ladygrey
the warrior princess
My first love died this past week. Well, he died last month really. I just found out on Wenesday night. It's been an interesting couple of days, with some joyful and powerful moments. There have been tears, a few sobs, but mostly it's been very gentle with me.
I wanted to share this story, because it connects to some many themes I see in the Gay community and JUB. I think that most of us have had first loves, got our hearts broken, and fallen in love with best friends. It seems to be part of what we do.
I also feel the urge to share and celebrate his life. So, please be kind and respectful. Thanks. (If the mods want to move this around, go right ahead).
I wrote this the night I found out (through email, no less.) I just need to share it with anyone. Perhaps there are others here who can understand the feelings I have.
I've changed the names, because I want to protect his idenity still.
I wanted to share this story, because it connects to some many themes I see in the Gay community and JUB. I think that most of us have had first loves, got our hearts broken, and fallen in love with best friends. It seems to be part of what we do.
I also feel the urge to share and celebrate his life. So, please be kind and respectful. Thanks. (If the mods want to move this around, go right ahead).
I wrote this the night I found out (through email, no less.) I just need to share it with anyone. Perhaps there are others here who can understand the feelings I have.
I've changed the names, because I want to protect his idenity still.
Zaagidwin (Love)
in memory of Thomas
in memory of Thomas
A friend died today. No, I can’t call him a friend. It would be a lie. He was more than a friend, even more than a lover. He was my secret soul mate, the person who meant the most, who knew every breath’s whisper, and who felt the warm beating of my heart. There was no separation between our love and hate, because we could be brothers, lovers, enemies, and friends in the span of a single moment. We moved together like twin thunderstorms across a summer sky, circling the moist earth with the echoes of our anger and magnificence.
I met him the first day of high school. Everyone was gathered into the high school auditorium, waiting to be shipped off to the day’s classes. He stood apart, surrounded by a group of admirers or would be suitors. Even before his body and face had completely matured, his eyes could still cause a palatable wave of warmth spread through a room. I have never met another person as beautiful as he was then. There was a light, a radiance of softness and laughter, which called to me. The orphan in my heart responded and shouted back across the space between us, as I stood silently hidden by the swarms of people. I knew, somewhere deep within me, that we were meant to be together.
At the age of 13, we often do not who we are. I was no acceptation, bumbling around and always looking for someone to validate me. Thomas was the opposite, because he seemed to know who he was and was merely looking to show others the way to self understanding. Everything with him required self confidence. He didn’t notice people who blended or hid.
I was different than him. He may have laughed more than me, but then Thomas had more reasons for laughter. He spoke louder, hugged more freely, and even walked quicker. There were spans where passing people would stop talking and stare at him moving through the world. Thomas lit up every corner of the earth, making you feel like there was something magical about him. I always felt that if I stayed long enough, his magic would become a part of my life as well.
Our friendship was brief. It came and went frequently. We would be sharing secrets one day, then ignoring each other the next. Romantically, we were confused. I knew that he was more than a friend, but Thomas seemed incapable of articulating what he felt. There were awkward moments of fumbling, hugs that lasted too long and random touches that happened too frequently to be random. Sometimes, he would sit beside me and slowly lean closer. These moments where he inched nearer to my heart are imbedded in me. Looking back, I’ve come to realize that he needed my love as much as I needed his.
My family hated me. It could have been hate, because you cannot love someone and inflict such delicate suffering. I lived in prison, where my calls were monitored and my room routinely searched. Leaving the house was unacceptable and friends were deemed dangerous, so I spent my time avoiding anger, bruises, or verbal abuse. It was a never ending struggle with shame.
Thomas’s mother and father had a falling out, separated, and then lived three blocks away from each other. His father dated younger women, as his mother struggled to feed their three children. He never talked about it much. Just sometimes, I would catch him staring at his father with a mixture of longing and anger. It seemed he was weakest in his father’s house.
