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Now
I had a vivid dream last night. I was in Las Vegas with my family and we did some imagined ski lift / virtual free diving experience. We went individually and when we “landed” in the lobby of the hotel, there was a guy from college who recognized me. Someone I literally haven’t thought of in decades.

He hugged me in a gentle, squishy, don’t-get-too-close-to-me kind of way. But then, from behind, he embraced me in a hug that was pure affection. He contained all of me with all of him. I melted into the warmth of his body and security of his arms with all of my being.

And then I woke up and felt like an asshole about what I never realized I’d done until now.

Then
He was a year older than me in school and we bounced around each other, flirting and laughing, making out occasionally — generally just having very flighty fun.

He had dark hair and the eyes of a twinkling Irish man I could never resist. In my memory, he also had a killer smile. He wasn’t too tall and I liked that I didn’t have to tax my neck to look him in the eyes. He was a manifestation of the guy I had always been attracted to and was certain I would marry. (Spoiler: I married a tall, blonde and handsome.)

He was funny. I remember we laughed all the time. One night in college, he walked me back to my sorority house after a frat party in the wee hours of the evening. He was cold so I gave him my letter sweatshirt and we laughed hysterically at this XL man in a women’s small sweatshirt. I’m pretty sure we made out, sitting side-by-side on the retaining wall of the lawn of my house, but moreover I just remember the joy of laughing with him.

We never dated in school or were even serious about anything. I suspect young Fisher could sense the danger with me in the way a reef rich with fish will clear out before the shark comes into view. The combination of being openly attracted to me and genuinely nice was catastrophic for any boy in my life.

After college, we loosely kept in touch.

I was surprised when he asked me out. I remember he picked me up in his perfectly responsible car. He was dressed perfectly maturely in an ill-fitting white undershirt and sweater cardigan and he perfectly advocated for himself with the server over a pine nut allergy. He was respectful and kind while I was thoroughly repelled by it.

At the time, I thought it was because he was boringly mature. I felt young and wild and free (in actuality, I was young and neither wild nor free.)

The only other time I recall seeing him after college, I was in the disoriented aftermath of the first JJG hurricane and determined to outrun the pain by simply not feeling it.

It was one of the few times I was stupid drunk. Stupid drunk mirrors freedom. In reality, it’s giving zero fucks while using alcohol to numb unwanted feeling.

I walked into the bar he was managing already stupid drunk. I pushed him through serving doors, up against a wall and kissed him. He was clearly conflicted of having the girl he liked finally reciprocate affection but doing it whilst inebriated and at an inappropriate time.

I kissed him. Trying to will away the pain of JJG. Trying to feel something. And then left.

Now
The shame I felt upon waking and realizing that I’m mean and careless with the hearts of good, kind, nice men who just want to love me — well, I felt so ashamed that I immediately Googled Fisher because I wanted to…I don’t know why. Write him a note to atone? Find out that he was successful and I didn’t break him?

I want a do-over. With Fisher. With every boy I’ve liked. With every decision I’ve made. With life in general.

I so desperately want the trauma and I to be heterogeneous. I want to pick out all the parts of myself from the trauma salad. I expect it to be a tumor that can be excised. But in reality, we are one in the same the trauma and me. I supposed I’m at the first stage of trauma grief where I acknowledge that just maybe there is a different path.

All the time invested in reimagining reality will never bear fruit.

There is no finish line. There are no redos with Fisher or JJG or RT3. There is no running away in high school, rewriting my biography before today, erasing the trauma.

In fact, the guilt I feel today over Fisher and the apology I so desperately want to deliver are most definitely the mutated sadness and empathy I feel for the girl on the retaining wall. She so desperately wants the affection offered, but is completely incapable of accepting it because selfish people systematically and cruelly ripped that from her.

Would Fisher and I been a good pairing? I have no idea. I’ve learned enough in therapy that I know that beating myself up for behavior I now perceive as mean and callous is simply going to trap me in the circle of disrepair. Instead of running this loop, I’ll try to put that energy into pulling myself out of its gravity to deviate even slightly to begin spiraling forward.

KTTW would say there’s nothing to atone for and beating myself up will not resolve anything.

So, instead I will sit with these uncomfortable feelings. I will feel the calm of dream-Fisher embracing me. I will feel sad for the younger me unable to accept the affection of a nice boy. And while I’m skeptical, I will *try* to tell myself it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t my fault. I don’t believe it, but I am willing sit with the discomfort of “what if it wasn’t my fault?”

Regardless, for the first time, probably ever, I’ve accessed a new way forward in my brain that doesn’t involve hurting myself.

Onward.

This doesn’t right the wrongs or fix the disparities. It’s not even “a start.” It’s simply a man being held accountable for the murder of another man.

It’s not a first step. It’s long overdue equally delivered justice.

We all watched a video of this man nonchalantly murdering another man. This is the absolute least that can be done. A reckoning of tectonic shift proportions need to happen, not simply one man being held accountable.

I watched this with my hand over my mouth and tears welling in my eyes. The pride I felt for my city was lost the minute I saw the video of Derek Chauvin killing George Floyd and learned that this is only “the best place in all the land” if you’re white.

The minute the judge read the jury’s convictions, my tears fell and hope overcame me.

Nobody thought the revolution would start in Minneapolis except Prince.

Born in the blur between Gen X and Y, there is a sub-sect known as the Oregon Trail Generation.

Our formative years included both the Dewey Decimal System and Google. Pay phones and iPhones. Cassette tapes and Spotify.

We remember grounding ourselves before we turns on the Apple IIC in the computer lab and the sound of dial-up internet.

The errs in judgement and foolishness of our youth were rarely documented on film and were never published for the world to see.

Today, we’re in our late thirties and early forties. Most of us have realized we’re not invincible. And that we don’t know it all. And, in the words of those who’ve aged before us: youth is most definitely wasted on the young.

I find myself daydreaming about my twenties. Longing for the freedom and unencumbered choice. Tweaked with new regret for failing to live the width of my life and not simply the length. While errantly forgetting the shackles that limited lateral movement.

Now, on Facebook and Twitter, I know very few people care what I have to say. I know this because I care very little about what they say. Social is a place I go to be brave and then cowardly wait for approval of people peripheral to my life.

Social media is to our adulthood as the yellow pages were to our youth. It takes up and unnecessary amount of space in our lives, but conversely provides functionality.

So, like the dysfunctional relationship it is, I’ll log off for a bit rather than severing ties.