and chooses the middle with a wink and a grin.
Oh how the wayward souls go
Tomorrow I’ll lock my front door for the first time, and the last time, in eleven years. My home has been figuratively and literally open to anyone who needed anything for over a decade, an era that ends right now.
This wasn’t just a home. It was family dinners and karaoke nights and pool parties and dad jokes and stripper drama and unconditional love and unwavering support. People lived here because it was safe, fun, and judgment-free. It was a refuge for my kind of people – the wayward ones. Those who chose their own paths, forged their own futures, and triumphed over harsh adversity.
I moved to this home newly divorced and terrified of being alone. I leave as someone who loves himself, who has grown and learned and become a much better person. The lessons over the last decades were hard ones, but I’m proud of who I’ve become. And as I witness each one of my chosen family go on to do amazing things, I’m even prouder of them.
Change has always been my enemy. It’s brought anxiety attacks, sleepless nights, and hours of abstractly calculating everything that could go wrong. But tomorrow, as I begin a trip with no end in sight, change will be my constant companion, and the thought of embracing it warmly terrifies me. No more routines, my brain says. No more familiarity, my social sense cries. Aha, but no more stagnation, either. No more complacency. No more doing the bare minimum.
I’m so excited.
What’s going to happen next?
I’m so terrified.
Janelle died this weekend.
This isn’t going to be an eulogy. I never knew her well enough for that.
She was in my circle – my periphery – for almost seventeen years. She was a dedicated reader back in the days of blogging, and commented on every post. She supported every cause, came to every event, and listened to every episode of our long-dead radio show. Janelle may well have been my very first fan, and for a while, she was definitely number one.
I used to do stupid YouTube videos in my old office, which was painted Superman blue. Janelle was fascinated by the room and would comment that she couldn’t wait to visit “and see the Blue Room.” I suspect she was so engaged with the world of blogging for the same reason that many of us were – it gave us a window to whole new worlds we never knew existed. And for Janelle, married with children in a small conservative town, it showed worlds she wanted to be a part of. When she had the opportunity to visit other bloggers, come to parties, and attend events, she moved mountains to make it happen. I remember when she attended a Halloween party at my house, she treated it like a trip to Disney World, traveling somewhere more magical than home to escape reality for a few days. Her sense of awe and wonder was infectious and optimistic, which was a refreshing take I never appreciated fully.
I took Janelle for granted. It’s only after her death, hearing from friends about how much she meant to them with her compassion and concern and love and support, that I realize that. To me (and to at least one other blogger), she was president of our fan club, but that’s where it ended for us. I would go read her blog when she asked me to and pat myself on the back for leaving a comment, like I was doing some type of fucking charity work, and I knew I could always count on her to be among the first to boost my ego with a comment of her own, but I didn’t know anything about her life. I didn’t know how many kids she had or what her background was or what her dreams were. I didn’t even know where she lived until about three years ago when I organized a meetup in the closest big town. To me, and I say this with absolute regret, Janelle didn’t cross my mind except when it was related to how it could benefit me or support my efforts or ego. Over the years, I got a vague sense of how she was a vocal ally for marginalized groups and a champion for progressive causes, but I never made the effort to treat her as an equal. It’s now clear that she was a much better person than I.
Janelle took her own life this weekend, and I can never take back how I devalued her as a person. I can never make amends for it. I’ve heard from so many friends about how supportive and wonderful she was. She was compassionate and considerate, an energetic cheerleader who championed her friends as they went through their own personal trials. Janelle celebrated your good news and held your hand through the bad news. She was a genuinely good person, and I never knew.
Janelle, I’m sorry for taking your friendship, affection, support, and admiration for granted. It’s too little, too late, I know. I wish I could have been there for you like you were there for so many people, especially in your final hours when you made that terminal choice. There is a tremendous hole in our community now, but I hope you’re at peace, and I hope that each person who benefited from your optimism, support, and love will be able to find peace as well.
In lieu of flowers, her family is asking for donations to St. Jude Children’s Hospital.
I remember getting on stage the night after finding out that you’d killed yourself.
