*(Author's note: this is an excerpt from an essay I wrote)

“Let me live my life beside the river, take me to places where a child can grow. And then, maybe the boy inside me will forsake me....maybe the child in me will just let go.....” To Be Forgiven GEORGE MICHAEL

I always felt different from other people, but I never understood what it was until my first sexual experience with a man. With that first experience, a door had been opened, emotions unleashed, a floodgate of sexual energy just ripe for the picking. This is what I had been missing my whole life. Suddenly everything seemed so much brighter and purposeful. Once I realized, or should I say accepted, the fact that I was gay, I still had so many confusing doubts and fears. I had this notion of gay people, learned no doubt from all the negative stereotypes. All the gay people I knew were “flaming queens”. I knew I wasn’t like that, but I thought that’s how all gay people acted. I don’t know if I ever would have felt at ease with my sexuality if it hadn’t been for one person in particular. His name was Duane.

At the time, he was my closest friend. When I first met him, it was at a gay underage dance club. I think I was 19 at the time, and he was maybe a year younger than that. Duane was the one person I saw there on a regular basis. In fact, he was there probably more than I was. I know there wasn’t any initial attraction between either of us, which is probably what made us become such good friends. I wasn’t his type and he certinly wasn’t mine. We just seemed to click together so well as friends. We would go clubbing and drinking together, and sometimes get stoned together. We both came out of the closet, so to speak, at around the same time. It was his friendship that helped me realize it was ok to be who and what I am, a homosexual. I think we learned a lot from each other, and I’m glad if my friendship helped him in any way, because I know he helped me a lot.

I don’t remember how we met exactly, and when I first met him I didn’t think I would like him. He was what I would classify as a typical jock. Looking at him, it was hard to tell he was gay. He played football in high school, and had a build like a musclehead. The epitome of all things I ordinarily found distasteful. Things I never participated in during high school. I realize now why I hated those things, partly because they all seemed like very “Hetero” activities. Something I felt I could never be a part of because of my feelings and tendencies, not to mention my less than masculine physique. But With Duane,these were all qualities I learned to appreciate about him. In fact, I liked him because of his “redneck-esque” characteristics. What he taught me was that you don’t have to be “queeny” to be gay. I soon found that there were many people just like me who were gay. He made me feel like being gay wasn’t so bad, and actually something I could live with.

During those early exploratory years, he was the one constant thing in my life. He was the one who kept me out of trouble, and on occasion, got me into trouble. He was always there for me. And he was always happy. There was something about his incessant smile that really bothered me at first. But then I grew to appreciate that about him as well. In fact, I looked forward to it. I never saw him get mad. I always used to tell him he was too nice for his own good. Sometimes people took advantage of him, myself included. When his parents found out that he was gay, they kicked him out of their house. He never held that against them, though. In fact, it made him try even harder to get close to them. He wanted their acceptance so much.

Being new on the gay scene I had all these questions and fears about AIDS, as did he. We both considered ourselves pretty safe, and used to lecture each other when one of us got out of control, or had too much to drink (usually it was me). As far as promiscuity, we were both pretty equal. I had many flings when I first came out, but I was always relatively careful. There are some things, no matter how close you are to someone, that you just don’t share. We never talked about what we did during sex, but I always had the impression that he was safe. I became involved in my first long term relationship when I was 21. He also became involved with someone around the same time. So we started spending less and less time together.

One things lead to another, and soon a week or two would go by without a word to one another. One big thing that eventually seperated us was the fact that I had turned 21 and he hadn’t. In keeping with our tradition, I would sometimes go to the underage place just to hang out with him, but it just didn’t compare to the “real” clubs. I think he knew this, and never held it against me. A part of me always felt guilty for leaving him behind. But I had started meeting new friends, and we both were busy with our boyfriends. I could feel our friendship gradually slipping away. We still cared about each other a great deal, and made time for each other when we could. I still considered him my closest friend, but instead of getting together every weekend, it was more like once or twice a month. We still talked to each other on a regular basis, with every intention of getting together more often. I had made big plans with him to hit the town on his 21st birthday, which was very soon. There were so many places I wanted to show him. But fate took a horrible turn and he never made it. He died six months before he turned 21.

