Spinning

In high school, I spent a lot of time at my friend's house in New Jersey. His parents were divorced but lived in fairly close proximity to each other. His mother's house was a sprawling Victorian with lots of room and a piano in the living room. I couldn't play but I could sing. And we would spend hours at the piano with him playing, and me singing. Or both of us singing. Or just making things up as we went along. I felt I belonged there, at that piano with him. We would do this late into the night then crash on the sofas in the living room to fall asleep. As we would lay there we would play a game. One of us would think of a color and the other would try to guess which color the other was thinking of. We were so in sync that we often guessed on the first try.

One morning -- after an exceptionally long evening of belting out songs from Chess, Les Miz, Song & Dance (Tell Me On a Sunday was my signature number) and probably some of Billy Joel's Captain Jack -- I found myself alone in the living room with my friend's mom.

"Was that you singing last night?"

Oh. Yes. I'm sorry. Was I too loud? I hope we didn't keep you up.

"Oh no. Not at all. I just wanted to let you know that you have a beautiful voice."

Oh. Thanks.

And I left the room. I wasn't used to being complimenting. My friend was the star, the talented one. He got all the girls. He got the lead in all the plays and musicals. He was the "It" Boy in my world and I was a sidekick: Pancho to his Don Quixote, Robin to his Batman. You get the point. No one had ever acknowledged my talent and I didn't know how to accept it.

But I loved singing. It took me away.

Another thing that took me away was our late nights in the local playground. I became friendly with his New Jersey crew and we spent many late evenings playing on the swing sets, sliding down the slide or talking in low, hushed voices about life and philosophy.

"What are you most afraid of?" was always a big question to pose to the group. And me, feeling like an outsider in their group -- a welcome outside but an outsider nonetheless -- held my tongue at first. Here I was, 15 or 16. Close to 200lbs. And struggling with the fact that I knew I was gay but not knowing what to do about it. So as answer went around the group --

"I'm afraid of dying in a fire."

"Drowning."

"Being the victim of a serial killer."

"Death."

And finally, me. I'm afraid of being alone.

Because I had felt alone my whole life. I never belonged anywhere. And here, with them, I felt the most inside of anything I had in my entire life. And I was terrified that something was going to take it away.

To get me out of my funk, the Girl would take my hand and lead me down to a wide open space. We would look at each other, nod, and begin to spin. Looking down at my feet at first, I would watch as they clumsily shuffled around in a tight circle. In the dark, my white sneakers quickly began to turn into flashes of light as I began to turn faster and faster. When this was achieved, I would raise my arms to shoulder level and feel the air on my arms and the breeze of the momentum we were creating. The world began to flash around me. Streetlights became meteors. The lights of houses in the distance were distant planets. And nothing else matters. We would spin and spin as fast as we could and then on call, stop on a dime. You stopped and there was a moment of pure weightlessness, then a rocking side to side as the your body tried to return to the earth followed by a collapsing to the firm ground where you looked up and the world still spun around you. You couldn't stop spinning if you tried. It was the most amazing feeling in the world. And I would laugh and laugh and laugh. And forget about feeling out of place. Because, in spinning, I was a part of everything.

The Mormon and I were lying in his bed one night. He lived in a converted loft and had turned it into a two bedroom. His bed was lofted high up in the air to make room for closet space and bookshelves underneath. The ladder to get up was steep and I never managed to mount it gracefully.

We were in bed reading and an overwhelming feeling of loneliness overtook me. I felt so alone. Or I felt the potential of being alone, perhaps. I didn't want to be alone. I felt I belonged with the Mormon and I didn't want him taken away from me. I wanted to feel him. I needed to know we were connected. I felt so inexplicably lonely and empty inside. Maybe I could feel him pulling away. There were waves of ambivalence over the past few weeks. Sometimes, he would disappear for days and not answer phone calls or emails or text messages.

Will you lie on top of me?

"What?"

Will you put your book down and lie on top of me?"

"Not tonight. Go to bed."

I felt like a little kid put in his place. I wasn't asking for sex. This was deeper than sex. I needed to feel the weight of his body on me to make me feel like I was there. Like I was present. But I didn't know how to verbalize it in the moment. I just wanted him to hold me. And I turned away from him, defeated, and stared up at the ceiling and the room started spinning. But it was spinning out of my control. And I was a part of nothing. I had asked for something I wanted, something I needed, and had been denied.

Who's gonna break my fall
When the spinning starts?
The colors bleed together and fade
Was it ever there at all?
Or have I lost my way?
The path of least resistance
Is catching up with me again today.
-- Brandi Carlile