Chasing the Franciscan to Francisco

            When you make it together for fourteen years in a relationship that our society says isn’t legitimate, it should end with a celebration.  Instead, ours ended with simple signatures on legal documents.  Closing this chapter of my life so that I could freely move on to the next one did bring a bit of relief, but it was far from a happy moment.  We shared very good times together and the finality of our signatures underscored that it was truly over.  Done. 

            We were both getting what we wanted, relatively.  We met in the conference room at his office, and signed all the paperwork.  Most of the major details had been worked out, but there were still a few loose ends that still need to be cleaned up.  And given that we hadn’t really reached a stalemate during any part of this process over the past two years, there was no reason to believe any details would fall through.

            He got the condo and I got the car, as well as my freedom.  Without a legal mailing address, I had half my clothes at the condo – my winter wardrobe, and a few other items. The loose ends were minor, like leaving your jacket at a friend’s house one night while watching the Miss America Pageant and you just have to schedule a time where you can retrieve it.

            He handed me the car key. He still had to sign the mortgage papers.

            “That’s all you need from me, right?” I stuffed the copies of my paperwork into my bag.

            “That’s it,” he said.

            I stated to get up.

            “Oh, the condo keys,” he said, “could you just leave them with the doorman?”

            It felt like I had been kicked in the stomach.  I knew I would have to give him the keys at some point.  But keys were a big deal to us.  In our life together, we gave keys to friends who we trusted to come sweeping in at a moment’s notice to do things like feed the cat in a crisis, or if we were stuck in traffic, they could get the vodka chilling on ice before we arrived. And now, even with half of my wardrobe still there, a dog we have cared over for fourteen years, and boxes of stuff that I needed a place, he was asking me for the keys.  I had figured when I had those details worked out, I would volunteer the keys to him, suggesting he leave my name on the emergency contact form with the doorman.

            If I were the crazy lunatic ex-boyfriend who left boiling rabbits on the stovetop, I might understand, but I’m not.  Since moving to the lesbian pad, my arrival was always announced.  And when I came to get something I needed, I always cleared it with him first.  I felt that all we had left was respect, and if I didn’t at least honor that, we’d be throwing chafing dishes at each other.

            “Okay. They’ll be with the doorman.”

            It took everything I had to hold it together until I could get out of the building—the building for the job that my professional network helped him get.  I practically ran to the street, where I lost it.  Walking to the condo to get the car, the finality of our separation and the depth of its sadness hit me like a city bus squashing a bicyclist.

            I walked to the condo to get the car, unable to hold back the ugly cry, making it one heck of an ugly walk. 

            I am alone now, I thought. I don’t even have a mailing address.  All I have is a car.

            I walked past the Paralegal’s building.  Alone, I walked the route we took to discover gin martinis.  I walked by myself down the sidewalk where the Lawyer and I plastered “You Are Beautiful” stickers on street signs and overpasses.  The stickers were still there, staring me in the face.  Permanent mementos to the bliss we once had.

Finding Home

            I was catching up on Glee. I have to admit, I hadn’t watched it all summer. Not a single episode. For some reason, it was just too painfully lonely to get through an entire episode, so I didn’t even try.

            In the middle of the episode, “Home,” Will Schuester and his high school squeeze April Rhodes launch into a melody of Burt Bacharach’s “One Less Bell to Answer.”

            One less bell to answer

            One less egg to fry

            One less man to pick up after

            I should be happy

            But all I do is cry

            I completely lost it, descending into the downward spiral of a snot-inducing ugly cry.

           

            Cry, cry, no more laughter, I should be happy

            Oh, why did he go, I only know that

            Since he left my life’s so empty

            Wallowing in a pit of a snot hole, I realized why this show is so challenging to watch alone: its humor, the sophisticated writing, it’s over-the-top campy flair are all qualities the Lawyer and I enjoy in a good show, and I’d like nothing more than to be sitting with him, watching and sharing. The music used, is, after all mostly from our childhood. It’s celebrated with teenage characters that sing with heart-felt passion the sentiments of a song that was a hit long before they were supposedly born, giving a new ironic twist to these numbers. I love it. We love it. It’s part of the show’s appeal.

