Wanted

In my quest of self-discovery, I've managed to finally define one of the core drivers of my behavior. It's not just a lack of love or companionship that make me feel lonely. In fact, loneliness is probably the wrong word to describe what it is I'm really feeling most of the time. A more accurate description of my resting state would be "unwanted". That's what's missing, and it's what is lifted for a few minutes during and after really good sex. During those fleeting moments, I feel completely and utterly wanted. It's amazing. It feels like everything about me, all the flaws and frustrations, it all adds up to something that's actually cared about and desired. And then in a flash, it's gone.

I am always the first to admit that, in a lot of ways, I'm still very emotionally immature. Strange, considering how many emotions I feel at any given moment, right? But the fact of the matter is that I never learned much about those emotions that are directly tied to sex and intimacy. I spent too much time avoiding sex or if having it, retreating into myself to observe and judge how poorly at it I performed. I never just let myself be in the moment and enjoy it. So on those rare occasions when I do feel like an equal partner in the act of having sex, it always comes as a bit of a shock to me when those kinds of unique emotions bubble up to the surface. I don't even think I have words for them, much less the ability to categorize them or explain how they feel compared to other emotions I'm more accustomed to having.

The closest I can come to describing them would be "contentedness" and "belonging". Feeling both of those things at once is so rare in my life that the combination of them at once is like a drug, one that I never want to come clean from. When those emotions take center stage, I can do anything. My inhibitions are gone. My self-doubt is eradicated. For a few minutes, I'm all Shannon, bold and unafraid. I'm like the me I could be if I hadn't been so badly damaged and made to feel so unsure of everything I say or do. That guy is hot. I want to be him when I grow up.

This year, for my birthday, I got to be him for a brief moment, after hours of circling and dodging and evading and questioning. My submissive nature is going to be the death of my sex life if I'm not careful. But that's a rant for a different day. Today I'm gloating, because for my birthday, I was given the feeling that I was wanted, and it's the best gift I ever got.

Fearing A Friendship Lost

Okay, whoever might be on the other end of this blog, soaking up the depressive stories I'm forever writing here without ever making your presence known, I have a challenge for you. I want you to imagine, for just a moment, that there is a guy (or a girl, if that's what you're into <shudder>) with whom you've become somewhat smitten over several months' time spent really getting to know one another. You have incredible sex with him, but not often. You have in depth conversations about everything under the sun with him. You and he share enough common interests in music, movies, books, and art to be kindred, and have just enough differences of opinion in each of those categories to create that necessary spark for debate. For all intents and purposes, you're as close as two people can be without it having to crumble under the weight of some confining, hetero-normative label that wouldn't accurately describe it anyway.

Now imagine that every time things reach a high point, he says that he has to be careful not to allow himself to get carried away or too drawn in for fear that he'll immediately start to resent himself for allowing such a relationship to have formed, and that such self-resentment will soon thereafter translate into resentment of you, which will only serve to create deep chasms and secrecy and distrust between you, ruining the perfectly happy and functional friendship that you started out with. When you try to press for clarity as to why there would be so much resentment right out of the gate, he tells you in a crisscrossing stream of words and sentiments that this hypothetical romance could only be defined as a rebound, which he has allowed himself to indulge in on more than one occasion in the past, only to destroy the friendship he once had with the object of said romantic rebound, and in most cases, erase them from his life altogether.

Well, that doesn't sound at all like what you want to happen, does it? As much as you care for him and enjoy being with him, the last thing you want is to feel resented by him much less risk him removing himself from your life completely! No, that wouldn't do at all. So you settle for calling what you have a friendship and leave the semantics out of it. I mean, that's what he's so hung up on after all, isn't it? The words that other people would use to define you? If all it takes to keep this guy in your life is to call him one thing while he's portraying something else, then call that apple and orange and keep quiet, right?

That's what I thought, too. But then the thought occurred to me as he told me once again how easily he could find himself loving me for all the wrong reasons, that this recital of his completely removes my feelings and my agency from the equation. Nowhere in this rhetoric of his do I have a say in matters. At no point does he ask how easy or difficult it would be for me to openly express the love I feel for him, with or without a label to classify it under. What if I prove to be someone he is incapable of resenting? What about the magic I bring to the table? Couldn't I somehow sway this ill ending prophecy of his through some minor redirection or some major cathartic endeavor? Doesn't my involvement in this cautionary tale afford me a say in how doomed we are or are not?

