Life in the Apocalypse

Life In The Apocalypse 5. Monday April 13, 2020

Discerning Daddy

I keep this written on an index card next to where I work: “I love you Jeff. Being human is hard. You’re doing great. Even when you think you are failing.”
On the reverse is: “What if it’s all just going to be okay.”

These two things are my mantras, the philosophies that are carrying me through life in lockdown.

Because it’s true. It’s fucking hard being a human being.

Lately I have found it hard to settle down, to stop my thoughts from racing. And then I find myself swinging into acceptance and peace. There is a lot to be anxious about right now. A lot to be afraid of. And there is a lot to be grateful for, a lot of proof of how lucky I am.

But I am feeling cantankerous. My character defects seem to be coming out swinging right now.

When I got sober, the hardest thing about that first year was the way everything became unbearable. But the most unbearable thing was my reaction to things: I was angry, moody, controlling, afraid. Once a feeling took hold it seemed to control me, I had no idea how to talk myself off the ledge.

Through the program I was in, through meditation, and through therapy I learned how to manage those things. I learned that just because I thought or felt something I didn’t have to react, I didn’t have to express my thoughts or feelings. I could sit with them, even if they felt like they would tear me apart.

And they never did tear me apart.

Peace became a place that didn’t erase the anxiety or the fear, but it became a place where I could allow it, and it didn’t have to define me, to swallow me whole.

Just because I thought a shitty thing about someone, or got angry, or wanted to control what someone was doing, didn’t mean that I had to hold on to that thought or those feelings. I didn’t have to let them take form. And when I did, then I learned that I could make amends, and forgive myself, and move on.

Because being human is hard. For all of us. Not just me.

Living right now, in lockdown, under the threat of a pandemic, feels a lot like that first year sober for me.

Because right now it feels like so much of what is happening is internal. And I’m having to use all those early sobriety tools to confront my thoughts.

And I’m mad. I’m mad at the government, I’m mad at Donald Trump, I’m mad at the healthcare system, I’m mad at this fucking virus, I’m mad that all the things I was working on and building got suddenly put on hold. I’m mad that once again I have to confront myself. In this new way.

A couple nights ago, sitting in my living room, I just started to cry. For all the things that have been lost. And I remember a time in early sobriety when I cried for a similar loss: of drugs and booze. Of the man I had been.

Things are changing. And we are powerless over that. But here’s where we aren’t powerless: we have the opportunity to change as well.
Everything that we are living in this moment, in lockdown, the way our life looks, the people around us, is because of choices we have made. Who we were.

So I keep coming back to this: Who do I want to be? How do I want my life to look? In that first year of being sober I made myself a promise: I did not get sober to be unhappy. I did not get sober to lose my life to some other distraction (addiction). I got sober because I wanted to live the largest life possible. I wanted to chase my dreams to the end. I wanted to risk failure.

Lockdown is reminding me: Who do I want to be? How do I want my life to look? What false obligations are holding me back?

And that it’s ok when all I can do is watch tv, or jerk off, or eat ice cream. It’s ok when all I can do is cry. It’s ok when I feel lost and I can’t imagine ever succeeding, when I think this is all I will ever be.

But those things don’t have to define me. Or who I will become.

A friend once said to me, “It’s not about what you get, it’s about how you went about getting it. That’s the only thing you have any control over.”

I just finished reading “Later My Life at the Edge of the World” by Paul Lisicky. Beautiful and reflective. Now I’m reading “Overthrow” by Caleb Cain.

I’m listening to a lot of Records. Right now I’m kind of obsessed with Sufjan Stevens, Bon Iver, Francis and the Lights and Four Tet.
And I’m missing a lot of you.

Life In The Apocalypse 4. Thursday April 2, 2020

Discerning Daddy

I have been in “lockdown” for 18 days. Roughly. There was a day or two in those early days where I went to the gym. My boyfriend and I have driven to the beach, and once into the Angeles National Forrest, exploring the mountains. I go for walks. And bike rides.

And we are finding ways to have fun, sexy adventures. On Sunday night we joined a zoom circle jerk group, jerking off with 15 other guys. During our drive through the mountains we pulled over in the flats to pee. He ended up fucking me over a rock, the expanse of sky and mountains breathtaking.

One of the things I’ve learned during this time: I’m not built for cynicism. I’m not built for fear. Even as things are getting scary, even in those moments, alone in bed, when I can’t breathe, sure I am dying, afraid about money, about my career, I still keep falling back on hope.

I find that most people are being super kind, friendly.

Here’s a story: a week ago I was at Pavilions. A man and I reached for the same last jar of pasta sauce. I pulled my hand back, saying sorry, and he smiled at me, took three jars of the same pasta sauce out of his cart and handed them to me.

“I already have too many,” he said.

I was in my teens and early 20’s when AIDS hit New York City. I watched as many of my mother’s friends died. Young gay men, a community devastated.

One of these men, David, before he got sick, told me,

“We are all learning about who we are right now. All of us. The whole world. It’s easy to be nice and kind, to stay hopeful, when the world is on your side. It’s almost impossible when the world turns on you. But that’s when you need it the most. It’s these times that define us. What kind of a man do I want to be?”

Before he got sick David was tall and muscular, beefy and hairy. The last time I was home my mom showed me a picture of him right before he died. He looked emaciated: so skinny he was almost unrecognizable. His cheeks were sunken in.

He was sitting outside, by the river, smiling. That smile will forever stay with me. That smile is the man I want to be in this time.

18 days and it’s not easy. My Facebook page is filled with people who are sick, know someone who is sick, posts about people who have died, non-stop information about the virus. I find myself getting annoyed at small little things that happen in my house. Annoyed at my roommates, my boyfriend, the dog and cats: but then I remember how lucky I am. That we are all here. Together.

There is a lot to be afraid of. And then there is that picture of David, who knew he was dying, but smiling anyway. And there is a lot to be hopeful about too.

Even if it’s the fucking apocalypse I have to believe there is still beauty.
My best friend Amy taught me this very important mantra, that I keep written on an index card on my desk, and as a screenshot on my phone:

What if it’s all just going to be ok?

These words save me in times of doubt and fear.

And I’m really glad my boyfriend still wants to fuck me in parks. That’s gotta count for something.