I began this written piece a few weeks ago, however, the narrative changed quite a bit today.
Initially, I wrote this as I worried the end was imminent; it was a piece I shared only with you, throwing the gauntlet down in a manner of speaking, to let you know how I really felt inside, and to see if it was worth fighting for.
Now, a few hours removed from the last time I may ever hear your voice, My Love, though I pray not, I can see that this piece needed a little updating.
As I sit here, I am torn between so many feelings tonight, from the contemplation of ceasing writing altogether, to never stopping the outpouring of myself in pen. From a feeling a great loss akin to death to one of romantic dedication and hope — to prove to her — to prove to you, my resolve is unshaken. That I will outlast the hurdles and when you come back, I will give that “I told you so” look.
Maybe I am just being hopeful and naive, but I haven’t been wrong yet.
At the end of the day, I guess writing is my albatross, strangling me yet once again, and I am not quite courageous enough to be the Mariner, so that I may kill my bird. Torn of late finding in my voice as a barrage of icky feelings become of me, I am already developing a disdain for the very idea that is Patreon. Resisting the notion that I will ever write on a schedule, for a fee, or on anyone else’s fucking terms but my own. I refuse to be a sellout, but I digress.
So rather, I say “fuck it”, in typical TRD fashion. Let the chips fall where they may, as I clickety-clack my motherfucking heart out one more time.
This one — My Love — it has you written all over it.
Growing up in a Christian home, it had been instilled in me since the earliest memories of church and God, that the ultimate goal was always meant to find yourself a path to heaven.
That if you were a believer in Christ, and sought forgiveness of your sins, that you would have a new home awaiting you for eternity — free of the destructive factors that mar this world.
Though it took me a while through years of spiritual defiance in adolescence, and a more responsible and well-informed phase of soul-searching in college, I ultimately one day came to the same conclusion I internally resisted for years. I was now a finding myself a member of the cohort of Christians, alongside all the blinded, faith-driven, science-resisting right-wing whack jobs I despised on every level.
That I too, like them — believe — that this world was created, and I too, like them — believe it was created by the same God I had grown to know as a child.
I always felt His presence — as I do right now, as I type this.
However, growing up I think I always sort of believed that I had a foolproof plan to trick “the God system” — so that I could fuck off a bit — while still believing in God but holding out for the “forgiveness of sins” part.
My slick and wise plan would be just that — me living life on my fucking terms, “sinning it up” if you will, however, I wanted until those last moments on Earth — when I would make a break for the “forgiveness part” and everything would be alright again. The moment when I obviously as I clutched for life, having probably just shat myself.
You know, as I have that right-before-death moment that every single movie seems to get wrong, and until you hold somebody as they die, you never completely realize that death doesn’t quite look like Hollywood makes it. #love-you-brother
But nonetheless, I had a plan for that “last breath” of mine, and whenever the angel of death should be my companion — the joke would be on him. “Hah, fucker!”, I would think as I fired off my forgiveness prayers as I’d happily float off up into “this place sure looks really fucking boring-ville”… I mean, um…“Heaven”.
My plan was solid, I thought. I would spend my very last moments asking for forgiveness for all my sins, set things right with the big Jewish liberal black man upstairs (hey, it’s a fact). Then I would ride off into the sunset with memories ‘Grand Theft Auto: Vice City’ hooker fucking, cuss words to make a sailor blush, and of course, a blog that makes thousands of women rub their pussies. All while I sit back and revel in my sheer awesomeness, seeing this cross-the-globe ceremony of creamy housewife havoc that I just created.
I’ve had this thought so many times it is almost laughable; the one about when I die, by the way, not the GTA hooker fucking, just so we are clear.
I’ve thought about scenarios of every kind. I have thought of dying in a car accident and how I’d respond, or as a plane went down, how I would ignore everything else around me, drop the hero shit — and sit there — praying to God for my own salvation, to assure myself safe passage into the cloudy bore-fest that sure-as-fuck beats burning alive for eternity.
I already was a believer — so it seemed like a pretty open and shut case to me, you know, from a logical standpoint. I just needed that forgiveness part.
But that is all changed now.
That plan is no longer.
Now — I will give you, My Love, my last breath.
It’s the best thing I can give, so I give it.
Now — I give you my last moments. Whether you are holding my hand as I hope you will be, or distant 40-year-old memory as I fear — it is you that will consume my mind, as the last moments fade to black.
I will lay there and remember us and cherish the moments we had. I will spend my last moments, with you, whether you are there or not to share them with me. I sure hope you will be.
Dramatic much, you may ask? Well, I concede that but you didn’t come here for half-hearted and it is not my style to mail it in when it comes to passion, so just bear with me for a moment, but I am writing this one for me now.
For I am, above every other person you have or ever will meet — passionate — and I don’t believe in second best when it comes to matters of the heart, though you know this well, Kitten, don’t you?
So when my heart beats its last beat in some far-off and future, hopefully very distant day, I will now commit to reflect upon all the depth I allowed of myself to give to another, through my love of you.
I will be proud that I tried — as hard as I fucking could — to live inside the passionate heart my Lord gave me, with you as my compass.
I will be content knowing I could not try any harder to hold onto you, and when I tried, it was pure and it was real. I know the world we have built for our own lives and the limitations of it, but that doesn’t change my resolve and my investment in the idea that one day, I hope the pieces of the puzzle will come together for us.