What say you, phantom reader? Would you accept an end before your beginning, where this conundrum yours to unravel? Or would you insist the next time he brings up how easily he could anything that he put up or shut up and leave the future to be written the way futures tend to be written -- not by the hands of those wrapped up in it, but mysteriously and with no clear path or plan or promises?

I'm not giving him such an easy way out next time. I plan to put a stop to the senseless soothsaying he uses to write us off, and instead write myself into this theme as an equal partner whose feelings have just as much a chance of making things work as his do of making them not. I'm not giving away the chance laid before me simply because he's too afraid of taking a chance on me. Where he's been afraid I will have to be more brave, and in this way we weave our wonders and our woes.

Give Till It Hurts

How Being Raised in the Old Homesteader Traditions Has Failed Me in a World Without Values.

I've always had a special appreciation for the old saying, "Give until it hurts." For some reason, it evokes a welcome memory of my grandmother when she was in her early 50's buzzing around her house preparing for one of many backwoods social calls from some great great uncle or third cousins or step-grand-niece and her new husband. That woman knew how to put out a spread. She cooked so well and so often that people came from miles around to share Sunday supper or a mid-week cup of coffee with home baked bread or biscuits or cookies. I don't know if I'd go so far as to say that to her food was love, but she definitely loved feeding people, and I absolutely loved eating all of it.

My grandmother had a huge influence on me during the years after my parents divorced and I went to live with her and my grandfather for about 4 years of grade school. She worked full-time for the Department of Wildlife and Fisheries in Pineville, LA as a secretary, and there wasn't a day that woman didn't dress to the nines for work. She thrived on the attention her designer suits and high heels won her from the men at the office, though, like a dutiful wife many years beyond the expiration date of love, she came home at 6:00 on the dot five days a week and had dinner on the table by 7:00.

She taught me much about how people ought to behave and how they should treat others, whether they were family, neighbors, or strangers off the street. Everyone deserved a friendly smile, a kind word, and a hot meal if one was ready. While our little rural town wasn't much for diversity among its population nor its congregation, to those who stopped by or passed through, my grandmother was known high and low as a great gal who could cook like the devil. I wanted to be as well liked and appreciated as she was by those men and women in that community. I watched everything she did from the hours long night time ritual of her bath, moisturizers, and expert level upkeep regimen, to the precise and perfect way she ironed and folded load after load of laundry. Everything she touched was a perfection worthy of a fancy Southern magazine.

We were a poor family, I learned much later on. We didn't have much, and what we did have, we plucked from the earth or pulled from the streams. I treasure my childhood experience of growing up on a farm that fed my grandparents and me along with neighbors and extended family anytime they decided to drop by around supper time. In exchange for a free meal now and then, our family and neighbors would repay the kindness in great little ways like an evening of live fiddle and guitar right there in our living room, or a weekend's worth of babysitting to give my grandparents some time off from me while I got free swimming lessons. Even when the crops were light thanks to bugs or frost or when the fish weren't biting and the chickens weren't laying, we made due, and not a person who needed anything was ever turned away from my grandmother's doorstep. She literally gave until it hurt, and then a bit more on top of that.

I like to think I've made her proud while she was living. I hope she saw how much of her there is in me, and that she was flattered by my unwavering generosity to those around me in my life or just passing through it. I definitely feel the hurty part of giving more often than she ever had to endure, but regardless of the lack of reciprocation these days, I can't seem to stop giving of myself in whatever capacity I can when someone is in need of help. Even after being taken advantage of by ungrateful guys that survive by taking and taking, my heart won't let me not provide comfort or shelter or support however I can to those people again and again.

Sometimes I wonder if she would have continued had she ever been so unfortunate as to have encountered young gay junkies who are dope sick, gay for pay homeless hustlers trying to swindle a few bucks for diapers for their babies, and myriad other varieties of ne'er-do-well and miscreant out to take whatever they can from anyone who's kind enough, dumb enough, or weak enough to provide it in some form or another. Something tells me she would, though not without the wagging of a finger and a stern life lesson to go along with whatever generosity she bestowed upon them. Wisdom would be a part of that gift, and they'd be fools not to take and cherish it. Yet I would warn her how disrespectful and opportunistic the world has become hoping to shield her from the kind of treatment I've received myself while emulating her good spirit and kind heart.

