Dear Elsewhere Miracle,
This morning, I tried to go back to sleep. But I started thinking about you, and I missed you so much, I was crying. I got tears all over my cpap mask, and sleep was hopeless. Happened twice.
I’ve loved a lot of people, through the years. No lack of love, in my life! But the love I had for you was so uniquely sweet. I was like a bee to the flower. It was a tender, kind love. So sublime, I was almost drunk on it, sometimes.
How easy it was, to fall into that with you. Like falling into a huge, soft bed–plop! Delirious.
I would glow with joy, getting a txt from you, or knowing we were going to talk on the phone soon. I’d look forward to phone calls with you for days, and then the day or two afterward, I would feel nourished, remembering something you said, or your laughter.
I felt special, that you were my friend. The world was an ok place, with brilliant people everywhere I could find and connect with. Your friendship helped me feel safe. I needed that so badly, missing my mom.
But then it was complicated, how you would promise me things and not follow through. So many times, you would thank me for mail I sent, and tell me you would send something to me, that week. After the third or fourth time, I stopped believing you.
The domestic violence you lived with destabilized me, and the fucked up way you interacted with your abuser-girlfriend. The fucked up way you expected me to accept all that, with no conversation. The lack of language you would give to me. How jerked around I felt, when you wouldn’t answer my questions. Or your long, repeated, multi-promise to visit, which never happened.
I was remembering the time you mentioned you were making ribs, and you put a rub on them. I mentioned how I’ve never made ribs in my life; I’m a vegetarian and had nothing to rub. You said I could rub a zucchini, and it was funny. But there was some kind of edge to it, and I showed that txt to my spouse, asking him what he saw.
I replied to you that your sexuality was sacred to me, and if I ever got the chance to hold it, I would hold it so tenderly, as that sacred beautiful creative force that it is. I was crying about that, this morning in bed.
Also I remember the time I told you I had that fantasy we could watch an anime movie together, and I would make you lovely superbowl snacks, or sit with you in the couch and be near you and touch your hair. In your txt back, you said it sounded lovely, and I was overjoyed that you would consider that with me. But maybe you only wanted the deviled eggs.
You were really bad at saying no. I agonized about why it was so hard for you to talk about feelings and what we were doing. If you were afraid of hurting me, that seemed stupid, as it was more longterm, destructively hurtful, to string me along.
If you didn’t know how you felt, that made sense. I was happy to give you time. After all, our bodies had never met–only our minds.
If you just couldn’t be bothered to have the conversations, that seemed stupid too. Why was I worth the time and attention you gave to me, but not worth a difficult conversation?
At first I thought you were gay. Then I thought you had the sexuality of a 12-year-old. When I caught a glimpse, you seemed so immature and clueless. I thought maybe you got stuck at the age you were sexually violated. Rather than do the work to face and heal that, you had just remained a kid.
So I thought if we ever had sex, it would be brief–you would not linger on the nuances. You would fuck me for three minutes, come, take a shower–that’s it. It was weird to consider because I’m a sex master, super experienced, and doing advanced healing with BDSM. I went toward my trauma, while you seemed to have entirely fled it.
Then I thought you were asexual, maybe? You briefly mentioned having more of a sex drive while you used cocaine. So I was like–oh, maybe he doesn’t really want to do it with anyone. But how did that make sense, for you to maintain a long term abusive relationship with a girlfriend you didn’t even want to do it with?
I posited that you used a lot of porn, or hired sex workers. You never replied to that question either. I’ve known men who would rather masturbate to porn than be vulnerable to a person in their everyday life. As for sex workers, there’s no lack of sex workers, in this world.
I would have given you anything. But obviously I’m not a type of beautiful you like. But I worshiped you.
It’s none of my business–you never made it my business. What your dick does is not for me. I’m sorry I cared.
But I wish you had said no, about the zucchini, the couch cuddle, or any of that. I told you one time, “You are the most beautiful man in the world, and I long for you.” I kind of wish you had told me not to. You never once said that. So I continued building this relationship with you, with some wrong ideas.
I was confused because sometimes, you seemed excited by me also. I remember a video chat, where I was getting a weird energy, from talking to you. It felt manic, and it seemed mutual–we seemed to be escalating each other. Not about sex necessarily, but a type of manic excitement that had to do with sex, for me. Something electric and fun with an edge of intensity.
It felt a bit crazy. I remember after the call feeling dizzy and like–holy shit. Remind me not to get into a relationship with another bipolar person. I thought we could descend into over-chaos really easily. But in a way, I wanted that.
Doesn’t matter now. The relationship was a hundred things–some very good, some very bad. I learned so much, and I gained important strength I really needed. Also, my heart was broken about 16 times, and those panic attacks in the night were unfair. I did a lot, trying to assist your well-being, which is wild, considering the distance.
But you weren’t worrying about my well-being! I agonized about whether I was taking up a receptor, for you–that you were wasting your time being close to me, when you should have been using that energy to find a healthy, long-term relationship with someone you could live happily with.
Took a while after we stopped speaking, for me to see that you were taking up a receptor for me. That’s such a classic example of how I cared for you at my expense.
In some ways we went together like peas in a pod. In others, I found your behavior reprehensible, and I was repulsed by your choices. But overall, I was so willing to go there with you–there, to the deepest places. To sit with you, walk with you, commit. To be your family member always, whether you wanted to have sex with me or not.
I eventually learned you had no need for that. You have actual blood family. You play online games with them, have family meetings, talk with them frequently, visit, give them presents.
I was the one who needed family love from you. You’re content to zip around to meetings and be light heartedly social with many people, in your intentionally busy life. You have what you need–charming, gorgeous white guy with a place to live and hundreds of friends, on this side and the other.
I don’t want to be busy. I’m looking for meaningful inter-dependence, a rich life of deliberate, slow ecstasy. I wanted to lie on a blanket with you in a magical forest and look at a flower with you, for an hour. Long conversations, and to grow something real that could feed us for decades. The prettiest garden in the world, nutrient-dense deliciousness, thriving plants, and to laugh for days.
It’s ok you didn’t want that garden. Or you could have that with many people, nonchalantly. I wanted all that with you specifically. Thanks anyway.