            But I’m not wrapped up with the Lawyer. He’s wrapped up with a Flight Attendant who comes from a different generation. A Flight Attendant who doesn’t even understand that Cindy Lauper used to be straight, George Michael wasn’t always a sex addict, and Madonna – well, she invented the formula Britney Spears is now using to propel her career forward.

            That’s what makes me so sad when I watch the show. The Lawyer and I could be sharing pop culture on such deep and meaningful levels. Could be.

            Though I try to forget it just can’t be done

            Each time the doorbell rings I still run

            I don’t know how in the world

            To stop thinking of him

            ‘Cause I still love him so

            I end each day the way I start out

            Crying my heart out

            Laying there in a puddle of tears, no egg to fry, I realized that’s what was so comforting about the Lawyer. He was my home. It’s why the Paralegal rose to such an elevated position in my world. And the few times I’ve been wrapped up in the arms of the Marine all night, spooning. Each of these men, in some way, they were my home.

            They grounded me. They filled me up. They made me feel like we’re all going to be all right.

            And I miss that.

            Terribly.

            I grabbed my iPhone, and despite having deleted the Paralegal from my phone, I managed to fire off a text message.

            “I felt at home with you. I miss that.”

            An hour and half later, my phone chimed. It was the first time I’d received a text from him since he texted telling me he was headed to rehab.

            “I felt the same also. It sorta came from nowhere.”

            My heart sank. If he feels the same, if the feelings are mutual, then why is he not here? Why?

            (One less bell to answer) Why did he leave me

            (Why, why, why did he leave)

            (One less bell to answer) Now I’ve got one less egg to fry

            One less egg to fry

            (Why, why, why did he leave) And all I do is cry

            (One less bell to answer) Because a man told me goodbye

            (Why, why, why did he leave)

            (One less bell to answer) Somebody tell me please

            Where did he go, why did he go

            (Why, why why did he leave) tell me how could he leave me

            I threw the phone across the room. Recognizing my own ridiculous nature, I realized that while the Paralegal can help me to find my home, my center, my groundedness, I can’t depend on him solely. Or the Lawyer. Or the Marine. That place of home must come from me. From within me. Glee is just a silly show, and it will always be there. New shows will come, and with them, new men will enter my life. And at this moment in time, I’m watching Glee alone. But in that, I am home.

            I am home.

            As much as I wanted to know why, and as much as I wanted to know the answers, I knew in my heart that pummeling the Paralegal with questions would accomplish nothing. And why must I know? He just said he felt the same. He just admitted it came from nowhere. Why must I know, when it just is?

            I typed a reply and hit send.

            “I know.”

            I had found my home. 

Facebook Friends

            The Paralegal accepted my friend request tonight on Facebook. A few weeks back in clairvoyant training, we had been playing with manifesting things, flexing our ability to make a request of the universe and then receive it.  It’s a powerful tool, we were warned, and before we asked for something big, like a new job or a new relationship, it was recommended we play around with smaller things.  Like flowers.

            “Something frivolous.  It doesn’t matter.  Anything,” our instructor said.

            “Love notes?” I blurted out.

            “Love notes?  You want more than one?”

            “Why not?”

            “Okay, love notes, then.”

            So I made my request of the Universe, to receive within two weeks a love note from the Lawyer and from the Paralegal.  And then I forgot about it.

            Later that week, while dancing the night away on a bench at Big Chicks, one of the songs of last summer came on.  One of the songs from when the Lawyer and I were spending our weekend nights tearing up the dance floor.  I Shazamed the song, and fired off an e-mail with a message about the song.

            “Dancing on a bench at Big Chicks. How much fun are you having?”

            The next day, I got a reply from the Lawyer.

            “I miss Big Chicks.”

            Later that day, I was flipping through photos on Flickr, when I found an image that made me think of the Paralegal instantly.  I fired off a message with a link, simply saying that I thought he would enjoy the picture.

            He, too, replied that day.

            “Beautiful picture. I’m well. I hope you are, too.”

            I replied with a picture of his watch on my wrist.

