The Wedding

We won, mi Oso.

On Friday, the United States Supreme Court decided that same-sex marriage was a Federal right. The voted opinion of a majority should have never been utilized to strip a minority group of its freedoms. I had been complaining about this ridiculous idea since 2004 when Ohio's Issue One put the one-man-one-woman definition of marriage into our State's Constitution! Issue One took the idea further by saying any attempt to mimic marriage was illegal.

I remember how we both felt after that Tuesday in November, Bear. We had lost and been horribly betrayed by friends and by family alike. It was not right or fair to us. People who knew us voted against us??? How does that even happen? How could they call themselves "friends" when they would do THAT to us???

Yeah, I remember.

Now, we have won, but you are not here to marry me.

I heard about the SCOTUS decision shortly before lunch. I cried through my lunch, actually. I kept looking at the picture of us I keep on my phone:

Pictures are the only way I have of keeping close to you these days. I cried because we wanted to be married. It was not just something I wished to happen. You decided that as long as it was a State-by-State deal that we were fine being unmarried. I would become frustrated with that opinion, though I shared it. I wanted to be married to you, Phil. I wanted our friends and our families to come to our wedding. It didn't have to be some big to-do. Yeah, yeah, my dream wedding was me in a tux and you in a kilt, but we could have done simple. That would have been our style. Us, a few friends, and someone to solemnize our vows.

We never got there.

Friday's decision was so very bitter and only passingly sweet to me. I visited Facebook where all of these guys in open relationships were bragging about how they were going to get married to their "one true love" and all that. It offended me! How could these men who are cruising websites and phone apps for sex from random non-partners get the opportunity to marry when I never will??? It is a f**king OUTRAGE to me that THEY get to be married!!!

We were a closed, monogamous couple. We were faithful to one another. We loved each other enough that we didn't need to be screwing other guys or cheating with some random dude. And WE were a threat to "traditional marriage"??? Meanwhile, the guys in open relationships are cashing-in on the new right to be married and STILL f**king around???

How is that fair?

It isn't. If you want to be married, fine. You stay faithful to the man you marry until the day one of you dies. If you find you can't do that? Don't get married. Don't you F**KING DARE sully marriage with your "lifestyle choice" of cheating and lying to the "love of your life"!!! Stay off the apps and websites where you're showing your dick pictures and your body, too. Only your husband needs to see that. If you're really looking for new friends, they don't need to hear about your favorite sexual activities or how big your penis is! If you want to behave like you're dating, then don't be married. Leave marriage for us guys who will treat it right!

Infamous Last Words

This blog is ultimately my own space. Few people know of it or how to find it. I am the only individual who posts to it as I have never seen a comment made to any of my content. Having no audience means I should feel more free to post whatever stream-of-consciousness ramblings I wish to make, right?

I keep visiting Facebook to play Bejeweled Blitz. I am tempted to post again like some FB-addicted junkie who wants another hit. Then, I remember why I stopped posting there. It is home to some truly critical people, many of whom I call "friends." When I would discuss my feelings or my grief over the loss of Phil, others would say nothing or give me feedback that generally only re-enforced my belief that they did not understand what I was attempting to write. I was alone in a crowd...online.

And that is why I stopped.

My basic intent in posting anywhere about anything is a quest to feel supported or, at the very least, understood. I have rarely found what I was hoping to find, even prior to Phil's death. It is one of many reasons I miss Bear so succinctly. He got me. He might not have ever replied much in our day-to-day life, but I knew he understood me. If I was feeling pained or saddened, my partner would hold me and comfort me in real time. The caring and compassion was not some virtual emoted hugging; it was real and from a real person. Online-only hugs soured for me early in 2014. The last real hugs I have received happened in December 2013 if I am being honest. I have held other guys romantically. I have been hugged as a way to say "goodbye." Since Phil, no one has held me or hugged me in the real way I need most. I have become some kind of radioactive or polluted pariah that no one wants to touch. The lack of tactile re-enforcement mixes with the communication issues of online-only life to make me feel incredibly isolated. When I see friends, they are present only for short spans of time. Emotionally, they may or may not be present at all. Not only do they fail to understand me, but they prove to me time and again that they do not wish to try.

