Glad that so many of the trains and buses in SF run so late-- ugh I still hate driving at night. It's so stupid, it's not like I was awake and driving the night Ricky was. It's not like I blew his car up against a tree. It's not like I EVER drive when I'm drunk. Yet there it is anyway, in the corners of my brain, daring to creep into the center, making the thought of driving late, especially near that damn freeway, something that makes me want to vomit, something that makes far too many awful thoughts and memories threaten to flood me at once. So I can't risk it. Sometimes even knowing Greg’s driving home by himself at night makes me feel so panicked, pacing and checking my watch every ten minutes or so til he gets back, thinking up every possible reason for being late that isn’t “dead”. By the time he steps in the door I feel so ridiculously relieved. It makes me feel so weak, so stupid, so young, but I'd feel even worse if... well, you know.
So much is good in my life right now. FOR ONCE. But Rick isn't in it, Rick isn't there to share it with me, and sometimes that makes it feel incredibly empty. Which feels awful-- I'm sharing this with Mom, too, and it's something I've wanted to be able to share with her all my life. Losing him hurts so much it sometimes cuts through things that should be joyful. I was able to get through our weekly call chipper enough, at least. I've had years of practice. Even with everything that happened after Rick, she doesn't know my moods are like hers. G-d willing I'll be able to hide that her whole life.
A song of ours made it to radio play and I was so excited about it that it was like I was a kid again, I wanted to call my father about it so badly, to tell him-- hey, your son's made it! He's a singer like you and you can hear it on the damn radio! But thankfully I came back to reality in time before I embarrassed myself trying to call a number that would either lead to nowhere or to a stranger living in his old apartment. It saddened me in a surprising way-- I thought I would be thoroughly used to his absence by now. I mean, he's been out of my life for far longer than he's been in it. Even when he was in it, by the time he left I could tell he was so fed up with me, I mean, he was ALWAYS drunk around me. Always. And because he was always drunk he could never hold back his frustrations at all the mistakes I'd make singing. All my mistakes probably didn't help the drinking, either. I was never good enough for him and now I'll never know if this, what I'm doing now, is good enough. All I can hope is that we get radio play across the country and whatever city or state he's living in now, he'll hear it and recognize me and be proud of me.
Anyway. I would've been proud and excited to tell him that a song of ours is currently #57 on the billboard 100, but I couldn't be as proud of it around the guys. I told them I thought it was a start, but I didn't want to get complacent and wouldn't be truly proud until we were in the top ten, at least on the rock charts. Rory laughed a little at that and told me to cool my jets, but Walt stood by me. Told them all that my mindset was the right one. On the one hand I was glad to be understood but on the other hand I hope Rory and the others don't think I'm trying to be a suckup. The streets aren't going to be far enough away in my rear-view mirror 'til we see REAL success, and that hasn't happened yet. That's all.
At least Greg appreciated the hash (AND the pomegranates! --I did save some of both for the rest of the guys to try, as well). I knew he would :) I still wear his shirts from time to time, including this time-- ugh its been SO fun flirting with him. We made out in his bed for what seemed like ages.... we were too high to do anything much further than that, and I was aware enough to remember our deal anyway. But even that felt so good, and I could tell it felt good for him, too… I mean, he took my shirt off-- or, well, he took his shirt off of me; slid his hands under, across my chest and onto my shoulders, his thumbs tugging each side of the collar towards each shoulder, and I shrugged ‘em out myself. I was aware enough to remember our deal, but I can’t lie and say I wasn’t hoping he might’ve forgotten. I’m never going to be the one to stop him, that’s for sure… ugh I can’t help but keep fantasizing about him going and going and going...
At some point during a lull I admitted a little bit to him about Dad's awfulness and thankfully he was more than understanding. It's hard not to be a little too honest when you're that high. At least, for me. He actually said "What's your old man's problem with you, anyway?" I said a lot of what I said here, that I could never be good enough of a son and he could never be good enough of a father. "....Ohhhh. just that kind of guy, huh." He's just that kind of guy. "Damn. That's rough." Indeed. At least we got back to kissing soon after that (and I miraculously didn't cum, and I was and am quite proud of myself for it). But it was still so much better than the "ohhhh I'm so SORRYYYYY that HAPPENED to you" horseshit I'm used to getting for things like this. "what the fuck's HIS problem"-- now THAT'S more like it! What the fuck IS his fucking problem, right?? Maybe someday one of us'll have an answer!
Ricky,
I was dreading today. I knew it was coming, of course, and I had no idea how I'd act. I tried to ignore it as much as I could, tried to pretend that this day would be like every other day. I can't afford to be even half as devastated (and condensing it into one word doesn't work at all) as I was the day I learned you died. I'm still not sure what to say. Was able to call Pammie-- I was always so happy that the two of you got along. We talked about you a bit, reminisced on some of the good times before I started to feel too much like crying. Thankful Pam noticed how quiet I got and asked if I was alright.
Am I alright? Sort of. As alright as I can be, given everything. I still had to work today, of course, but you didn't leave my mind for a moment. When I think about how everything ended I still feel so guilty and horrible. Why the fuck did I drink so much? It's not even something I like doing usually; drinking that much always hurts my stomach and it did there, too. Why couldn't I have been more fucking responsible, why couldn't I have been sober enough to notice how drunk you were, to stop you, to tell you to just sleep it off on Kurt's couch with me?
Pammie would probably say that thinking about the what-ifs won't make me feel any better or change what happened (sometimes she can be great to talk to when things are hard, other times it's like she doesn't see or hear the emotions in my face and in my voice-- you know how it is with her. This time, at least, she was good). And she's probably right. It's just so hard... I still think it should've been me that died. I can't help it. You were such a better person. I know I need to keep trying, though. You stuck by me even when I was drowning in the kind of deep sadness I inherited from my mother; you kept telling me that it would pass, I'd want to live again, things would get easier again, you'd help them get easier for me again, and you did. You did. I'm not sure if I can ever find a man like you again. If there's anything I'm glad about, it's that I was able to tell you, so many times, that I loved you (and I know no number of days or years of being able to do that would have felt like enough). That I could wake up next to you so many mornings, see and kiss your beautiful sleeping face, and know I was the luckiest guy on the planet for all too short a while. That even if few other people would understand it, you knew you were the love of my life, and that I was yours.
So I'll end this by saying it some more-- I love you. I'll always love you. You'll always be in my heart, even if you end up sharing my heart with someone else eventually.
Forever and always,
Julie