Quite a while back I wrote a blog entry about a man named Randy. To summarize the entry shortly: I feared that I was in danger of doing to someone else what Randy had inflicted on me. On a whim, I Googled Randy tonight. Randomly. Something moved me, and I wanted to know if he was okay.
And I found out that he is dead.
That is startling. Not because it’s a shock to find out he died (he was an undiagnosed biploar alcoholic, I’m sure of it), but it was jarring to realize that… well… that… I have no idea what I’m supposed to say here. Everyone in his family struggled with substance abuse and depression, including his siblings and parents. Randy’s nephew died of an overdose way back in like 2004 – the boy was only 17, if I remember right. So I guess it isn’t a surprise after all.
I wish I could extol his virtues (he loved animals and animal rehabilitation, he worked HARD, he was quick to help people, etc.). But he made my life so destructively chaotic while he was influencing it. He intended well, and he could be so generous in his way. But it always cost me so much emotionally to receive whatever he was giving. I remember… I was about to start talking about the time I made him breakfast in bed. But I don’t see the point. Nothing I ever tried to do or say ever helped him. He refused to get the therapy that he desperately needed, he refused to stop drinking, and he refused to allow anyone to help him. There was a morning after one of his particularly cruel outbursts when I realized I knew only a faded carbon copy of Randy. I was on cruise control after that for a few years, just trying to avoid setting him off (or allowing him to upset me).
I also remember the last time I talked to him. In retrospect I now understand that he was dying. I was in San Diego to shoot my duo for Sean Cody. Randy had always been so toxic and draining, and I had just had a questionable first sex scene experience as a video model. I simply wasn’t able to carry the burden of Randy’s energy anymore, particularly not at that moment. He was telling me how he’d been in the hospital, that he’d been drinking a fifth of vodka each day, and that his heart (which had already been giving him trouble when I lived with him years prior) had gotten fluid around it. But he’d been dying for such a long time, because of alcohol and stress, that I simply couldn’t panic again.
He asked me where I was and what I was doing. There was no way I was going to let him know I was so close, so I gave vague non-answers. I couldn’t fall back into his cycles. I just couldn’t. I can still hear his voice all these years later. He would never shut up. I listened to him talk incessantly for 10 years. The same gloom and doom verbatim for a decade… He was so addled that he couldn’t remember that he’d already told me everything multiple times (to the point where I could recite many of his monologues along with him). He would look at me in wonder, as if I was reading his mind. It was sad.
But there were times when he could be SO funny. When he was happy, he was infectious with it. When he was kind, it was amazing. When he was affectionate he was rough, but it was still good-natured cavorting. But it never lasted more than a few minutes. And then all the bad would come spilling back, like a tsunami. It was quiet, sudden, rushing, devastating sadness pouring out of him. Seeing the video of the flood waters coming into Japan and simply undoing everything… yes, that is what it was like emotionally. He would suddenly undo me and leave me a pile of emotional wreckage. But although I couldn’t allow him to be close to me anymore, I definitely didn’t want anything bad for him.
So, here we are. I’ve not talked to him in nearly four years. I’ve not written about him in three years. I’ve not heard from him in two years (and now I know why), and the only times I have thought about him it has made me ill or angry. But somehow I always thought that perhaps one day he would finally mellow, and finally hear me talk. I was hoping one day we might somehow at least have a dynamic that didn’t make me feel completely burdened by him, so I put off trying to know anything current about him. I wanted to eventually apologize for cutting him off, even if after +10 years of his crap I was almost ready to strangle him (the Goddess knows there were a few times I almost smothered him in his sleep with a pillow). But it’s too late for that reconciliation now.
And all I can think is that he died alone and wretchedly back in August 2010.
I’m only just now discovering his death by accident. On one level I feel very guilty and ashamed. But on another level I was very clear that I did not want any further connection with him. I specifically told our mutual friend, Brian, that I didn’t want to know anything more about Randy. Brian, it seems, honored that request. It was so startling to see Randy’s tombstone pop up when I searched his name. And yet it made total sense. He had a very unhappy life in many ways, and I wish I could have done more during my tenure as his companion to make him feel better.
So, that’s it. I don’t really know what else to put here. This is the first time I have found that a past boyfriend of mine has died. I hope he made peace with his demons – I can still see every square inch of his house (and all the stuff that was in it, including the shrine to his insane mother). But whether Randy made his peace or not, it doesn’t change the fact that I feel badly for disappearing like almost everyone else in his life. It’s too late now, but, Randy, I am so sorry that I couldn’t love you into happiness.