as a concert hall. It is an absolute marvel that I hope to see again one day.

Karen, the lawyer, asked me what I could do if he is gone. I told her I’d cry even more, try to pick myself up and phone up a mutual friend to raise a glass of JD, which I hate, to Morgan, the redheaded wild man.

The above was written a couple of hours ago. I’ve had some interruptions in the meantime, not the least of which is me in tears again. I don’t know how to absorb another loss. Morgan was a part of me, though in a much smaller sense than Glenn. I can see his face as clearly as if he were sitting next to me. I’ve remembered bits and pieces of facts that I haven’t thought about in a very, very long time. I hope like hell that a friend who’s now a prof at another university had the presence of mind to save Morgan’s photo. Yeah, I think that if Morgan is no longer alive, it’s time for a reunion of the Roach Patrol. No, “roach” has nothing to do with insects. However, I’m more than sure that I need to go “home” again.