FALL 2016
at the time, i didn't know, but i felt in the cosmic vibrations that something was off. it felt too perfect. and when everything in your life has been not perfect, you're always left looking for the next soul-crushing death of the fantasy. i feared there would always a duality inside of me, with half of me feeling like the beatles were right and all i needed was love; then at the same time, another side that felt, due to some weird past life karmic retribution, i would be unlucky in love. and that latter side would soon rear its ugly head with the wink of an eye.
the way i know i’m not remembering this incorrectly and going wild with artistic license is thanks totally to the digital and paper journal i’ve kept throughout the years. upon digging through my 2k16 password-protected tumblr diary, i found entries that hit on our time together a bit deeper.
i offer this to you as exhibit A :
JUNE 21, 2016
"*sighs* i don’t know. i guess i have a week to think about it. maybe he’s just someone to have fun with right now.
it’s just, i’m getting too old to just be “having fun” - i need to be more serious.
i almost wish he was more serious.
like, for example, it took me maybe less than 3 days to decorate my little corner of the apartment and i still have more things i’d like to recover and/or buy. i have more decorating to do.
i walk into his apartment, that he’s been in for over a month, and there’s a sheet over the window and ciggie burns in everything and plastic silverware…it’s almost like walking into pete doherty’s hovel, minus the cats running around everywhere.
he does have nice taste and some nice things that seemed to have survived his many drug binges, but i am feeling it’s not enough to prove to me that he has his shit together. again, i’ve been to his house several times and he still doesn’t have pillowcases on his pillows. he’s 26.
this is a problem…"
it was about august or september when ryan invited me to his parents' vacation house in the keys. i can’t remember if it was marathon or islamorada, but it doesn’t matter. imagine a fancy beach house with a big ass boat and you’ll have an idea.
my mom had a "vacation" cabin i called "the love shack" in northern rural idaho - and when i say rural, i mean it. wood stove, no running water, no septic - but we did have electricity. we were one step above train hopping hobos i suppose. anyways, i RSVPd in the positive that i would be there or be square.
i know we were there for one or two nights - i remember going fishing all day on the water (where i surprisingly did not succumb to my usual bout of seasickness) and i can see in my mind’s eye ryan feeding boat-scratched manatees (even though it’s hella illegal), i remember taking a bath in their clawfoot bathtub and i remember ordering pizza in with his family...but what i remember most was a bike ride we took.
it was daytime and not too hot out. he and i needed cigarettes (i smoked parliament full flavors, yet only camel 100s would be awaiting me) and ryan suggested we take bikes into town and pick some up. i was apprehensive, because only a year ago i had broken my foot on a bicycle; but ryan talked me into it and a romantic bike ride plan unfolded.
but, right as we were about to put the rubber to the road, he remembered he didn't have his wallet. he asked if i would go into the guest room we were staying in to retrieve it from his backpack. as a good girlfriend, i probably said, "no sweat! be back in a jiffy!"; but the little sister in me couldn't help myself.
so i get up to the room and see the backpack in question. this backpack might as well be a fucking character in this damn story. he had gotten it around july 4, from quicksilver on lincoln road (RIP) and i was with him when he got it. so i knew it was new. i knew that everything in that backpack was placed there by its owner. i also knew, deep down, i wasn't going to find anything good inside.
and, of course, somewhere inside i found a small black case. and inside that case, or "kit", was everything i feared and everything i sensed : burnt spoon, couple of used needles, some wadded up foil...you get the idea.
i stood there. shocked for a moment. this person, this man, this dreamboat i've prayed for (not really, i'm a buddhist; so more...chanted) would deceive me to kill himself with dope? and let's take me out of the equation for a minute - let's think about a decent human life worthy of not shooting up. i didn't know what to think. i definitely didn't care how long he was waiting downstairs and considering he was probably high, he was off in the clouds not really aware of time.
heroin is scary, man. scarier than the 70s rock 'n' roll musicians and the 90s grunge musicians make it seem. it gets so romanticized for the art crowd, so i’ll always have a wonder what art i’d churn out – but not enough wonder to put aside my fear.
ok, so...i found the kit. i took a mental image of it and then put it back, deciding to bring it up another time. maybe even to see how he acted. maybe for one last moment of his adoring attention before i sprung it on him that i discovered he had been shooting up.
what a sad thing to have to do. instead of me finding the perfect time to bring up literally anything else in the world - surprise trip to outer space, guest guitar spot on stage with metallica, the argument that we are all in a simulation - i would be finding the perfect time to say, "hey, you been doing heroin?"