“And for the first time Heaven seemed insane, cause Heaven is to blame for taking you away....” Tear SMASHING PUMPKINS

My friend is dead, and this is something that I’ve never been able to come to terms with or address properly. When he died suddenly, a small part of me died with him. Some of my ideals and beliefs were crushed, along with my optimism, only to be replaced by pessimism and anger, and a deep rooted sense of bitterness. All the negative feelings I had finally overcome had once again resurfaced. I suddenly hated life again, and was mad at everything and everyone. It made me angry, but at the same time it also scared me. His death frightened me in more ways than one. When I first heard he was in the hospital, I was afraid to admit to myself, the thing he couldn’t tell me, the thing I didn’t want to hear, the thing I was too troubled by to even contemplate. He was going to die. I honestly don’t know if he truly knew he was going to die, I imagine he did. . He had contracted pneumonia. He had been hospitalized once before when he was younger for the same thing. Some people just have bad lungs, it doesn’t necessarily mean that they have AIDS, or that they are going to die. I kept trying to believe that, but it was hard to remain positive. He told me everything was just fine, that they would be releasing him from the hospital in a few days. I don’t know if he was trying to convince me or himself that everything was going to be fine. I believed him because I so desperately wanted to. When I visited him in the hospital, all I could feel was a sense of disarrayed detachment. I think I stayed for maybe an hour at the most. It just hadn’t sunk in yet the gravity of the situation.

It is amazing how much a person can change in only a matter of weeks, days even. I had never seen him look so gaunt. He was employed by a furniture moving company, and he once had bulky muscular arms, and a gorgeous chest, the kind that attracts older men and body builders. What I was looking at in the hospital was not him. He seemed more like a washed out inflatable raft that had been partially deflated. We talked briefly, superficially. We talked about nothing in particular, yet I knew every winded word he uttered was important to him because each syllable was a struggle, and each word could be his last. It was like he was borrowing air just to talk to me, and every breathe seemed like a slow negotiation with death. Every so often he would stop in a middle of a sentence and take a breathe from the oxygen mask that was strapped around his face. He had it pulled down when I came in, I think to give me the impression that he didn’t need it at all. But soon the futility of that became all too apparent as he was gasping for air, and he finally put the mask up to his mouth.

It was painful to watch someone so hearty and so strong, a person I always looked to for support, fighting to catch his breathe. I think I felt it then, but I was denying it. I even allowed myself to leave because I kept telling myself he was going to be fine. All the rationalizations, no matter how crazy, seemed believable at the time. But I knew the truth. I was afraid, so afraid to face it. By facing the truth I had to admit to myself that my friend might die. I also had to face the fact that no one was safe from the plague of AIDS. The disease was no longer something that just happened to other faceless people, anonymous people, people I didn’t know. Our roles could just as easily have been reversed. It could have been me in the hospital bed, fighting for life. Thinking about all of this, I actually started having a panic attack in the hospital room.

At that moment, I had never been more afraid or more disgusted with myself. I actually felt dirty inside, like this was some type of punishment for being gay. My friend was dying, and I could be next. This was the kind of lifestyle I had chosen for myself, and look where it got me. All the one nights stands, everyone I had ever slept with and everyone they had ever slept with all seemed like potential carriers of this disease. I was scared, really scared. Looking back, this was probably the dose of reality that I needed. I sometimes wonder if I’d still be alive today, if this hadn’t happened.

A part of me wanted to stay with him, but another part of me really wanted to get the Hell out of there. And so I left. I went up to Seattle that weekend with my boyfriend because we had made previous plans. I don’t even remember why we had to go up there, but I think it was because of my sister’s birthday. I told Duane I was going to stop by on the way back, but I never did.