Am I angry at them?

Frustrated, disappointed, hurt, and confused all make better adjectives.

I have been screaming at the top of my lungs, writing maddeningly, and am still not able to make my needs clear. Phil is dead; I get that. I understand that my ursine partner is no longer capable of hugging me. My need is for someone to do it in his stead. I want to be loved by someone. I hate being alone, lonely, and isolated. I hate feeling like there is not a soul on this Earth who gets me. It is as if I am speaking some weird foreign language that NO ONE ELSE speaks. They can see me trying to communicate and how frustrated I am by the lack of comprehension, but no one understands what I am trying to say. I am flustered by this scenario.

And in times like now I remember Phil and miss him the most.

A friend recently and publicly accused me of having my head up my ass when it comes to missing Phil as if my grief was invalid. She was not the first to make this attack. Friends can become strangers in moments when it comes to this topic. Actually, friends can become enemies this way, too. Telling me that while my grief is fine and natural I should be done with it somehow already is a shortcut to making me an adversary. I will cling to Phil's memory even more intensely when someone tries to make me let go. He was a good friend. He loved me. He was always there for me. He didn't treat me like my feelings didn't matter and didn't count. He cared about my well-being. He was everything that my modern friends cannot seem to be. We may not have agreed perfectly on every matter, but we did so often enough.

I am tired of fighting with everyone about their opinions being right and mine being wrong. That is the bottom line here. My grief and the pain of my loss both count. They are real. I seek solace which no one is offering to me. Then, when I become disappointed or disillusioned by what I cannot find, I turn to Phil's memory again. It opens the grief all over again. Talking to a counselor cannot heal this cycle as counselors are not supposed to become personally involved with clients. They are no substitute for real friends and for a real social support system. Therapists are primarily concerned with diagnosing and treating mental illness; that's the job! Candy-coating it with anecdotal experiences does not change what a counselor's job is. The reality of the profession is that they want to be paid for their services. It often means finding a diagnosis for Axis I and sticking to it. At some junction, my grief becomes Major Depression and medications start getting suggested as insurance will gladly pay for head-drugs but are not so confidant in extended talk-therapy sessions. My education was taking me into this profession! I understand the ethics and job-description of counseling far better than most people do!

I am scared tonight. My body is threatening another panic attack. I am afraid of dying, almost as much as I usually think about wanting it. Death has been in my thoughts much lately. I wonder when it will finally be my time to go. I think about what I would want people to know if I did die. Telling my brother's kids how much I loved and appreciated them is usually first among my thoughts. They were as close to children of my own as I had. I want for them to be healthy, happy, and to have wonderful lives. I would want my friends to know that my death was not anyone's fault. I may have been frustrated or disappointed in these friends for largely ignoring me, but I never hated them or felt angry towards them. I am just not wired that way, I guess. I don't hate anyone honestly. Even in my darkest days, I can't hate.

I am scared, though. Living alone means dying alone. I won't be surrounded by friends or by family when my time is through. Someone will find my corpse, probably in my bed, with days or weeks having lapsed since I died. It won't be like how Phil ended. No one will notice I am gone. I leave no lover behind to cry for me. I fathered no children. I own nothing of much value to be divided to my non-existent heirs. I am not anyone important.

What I hope will be is: I will be with my Bear again.

We can wander the hills and the valleys of some Summerland together. We can play and be happy again. He will hold me tightly to his chest once more the way he did. I won't be alone anymore. I won't have to cry or to wish someone could hear me. I will be with him.

And that's all that matters to me now.

Where I Don't Belong

Yesterday morning, I learned that a good friend of mine died.

