"He Wasn't Perfect"

 Dear Will:

Methodist Church photo, late 90s

You were a fucking pain in the tookas.

I'm tired of missing you.  At least I'm tired of missing Well Will. I truly believe that God meant for us to be together and put us together but not for the comfort of either of us. I will be writing about all this, fucking finally, as I put together another chapter of my memoir.

I always hated tax season, once I started working, because it usually involved yelling at me for not getting everything perfectly together.

You yelled at the servants. You were mean to wait staff and clerks.

You had little or no self-awareness but refused to say that. Instead you early on made me feel bad for talking about things like my feelings and concerns and asking about yours. Even after we started doing our once a week check in in the mid-90s, you couldn't stay present in our relationship. You had to talk about things in the news.

You didn't tell me I was beautiful or even attractive because it would not have been true to your experience. I was too fat and had too large breasts.

You didn't learn to perform the physical behaviors I needed for complete satisfaction. Not that I didn't enjoy our sex, but that was because I made sure that I performed the behaviors I needed as well as those you needed.m

You didn't share about any previous relationships.

You exploded at people who referenced our age difference.

You were "timid" or, as other folks might put it, cowardly. Once in San Francisco we were in the Mission at night leaving a movie theatre and I told you to walk bravely, like I did, like you carried a weapon and were sure of yourself. There were thugs on the street but it was brightly lit and I knew that together walking bravely we'd be fine but you fucking skittered and I had to trot to keep up with you and I knew we looked like the tourists we were.

You were explosive. There were many times I "walked on egg shells" because of your anger. Though after you moved to Bend you weren't mean to me because I forbade it, I think you displaced your problems with me onto various politicians who you then obsessed about.

Did we have to have a European relationship? I wish you had been able to talk about relationships. I didn't want to "cheat". I wanted an open, negotiated relationship. You wanted me but only in a way that was comfortable to you...at least until my breakdown, and then you were good and took care of me, though you still wouldn't pay for a psychiatrist. (Just like my parents.)

You assumed early on that a troubled 19 year old girl who would seduce a man the second time she met him was the same as a self-controlled 35 year old woman in terms of functionality.

I now believe that many of our issues occurred because you were not capable of going inside yourself because you were high-functioning autistic or had some kind of neurodivergence. Turns our that I too am neurodivergent in a minor way (I'm a highly sensitive person - like 60 million other Americans).

I have, of course, forgiven everything that hurt me. If I hadn't, I may not have cared for you in the horrible  years of your dementia. I refuse to say I was happy to do it. It was awful. The repeated stories. The fights over what was actually happening. The anger. The shit. The pee.

Underneath all your wackiness was a little boy who never matured, who always wanted to be first in class, who had to defend himself in his family and at school (you never told me this but I'm projecting typicality onto your Nebraska farm upbringing). You were a tall skinny kid who loved to read, did theatre, and had certain pansy behaviors. Throughout your adult life, until she died, you always went home to your Mom in the summers.  (Well, when you were teaching, tiny Minatare might have been more pleasant than Pocatello. Of course, you didn't talk about any of that much.) And then you met me a year after your Mom died and didn't warn me. If you'd been born into my generation rather than 1930, I believe you would have been a happy gay man.

On the plus side, in spite of your always available crankiness, you were never physically violent. You were rarely purposefully mean. Late in life, when I asked you once why you yelled at a clerk when she wasn't responsible for the pricing, you looked shamefaced and said you didn't know. I think that much of your brain was not in your control.  

You were loving and caring. You gave great hugs.

And when I looked into your eyes, even on the day before the day before you died, when you looked at me with those eyes and told me you loved me, there was a strong rope of soul connection between us. You were still there. I was still there. That connection of 50 years was still there.

Even when when we separated because I wanted to spend time with He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, I could not leave you. I could not break the bond and you decided (well, I never really knew how your brain worked so maybe it wasn't a decision) not to divorce your wicked spouse. I thank God for that for so many reasons.

Our life together was challenging, boring, and beautiful.

God put two pains in the ass together for both of their benefit, so neither would be lonely.  (Genesis 2:18)