One could say I'm haunted.
Not only have the effects of grief crept up and blindsided me, but my antidepressant are about gone. I have only one pill left, no appointment with the doctor, and the "brain zaps" have begun. This is not a good time to be broke. An element of giving up or giving in is rising behind my eyes.
I miss him. About two weeks before his blunder, he and I had a conversation about us ceasing to be sexual with each other. We spoke about how it was necessary for us, if we had any intentions of moving forward spiritually in our walks with Christ. The sadness of it all is that--in this moment--and plenty other ones--he's all dream about. These dreams are not that of sexual desire alone. We held each other in sacred protection, and at times would waste much time standing in my living room wrapped in each others embrace. It was something beyond homosexuality; it was filling a need. Though we decided that it would be for the best to keeps our distance, I can recall the thick tension in the truck that evening as we spun around the 610 Loop. He didn't want to stop; neither did I.
Now that sacred protection, that rib rubbing trust, and our forbidden love has been removed in the strongest of ways. For months I'd been praying to the Lord to do something about nameless and I. I wanted out desperately because of toxicity of what he and I had become, but on the same leaf, I had no idea on how to escape; I wasn't prepared to be separated from the drug that was our love.
He's dead now. The good things are gone as well as the bad. There are no options to pick and choose from anymore. It's just over.