It’s just that I don’t believe it really happened. Literally, sometimes.
’02 is just a blank. I really don’t know what I did. Or how. Medication. Therapy. Convulsive crying.
The second year was worse, though. Sure, I got a dream job, moved to DC, met an amazingly nurturing and fun friend in Joe. That helped. Still does, more than I let him know.
Since then I moved back to LA, lost our home and every visual cue that it held, bought a crazy old house that couldn’t be more different that our beloved beach cottage, got a couple of dogs.
A group of amazingly funny and talented guys welcomed me into their tight circle. I couldn’t have asked for a better tonic.
So, yeah, I’m doing a lot better. Sure, I still can’t kiss another man without a sense of dread and nausea. Sex has been painted into a corner so tiny that I need toe shoes. But, hey, I’m here. Right?
I continue to panic every night before sleeping, which I quell with a cocktail of Kush and Klonopin. I write and talk to Billy each night, as well, but that’s okay, isn’t it?
I haven’t done anything with the foundation. For my past birthday, Joe lovingly built a template for the website, and I haven’t had the strength or focus or something to fill it in. It’s there, however, and I will. I promise.
It’s what Billy's lost that knots me up the most, though. Five years where he would’ve grown and settled down and succeeded. He would’ve loved the new house, the dogs, and hopefully, he still would’ve loved me. I know he would have, and that just about kills me every single fucking day.
I figure in another five years, I’ll be doing twice as good.
Five years, what a surprise
Five years, my brain hurts a lot
Five years, that's all I've got.