Everybody has at least one thing that, if they could go back and change it, they would. The only regret I have in life is the fact that I never went back to see him. This is something that will haunt me for the rest of my life. I had every intention of visiting him when I got back in town, the hospital was even on the way home. But I’m not sure what excuse I used for not seeing him. I think I convinced myself that I was tired. It was Sunday night, and I did have to work the next morning. Well, regardless, I should have at least called that night to tell him I wouldn’t be up to see him. There are so many things I should have done, but I regret not seeing him the most. Because that would have been the last time I would ever speak to him.

“What is happening to me? Crazy some say. Where is my friend when I need you most? gone away. But I won’t cry for yesterday, there’s an ordinary world somehow I have to find...” Ordinary World DURAN DURAN

I felt like a coward. I have never been so ashamed or disappointed or hurt. I let down the closest friend I ever had, and there was nothing I could do about it. I was afraid to be there for him when he died, and I was afraid to speak at his funeral because I didn’t want to get up and cry in front of all those people. Or maybe it was because I was afraid I wouldn’t cry.

The whole day seems like a blur to me. I know I was in shock at least part of the day. For some reason, I didn’t find out that he had died until the day of his funeral. One of his boyfriend’s friends had called me at work and told me my friend was dead. He wouldn’t give me any specifics other than Duane went into a coma late Sunday night and never regained consciousness. The funeral was on Tuesday, the very same day he called me. It was too much information to process at once. At that point my mind just shut down. It was going into emotional overload. I had never experienced death before, and the whole idea of it terrified and confused me. The whole concept of “loss” was foreign to me up until that time.

When I heard the news, I went into my office and just sat there with the door shut and the lights off. I called my boyfriend and asked him to take me to the funeral. My employers said I looked white as a ghost, I felt faint, and my hands could not stop trembling. I took the day off and went home and changed to get ready for the funeral. I remember trying to figure out what to wear because I had never been to a funeral before. I assumed black because that how it was on tv and the movies. I made it through the funeral without a word to anyone. I couldn’t even talk to his grieving boyfriend, although I gave him a quick hug before I left. I just had to leave as fast as possible. I think the fact that there was a private viewing, family only, was the only thing that kept me from breaking down into tears. A part of me wishes that I could see him one last time because at least then I’d have some type of closure. As it was though, I never had the chance to even say goodbye to my dearest friend.

I had to leave right away. I was speechless, and I felt bad for leaving the funeral so abruptly, but I just couldn’t take it anymore. I think the shock was finally starting to wear off. At that time, I felt like my whole world was crumbling around me because my best friend had just died. All I could think about was how I had let him down, and how I would never get the chance to say all that needed to be said to him.

When I got home from the funeral, I called my job and told them I wouldn’t be in the rest of the week. They were very sympathetic and understanding. To be honest, I didn’t know what I was going to do. I just felt emotionally drained, and all I wanted to do was to forget everything, and wake up from this nightmare. I felt like dying. I did what anyone would have done during a horrible depression, I bought a bottle of Bourbon and started drinking. Somehow, in my drunken state, I had managed to call my mom at work. I had never talked to her about anything personal before, but I felt like I had no one else to talk to. She asked me if everything was ok, and I told her no. Nothing was ok, my friend was dead. I just started crying to her on the phone. I completely lost all control and cried for probably an hour. I have never cried as much as I did that day. I think after that, I cried myself out because since then I have never been able to really cry. My eyes water sometimes when I’m upset, but I’ve never been able to cry like that since.

I can honestly say that the death of my friend was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to go through. Words cannot adequately summise the depth of emotional turmoil from which my soul was aching. If I speak of him as if he were more than a friend, it’s because he was more. It’s not that I was in love with him by any means, but I did have a great love for him as a person and as a friend. He was more like a big brother to me, which was odd considering he was a year younger than me. We had a closeness unparalleled by any of my other friends. With him there was always one thing I could count on, that no matter what he was doing, if I called and needed him for any reason, he would drop whatever he was doing and come to my aid. He helped me on more than one occasion, sometimes going out of his way to do it.