“I can do this,” I thought. “I’m a professional.” I stood up there with the blinding lights turning the audience into a blurry amorphous creature that can universally love or hate you (and will happily let you know), holding the microphone in the casual way that I’d perfected over thousands of shows. I tried. I really did. But my set – the same set that is so ingrained in my muscle memory that I can do it in my sleep – unraveled. I don’t cry often, but I almost broke down into tears in front of dozens of audience members as I tried to talk about you instead.
“My best friend killed herself last night,” I said. A few audience members gasped, but the rest held firm, aware that comedy can be dark, and there’s always a punchline. “I haven’t really processed it yet, so I thought why not share this deeply personal moment with a bunch of strangers who came out to be entertained.” There was an uneasy chuckle. “She was a rebel and very anti-establishment, though, so she waited until two days after National Suicide Prevention Week ended. I bet she laughed and said, ‘That’ll show them!’ when she wrote her note and took those pills, too.”
I remember that nobody was really laughing. The host of the show was at the edge of the stairs, gently offering assurance that he was ready if I wanted to get off stage. I shook my head and continued. “Suicide is a little like comedy, I guess. You don’t really know how well you’re going to do until you’re done, and even then, you’re not the one who gets to decide if you did a good job or a bad one. I don’t even know if I’m sad right now. I’m mostly numb. And angry. Like, if she was alive right now, I’d kill her myself.” I laughed, and it was a little too maniacal and alcohol-fueled for the audience. The host came up on stage and took the microphone and cracked a joke, trying to recover from the destruction that had just occurred.
Nobody clapped when I walked off stage, but more remarkable was what they did do. Random strangers who had just witnessed a breakdown on stage came up to me and wrapped me in hugs. A new comedian who I’d never said three words to took me under her wing. I experienced warmth, understanding and deep compassion in the last place you’d ever expect it – a comedy club. (Well, a shitty venue that occasionally does comedy, but let’s not mince words.)
It’s been five years since you left. The world has changed, but I think your perspective would be inspiring, filled with equal parts sarcasm, dark humor, and empathy. Would we have moved away and built our commune of creatives? I’d like to think so. Would you have joined TikTok and gotten millions of followers with your biting commentary on pop culture and elite meme skills? It seems likely. Would I love to be able to pick up the phone and call you, just to talk for hours about obscure facts about bats, scandalous sex stories, and a bar in Indonesia that serves drinks out of an elephant’s skull that we absolutely must visit? Without a doubt.
I miss you, Anastacia, and I love you. Always and forever.
Lexington will always be imbued with magic for me. (I refer, reader, to the one in Kentucky, not the one in Virginia where I went to college, although that has a magic of its own for an entirely different reason.)
Coming here changed my life. It was in Lexington that I met the artist, fiery-haired with a storm cloud for a soul. We spent hours in conversation so deep that we never dug our way out. In the end, I hurt her significantly, but she forgave me. And after that end, she hurt me significantly. I would still forgive her.
I came here for the parties, hosted by a husband and wife who started off as friends but fell in love. I remember championing their love when they were attacked by others, the anonymous and not-so-anonymous trolls of the world, ugly with their jealousy and lack of compassion, and defending what I knew to be real. It was real, and a beacon to the rest of us, although our friendship has since crumbled, much like their memories of how important they were to me.
It was in Kentucky when I stepped away, giving myself a break from someone who had my heart firmly in her tiny hand. She noticed, and what she said still echoes over a decade later. “I knew you’d always be there, or I thought you would. For the first time, I realized you could leave me, and I finally understood that I’m in love with you.”
Those raspy words, spat between puffs of a cigarette, changed everything. My marriage took a backseat to the new potential of true love with this soul-linked connection, resulting in divorce and upheaval and loss and the monumental destruction of every foundation in my life. Losing her a short time later only helped me to build my identity from scratch. Who was I? Who did I want to be? Who else gets this freedom to decide such questions so late in life? This was a blessing in a heart-wrenchingly painful disguise, leaving me sobbing on the floor in the fetal position for hours before I recognized the gift in front of me.