Together, we climbed trees and swam rivers. We built castles of dreams and possibilities out of candy wrappers and summer sunsets. Our pain and our love mingled and blended together, creating a weaving of identity and shared alikeness. It seemed safe, a place of being in complete control of who we were. Holding Thomas was like holding onto myself, because I loved him for loving me.
I’m not why he loved me, but I know he did. It was always stretching out between us, pulling him back to me whenever we would argue. We could go months without speaking, but we would always come back together with laughter and promises of tomorrow. It was a beautiful current in my life, moving me through the pain that I was living.
I’m not why he loved me, but I know he did. It was always stretching out between us, pulling him back to me whenever we would argue. We could go months without speaking, but we would always come back together with laughter and promises of tomorrow. It was a beautiful current in my life, moving me through the pain that I was living.
When it changed between us, Thomas became afraid of me. I must have represented the sexual potential that he could not accept. As I became known as the school faggot, he became more distant. Slowly, he began to wind me out of his completely. He found new friends, new female lovers, and other people to be miserable with. I accepted it with grace, because the years of abuse had taught me that love was temporary.
As high school and adolescence creep by, I kept watch over him. He was away from me in distance, but not in spirit. I talked to his friends, made sure that no one put us together in the same column, and did my best to help him continue his living his lie. It wasn’t that I couldn’t let go of him, it was that I genuinely wanted him to be free. The pain I lived with daily was more humiliating then most people can survive. I was also the strong one.
After I was hospitalized, Thomas came back. He felt sorry for me, I guess. Rumors about my eating disorders and my family’s increasing violence circulated the school. He must have known how close I was to leaving permanently, because he knew me better than anyone else. Thomas stepped back in and stepped up. He supported, he listened, and he let other friends go who didn’t understand. The closeness returned. I felt better.
Then, the pressures with my family reached a breaking point. I woke up one night to the sounds of my father’s gun case opening and closing. It scared me more than any other sound I’ve ever heard. I could live with the abuse, but if I died here, I feared that I would never return to the spirits of ancestors. That house was like a shallow grave, made of brick and wires. I knew that I needed to get away.
The next morning, I left. I went to school, found Thomas, and told him. We talked to Children’s Aid, principals, and friends. I went home with him. We explained to his mother. She listened, accepted, and I stayed there for four days. Then, Children’s Aid came and took me back to that house. It was like dying or being cut in half by human hands. It hurt more than anything can, because it was the feeling of having found a loving home and then watching it be stolen by strangers.
I tried to leave then. Repeatedly. After hospitalization, I returned again to the house. I lived with them, endured them, and survived them. Thomas was around as much as he could be. They feared him and hated everything he represented. In their way, they wanted to own me. I may have been hated, but I was their property and no one else could love me. Strangely, they decided to allow me to go to his birthday party.
Everyone I knew came together. We all loved him, celebrated him, and cherished who he was. We spent the day giving him gifts, laughing loudly, spilling booze on the carpets, and sharing our friendships. Then everyone left, expect for him and me. We spent a while talking, sometime touching, and then he raped me. Like a brief shorting of memory, I can’t tell you if it took five minutes or two hours. I don’t know if he used a condom or lubrication, if there were any sensations at all, but I can tell you that it was quietly violent.
I remember lying above him, trying to sleep afterwards. He said nothing, lying below. We knew we were both still awake. But there was nothing that could be said, because something unstoppable had happened. There would be no coming back after this. It was a permanent separation.
I never told anyone. Not any of his friends or his family. I didn’t even tell him. I let him pretend whatever he wanted to. The thought of charging him was not even on my mind. I simply wanted him to be happy and wondered if he was now. When I left our town to move to a new city, we didn’t speak about it and simply hugged emotionlessly.
Years later, I came to recognize how damaged I had become. Books about self help began to fill my shelves, resting beside alternative health and spirituality novels. Therapists and friends filled in the gaps. After a year, I healed, cried, screamed, and shouted. I got angry, got mad, got even, got stronger, and got better. I started groups, lead protests, fought for equality and resources, and became successful. I won scholarships, got amazing marks, and reconnected to my traditional heritage. I glowed with achievement and strength.
