the very thing you're best at is the thing that hurts the most

Heartbreak. That's what this tastes like.



Stepping back from allegory for a moment. I went to high school in a very small, and very rural, area. As an adult, looking back on it, I can see the issues clearly: a bunch of queer kids finding our identity in a repressive, conservative school, with all the inherent pitfalls therein. But at the time, on the ground, all we knew was that our parents didn't understand us, and in many cases, didn't want to.

We had alcoholics under eighteen, drug addicts, because existing in these spaces was so difficult. We weathered suicide attempts, and once or twice, had to cope in the aftermath of suicidal successes. We had parents who committed their kids to psych wards, attempting to "cure" them. It was nightmarish, and cruel.



Through those four years, there was someone else in my life. We never dated, neither of us wanted to be that for each other. What we did become, was--family. I thought of him as my brother, to the point that even now, when I think on him, that is the first word that comes to mind.

Through all the chaos, all the times the world lit on fire, all the time the ground froze and chipped off pieces of our defenses from sheer cold, we stood together. I told him things I've told no one else--not blood relations, not current partners. I was the first call he made from the conversion therapy center his parents slapped him into after his second suicide attempt.



I tell you this not to seek sympathy, but to give you context of how close we were.

As is the way of life continuing, those of us who survived high school--and, it must be said, not all of us did--chose to flee the stifling confines of religion and repression. For him, that was Louisiana. For me, I returned to California.

We wrote long, extravagant letters to keep in touch, called each other between them. There were (rare, but occasional) visits--once, when he came out to California, once, when he went to spend time with a friend in Colorado. Even being so far apart, even after all the years since high school...we still felt that deep kinship. My brother; his sister; life went on.



Until a particular president was elected that I thought was bad for the country. History has proven me right, but at the time this was the first issue that divided us. We argued, in letters, in phone calls, each trying to get the other to hear.

But he was the one to say, "You're not my sister anymore".

There is a very particular pain that settles into us, carving out space in our bones, with a pronouncement like that. He cut off all contact, returning my letters, hanging up when I tried to call. Eventually, I stopped, and just breathed in the pain of it, trying to cope.



Two years later, a hurricane struck the city he was in, and he was listed among the missing.

It took another year of poring over records at a distance, calling his place of employment, calling churches, emailing every address I had of him and our former high school friends...tracking down friends and barely acquaintances who might know how to contact his family. Trying to find word. That was hard, too.

Not as hard as the day I finally saw his name on a body retrieval list.



Knowing he'd passed...that was crushing. Knowing we'd never be reconciled again...that was...excruciating.

This man I considered closer than blood, closer than family born, was now...gone.

I tell you that to tell you this.



There's been a certain leaked memo in the past week. I'm not going to say much on it directly, save to say--everyone in what's become the extended in-world family is--ideologically, at least--on the same page. But even knowing that, an argument broke out on particulars. And two of us watched in horror as the family fractured before our eyes.

That same dawning sense of loss. That same feeling of the chasm in front of me, where formerly mutual love and support existed.

I don't know what's going to happen with this family's fracture. I know there are things we may not be able to come back from. I know trust has not just been broken in some places, but cremated and buried, as well.

I don't know if we can heal. And I don't know what happens from here.

The one thing I do know, beyond a shadow of a doubt--I'm still going to exist on the other side of this. Because I've gone through this once, and survived. Sadder, more melancholy, grieving for the lost...but survival, nonetheless. It's--kind of what I do.

The only other thing I know is...right now, in this moment--moment to moment..it's hard to breathe. And I don't know when that feeling's going to go away, either.