Here I am, eleven years later, and the magic persists. I remember basement karaoke with people I loved, conversations for hours as we drank and smoked and celebrated each other. I remember the cross-eyed crank who always drank too much. The drama queen who lied to make everything about her (including my life). The tiny bartender with all of her walls. The one who relied on me and said she’d always be there until she wasn’t. The unhappy ones who lived vicariously through the rest of us. The angel. The silver fox. The Dutch queen. For the most part, those people aren’t in my life anymore, for better or worse, but I’m here. The sum of my experiences with them and so many lessons and journeys and crises and triumphs as well.
I couldn’t have accomplished what I have and become who I am without them. And maybe, I couldn’t have continued to grow with them either. There’s no way to tell. There’s only forward. Out of Lexington, probably forever.
I was eight years old the first time I had a panic attack, though I didn’t recognize it for what it was until decades later.
Dr. Jim Mudrey, the principal and owner of the small non-denominational Christian school I attended from first through eighth grade, sat in one of those plastic molded chairs that seemed to exist in every school, eminently stackable and always uncomfortable. He faced his Bible Studies class and began to teach. His tone, warm but grated like someone who had secretly smoked for years, was authoritative and genteel at the same time. He had steely blue eyes, wiry gray hair, and a paddle in his office called The Board of Education that had holes in it for decreased air resistance and more pain.
I remember his enthusiasm and genuine joy as he described what heaven would be like for those of us who made it in. He painted a beautiful portrait of a world where everything was perfect, and you would have your heart filled with love every day for eternity. Our goal, he reminded us, was to be good Christians and good people, follow the golden rule and the ten commandments, and pray for the reward that would be heaven.
My classmates seemed entranced by this golden oasis that awaited us at the end of our productive and altruistic lives. I wasn’t so sure. The concept rattled around in my brain for the rest of the school day, and on my bike ride home. It wormed its way into my subconscious through dinner, homework, and ultimately, bedtime. Laying there, staring through the ceiling above, I pictured heaven. Bright and soft around the edges. Smiles and white robes adorning everyone. A halo on every head. Limited in scope and structure by the trite imagination of an eight-year-old boy.
It didn’t end there. I saw myself in heaven, waking up and facing each morning with a smile. I played games and ate all the Mr. Gatti’s pizza I wanted and rode my bike at breakneck speeds down the biggest hills and went home and went to bed. And then woke up the next morning and did it all again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Every day, doing all of the things I loved for as long as I wanted.
Every.
Day.
Forever.
For all of eternity.
The weight on my chest suffocated me. I couldn’t catch my breath and the room collapsed in on me, wall by wall. The ceiling was inches away from my nose, pushing down on me, crushing me on all sides. Terrified sobs choked out as I wailed for my mommy as loudly as my smothered lungs allowed.
It must have still been early because she appeared in the doorway almost instantly and came to me. Trained as a surgical nurse and imbued with a Catholic maternal instinct, she typically had the bedside manner of a military nun, ripping off bandaids and using hydrogen peroxide without mercy. Tonight was different, and she spoke with an atypical gentleness. “What’s wrong, honey?”
My words were a multi-car pileup, smashed together and impossible to tell where one began and the other ended. She nodded like she understood and sat on the bed. “Close your eyes and take a deep breath. Hold it, and now release.” She rubbed my head down to my shoulders and along my arms. “Now do it again, and imagine relaxing every part of your body from your head down to your toes. Picture your forehead relaxing completely and just going completely limp.” This continued from my forehead to my jaw to my shoulders to my arms and each finger, down to my legs and toes, until the crushing weight fell away and I slept deeply, dreaming of something other than the terror of eternity.
Twenty-four years later, after recovering from my second anxiety attack ever (as I write this I realize this was actually my third, and my second had happened several years earlier, reducing me to painful sobs for an hour), the memory resurfaced, as so many do when we are presented with new light to shine on something repressed and shrouded in darkness. It illuminated my whole life, the decisions I’d made and actions I’d taken, and the role that anxiety had played in shaping so much of my life. It was the revelation I needed to be free, not from anxiety, which continues to have a role in my life to today, but from the hold it had over me.
The concept of eternity, however, remains the only thing in life that I fear.