Getting attached to something that doesn't exist is probably your first clue.

It’s the papercut of love disasters. If he would have owned an ounce of compassion, I wouldn’t be feeling this incessant and/or constant annoyance right now and every day since we—he—broke it off. He could have chopped off a ligament. Couldashouldawoulda Christian. That was his name. Funny, seeing as how our post-breakup breakdown was what led me on a gradual decent into my own private hell.

YOU, BEFORE THE OTHER PERSON:

I’m from Pittsburgh. Let’s just get that out of the way. If you’re a Steelers fan, you’ll be familiar with the following phrase. “You can’t spell Pittsburg without grit.” That pretty much sums up the city that spawned my beefy build and stubborn countenance. We call Beaver Falls, “Beer Falls” which is just a taste of the many words we approach with less than delicate sincerity. You see where I’m going with this.

It should come as a great shock (Lord knows it did to my mother) that after high school, I would choose to educate myself outside the city’s 100 mile radius. I moved to New York City, graduated from PACE and tried to figure out what to do with my accounting degree. So I moved to Jersey. Once again, my location did little to soften the rough edges I thought were suited to me.

I should also mention that it was very, very difficult for me to come out. I didn’t do it till I was 24. I had the double disadvantage of being both gay and HIV positive, the latter being a post-graduate gift from my first boyfriend. I thought by slipping my mother some not-so-subtle hints, I would be better preparing her Lutheran heart for absolute carnage. Apparently, my Eddie Izzard DVD collection and Mink Stole references didn’t cross the generation gap. When I did tell her, she quite literally threw me out of the house. We didn’t speak for years and although I was pining extra hard for the companionship of my father who passed away when I was a child, the blow was softened by the fact that at least I only had to come out to one person.

THE MEETING: ROMANTICIZED IN YOUR IMAGINATION

They say that the sun in Hawaii is a searing one. You could rub yourself in coconut oil and cook yourself on the beach. What a beautiful way to die. I was there on an “extended” vacation. Actually, I was left there when another boyfriend stole everything I came with (and everything at our apartment when he got back). You’re probably starting to see a pattern with my exes. I really know how to choose them. Fast forward through some too-convoluted-to-even-mention circumstances and there I was; stranded in paradise. With no money, no friends and no idea what to do with myself physically or emotionally.

I sat down.

The wood bench was sponge-like. Soft. When I first planted myself, I thought, “This is the kind of bench you could take a nap on. If I was homeless, I could totally sleep on this bench. Yeah, I could do it here. Sleep on the bench. Take showers at the beach. Eat at people’s barbeques at the beach. It’s not a bad life…” Then I realized I practically WAS homeless. He who shall not be named/shitty ex that stole my life momentarily, took more than just my money, bed, important documents and Eddie Izzard DVD collection. He took away my home. He took away a sense of security. This was before the broken ties with my mother were mended and I was desperately relying on him. So much so, that I didn’t see all the red flags that were waving in front of me for the 8 months we were together. He was a horrible person. So yeah, that bench was looking pretty good to me.

I think I sat there for a few hours. At least until the sun set. And I remember it was sunset because I saw a backlit figure in the middle of the horizon, moving towards me. One with broad shoulders and a long, fit build. Whoever owned that shadow, had the benefit of good genes. When the person, it was a man, came closer. I could see the Pacific Islands in his cheek bones. The skin was molten clay. His eyes were a piercing green. The closer he got, the more hypnotic he became. Like the light was dusting off the distance that made his body seem so foggy at first. He became clear to me.

“Something wrong with you?”

No food in my system and the glare from the sun made it hard for me to respond. There might have been some stuttering on my part. My mouth open. Possibly drool seeping from its corners. I must have looked crazy.

“Come with me.”

THE HONEYMOON: SEX. SEX. SEX.

What happened after that is a saturated mess of watercolors in my memory. It’s hard to tell if what I remember actually happened or if I was only seeing what I wanted to see. Either way, it was beautiful. He was completely accepting of my HIV status (almost immediately). With the ghosts of boyfriends past tugging at my coat hems for so long on the east coast, I was ready to take off my heavy layers and trade them in for salty, purifying breezes where no one knew who I was. In the mean time, I would be open to new experiences, different kinds of men, and … the possibility of being homeless. Thanks to Christian, that possibility never became reality. He took me in the night we met and were sweating on the floor by sunrise.

He nailed me like I was desperate for a hanging. And I was desperate to be hung. If you’ve never slept with a Tongan, I would highly recommend it. He had royal blood running through his veins (albeit, everyone in Tonga is a prince or princess). But Pele was on his side and the heat between our bodies could melt a volcano.

Was I rebounding? Possibly. Except that rebounds don’t usually last for 3 years. I never left Hawaii. That island seduced me and the backlit figure turned out to be the love of my life. The best way to describe Christian is that he was a product of a place I never understood but was mesmerized by. I lost myself there like fucking Gilligan.