It's a shame to see how different the world is today from the simple, friendly, neighborly one I remember growing up in for those few short years with my grandparents. Nowadays, folks don't have the same kind of understanding that goes without saying about how to repay kindness with kindness or how respect is always afforded to everyone until perhaps they prove themselves not deserving of it. A smile and a nod at a passerby on the sidewalk these days could just as easily win you a middle finger as it could a smile and a "Mornin'!". People have lost their kindness. They don't connect with one another in the same ways, and they are suspicious of those throwbacks like myself who insist on carrying on such antiquated traditions. My forthright conversation and my hospitable nature puts people ill at ease when all I want is to look after their comfort and make sure their time in my company is as pleasant and memorable as I can make it.

I don't know how to live in this world. Too often turned away, and almost never sought out for company, I have given till it hurts and have gotten more hurt as repayment. At some point, of course, it's got to become a case of "Shame on me.", because it doesn't make sense to keep on emptying my reserves of time, money, patience, and care on people who don't want it, don't like it, don't respect it, and won't appreciate it. I think I'd almost rather have a crafty hustler pull the wool over my eyes and feign some attraction and intimacy for an hour than to have my kindness repaid with name-calling or willful silence and utter ignorance of my person. At least if they lie to me, it perhaps costs them something in doing so. That's sort of a barter I suppose. It hurts, nonetheless. So I guess it's worth giving.

It's Not Him, It's Me

Lately I've had a rotten string of luck with guys flaking on me, cancelling dates at the last minute, or just flat out ghosting me. It's beginning to feel like I'm cursed or afflicted with some kind of reverse dick magnetism. It's weighing heavily on my feels to be honest. 

I try not to let the behavior of others dictate how I am feeling about myself or what I will or won't do with my evening, but when the disappointments come at me one after the other for several days in a row, it's hard not to take it personally. Luckily, I have made a good friend recently with whom I've been able to share the news of each heavy hit as it rolls in, and that has made it somewhat bearable because he encourages and consoles me when I am ready to throw in the towel. 

We have been hanging out quite a bit, this friend and I, and there have been some awkward conversations between us as we figure out what kind of friendship each of us wants from the other. I won't lie -- those talks give me great relief, because as awkward as they may feel, he's pretty receptive to what I'm feeling and always tries to be forthcoming about how he's feeling as well. I dig it. 

The sex we have, when we have it*, is fantastic. From the first time we met, we seem to have found a pretty great rhythm that curls my toes and empties his balls very effectively. For the most part, he's been accepting of the fact that we are serodiscordant, choosing to wear condoms in addition to my taking antiretroviral therapy medication to maintain an undetectable viral load. 

We've talked several times about it, as I am wont to do so that I'm certain there isn't any confusion or misunderstandings whatsoever about my HIV status. He's got a pretty good attitude about it, though he could benefit from a bit more education and discussion on the subject, so I try not to let his choice to use barrier protection with me make me feel like he's afraid or judgmental of me.

When asked if he always uses condoms with the (many) other guys he sleeps with, he says that for the most part he does, admitting that on occasion he's foregone a rubber if he knows the person well or if things get too heated to stop and there are none available. And that's both fine with me and also absolutely none of my business. His choices about protecting himself are his, and I completely respect that. 

He's been trying for a couple of weeks now to get me out more, nudging me a little harder each time to loosen up some and enjoy a more adventurous sex life like his. He's asked me to accompany him to the bath house multiple times, but I always decline. He convinced me a couple of weeks ago to go with him to be with 2 guys, 1 of whom he has been flirting with on the apps for a while, and the whole thing went sideways from the moment we walked into the place and found that 2 people were actually 4, none of whom seemed very impressed that he had brought me along to their orgy. We left, pseudo-gracefully.

Last night, after I'd faced yet another heart-twisting cancellation (this one after getting on the bus and travelling up to Seattle to meet a guy who cancelled on me the moment I arrived), my friend came to my rescue and collected me from the stoop of a friend's place after he got off work. I was pretty down and deflated as I stood outside waiting for him to arrive so I could just get home, let out some of the feels that were stabby and scratchy in the sensitive chest place, and call it a night.

