No bullshit

Really glad i wrote the earlier post about Craig, and that i’d written the original, longhand, when it happened. It’s really good to have the touchpoint, to be able to remember what memories are mine and what are his.

Because fucking facebook, Andy-now-Andrew looks me up, he and the new fiancee are in town, let’s have dinner. Ok. First, weird, they’ve known each other less than a month and they’re GETTING MARRIED. And she’s a minister, or trained as one anyway. And his kids were there. Yipes.

And he still has so much anger. I have far more right to anger, not only for the old revelations but apparently new ones, too, but honestly, I’ve let more of it go. He really wanted to talk about what a shit Craig was. I know, I wrote it earlier, it’s so hard to trash-talk someone who’s dead, and he was pretty sure I’d be a sympathetic ear. But a) I have more right and b) I walked away from it. Why can’t he? 

I don’t know if I’m more surprised at his anger or my lack of it.

Why and how did I think this would make me better? I hate these things and need to throw away every last one of them. I ran out of the high blood pressure patient ones and didn’t want the Tylenol anyway so I took a regular one and now my heart is racing and I might not sleep and I FUCKING HATE THIS.

it’s so beautiful out i can hardly stand it. in no particular order: the leaves swirling up in the wind eddies around me. walking through the courts, the poor kid being arraigned in front of the thai restaurant, cold police plaza. dead bird, dead rat, both on the ground looking frozen. feeling fine about getting to friends & food & wine then seeing the man trying to sleep in the outdoor foyer. yes, i feel guilty. shouldn’t i? shouldn’t we? chinatown has more bars open at this hour than i’d have imagined. empty, lovely bars.  

i really was going to take the subway home. it’s freakin’ cold out. but no local train at astor, no local at bleecker, i just decided to keep walking. it was only cold by the water where there was nothing to break the wind. thank god for the ramones, for those who made the tribute album, what great walking tunes.

more time to myself, walking. i love you.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

I really am that naive.  How is that even fucking possible?

You really thought it was ok to ask my friend where you could go on a date that you wouldn’t run into me?

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

You really thought it was ok to ignore me, refuse to answer me in person, on line, on email, at all?

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

You really thought it was ok to come back and fuck me afterwards?

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

Ain’t nothing good about this day. Unidentified creepy bugs last night, unwelcome revelations today.

But I didn’t smoke. I put in lipstick, boots, tight jeans, ordered a beer. But I didn’t smoke.

I quit smoking in July, it’s now the end of October.

I will not smoke tonight. I will not smoke tonight. I will not smoke tonight.

I won’t.

I don’t like talking about my feelings anyway. all I really wanted was for it to be okay, and it is. so we’ll just leave it at that.

I hate them all. Why did I take this stupid fucking job anyway?

Two bottles of wine later and we find out we knew the same people, like 18 years ago? She dated Michael Gentile ?!?! She’s friends with Danny? 

When was the last time I was on a date anyway — it might have been Danny. Either Danny or Kelly. Wish I could find Kelly. 

I want to call Danny and say hi and catch up, but I won’t. What’s the point, I wasn’t very nice to him then,  I probably won’t be again now.

1995: I returned to the office after my grandfather’s funeral and found the messages. Who leaves a voice mail at the office telling you a friend has died? My friends do.

“Mr. Daniels moved to Baltimore sometime around 1987.” Our life together, our love, reduced to one factual statement that doesn’t even include reference to me. It feels like my grief has somehow lost legitimacy.

I read the obituary and cry – now it seems final, now it seems real. I’m desperate for context, wanting to grieve with others who knew him, who knew us.

Andy seems so distant. Am I the only one who has forgotten our grievances, allowed time to heal? I cry all the time, trying to hide it from Stewart, who doesn’t understand and would be angry if he did.

Craig and I met in early 1987 and went on our first date on Valentine’s Day. We were young and happy. We moved into a big house in Patterson Park with Andy-now-Andrew as our roommate. I loved that house, exposed brick and huge kitchen, patios, library, rose garden and all.

From Feb 1987 to Feb 1988 I fell in love; moved in with my first serious boyfriend; watched a dear friend painfully lose sanity and even more painfully commit suicide; was stalked by an ex-co-worker; got pregnant; had an abortion; worked my first ‘real’ job; left my first serious boyfriend; and moved to New York.

He was going to leave me anyway – each of our reactions to my pregnancy terrified the other. An ardent feminist with a long volunteer resume of clinic defense, I felt that I really did have a choice. Here I was, with a secure job, health insurance, a house whose landlord was open to rent-to-buy options, and most importantly, in a committed and monogamous relationship with a man I loved. I thought it was careless and irresponsible not to consider the options before making a decision.

He thought I was nuts. He had no intention of raising a child, settling down or even discussing the issue. Afterwards – after the days and weeks of tears, accusations (“I’m not forcing you into anything, I’m just not going to play any part in it”), after I’d insisted on general anesthesia because I couldn’t face what I was doing – after it was all over, and we’d settled into a relative, uneasy calm, he said maybe we should back off the relationship a little. Not break up, maybe just get separate apartments.

He decided to have this discussion the same day my boss announced that he was selling the business and taking a select few colleagues to New York to start a new publication.

Craig went out to run an errand and I picked up the phone to call Russ. I still remember how terrified I was to call (what if he didn’t want me?). I’m still surprised I actually did it. But by the time Craig returned, I had accepted a position in New York, details to be discussed over drinks that evening.

And that was, effectively, the end of my life with Craig. In the weeks that followed, I got busy with details of the move and began the process of distancing myself from him.

I look at the photos Andy sent me, and I’m reminded of how much I loved him. But the surprisingly bitter sense of loss is accompanied by an equally bitter sense of disappointment – a reminder of a man who let me down.

He is eulogized for his charm, quirkiness, imagination and humor, for tiring of assignments that paid the bills, for taking risks in his career.

While we cry, while we remember, while we grieve, let’s not forget the price paid for those talents. Childlike and unwilling to accept responsibility: he is eulogized for the same qualities I left him for.

We don’t honor our dead by lying about them. I’m angry – I am reminded of a hurt I thought was long past, and angry at no longer having a man to blame – just a memory, and that hardly seems fair.