Cresting

I’m still dating, but I find it difficult to write about these dates primarily out of a fear of hurting someone (or myself) inadvertently. Yet, I still feel compelled to write. I think part of this compulsion (outside of a garden variety writers’ ego) is a sort of working out my disappointment. When I came out ten years ago this month (whoa), I roared out—with an amazing writer and confident gay woman on my arm. I was so proud to be with her, and I thought we could overcome the tremendous obstacles in front of us. I was wrong. Simultaneous to the breakup with Gwen (though only partially related), my life fell apart. Only a select few know this whole story, and to this day, I am unable to write about it, despite a thorough recovery.

Back to the disappointment. While I reassembled myself in Portland I met a woman who would teach me more about grace and simplicity than I have ever known: Sylvia. She was introverted, peaceful; my crazy passions could not resist her. We were together for almost two years. When it ended, I naively thought I’d have another long-term relationship in time for the glorious Portland summer. Seven years later and another cross-country move, I’m still wandering. I have heard tell that Sylvia is engaged (or married?) to a man. This news crushes my soul.

Why does it bother me that her betrothed is a man? This is specifically what hurts the most. It could be that during the course of our entire relationship she would edit me out of conversations with her family. I’d be lying beside her in bed while she shared stories of our adventures, only I was missing. She apologized, and of course I could not force her out of the closet. I thought meeting my father might help, especially since it went swimmingly despite some very real fears on our parts. I told myself she would come out in time, and of course, now she never will. This angers me. One could argue that since she married a man her reticence was for the best. Yet, it is hard not to transfer some of that shame. I was not the one she brought home to Mother. And damn it, moms love me! Seriously, did her shame keep her from loving me fully, or did she love me as best she could and I am just too demanding or not demanding enough. My friends would say the latter.

She seldom told me she loved me, although she was a generous lover. This was enough for me then. Although I found it odd that a professional poet would be so stingy with words. In contrast, the professional spin-doctor eats words, manipulates them, lives for them, cries by them, but rarely conserves them. As a consequence of her strange ways, I remember every single time she said she loved me, and saved every letter, too. My fondest recollection involved the day I helped her move out of her SE Portland apartment, a place now converted into a tattoo parlor, the one right next to the Nightlight bar by seven corners. She picked up a box (none of the boxes had tops—which I found disturbing) with her tan, toned arms. She was wearing overalls, a tube top and a red kerchief on her head, hiding naturally burnt orange locks. She looked down into the open box and saw that I had covered my toothbrush with several pieces of toilet paper. She threw her head back, exposing that gorgeous neck of hers, and laughed. While still laughing, she put down the box, bent her 5’ 8” frame to embrace me and declared her love. She was not mocking me. She was sweetly appreciating our differences, in particular my paranoia about my toothbrush. I had left hers unwrapped, knowing her unspoken wishes. I was careful. I don’t like dust. I was all about preservation, keeping things as they were.

I am a failed archivist, a mover, a shaker, (definitely not a baker). I am the passionate one who loves everything and everyone, yet no one in particular, right now, as it stands. Here I sit uncovered, far from home… in complete possession of my singular toothbrush.