In the months before he ended, I could see his health fading as his body became increasingly frail. He commented several times about the matter as if, on some level, he knew his life's story was closing soon. Brian (sometimes "the Bat" as he loved Batman or otherwise Bri) was a unique character in my own story. He was a left-handed bassist who enjoyed music. He joked about not having been a member of the "27 Club", famous musicians who lost their lives at the age of 27 years old. For him, his life really started then. Bri was once very overweight and did the gastric bypass surgery. He gave himself his life. He was not perfect, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he was a loyal friend and a good pal to have. I loved spending long evenings in his company, talking about the musical groups we loved in common. Sometimes, we would both get philosophical about love or life. I will miss his intellect as much as anything he had to share with the world.

We'll never write those songs together, bro. Cheers!

This small eulogy will probably be the only one I get to make regarding him. During the last 36 hours or so, I have attempted to contact our mutual friends and his family alike. I have received the resounding reply that I am not welcomed at any memorial for Brian. Several of our mutual friends and I do not coexist well. While I would try for the sake of his memory, I do not wish to encounter the negativity some of them maintain about him and/or against me. I do not need those attitudes. His family is very Christian and do not like gay people. While Bri was accepting of GLBT people, his family of origin is not at all welcoming. They have demonstrated by ignoring my email that I am not welcomed. I do not go places where I am not wanted. I guess I will have to make due with telling the Bat goodbye in my own private ways.

I hope the next life is easier for you, my friend. You were a good guy and a great friend. You will be missed!

All Summer in One Day

Happy birthday to me.

Today, I turn 44 years old. It is my second birthday without Phil, the second year in my life after him. I think about how I celebrated last year: A cute boy of 20 years in my bed.

I had requested this lad to be there as I did not want to be alone on my birthday. Our romance (or whatever it was) did not last long. The wolf pup was TOO young for me and I knew it. He had someone else, too; I was a "someone on the side" as opposed to being a "primary relationship." His values included concepts like "open relationships" and "pansexual polyamory" which continue to confuse me. He spent my birthday with me, though.

Bear, I wish you were here in the corpulent ursine flesh. I could stand a few hundred hours of hugging/cuddling/snuggling therapy in your arms. I have not been held since you died. While I have hugged other men, I seem to do all the holding. I am not ready or even capable of being a fully grown Bear, myself; I am still your Cubbie. I am lost in the wilds of this world and alone without you. No one I meet is anything like you, even when I hope with all my heart to find you again and even when what I truly need most is you. This world is full of strangers, mi Oso. They never stay long. I am between two realities, honestly. One is a world of ghosts and memories where you are alive. I smile in that place. I can hear you, though it is often only at a whisper, say my name. I can remember for a moment how it felt to have you hold me. I like that place. The other world is filled with strangers and monsters. I am scared of this place. In it, you are dead, Bear. I cry for you, miss you, need you, and cannot be with you in this second world. Friends and family are in this secondary reality. They visit me but always return to their homes after too short a time. I return to the first world where you are. I tell you and our home that I am back when I return. I imagine you running to hug me, excited to see me again as I am to see you.

Can I come home again, Bear?

I do not like this second world at all. My family is gone from here. Mom died 8 years ago as of last January. You died 18 months ago as of a week ago. I am still here. I am surviving, barely. The job is a job but not stable and not a career. Our home was purchased by the bank. I keep hoping for this "better" promised me by others who have lost lovers...but I am not seeing it manifest.

How many years of this second world, this cursed life after you, my Beloved Bear, must I endure?

I want to come home again.

Agnosis

You don't get to know
how I feel.
All your words ring empty.
Nothing you say can console.
He was my dream-come-true.
He was my once-and-future everything.
You have your lover.
You have somewhere and someone
with whom you belong.
Your piece in the Grand Puzzle
and your place in some grand design
is still in place
and continues to be defined.
I now walk alone.
Most days,
it is more a crawl
along a ground littered
with broken stained-glass memories
of vows we will never say
and of memories we will never have
to hold or to cherish.
I keep my own counsel.
The truths I find remain my own.
You don't get to know.
You can never understand,
so you don't get to know.

