Posts tagged family

I am the last in my line.

When I was eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, I would lay in bed and want to weep because of the guilt. I felt guilty for who I was, for who I wanted to love; that I could not bring children into the world and give them my name and raise them and love them without harsh looks of judgement or hate or scorn. I felt ill knowing that one day, my lie would need to end. I would need to tell my family why there would be no child. I braced myself for a life without love or family or acceptance.

I’m remembering this because I thought today how nice it is not to feel this way anymore. How nice it is to look and speak to someone and feel that I care about him. I think about being with him, in his arms, in his sweater, in his hands.

I think that one day I may give my name to a child and try to show them how best to use it.

“This isn’t falling on deaf ears,” you say with your ironic smile, and I hate myself so much. I hate that I could ever have hurt you.

You were my whole world, and I never imagined loving anyone more than I loved you. I looked up to you and you were my best friend. The only hero my child-heart needed. I remember missing you so much when you went away, someplace without me. I remember laughing so much with you. I remember helping you bake, and how you taught me to roll dough and cut out shapes. I remember reading before bed and cuddling up to you, and the way I was completely safe.

Things changed as they do. You took a job you hated and suddenly things weren’t the way they used to be anymore. Suddenly I was alone and not ready to be. I knew you were unhappy and I couldn’t do anything to make that end. I didn’t understand.

We stopped baking together. We stopped our crafts. You didn’t lay with me and talk before bed.

I remember being so unharmed, and that feeling went away. I don’t want to be self-indulgent and say that all this was a coping mechanism, because in no way did I have a bad life. It’s just that I lost my best friend. You were the only friend I’d had, really. Life and all its worries and realities took you away, sort of. The worst part was you were still here. Your perfume smelled the same; your hands were still soft. But your eyes didn’t light up like they used to. I think I tried to do the things we used to do together, but I didn’t understand all that you had to worry about. 

I guess I became tough, too. I became less bright-eyed and I started growing up. We both left each other’s worlds, in the slightest ways.

I told you that I knew you thought I had become harsh and judgmental, and I left the room with some imaginary task to hide the tears in my eyes. You knew, though, and I came back into the room and you hugged me tight and comforted me.

You told me all of your concerns and where your feelings stemmed from, and I feel absolutely heartbroken that you have been hurt and that I started to do that to you. I couldn’t find the ways to tell you how much I hate that. You always have been the most important person to me. I’ve always loved you so much. I don’t want you to think that I’m embarrassed by you, or ashamed of you, or wish you could be more like someone else.

Because you always hold me when I need it.

Because you’re still everything to me, and I’m still your little boy.