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.