So, I remain steadfast. I maintain resolve.
But, I now find myself in a prison of pain through missing you and what we had, with memories of freedom ornamenting the walls. As if I found the universe’s most sadistic interior decorator, gaining joy from the fact I just can’t sleep at night anymore while I wonder, just wonder, what the fuck happened and how the hell could we be so careless to let this go.
I am really going to miss you, My Love.
A grown man, now afraid that I am forever in bondage; a slave to the memories of us, with no next one to build. It makes me think of Othello, and the gutwrenching heartbreak in it, though I could never strangle you in bed, although it sure seems like we tried. I am going to miss that too.
But instead, I’ll just smile and remember us.
I will remember June. I will recount the moments in when I recognized in you something different than what I knew to exist before in any other person. I didn’t know what to make of it then, but I knew — it was special.
It was if I was hiking in the woods and discovered something beautiful; something majestic. Something glowing in the darkness, yet I still didn’t know what it was. I just knew it was far greater than anything I’d ever known.
I told myself back then, “I know what kind of a man I am — I know my worth. I know what I bring to the table and it’s fucking rare in this world. And she is going to find out, the depth of me as a man, and she is going to fucking feel me now, in her goddamn bones. She is in-store for what real love and passion were meant to feel like — when God created it”.
I will remember July. Never realizing that saying I Love You took way too long, yet here we were, one month of compressed time as if we teleported to another world, lived a lifetime together, and somehow returned to see the rest of the world had not really moved yet.
Somehow eight hours on the phone, day after day, week after week, it just still always felt rushed; just a mere four hours was pure torture. I recall becoming ill that month and seeing that Mama Bear kick in, angrily defensive of her Daddy. I remember feeling loved by this and imagining you caring for me as pneumonia left me bedridden. I imagined your chicken noodle soup, your care, and all the things you told me you’d do if only you could.
I will remember August. God, how could I ever forget August? With the exception of two other days in my life, that time with you, as you had a light around you — those were the best days of my life. Being one with you, playing house and seeing what life would be like with you forever, even if for a brief moment. Becoming one with you in every way, never aware of the hellfire we were about to withstand. I recall the couch, the bed, the mornings, the evenings, the kiss, the everything. I remember the feeling of sadness later that month, that our flame was being stoked far too early, and then feeling encouraged when we both said: “fuck that — we are fighting for us”.
I recall sleeping to the music of our songs for weeks, adjacent your Orchid Soleil soaked pillow, driving right past you, feeling your presence at every turn, the coffee I bought and waking up to see the orange sky rise that you were staring at that morning in the hotel just a few mere miles away. I know you felt me then as I did you.
I will remember September. We found our strength and fought for us once again, and then quickly got derailed, all to get back on our feet and fight. A voiceless man again curled up in a fetal position in a vacant home, convinced the end was a certainty, as much as I do right now as I write this. I recall writing back then about my albatross, and When I First Kisses You, among other things. Sad songs that I was the composer of, yet my voice was heard by you through it all. I recall thinking that God was evil and I’d never return to church, for just showing me the light long enough to snatch it away from me.
I remember the torture of passing through again, muted, but only for another week, when you developed the courage to pursue your heart again. I recall thinking I was actually going crazy, speaking into my phone and leaving recordings that I hoped found their way to you, but didn’t really know for sure. I grasped at the littlest things for the encouragement to follow my heart towards you, like signs you still read me, acting as breadcrumbs to help encourage me to not give up on us. Proof, I found, that you were looking and that you cared still, just like I did. Fuel found, to keep this fire burning and resilience within me to press forward and look towards the long-term goals. Sanity, back in my pocket again, when I saw that you were clutching at my words and voice.
I will remember October. The new “woke” woman was formidable, and it was cute that she was worried I’d be turned away from her newfound strength, while all that happened is it made me want to lean in to see the beauty in your Alpha presence. The game was back on and she wasn’t taking shit from anyone. She was who I saw she wanted to always be. Raw confidence so infectious it gives me chills even now typing now, like as if my keyboard were hooked up to a car battery.
Plans made. Middle fingers on alert. Goddamn, you were and are so fucking sexy like this. I remember almost crossing paths twice and then finally, oh finally, I saw you again.
I will remember November. Fuck, do I remember November. Three Days was the morning, that November. The only thing better than August was November, and that was only because we fought so hard to get there. The closeness between us was unreal. A movie could be written of all the details that I just cannot write, yet will remember, as I give you my last breath.
The time in the home; the time outside. The other faces. The love, above all. The love was real, intense, and palpable. Not even just the passion, but the real, genuine appreciation for the presence of the other. The purity was as if a story were being written and we were fortunate enough to be leading cast.
I will remember December, or at least the best parts of it, for I’d prefer to forget the worst parts. I didn’t think I could take another December, but I’d give years to have it back. Although December was hard, and January was good, somehow it ended up worse.
Even still, I would take a thousand Decembers and Januaries in a heartbeat if I could, if it meant they were months with you it. I am built to withstand anything and I never give up, so I know any pain would all be in stride.
I can’t help but hope for a good February, or March, or even June again.
These — by far — were the most felt months of my life.
I will remember them, always.
I will reside in these moments.
In my last breath.
I love you.