Tags
depression, gay, gay relationships, grief, holiday blues, mourning
…to skip any false notions for a holiday season filled with surprise and delight. Christmas is for kids and the devout. Though this year I skipped the Italian nativity set not as a gesture of aforementioned Grinch-ness but as a need to simply move on from grief’s despair. The heart always wants what it cannot have. No amount of rearranging the baby lambs and three wisemen will bring the EXbf back from the other side.
After I published the prior post of November 9th I circled back and pulled it down. Like, bitch, it is tres maudlin and if one reads between the lines one can hear the rustle of my Mary Todd Lincoln widow’s weeds as I move about my flat.
But then—-true to my Gemini mercurial nature, I reposted it. I need you to understand what his death has done to me. I will be helped down from that imaginary rear exit on Air Force One in my blood-splattered pink bewilderment to show the world what they’ve done to my Jack. For you need to feel the angst of a once young, deep love—-the subsequent debilitating betrayal, and the arc of a full-circle realization that love is not always fair or kind. Many times blind love needs a good ass whoopin’. But I digress.
Fear not. I have no plans of sticking my head in the oven. Too, its electric so gassing myself into oblivion is not a solid strategy. I used to think stepping out of my hi-rise window would be an easy out. I envisioned a rush of gossamer angel wings grasping my soul in love’s eternal warmth before, you know, splaying my guts in the parking lot below. Too, someone already leapt from this building a few years ago and insider types shared that he landed minus his nose with his penis flopped out for the fire department to gaze at. No fireman needs to see a dead man’s wiener.
No. No, I am willing to remain here. Who am I to futz with God’s plan? To that end, the holly is now hung; the tree glitters from floor to ceiling. The candles are in the windows. It will be a happy holiday season if it fucking kills me. Last night I sat stoically sipping a better chardonnay and in the quiet of gaily colored tree lights I understood it will all be okay. Not great. But pretty much okay this hard candy Christmas.