His mother lived on the island and his father traveled between there and Japan for his work on a surprisingly regulated schedule. His parents were amazing to me and fostered my then orphan soul. Christian and I even stayed with them after our house flooded one year. His mom loved to cook for me and who was I to complain?! They were disciplined people by most Hawaiian standards and it was their support that gave weight to my mercurial tendencies. We were expected at Sunday dinner every week, although I remember not making it once…

THE INBETWEEN: IF ONLY YOU KNEW WHAT THEY WERE THINKING

The reason for our absence was a fight. Our fight that started when I caught another man using my George Foreman Grill in his underwear. When I saw them, Christian made no attempt to apologize. Instead, he fed off my insecurities and said, “This is why you can’t let things go. I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“Tell me what?! This came out of nowhere. Do you feel ashamed? Are we no longer in a monogamous relationship? Do you not love me?”

Nothing. The other guy must have left soon after although I don’t remember. All I could do was look for something soft in those piercing eyes of my boyfriend. No softness, but no harshness either. Nothing. Of course, an hour later he was spouting words of complete love and commitment. Something along the lines of it not meaning anything. I didn’t even care. I needed him. I wanted him. He said he loved me. I loved him. God, that body. Make up sex. Who cares what happened? It’s the past. Then it was the present again. It happened multiple times with multiple partners who wanted the same person I wanted. So our relationship turned itself inside out and we were open.

“How you can be so sad in paradise?” I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I had to stop myself from questioning my own emotions since that is a surefire way to go crazy—but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. I did. I turned into a zombie who was unable to understand unhappiness so I didn’t allow myself to appreciate anything pure. I blocked out everything. The good and the bad. The next 2 years were a droning exercise in how much I could take from him. He loved me, but would do things to hurt me on purpose. “Because I love you so much.”

THE BREAK-UP THAT LAUNCED A THOUSAND SHIPS

I told him I was leaving.

I know now that he needed me to want him more than I could but it took a few years to figure that one out. He was an only child, used to admiration. Football star in college. I could say a lot about the relationship with him and his family. I could make a lot of speculations. But in the end, the person who ends up on top is the one who has nothing left to say. He was a master of saying very little but I stopped wanting to explain myself . I had to take what I learned from him and move on because you can’t tell someone how to feel.

I was getting ready for a move. I wanted to move to San Francisco. I wanted out and the balance of power shifted. Apparently, Christian wanted to move too. I couldn’t exactly stop him. So we both moved to San Francisco at the same time. This was absolutely maddening because you can’t leave someone if they leave too. He was following me, making a lot of noise behind to make sure that I knew how good it was at the back of the bus.

THE RUN-IN: POST TRAUMATIC STRESS SYSTEM

I moved to the Mission and he stayed in SOMA. Time is truly the healer of all things but she takes as long as she wants and those first four months were the absolute hardest. This was before ties were mended with my mother and I was an orphan of the city. Except I knew who my daddy was. Oh, and I wanted his affection. I missed everything about him, even the abuse. Actually, especially the abuse. After letting him turn me into a zombie, the only was to be stimulated was from abuse or sex. Or both at the same time. Not the healthiest combination. I mean, it doesn’t exactly look great on a resume when you’re being interviewed by potential boyfriends.

I did go on a string of dates and tried to wake myself up emotionally, but every time I woke up next to someone physically, I cowered back inside my shell. Not something new in the HIV world. It was better once I found a job just to keep busy. Things were easier when I pretended to make friends and go out and have a good time. I was really good at pretending.

Some co-workers dragged me to a Fannypack show at Café Du Nord after ten hours in front of a computer, which did little for my complexion. But I collapsed under peer pressure and planned on getting drunk enough not to care. At least the lights were low. They were red, in fact. You could almost smell the bulbs burning, they looked almost satanic. Evil lights shining down on Dionysian’s minions. One of them looked oddly familiar. He looked Tongan.

Note to readers: Voluptuous, gay Tongans do not listen to Fannypack. But there he was, dancing with another Paglian. Already a month later, he was with someone else and he was looking pretty good.

I, on the other hand, looked like the Lochness Monster. Christian came up behind me and patted my greasy hair. He had an abnormally large grin on his face but his eyes weren’t smiling. He was trying too hard. Apparently a lot had happened to him since our break up because we talked through the entire show, although I don’t remember anything he said. I couldn’t stop looking at his unexpressive eyes. They used to look so beautiful to me. I thought I saw crashing waves and an ocean of excitement in the green parts. But all I saw now was a still, murky lagoon.

I went home and took a shower. The water was as hot as it would go. I felt it. I started to cry. I didn’t stop. The hot water ran out and I felt that too. It was the first time I had felt anything that strong for years. The movement that I used to see in Christian’s eyes didn’t come from inside of him. I wanted him to save me. I needed him to. What I saw was a reflection of me. I was the ocean and I saved myself.

Shortly after that, I threw myself at another risky situation and tried to come to a resolution with my mother. That time, it worked. I stopped having to pretend I was happy. I didn’t need to pretend. When I ran into Christian again, he was stale and unchangeable. Every time we had a run in, I was different. I was gaining something. I had movement. I got it back.

There’s almost no point in trying to not get hurt and I don’t regret going through the things I’ve gone through. They’ve kept me moving. So here’s to living life, making bad decisions and writing a story. If our hearts can’t be broken, then they probably weren’t worth having in the first place.