Then, I met other boys, had other lovers, and made new best friends. Although I wanted to love them, I couldn’t. I tried to find a way to reach them, to be intimate, and to be close. But I couldn’t find the words or the ways, leaving me more alone than ever. I got very good at pretending to care about others. Others trusted me, relied on me, and I became a kind of guru.
My spiritual gifts manifested and I worked doing powerful and transformative work with many people. I shared my teachings and healing journeys. Around me, I built a circle of growth and love. It was genuine and honest. I didn’t want anyone’s money or respect, just their commitment to change. There have been many wonderful years helping others. Finally, I was content in life.
Yet, I still felt disconnected. My spirituality lacked a certain echo, a resonance that spoke of about loving and forgiving. I kept thinking about Thomas, wondering where he was. So I started searching through old contacts and numbers. I found out he was in Toronto, so I called him. We spoke briefly, he seemed excited to hear from me, and I was comfortable speaking with him. We started up an old friendship.
I learned that our lives had gone different ways. He dropped out of college, became addicted to Crystal Meth, and was currently dealing the drugs. Finally, Thomas had admitted his sexuality. But he was dating another addict, one who seemed to be angry more than anything else. He drank heavily. Most of his time was spent at all night parties, where he slept with as many as 10 partners. Drugs filled every aspect of his life. He wasn’t able to speak clearly anymore, because his words would slur or slip sideways. There was any odd blank look on his face. He seemed to have aged more than just five years.
After speaking with him, I realized that I was able to forgive him. I opened my heart and let my love reach him. I held him once more. We touched in a way that only those who know the other’s soul can. For a brief period of time, we were children again running through the rivers and orchards of rural Ontario. Then, I looked into his eyes for the last time and went back to my home.
He left this world sometime this past month. I found out today, through an email that reached me weeks after the initial search party had gone out. I don’t know when exactly. No one does. He disappeared one night, left with some stranger, and drove off into the darkness. We could hold out hope, that he only ran away or went looking for a killer party in British Columbia. But it would be a lie, because I can feel his absence in my heart. There is an empty space there. An aching that ripples through me and leaves no room for anything else.
I went to mediation tonight. Sat down, then waited for the oblivion of awareness to come. When it did, it brought strange gifts. A sleeping part of myself awoke and I saw a new world. I am not the person I thought I was. I’m more than a collections of memories and feelings. For years, I’ve spent my time creating this image of who I want to be. Successful and loved, my image is almost true. Except, the image can’t account for the depth of pain I feel at losing him.
We live our lives trying to be something. We create endless relationships, buy objects, and fill our lives with activities in order to shape our idea of who we are. Like me, many of us learn that being our true selves is dangerous. Our parents and loved ones teach us to be like them and to conform to expectations, or else they remove their affection. Without realizing it, we are conditioned to please others and to deny our true selves. The words “be less” may not be spoken explicitly, but our society demands it. We are sold products on the basis that we are not enough. Everything from food to cars is marketed by forcing us to feel like we need something else than what we have.
This is the reason we have such unhealthy relationships, feel unhappy with our lives, and struggle with depression and fear. We are trying to fit into a mold that does not fit. Our true selves ache to be free. The Buddha called it “living in a house on fire”. This means that everything we’re creating about ourselves is temporary, because death will remove all that is untrue. I’d spent years constructing who I thought I need to be, but I always felt like it was not enough. Thomas’s death gave me the answers to why I felt that way.
I’ve been looking for love. I’ve been searching for love throughout this world, in people and places. But you can’t find love outside of yourself, because love comes from the Divine. The Divine, however you view it, loves us completely. It exists within our hearts and in our spirits. We share it through laughing, touching, and holding. Thomas and I shared it. And we lost it too. Not because it went away, but because we both got lost in creating the image of who we thought we needed to be. Thomas pretended to be a heterosexual in love with life, but that wasn’t how he felt or was. I’ve pretended to be an extraordinary person, but I’m really just an ordinary person. I’ve spent years trying to save him, looking for him in everyone I meet, and offering up everything I have to others in hopes that it would bring peace. My sharing has created a lot of healing in the world, but it is not love.