Despite my obvious woe, he was very animated and clearly motivated when he asked me if I wanted to go with him to one of his friends' dungeon parties, telling me his buddy had at least two versatile guys over there right then, and that they would not be the same kind of guys who had only recently made me feel so ugly and out of place. He explained that he'd told his friend he would like to go, but that he had a friend with him, and that it would be up to me - no pressure there. 

I didn't. I mean, I ended up going, yes, but not because I wanted to. I just couldn't bring myself to tell him no, because that would be the second time he was cock blocked from a big group scene because of me. I swallowed down a Molly capsule along with some of my still hurty feelers to make room for the ones that came next.

We arrived. It was as strange as I'd imagined. There was a young guy getting fisted in a sling by another young guy and an older bear walking around in a leather jockstrap bringing them bigger and bigger things to shove into each other. I took a deep breath and undressed, making my way onto the bed while everyone else gravitated toward the sling. And that's where I stayed most of the night, watching from across the room while my friend dove in and barebacked both boys over the course of a few hours.

I get it. He doesn't want to hurt my feelings by telling me the truth about his fear regarding HIV. He's certainly not alone in that. And I know that it didn't even occur to him that seeing that would flip a switch in me that might one way or another change the course of our friendship going forward, but that's what he did. 

I'm so torn up that I can't stand it. It opened the oldest, most hurtful scar I've tried to stitch back up over and over for 26 years. I'm a veritable pool of pure sadness, and I can't fucking show it to him because I'll crack into a million tears, and I won't be able to stop myself from lashing out. 

So I'm trying my best to focus on the facts, which are these:

1. He had never met either of those boys before we walked into that basement.
2. He didn't ask either of those boys about their sexual health.
3. Neither of those boys disclosed any information about their sexual health.
4. He fucked them both long and hard and he came in both of their sloppy, stretched out assholes.
5. I watched my friend reveal his lie in stunned silence.

I'm gonna crack soon. There's no more room in me for this kind of shit. I'm broken, yes, but a man can keep breaking or break again after being partially repaired, right? That's what's happening right now. I'm breaking so hard that I can't see a way past the hurt. Not addressing it is going to lead to a bigger, more eruptive episode down the road for sure. But doing it now, or at least as soon after the event took place as possible, requires my being able to hold my shit together long enough to have a conversation with him that isn't accusatory or filled with weaponized emotions made lethal by the sense of betrayal I feel at this moment. 

Wish me luck. He's probably coming back here tonight. I suppose I'll play it by ear. But there won't ever be another last night. Not ever. There may never been any us time again after we talk. I guess we'll find out. 

UPDATE: Per usual, I'm a drama queen, and the world didn't end just because I had an uncomfortable conversation. We're as close as we have always been, and the more we talk about these bits of discomfort the closer we become. I need to remember that the next time my heart is breaking and I think the worst will come of it. I should really remember to give him a little credit for his part of our relationship. Will I ever move beyond an 8th Grade level of sexual maturity?

*He's been afraid that we're approaching something more than friends, perhaps on both sides, and he has been intentionally withdrawing from my advances or ignoring them in an effort to stop that from happening. He says he doesn't want to ruin our relationship by allowing it to morph into a rebound thing, and I have to agree. But now I also have to ask myself, in light of this newest development, how much of his hesitance is from that, and how much might be more honestly attributable to his fear of catching the virus from me. It's valid, to be sure. 

I don't remember what it feels like to live in fear of HIV because I've pretty much always had HIV, but I imagine it's pretty consuming of the faculties when approaching a situation where you are forced to confront it head on. I just wish it didn't make me feel like a tainted piece of undeserving trash who could kill anyone who sleeps with me. 

Fake It Till You Make It

A friend for whom I care very deeply, and who I'm fairly certain feels similarly about me told me that he wishes I could see myself the way he does. "If you walked into a room full of guys with a strut, just exuding confidence in yourself and showing not the slightest hint of insecurity, it doesn't matter what those guys looked like or how fit they were, they'd follow suit."