* * *

            A few days later, while running during lunch, it occurred to me that those were my love notes.  They were the most love either of these men could ever express toward me.  And that I was asking the Universe for something neither of these men could provide.  The Lawyer, in his brevity, said as much with words as he did without.  He’d never been to Big Chicks before, and I was the one to introduce him to its charm.  By declaring this he missed Big Chicks, he was really saying that he missed us, and the time we spent together there.  Our nights on the town, flirting.  And the Paralegal, it was the most he could do to acknowledge the message.

            But it didn’t end there.

            About a week later, I got a random message from the Paralegal. It was an image of the skyline of Chicago. There was no text in the message, just a subject line.

            “My walk.”

            A few days later, I sent him a simple message recalling our relaxing adventures together.

            “I miss Sundays.”

            He replied the same evening.

            “Ditto.”

            It seems a simple dialogue with the Paralegal had begun again.

            So when I exchanged some credit card points for movie vouchers, I fanned them across my desk, snapped a picture, and emailed them off to the Paralegal. A nod to our shared fondness of walking across town and going to the movies.

            I was completely surprised when the Paralegal, after weeks, maybe even months, accepted my Facebook Friend request tonight, the same night I sent him a photo of movie coupons.

            I looked over his page, and his wall post updates.  His spirits seemed to be high, he still had the quirky view on the world that I have fallen in love with.  He’d reported through Wall posts that he is running more and more. I was happy for him.

            But then I noticed he was posting messages from parties.  He was still going to dance the night away at Visions Nightclub.  Curious for a boy who had just been in rehab. And then, Memorial Day weekend, when he was in rehab, he posted that he was headed to the beach, only later to have a sunburn.

            My internal stalker kicked in, and I kept clicking “Older Posts.”  For two hours, I sat there combing through his Wall posts, pulling out my journal and comparing dates and time stamps. The day he went to rehab, he went for a run. The night he was supposed to be at a fundraiser with me, he was at home in bed, watching a movie.  My birthday, which he had agreed to take off to spend with me, he spent four hours at the gym.

            I was heart broken. Wrecked. Furious. The tears I shed for him. The pain I felt for him believing he was going through rehab. The confusion of whether or not I should let him go or keep him close to my heart, sending him light and love.

            When I was there, with him, I just felt his love was real.

            But then, there, on his wall it was.  On the Saturday I was at my friends’ lake house and I was receiving text after text from him of adoring love, he posted, “I’m missing someone.”

            After our walk to the zoo, dinner on the town, and watching a movie, he posted, “The most BEAUTIFUL day.”

            There were others, too. The nine pictures he uploaded all snapped in the Art Institute on our afternoon there.

            All evidence that what was there was real.  For the moment that we shared. For the moment our spirits tickled each other with laughter.  For the moment we held each other’s hands.  For the moment we looked into each other’s eyes and stopped breathing.

            I am certain it was true love we had.

            And I am certain it was true love that had been broken.

Psychic Intervention

            “Hey. I’m back. I hope you are well.”

            That was the message I got from the Paralegal about a month after he went into rehab. It unraveled me. Once a week while he was away, I sent him a message that I was thinking of him and he was not alone in his process. That I was there to support him however he needed to be supported. I didn’t expect a response from those messages, thinking he might be in complete isolation, but sending him love and compassion was just as much for him as it was for me.

            For a month, I meditated on the knowledge that he could have disappeared into rehab without letting me know. But he didn’t. And through depths of missing him, it provided comfort to know that he cared about me as much as I cared about him, otherwise he would have just vanished. So I tried to relax into knowing that when he could, he would be in touch again. It was easier said than done.

            And there he was, in touch. My intuition had been right, and for a moment there… As much as I wanted to know, I realized that for all the questions, I didn’t need the answers. That probably the worst thing I could do for him would be to badger for an explanation. But why did I need an explanation? If he wanted me to know, he would tell me. And if what was between us was real, the answers would come with time. I knew he was alive, he made it through, and that was most important. I tried calling, but he did not answer. I tried sending messages, but they were not returned. I thought about sending flowers, but for all I knew, he could have quit his job.