Whispers

I dreamed of John tonight. He was my best friend during my high-school days. In my mid-20s, we grew apart and saw little of one another. We re-connected briefly while I was in college, after Phil and I had become a couple, but we split again. In this dream, John was the same person he had been to me during high school: A good friend. I told him about Phil's passing. I told him how I had missed having his friendship.We parted in the dream...and I awoke wondering if I should make another effort to contact John. I can't see what good would come of it, honestly.

Today marks 18 months since Phil died on our living room floor. I awoke at 7:41 AM that December morning. I had a strange dream about art-deco-stylized unicorns, flying by farting pixelated rainbows. I remember how I felt, too. Every now and again, I feel as I once did in my high-school days. I feel smart, capable, and connected to this human's experience in those moments. That's how I felt in the first few minutes. I needed to pee so I went from the bedroom to the bathroom. I realized as I was urinating how incredibly quiet it was. Phil slept on a mattress in the living room. His snoring was erratic but LOUD. Usually, the TV would be on, too. Neither was true. I turned and saw Phil laying on the floor with his face on the bottom corner of the mattress. I rushed to him. He was mostly on the floor, face down and arms akimbo as if hugging his chest. Only his face and uppermost torso were on the mattress. I shook him and felt his neck for a pulse. His neck was wet and still warm.

I called 911 on my cell phone, too shocked and stunned to think of anything else.

A parade of people coming into the house and asking me questions began. The EMTs did try for some period of time to revive Phil but he was gone. I remember calling Phil's mom and the extended monosyllable "no" from her. I called my brother David. What else do you do? I picked from the two nearest funeral homes. I had always joked with Phil what a poorly named facility "Newcomer" was, so I picked the one further down the road.

Gods, it all makes me sad and ill.

I miss my Bear. I can remember all of these details about the first day he wasn't here but it is difficult for me to remember how he sounded, what it looked like when he laughed, or how he smelled. Pictures are cold things. I have hugged the few framed photos I have of Phil many times. Sometimes, I put kisses from my fingertips on his image's lips. Mostly, I just cry and talk to him as if he is still there.

Why am I still alive?

Nothing prepared me to live without Phil. He died without a will, without life insurance, and without any preparations for leaving me behind him. It was not like he at the age of 37 had any intentions on dying. The house and both vehicles were in his name. Everything was in his name. I was left in this fucked-up new world without him to deal with circumstances I could not have handled before he died. Months of sleeping very little and eating nearly nothing followed. I disconnected from everyone in such a way that I cannot connect except for short periods of time and have the feelings generated last beyond parting from the other person.

I am tired, my Bear.

I wish I could find some way to follow you, some way to not be here. People always ask what you would have wanted for me, beloved, but this misery is not it. They see some future where I have mostly forgotten you and someone else loves me, but I don't want anyone else but you. I don't want to forget you! I want you back here with me. I don't want to be alone, but I am. I don't want to be broken, but I am. I don't want much of anything except for these miracles I cannot seem to make become true. I want you here. I wish I had a more money so I could keep the house. I don't get anything I want.

Oso, I love you. I wish you were here.

Not Life as I Know It

Mercury must be in retrograde again...or something.

After work last night, I met an old friend for sushi. The conversation was pleasant until it wasn't. We were doing the general catch-up thing, telling one another of our lives since we haven't visited in about a year. Then, the chat turned into a fight. I was resisting his attempts to manage my life, something I will almost always do. He started into the example of how he had lived through a divorce and a highly destructive girlfriend after the divorce; I replied that I do not play the "Who Hurts More Than Whom" game since no one wins it. He finalized our chat, saying we were done, and left quite miffed.

I lost another friend last night for no particularly good reason.

After that abrupt ending, I went to get coffee with a different friend. I ended up crying. The pressures of these last 18 months and the insanity of the day all got the better of me. I was feeling defensive again. Most of the time these days, my "defense" either sounds offensive or equates to holding my forearms in front of my face and hoping the other person will get tired of hitting me. I do not like this "new normal", not one little bit. I hate that everyone in the world gets to think that my expressing my grief is some kind of invitation where I am assumed to be asking another person to live my life for me. The situation happens less often than it once did, but it still happens.