The concept of walking into any room, much less one filled with a congregation of pretty gays, with any measure of confidence in my own sex appeal is so foreign to me that merely conjuring that image in my mind makes me laugh and squirm uncomfortably. It's not within my makeup to be that person. There may be the odd subject or situation about which I feel sufficiently adept to speak up with authority when a chance presents itself, but to "strut" into a social setting pretending I was free of anxiety and self-doubt, beaming with contentedness in the way I looked, and confident that any guy in my line of sight would be lucky to spend a few hours in my bed is just preposterous from my perspective.

I've tried to explain to my friend how deeply, fundamentally programmed I am to self-deprecate, belittle, and make myself humble before others as if getting in front of the insults and judgement I anticipate everywhere I go will somehow diminish them before they land. From the earliest memories I can invoke from childhood, I was beaten and bloodied for not doing things right and not being perfect - for calling attention to myself and then not providing enough entertainment to excuse such a misstep. I learned never to try something new if I couldn't first study it backward and forward until I felt certain that I could attempt it without making a mistake. That early lesson has followed me through my entire life right up to this day, the mid-point between 40 and 50, causing me to have missed out on a host of experiences for fear of looking stupid.

"But who cares what guys like that think? Right? Who wants to hang around a bunch of shallow, hateful people anyway?", he asked. "You've got the looks, whether you believe it or not, the size and stature, the smarts, wit, and heart they only wish they had. Don't let their pettiness stop you from having your own fun and seeking out your own wants and needs."

That would make total sense were it not also true that I am just as shallow and judgmental and intolerant in some ways as the throngs of vapid queens you see wandering in packs like loud, obnoxious hyenas sloshing drunkenly from bar to bar on the weekends. I've been just as programmed by magazines and television as they have to prefer certain looks and body types for sex. I'm as turned off by someone who looks like me as they are, so pretending to be the better man would smack too much of hypocrisy for me to endure.

When you factor in the childhood abuse, both physical and psychological, that continued through much of high school, and combine it with the choking stench of anti-HIV stigma that accompanied my HIV diagnosis at the very doorstep of adulthood, you realize that there has been no part of my adult life that I've been free of one kind of shame or another. For decades I've been living my life as a sort of sexual pariah, lucky to get whatever is given to him, but shot down more times in a weekend than is normal. At no time have I felt myself worth the attention I so crave.

"I hate seeing a good friend continually get in his own way with a negative outlook and a pessimistic demeanor.", he told me. "Even if you could just fake that level of confidence and swagger for a few hours at a time, you'd eventually become that confident guy with the kickass swagger, because if you pretend long enough and consistently enough, eventually it stops being an act and just becomes who you are."

"If there's one thing I aspire to live as an example it's forthrightness. I have too great a talent for deceit. It was one of many tools I honed to survive my childhood. Now that I'm able to decide for myself what kind of man I want to be, I choose to be one who speaks the truth, no matter how bitter the taste that comes with it. I would prefer to suffer the taste than the incessant fear I'm being lied to, which is why I won't subject others to that awful feeling either."

I know there is a difference between being simply honest and well-mannered and being so much of both that one sort of becomes a walking caution sign for information overload. That is the zone I think I tend to inhabit most of the time. It's never my intention, of course, to make anyone feel uncomfortable. In fact, learning that my directness has indeed caused some men in the Pacific Northwest to feel awkward and uncomfortable came as a complete shock to me. I'd have assumed they would appreciate it as much as I do.

"I don't know, man.", my sweet, well-meaning friend admitted. "I just hate to see you so defeated all the time. I think you're amazing, and I want everyone else - yourself included - to see that, too."

"It'd probably be a lot easier for me to believe that about myself. . ." I paused, struggling with the right words to convey my meaning without sounding accusatory and pathetic. "I guess I just sometimes observe in you a kind of 'torn' feeling, where your better nature wants so badly to show me that perspective, but your more base nature has you scrolling through page after page of other better choices on the apps, and I just have to assume you're looking for something more fun to go do than to sit around listening to my endless loop of uncomfortable truths about myself and my prospective chances of having a happier life."

It's not the first time I've alluded to the fact that often, when he halfheartedly rubs his hand across my chest, his full focus appears to be zeroed in on the faceless torsos of the very men who have made me feel impossibly small and insignificant. Or worse, incredibly fat and unfuckable.