After his death, weeks went by, even months where I would have these reoccuring dreams involving him. In my dreams he would be alive, and everything would be like it was before. I would wake from these dreams somewhat disoriented, wondering if his death was just a bad dream, wondering if he was still alive. I would sometimes lay in bed half asleep and entertain these notions of how he would possibly still be alive. I think I tried to rationalize every bad plotline from from the tv soaps and movies, as a logical way he could still be alive. It seems silly and bizarre now, but at the time I was thinking that he had faked his own death for some reason, and one day would try to contact me. It took me awhile, but soon the dreams became less and less frequent, and I gradually started losing hope in the fact that he might be still alive for some reason. I guess reality finally kicked in. My friend was dead, and even though I knew that, I still had a hard time accepting it. To this day, I still haven’t satisfactorily had any type of closure with his death. I never had the chance to say goodbye. And what hurts me the most is the fact that he probably died thinking that I didn’t care about him. I never told him what his friendship meant to me, and I never got to return any of the favors he did for me. I regret these things every single day.

“In our lives we hunger for those we cannot touch. All the thoughts unuttered and all the feelings unexpressed play upon our hearts like the mist upon our breath.....” Love is Stronger Than Death MATT JOHNSON

In talking about the death of a friend, it is very easy to use any number of cliches, but I really don’t want to trivialize my friend’s existence or his death by summing it up with a cliche. I watch a lot of movies, and I especially love horror movies. I used to never understand why people got grossed out or disturbed by them, or sometimes couldn’t watch if a scene was too violent. I was never one to cry at movies, but something changed in me after he died. I began to empathize with the people I saw on the screen or the tv. I developed an understanding of their suffering and their pain. If someone in the movie had died, a tear would well up in my eyes. There was a brief phase where I only rented dramas that I knew were depressing or tearjerkers just to see if I could cry. I never did cry, but I still get misty eyed from time to time.

The same applies to people I know personally. When something bad happens to one of my friends now, I feel their pain and suffer with them. I guess after Duane died, I started to feel emotions again, which was something I had not done in so long. When I was younger, I built up a wall to protect my feelings. I never let anyone in, and I never let anyone hurt me. I hated life, and I hated everybody. Some might say it is good to be that protected, lord knows I used to think so. I’ve been told I can sometimes be cold, or uncaring. Emotionless. My first boyfriend used to joke with me and say I had a stone heart. He wasn’t far from the truth. I have slowly changed, though, and am still in the process of changing. From this all I learned that when you close yourself off from emotions, you’re not just saving yourself from heartache or sadness, you’re also depriving yourself of happiness..

I would give anything to have my friend back, but that will never happen. The finality of death is unchallenged, and its mercy unforgiving. All I can do is cherish the time I did spend with him, no matter how brief. I am hesitant to say that something positive came out of his death, but in a sense something did. Losing him put me in touch with emotions and feelings that I thought were long gone. I slowly started to care about life again. I realized how selfish I was being all the times I wanted to kill myself while growing up, and for all the ways I hated life when I was younger. Life is something I took for granted. By shutting myself off from emotions, I was depriving myself of life. The very life that he fought so hard to hold on to. The very life I watched slip away from him. By me learning how to live life fully, and not take it for granted, I am in a way, honoring his memory.

Witnessing death first-hand has taught me how important life is and how fragile life is. Through this loss, I’ve developed quite an appreciation for the value of human life as well as a respect for the infinite reach of death’s door. I’ve learned how to care again and feel compassion. I am opening up more and slowly letting people into my world. When I look back on my life so far, I don’t have any regrets, except one. For everything I’ve done so far has been valuable lessons. I have loved and lost, went through Hell and back, felt pain and joy, happpiness and sorrow. I have fallen in love, and have allowed myself to be loved. So in a sense - my soul has lived. The only regret I have in life is something I have no control over, the fact that I never said goodbye to Duane. I can’t change the past, but I can strive to make the most of what I have now with the knowledge that it could be taken away from me at any time. I may not have a greater understanding of life or death than I did before, but at least now I have a deeper respect and appreciation for the implications of both. That, in essence, is my salvation.

“And I thank you for bringing me hear, for showing me home, for singing these tears. Finally, I’ve found that I belong here....” Home DEPECHE MODE

For Duane, in life and death, your friendship was my salvation. I strive to be the man you thought I was.