Yes, I am hurting.

No, I do not think I am the only person in the world to have ever felt the sting of losing someone to death.

It would be a nice change if people would actually listen to me. Most of the time, I am not looking for solutions. Frankly, I am not seeking them because they do not exist. "Bring Phil back to me"or "let me die so this painful life is over" are the only solutions I can see most of the time! When I express my hurt, more often than not, others stop supporting and start wanting to fix. Almost all the fixes include some version of "let Phil and the life you had with him go", an idea I fight against rabidly.

Phil was the best part of my life. For 13.5 years, he was my partner, my best friend, my beloved Bear, and my most constant companion. He kept me safe. He held me when I was sad or scared. I knew we would always be alright as long as we were together. Even in death, when I am sad or scared, I will turn to him. It occurs to me that he is the spiritual equivalent of a security blanket. I know he is dead and that nothing can be done to resurrect him. I wish it were otherwise. I miss him. It hurts seeing other couples together. It hurts watching families. It did not used to hurt because I had one of my own with Phil.

I wish he was here again. I hate being single and hate even more being alone in the world. Ultimately, I am alone. I am here, but he is not.

Long Miles to Home

The drive home today was a blur. 

I had managed to get to the elevator at work and into the bathroom before I started sobbing. The theme was the same as it always is: I miss Phil. 

My life feels hopeless, meaningless, and genuinely finished without him in it. Work happens and ends. I sleep or I don't. I eat or I don't. I see friends or I don't. That is my life after him. I miss what we used to do as a couple. I eat meals alone with only the television for company most of the time. My mind imagines jokes or silly ideas that he would have understood, but no one is interested in hearing. He cannot call or text me from the Afterlife, you know? I am truly miserable without him.

I am so tired of fighting with people who do not understand what it feels like to lose someone as I have lost Phil. They act like it is so easy to just "get over it" or to move forward. Meanwhile, I am pretty sure I will never love anyone again. There is a big hole in my soul and no one lives there anymore. I am so tired of any number of things. 

I think about suicide often. 

How easy would it be to find a method and then execute it? No one much calls or sees me on a day-to-day basis. I am alone much more often than I am in anyone's company. It would take people a few days to even notice I'd gone missing. I am no one important. Look at how often I have reached for a friend in the middle of the night and found no one available. 

It would be easy.

The world, then, could laugh at me. I would be another statistic. Another coward who couldn't handle life and found a way to die.At least my pain would be over then. I wouldn't have to hurt because Phil is never home when I return to our house. I wouldn't have to have dinner alone.

It would be too easy.

Grinding the Gears

I am remembering now why I rarely used Blogger.

There is something of a learning curve at play here. I set one thing to be one way and it undoes what I set to be another way. Crap like that.

*Laughs*

It is all about figuring out how to use this thing, right? Besides, I think I have ONE reader and who knows how often he checks here.

Cubbie's First Post

Yesterday, I announced to my Facebook readers that I would be pulling the plug on my account there. It was not due to some special anniversary or for any specific reason. I realized on Sunday night as I was in the midst of a serious melt-down how using FB was not helping me feel any better.

My name is Doug. Almost 18 months ago, my partner Phil died. The sleep apnea, left untreated for years, claimed his life. Some people will argue and insist that it is not possible, but this blog is my blog and they can go do inappropriate things with their furniture. I know what happened to my beloved Bear. I am the one who found him dead on our living room floor that Saturday morning in December, face down and arms crossed akimbo under his chest. I can remember this horrible day with a kind of clarity missing from most of my other days. 

I have written countless words about Phil. The eulogizing never stops. I loved him and still do. He was the best and brightest part of my life. We were truly happy together. Together we were Team Ursine and nothing was better than being that. He was my ohana. He was my best friend and most frequent companion. Life after has been Hell.