"I don't mean to sound like I'm wagging my finger at you for being a slut.", I backpedaled. "Gandalf knows I try to be a slut every chance I get, which isn't all that often anymore." (See how self-deprecation is woven into my vocabulary? I can't not do it!) "I'm just saying that for me to believe any of what you're saying, you have to convince me that you're not just being kind, that I'm enough to hold your attention by myself, without other guys in the room to play with, and without your fucking phone always aglow in your hand."

"No, no. Here's what's up. It's not like I'm even actively looking at these guys. It's a habit, almost. Like, a reflex. When the conversation gets close to being somewhat uncomfortable, I shut down, check out, and scroll through my phone aimlessly with some kind of muscle memory. Half the time I'm not even paying attention. It could just as easily be my email inbox as it could be one of the hookup apps. You know what I'm saying?"

"I think so. Yes. You're saying that touching me and talking about having sex with me puts you in such a state of unease that you retreat into a safe place deep inside your mind and look for anything you can find to distract you from the uncomfortable scene in which your body finds itself. Is that about right?"

He sighed in defeat, waving his hand dismissively at the challenge I'd lain down before him. "I know this game, and I'm not playing."

He wasn't wrong. And he chose right. Without meaning to, I'd forced him into a corner where his only choices were to offend the fuck out of me by agreeing with me or offend the fuck out of me by lying to me. He did neither. (This time.) I guess I'll keep him around as long as he'll stay while I try to break myself of this habitual fuckery. Sometimes friends use friends. It's human nature. I let myself be used so that I can feel something akin to being wanted or needed for a while. In a way, I suppose, I'm using him to provide that feeling. It's a win win situation. Maybe I'll roll with that as my mantra until I start to actually believe it.

Hold Me And Mean It

How long has it been since you last lay in bed with someone holding you? The kind of holding that is unscripted. Not requested or verbalized in any way, but done simply because the person lying next to you wanted to hold you? For me, it's been seventeen years.

Oh, there have been many nights when I've held someone I cared about close to me while they slept. I've been, as I too often am, that loving and generous giver of comfort and security, making them feel loved and wanted as they snored contentedly against my chest for hours. But the reverse doesn't seem to be in the cards for me anymore, or at least it hasn't been since shortly after the World Trade Towers fell.

Thinking back to the last time I felt that particular brand of intimacy, I'm shaken almost to tears by how alien the remembered sensation feels to me. In my mind, it's a memory not unlike the ones I have of my being small enough yet to still be picked up by my mom. It's that kind of wordless closeness I miss so badly now.

When I feel the absence of it most keenly, as I do in this moment, I am forced to accept more of those cruel truths in life that are less palatable than one would like them to be.

1. It's unlikely I'll ever feel that kind of reciprocal closeness with another man again in my life.
2. There's more life left ahead of me than I'm equipped to endure without it.

I've found that when the ache reaches an emotional boiling point, it's possible for me to coax it temporarily back down by fooling myself with a bit of paid-for intimacy. If the hurt gets bad enough, I will myself to believe for a few fleeting hours that some escort I've hired and given a short, simple list of things that I need from him actually cares for me, wants me, and isn't just giving a command performance that's been scripted and staged.

You might think that sounds pitiful; that I am a pitiable shell of a man whose circumstances are out of proportion to the generosity he displays, and there are plenty of nights when I, too, believe that to be the case. But pity isn't the same as caring, and being cared for is all that I want.

Let me find out that you pity me, and I'm wounded beyond measure. I'll withdraw, toughen up, and pull my raw hurt back inside just to spite you for your worthless pity. I'll retreat from emotion and harden my heart  to convince myself I'm not pitiable in the least - that I'm strong, and more stable, and completely immune to the kind of feelings I've confessed to here already. I'll recant. I'll deny it, and in doing so I'll become all the more fully a masterful study in sadness. Please don't pity me, my friend.

Rather, help me hold up that veil of delusion that helps me fill up that void for a time. Conspire with me to make believable the farces I purchase out of desperation. If you care, prop me up when you see reality begin once more to flood my eyes and push out the clouded illusion put there by some talented hooker at my request. That's more valuable than wasting pity on a truth that is too jagged to swallow.

I've often said that a sex worker saved my life. The truth is that sex workers save my life regularly. The first time was due to a professional lack of stigma against me for being HIV positive which brought to an end more than a decade of self-imposed celibacy save for one tragic attempt each year on my birthday. Now it's because they provide me with those illusory moments of feeling wanted, or conversely, treating me as poorly as I think I deserve and abusing me physically until one pain replaces another.