            It hurt.

            It hurt, and I was furious. I swam. I ran. I rode my bike. I meditated. In his absence, I tried to fill my time with taking care of me. How could he not know how much I cared? How could he not acknowledge the love that I was sending? How could be so self-absorbed to think that his problems were bigger and more important than my problems? We all have problems, and we deal with them.

            Oh, addict. That’s what addicts do. Their problems are bigger than anyone else’s in the world.

            There was nothing I could do. Nothing I could control. Except for my own feelings, and my own reaction, and letting him go.

            The week after the return of the Paralegal, I was having a hard time breathing in the reality. I found myself wondering if I should ask myself for patience, giving him space and time, or if I should let it be. The voice in my head from the night we met still haunted me, and his inability to acknowledge the love and support I was offering practically killed me. Every time my phone would chime, I’d leap for it, only to discover it was some breaking headline news about the former governor’s criminal trial, causing me to sink into the depression of empty hope. A complete train wreck with the inability to focus, it was time for a romantic intervention; I needed divine guidance.

            I called the Psychic.

A Romantic Tragedy

            “I think you should come to Chicago for I.M.L.,” I said to the Franciscan on the phone.  We had been in constant touch since the big masturbatory weekend, and I knew him well enough to know that the International Mr. Leather Weekend, with its parties filled of men donning fetish costumes drawing crowds from all over the country, this was right up his ally.

            “Oh, man. I’d love to. But the boyfriend is taking his mom to Hawaii, so I’ve got dog duty,” he said.

            “So is that an invitation for me to come visit?”

            “Yeah. It could be. If you want to come visit. I’d love to see you and spend time with you.”

            In learning to focus on my needs, I discovered that if I didn’t have a pro-active plan for the holiday weekend, I’d feel abandoned and alone. That was the energy I took with me when I found a ticket purchased for a few random miles on a credit card I no longer used; it was a plan, and it would fill my weekend.

            I packed every condom I owned.  I didn’t pack any lube, assuming he would have plenty; lube is hard to transport across the country – you always have to check your bags as the three-ounce limits for liquids and gels is never enough for one good night.  And certainly not three nights with a former Franciscan Monk I met through a weekend of eroticism.

            But even as I packed the supplies for potentially the biggest boy time of my life, I packed without expectation, having an open mind and an open heart.  If I was in the guest room for three days, then I was in the guest room.  And if we had non-stop sex, then we had non-stop sex. Whatever would unfold, my intention was to rest and relax in the company of man who I had a great connection with, and pass the weekend without the abandoned toddler demon taking over.

Slow Motion Train Wreck

So last night was pretty much a slow motion train wreck. I sometimes wonder what lessons the universe is trying to send my direction that I need to learn.

I never heard from The Paralegal. Earlier this week, we had discussed crossing paths, spending some time together. Doing something other than just sending adoring text messages back and forth. So yesterday, our banter led us to the suggestion of spending some time together. Late in the afternoon, he sent a message saying he had to hit the gym. I figured two to three hours then, depending on how big of a workout he was hoping to get in.

In the mean time, The Laywer starts messaging me, looking to go out for a cocktail. I have not heard from The Lawyer in seven weeks, except for a quick exchange where he needed something. Now he travels a lot for work, so it's not unusual that I would go this length of time without seeing him, but it is unusual that I would go this long without a peep.

I was getting ready for The Paralegal. Outfit selected. Showered. Meditated, released The Lawyer so I could be open for The Paralegal. And is it any coincidence that as I release my anxiety around The Lawyer, my bowels open up? I feel lighter, slimmer, and ready for anything.

And then, nothing. I shoot up a flare, actually leaving a voicemail for The Paralegal. Nothing.

So all dressed up and nowhere to go, I call The Lawyer back, and reluctantly make a plan for dinner and drinks (read: go-go boys). So we meet up, and over dinner, catch up on what has been happening in each other's lives not just over the past seven weeks, but over, really, the past three months as we've not had this much face-to-face time since then, and our communication has been strained, to say the least. We danced, for a while, around the big pink elephant in the room, and then I finally asked: how were things with the Flight Attendant?