Love is given without expectation and without demand. It does not need our permission to be, nor does it help us create images. I think that’s why so many of us fear it. It also brings truth, which is why I couldn’t feel love living a lie. Thomas was looking for that love too. He tried drugs and sex. Once, Thomas even tried to find it in me. We couldn’t really love each other though, because our true selves were too afraid.
All of this flashed through my mind on the meditation cushion. I wanted to cry or scream. I thought about running away and forgetting what I had seen. I couldn’t though. It rang of truth. I think that all spiritual traditions are only trying to take us to this place of intense suffering where we realize the foolishness of trying to please others. Here, we can see ourselves for who we truly are.
I felt as if I was seeing the world for the first time. Smells and sounds were wondrous. Peoples seemed to be lit with inner fires. I heard voices and saw colors. It was a rebirth and a new beginning. I am free to live my life now. I don’t have search for the love I once lost or the boy I used to know. I don’ have to save those I find struggling on the way, no more than I could have saved him.
I have realized one more thing. Love, which springs up from inside, is powerful. It even stretches beyond life and into death. It creates possibilities that seemed impossible before. The very fabric of the world bends and shapes to love. It is the river, the wind, the fire, and the stones of everything. All that is can be held within a moment of love, without anyone thing diminishing another. It is forever and always. Flowing freely within our hearts, it is there for us to trust and embrace. While it can only be felt through the true self, the memory of love can carry us through darkness and shadow. It illuminates the skies and gives the moon all of her glory. The Creator made it with his first breath and gave it away with her next. It all of ours and it belongs to everyone. It is the question and the answers. It is my words and it is beyond my words.
He is a part of it now. I can feel him in it. Every sunny morning or on a quiet summer afternoon, we’ll walk together again. Our old places will be long ploughed and the grandchildren of our trees will be ash, but we will still walk together. I love him now, a burning ember in my soul. I do not need to look for him in the pages of books or in the faces of strangers anymore, because he is right here and now.
To me, Thomas represented a home I had never known. He was love in a loveless world. When he raped me, I thought I had lost that hope forever and spent the next five years trying to create another one. The truth, however, is that my home was waiting inside of me all along. I just needed to look and listen, without fear or shame. He never took that away from me, I did. And then, he gave it back to me with his death.
I will not shed tears of sorrow for him, but tears of joy. He has transcended our fears about weight, attractiveness, mortgages, or university degrees. Yet, nothing with ever be the same again. Not because he’s missing, but because I can’t live a life of dishonesty anymore. I am me, completely and unashamed. The image has been shattered and the house that trapped me for long has burned. I do not ever have to go back to the place of suffering and strangers cannot take this new home away from me. Thomas bought it for me with his death.
I had a dream last night. I was walking through my back yard. It was the height of a summer’s day, with the lilac bushes blooming and the sounds of insects filling the air. All around me was peace and light. Inside, I still felt the same sadness that had carried me to sleep. Then, as if he has been hiding there all along, he stepped out beside me. I didn’t speak or say anything. We just felt each other, in a kind of way that I have never known. There was a moment where I thought we must have been kissing as we never had in real life, but I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter though. What I knew intuitively was that he was trying to tell me what love really is. It’s very simple, because it is the only definition that love can have. Love, regardless of our genders, colors, or past, is greater than anything else in creation. It can turn death into life, loss into gift, and rape into intimacy. It turns the wheel of life, as we are all made and unmade again and again. There is no drug, no house, no job, and no other thing which means more or can change us as deeply. In other words, love is everything from Thomas to me to you to the sky to the waters to the animals to spirit to life to death and beyond.
Nasmate and Chi Miigwetch,
Thomas
I still love you
Thomas
I still love you