I'll work till the day I die just to fund those lifesaving nights, letting my mind give those gifts to my heart for the rest of my days. Being unable to do so -- well that would be a pity.

Brenda Gail

"Nobody in this whole great big world, no matter how far you go or how many people you meet, will ever love you as much as I do. You are my heart. I will always be proud of you. Nothing you say or do can change it."

Those are the words that stand out most clearly to me from the four-and-a-half hour cry-fest that was the conversation my Mom and I had the day I came out to her. In the years that followed, I certainly put that statement to the test as I ventured out into the world meeting all kinds of new people, learning who I was, and often dancing on the edge of a sword with no regard for my health or safety. None of it mattered to her. When I fell down, she was there to pick me up again, brush off the filth, and bandage whatever cuts and scrapes the world had given me.

Mom has always loved me so fiercely that I sometimes felt smothered by it. Her concern for me when it was clear I was in a bad situation felt stifling while my life managed to hold itself together, but so, so welcome each time the house of cards inevitably fell down around me. I suppose it's that way between lots of sons and their mothers, especially firstborn sons of very young mothers.

Even with so much love in her big, big heart for my little brother and me, Mom was never really able to love herself. We watched as she opened her heart, home, and bank account to undeserving men that treated her unkindly and took advantage of her need for love (or anything that passed for it) time after time after the passing of our step-father in the early 1990's. Her inherent generosity and kindness were repaid with theft, disloyalty, and emotional abuse. Over time, following some harsh truths from her sons, our mom flipped off the switch that had driven her out into the world in search of anyone who could give her the love she lacked for herself. Having almost recovered from a bankruptcy, she was injured at work and became physically unable to work, yet her case was contested by management and she had to fight for over a year through an attorney to get the surgery she needed to repair damage to her spine. By then, a number of other health issues had developed, she lost the house that she and my step-father built themselves from the ground up, and she quickly declined into a deep depression that prevented her from taking care of herself or her home.

Over the last the last ten years, I did my best to return the love she so readily gave to me when I was falling apart in my misspent youth. I frequently drove to visit her in Louisiana while I was living in Austin, TX so that I could get her to her doctors' appointments or meetings with her worker's compensation lawyer. I spent holidays with her when I could and sent her money and gifts when I couldn't be there in person. On more than one occasion, my brother and I took turns cleaning out the house she inherited from my grandmother, which she couldn't or wouldn't keep clean or uncluttered. She built around her a mess that I sometimes think represented what she felt she deserved to live in. Watching her give up on herself and growing more and more reclusive was heartbreaking for me, and I eventually moved back to Louisiana so that I could ensure that she was at least taking her medicine and keeping her appointments with the doctors for her chronic pain and her diabetes. But no matter how often I came to her and propped her back up, my mom no longer cared for herself and immediately fell back into the dark place she had resigned herself to.

For the last year, I stopped going to see my mom, telling my brother that it was too much, that I had tried in vain for too long, and that he needed to be more involved in trying to get her back on track. It had gotten to the point that I couldn't stay the night anymore for fear of my own health. Each time I left her, she would hug me hard and cry, and that left me an emotional wreck for days afterward. I eventually stopped going and started keeping in touch with her only by phone or text, while my little brother and his family took up the task of checking in on her and getting her through the last year's health crises.

My aunt, her sister, who lives next door to her, found Mom dead on her couch yesterday afternoon. Last night, I received the phone call from my sister-in-law letting me know that the one person in this great big world who would always love me - no matter what I said or did, no matter how little I sometimes deserved it, and no matter how poorly I often repaid it - was gone from me forever. I was her heart. I wish I had been able to love her enough for us both. I wish she had been able to be happy, and that she hadn't been made so afraid of the world that she closed herself off from its wonders or its possibilities. I wish that the defiant, adventurous spirit she nurtured in me had also remained within her so that she could have had the life she deserved. I wish that I could hit the rewind button and go back and change all the bad things that happened to her in her life. But most of all I wish I could hug her one more time and hear her tell me again how much she loves me and how proud of me she'll always be.

Rest in peace, Brenda Gail Hataway Murdock Prier. I love you.