i felt like it was destined to happen. that this fairy tale romance i had always wanted - this white knight to show up and make me finally feel worthy, beautiful and loved - and it completely backfired. the stinging thought that this is the type of man i deserved, because no "normal" person could be into me. then, of course the wondering began...how many times was he high with me? had he been high during sex? could he have given me something? did he even truly care about me or was it the drugs?
i can give you three guesses (and the first two don't count) as to if ryan and i stayed together after that or not. on the ride back from the keys, i prepared for our last conversation. such a different mindset on the trip back vs. the trip there. days prior, i was at the highest of highs being loved by him. now, as the distance to south beach grew shorter, i was lower than low.
a few days later, over thai dinner in a small dive restaurant, i softly put my hand atop his and said, "i need to talk to you about something really important and i need you to promise me to tell me the truth."
"what's going on?"
"you know how the other day we went on a bike ride?"
"...yeah, sure..." his hand moved away from mine and went for his drink. returned the hand would never be.
"i found something in your backpack. i found this thing, it's--i found your kit."
"what are you talking about? what kit?"
and i wanted to roll my eyes; and thought, oh really, we're going to play this game? my sister was an addict - i know this dance. let's just skip the mickey mouse shit. i said, "don't do this. a black zip up pouch- spoon inside, needles...i mean, come on, you aren't just rolling doobies."
he didn't sigh. he didn't put his head in his hands. he didn't really do much of anything. it took him a while, but finally he said, "that's old. from years ago. i found it in the guest bedroom. i must have left it there when i was using."
"you know, it's funny, because i very clearly remember that being a new backpack you bought, so that means everything inside was placed there on purpose and placed there by you. why would you be carrying around some drug kit from when you were using? riddle me this." i wanted to rewind that very interrogative statement back, trying to remember this wasn't my boyfriend of even a year. i mean we hadn’t even said "i love you" or anything.
again. long moment of silence for him to think of his next line to sell me. "look, if you don't want to believe me, you don't have to. but i'm not shooting up."
"i really care about you. i care about you, but i care more about me not falling in love with someone who is going to, at the end of the day, choose heroin over me. let’s not kid ourselves.”
"i'm not sure what to say. we've only known each other a few months."
and that's when i knew. it was done. he had his own path he was on and it didn't – and probably never - involved me.
so i said, "since this is feeling like it’ll be our last talk, i'm going to leave you with an unavoidable plea : please, get off the shit before it ends you." he then gave me some line about how he wasn't doing heroin, he was shooting up his medicine he was prescribed to help kick heroin. at that point, i was in self-defense mode and not listening; probably devising a plan to abort my love mission with as much dignity as i could find on the floor of the restaurant.
i paid for dinner and i paid for my uber the fuck out of there, wanting to be in control of the goodbye. because i really wasn't in control of much at that moment.
and i thought that would be the last time i'd hear from him. but it wasn't. in 2017 and 2018, before his death - i was in idaho and he was in north carolina, with a beard like a mountain man. he told me he bought a truck and was ready to leave florida. we talked of being together again, of him coming to idaho to live with me. none of that would happen, though. ryan passed away in april of 2018.
not a day goes by that i don't think of the person i wanted to spend the rest of my life with, make babies with and grow old in the woods with. what a ball he and i would have had, i often imagine. i kick myself and wonder what life would have been like if i had told him to drive out to idaho and be with me, instead of suggesting we slowly work to get back together. if i had only taken him up on his offer. who knows where we would be? mega super stardom it couple in hollywood? or working on the reservation for my cousin and his cattle farm, living off the land, only to come home to a small cabin in the mountains?
post-ryan, i spent my time as a single lady going to events and galas, some attending and some producing. i went to drag shows at palace with friends. i had a british gal pal that would go to heat games with me (when the big 3 were still in miami; i am a haslem girl myself). i even went on a date with an NBA player. i dropped acid, i went to the beach. i found different ways to entertain myself - i watched the whole girls series. i designed a jacket with patches and buttons, customized for me by me. i did an art piece from a cabinet door where i made a collage on wood so you could hang it. naturally, all of the above was sponsored by a hot glue gun and medications i was being tried out on, as my psych didn't quite know what to make of me.
being on crazy pills seemed like a right of passage. being in a house with elder gays, i was almost brought into the life of therapy as if it were the next step in being an adult. right before incurring large amounts of debt, one should peel back their layer and reveal themself.
and as one of the ruffest, tuffest frails, peeling myself back was inevitable come wintertime.
