Between Two Wonders

Writer's Note (trigger warning): this piece talks about sexual abuse. It took me months to write this piece and it took me some time to decide whether or not I would share it, but I know there's someone out there who may be able to relate. You are not alone. 

Dear Diary,                                                                                                                              

            I woke up with roses blooming in my stomach. This must be a dream I thought as I looked to my left and saw his wonder—there he laid resting as I turned to my right and saw the view from his eighth story balcony. Miami’s beautiful weather always did leave me wanting more sun and less snow. I had a smile that could not be removed; it was imprinted on my face like the ones we see on clowns- slightly unbearable, slightly frightening, and yet freakishly understandable.

            The ocean seemed massive and endless, as wide as the horizon and as deep as the galaxy.  The sun hovered over the ocean, resting its rays of light upon the waves as if somehow that would lessen the intensity with which the tides hit the sandy shore. It seemed to work in the early hours of that Friday morning. The waves—small, serene, and for a moment all I could hear was the soft clash against the shore and the sound of a man breathing calmly in his sleep. I was between two wonders and both left me equally breathless—I took my hands, which felt weightless and attempted to pinch myself back to reality. Grabbing hold of my exposed thighs, I tried to snap back to reality. This was a dream I kept telling myself. 

            His existence seemed unreal, he couldn’t have flown the distance, rented a car, and booked a hotel just to spend my last two nights in Miami with me. A couple of nights before his arrival, he and I had been chatting via text and I shared with him that I was going to write a poem about him but my ego would not let me write it. He replied, “I was going to book a ticket to Miami but my ego wouldn’t let me do it.” I thought he was kidding. He lives in New York City; a forty-minute train ride away from where I live in New Jersey. Why the hell would he spend all that money just to fly down to Miami? Then he asked me for my address, I gave him my New Jersey home address before realizing he was asking me for my Miami address. I was shocked, I did not believe that a guy would go out of his way to make me feel special. Shortly after he sends me a photo of him in his hotel room, he really did fly out to see me.

            I have always been the guy that other guys run away from, I was not the guy that others often went out of their way to let me know I was worthy, or loved, or special enough. I looked at his selfie and I instantly turned red in the face, I could not stop smiling, I could not stop laughing, this was unreal. It did not feel real until he picked me up in his rental car; him being from the Midwest, I figured he knew how to drive but we live in the Tri-State area where traveling via train and subway is the norm. There he was in the flesh, driving me to his hotel room, but all I could think about on my way to the hotel was the last night he and I spent together.

            It was a disaster to say the least. My feelings for him were growing stronger but he had a way of leaving me feeling insecure and uncertain. He had a way of leaving me in the in-between; left pondering whether or not I was in this alone, whether I was the only one between the two of us that cared deeply, if I was the only one falling in love. He had spent the night in my place, living in a dorm room, he slept in the spare bed I had. Earlier in the day we had spent some time cuddling but when it came time to go to sleep, he did not suggest that I lay beside him. I desperately wanted to lie beside him, so in the middle of the night I woke up and lay next to him. I asked him if I could hold him, half asleep he said yes. But what he really wanted to say was no. What he really wanted was for me to stay in my own bed, he felt violated, despite the fact that he asked me to rub on his chest, despite the fact that he grabbed hold of my penis until I reached my climax.

            We were navigating the grey space between the black and white of our lives; his brown skin against my white skin, we were both unsure about what it all meant. All he knew was that I was falling for him and all I knew was that I was the one who would have a lot to lose—after all, men throw themselves at him left and right. He is the popular kid and I resorted back to my middle school self: the awkward kid who was not liked, never popular, and definitely not one to be desired.

            After the last time we saw one another, we’d go weeks without talking. It would take several intense conversations but he and I would reach the conclusion that we both cared for one another and wanted to remain in each other’s lives. A few days later he arrived in Miami. As we rode in the car I did my best to create small talk because I did not just want to keep staring at him. He kept asking what I was looking at but I just could not believe that he was within reach. As we approached the hotel and entered the room I was relieved to see two full size beds. After what happened between us the last time we spent the night together, I was afraid of having to sleep in bed next to him.

            The truth is that I am afraid that I have been damaged by past trauma. Recently, I decided to share that as a child I experienced abuse from both boys and girls in my family. I was attempting to suppress the memories because one of my abusers is someone in my immediate family and I could not handle remembering how they treated me. As a young gay man, society had conditioned me to believe that my only value was my body and the sexual behaviors I would participate in.  I realized that in my attempt to ignore the deep rooted shame, in my attempt to pretend that none of it happened, I was repeating the cycle of abuse. The truth is I struggle with intimacy; I struggle to accept the fact that a guy could hold me without having to fuck me.

            There he laid with his eyes shut, at peace, laying in the glow of his wonder. I woke up to him on my left—a man who had to design his own path. There, with his blackish tank top and his grey underwear laid a man who I have come to care for deeply. The wrinkles around his eyes, the lines on his forehead—proof of his struggle, proof of his laugher, proof that he has lived a life that at times aged him far too soon. Maybe an effect of the testosterone shots, but it did not matter because as he smiled and said, “I know I’m cute in my sleep,” he must have felt the heaviness of my awe stricken gaze, I rolled my eyes and silently agreed with him. I did not want him to think I thought he was as beautiful, as handsome, as wonderful in my eyes as the ocean was in the eyes of the countless that sought it out daily.

            I did not want to be one who fell from a cliff to feel the impact of my body clashing into the ocean’s thin but powerful armor. I did not want to be the one who fell for a man who would put in the effort to make me feel this special. I didn’t want to get caught in the in between again, lost in translation, trying to determine what it all meant to have him in bed next to me. All I could think about was the tragic ending that was surely coming. Shame, fear, and experience taught me that foreboding joy would lessen the hurt of being walked out on, of having someone decide that despite how great he thought I was, I was not worth stepping into the arena for.

            What I did not know was that the two nights I spent with him in Miami would be the last time I’d spend time with him; it would be the last time he and I would have a face to face conversation. It would be the last time he wrapped his arms around me, the last time I’d lay my head against his chest, the last time our lips would meet, the last time we’d stare into each other’s eyes. Weeks after our return from Miami, we would have another argument. I was tired of existing in limbo: we were “just friends”—but we were friends who kissed one another. We were friends who shared intense intimate moments. We’d have these romantic experiences when we would hang out but it was never a “date”. I was in need of certainty and he was persistent in not wanting to provide me with the stability I craved.

            Between two wonders exists one definite truth: love is not always shared in an equitable manner. My love for him could not knock down his walls; it could not make him take all of my love with him. Instead of embracing all of me, he pushed me over the cliff. He let me fall with no intentions of catching me before I would hit the ground. I think of him daily. I think about our final nights together and sometimes it hurts my heart to carry the love I still have for my dream man made. It hurts to know that he could walk away, proving once more to me that love is elusive. It is my greatness they adore but my heart they ignore, that despite how wonderful they claim I am, there’s something about me that prevents them from fully loving me. Between two wonders I am forced to face my worn out, bitter, hurt, scared, and lonely self. I am forced to remind myself that I am enough, that I am indeed deserving of love and belonging.

Writer's Note:

As a writer, I love for the stories I write and the material I create to be shared and discussed-- however, I ask that you respect my intellectual property and that you attribute my writing if you decide to share it on any other platform:

Written by Mark Travis Rivera | www.MarkTravisRivera.com.

Thank you in advance.