growing up, growing older and finding myself in the process

My mother used to worry that I would never find love. Happiness in her mind was attached to being one half of couple. Perhaps that’s where my fucked up ideas about marriage come from. Mothers often idealize their sons. Whenever I would fall short or need a stern talking to, she would remind me that I was special. But I was not special. I was different. My mom knew early on that I was different. Christmas of ‘67 was the first time I realized I was different. I was only five but to some degree everyone knew. She never made me feel like it mattered but the kind of life I’ve lived wasn’t the life she dreamed for me. Normal seemed to her a safer choice. I’m sure a lot of people feel that way.

As a younger man I was eager. I kissed a lot of boys. As the years rolled on my mom and I never talked about it, but she knew what motivated me with men. The nights I didn’t come home. New boyfriends every few weeks. Boyfriends who had girlfriends. Or wives. It rarely ever got serious with a guy which is why I think she worried so much. I liked the guys who colored outside the lines. At least until about thirty-five. I also over-valued what people thought about me. If they liked me or thought I was fuckable. I told my mom that she shouldn’t worry about me being alone. “By the time I reach my late fifties I’ll be cruising down Las Olas Boulevard in a convertible with a perpetual tan, a facelift and a couple of hot rent boys in the backseat”. We laughed about it but I could see that it frightened her. With me, anything was possible. Before she died though, my mom got her wish to see me settled into a relationship with a guy I eventually married. He was to her mind the ideal. Educated, tall, handsome and somewhat charming. Then middle age struck. While he was anything but mundane, I became more so by the hour. Most guys at midlife were buying sports cars and lamenting their lost youth. Not me. I don’t give a flip about cars and had no lost youth. I missed nothing. In fact getting older forced me into the the opposite lane. Midlife basic.

When I settled into marriage, I believed I wanted a normal life. Whatever I perceived normal to be. After a time I grew unhappy with who I was becoming. Unhappy with who he was becoming. Unhappy that our lives clearly had disparate goals. Disparate values. At the core of any good relationship is what two people value together. If marriage has taught me anything it would be that values are the ties that bond. No shared values? The bond and the marriage die. All dying relationships are some version of a psychodrama: an often ongoing psychological struggle. It defines the struggle rather than the players. Ending a relationship, especially a long term relationship, is devastating. The best take away were the questions I continue to ask myself. Who am I? What do I value? How do I wish to show up in the world?. We can find ourselves if we choose but I’ve learned that we can’t always expect to like the person we find.

sometimes taking the scenic route is the best way round

I could tell you too many stories about the men who graced my path. In a lifetime of adventure, the closest I come to feeling regret is one beautiful, sweet, thoroughly normal guy I dated in the mid 90’s. I was all of maybe one year sober when we met so I was still pretty messed up in the head about a lot things. Sadly I was incapable of appreciating what he brought into my life. My inner controller had an agenda. Couldn’t leave things be. Wouldn’t give the relationship the time to unfold apace. I ended it after a few months. For those unfamiliar with the rhythm of getting/being sober, new sobriety is an incredibly difficult thing. In new sobriety one keenly feels no escape from the realities of life. Past, present and possible future collide daily with the newfound clarity. Everything feels urgent. Like it needs to be sorted fast. Now, almost thirty years later, my needs are completely opposite. The urgency is gone. Life has it’s own flow. Memories come and go like a summer storm. I choose to remember the best things. His kisses. His smile. His laughter. Most likely I am idealizing the whole affair, misremembering in a twisted nostalgia, but as the years pass I reflect on those days and nights we spent together, speculating that any regret I might feel has less to do with opportunities lost rather than the person I had yet to become. Rick represents an archetype for me. When I think of him today, I send up prayers in the hope that he is happy and healthy and incredibly loved.

After almost three decades of sobriety and some good therapy, I am better equipped to comprehend the rare and precious opportunities my life has afforded me. Enjoying a level of acceptance I didn’t know or understand in my youth, and when I feel the lament for opportunities lost, I am reminded that perspective is simply a matter of where you’re standing at any given moment. The scenic route takes a little longer but it’s worth the extra effort.