The difference between a haunting and a legacy is the difference between fear and love.

I don’t have the luxury of wisdom through years of life since I only had three of those. But it’s been almost one hundred years since I laid down in my crib and woke up in this pine box at Elmwood Cemetery, so I think that gives me the right to an opinion.

It has been a strange existence, the immaterial weight of a world passing through me and leaving stories behind. I find myself still hanging on tight to my teddy bear, a loyal companion even as I drift through different realms, watching and now remembering the fleeting moments of fear and love that defined the lives of my parents.

The smell of pine trees and jack-o-lanterns surrounded my Father on the day he was born in October of 1913. My Mother, Alma Pinkston, on the other hand, entered the world wrapped in the warmth of love and promises yet to unfold on Valentine's Day that same year. Their paths converged at Union University, where Father traded bruises on a now-forgotten football field for the soft, tender looks exchanged with Mother.

When they were just 19 years old, they ran away together on October 15, 1932, to St. Francis County, Arkansas to exchange hastily whispered vows. Till death do us part.

Their love, forged in the fervor of youth, was as undeniable as the quickening secrets they held close. And so, just eight months later, I, Richard Glyn Harwood, entered this world in June of the following year. Were their rings exchanged out of fear of judgmental glances or a risk of an eternity in hell? Or out of love for a new life together? I don’t think they could even tell you that. I think it was a little bit of both.

From the pulpit of National Avenue Baptist Church, to the athletic fields of Treadwell Community Center, Fear and Love played a tug of war in Father’s heart. Devotion to his congregation and passion for Mother kept him moving between worlds – a preacher by day and playground director by night. That didn’t leave much time to be a husband.

But it was my passing on April 16, 1937, that splintered their hearts in ways words cannot capture. My Mother’s screams echoed across the city when she found my small, stiff frame still clutching the teddy bear they gave me as an Easter present, and discovered the thin line between haunting memories and immortal legacies.

Just one month later, Father faced the unbearable ordeal of burying me again. At least that is what he felt like was happening when he had to officiate the funeral of 11-year-old Rayford Taylor, a young boy who had drowned while running into the Wolf River, pursuing something he loved. It was said that Rayford's last breath was taken in terror, surrounded by the very waters he had eagerly embraced. To see another young life lost so soon after mine was gut-wrenching for Father. With every word he uttered at Rayford's funeral, the weight of his own grief pressed heavily upon him. Rayford was buried at Elmwood Cemetery, just across those hills over there. And in these quiet halls of eternity, Rayford and I found solace in a friendship that transcended the boundary of life and death.

Soon enough, my parents’ fifth anniversary came around. The traditional gift, as all the busy-bodied Baptist women at church reminded Mother, was wood. I guess you could say they celebrated, but they didn’t celebrate together. Father spent that evening desperately grasping the sides of a wooden pulpit preaching a fiery sermon he had already preached dozens of time. Mother came to visit me.

They were both hurting, and they were both hurting each other. They had sworn to love, cherish, and honor each other until death do them part. But instead of their deaths tearing them apart, it was mine.

Father ran away again, but this time he left Mother behind. I think he tried to leave himself behind too, because he started going by a new name. Mother waited and prayed for him to come back. By January 1939, reports of Mother's filed divorce on grounds of abandonment echoed in the emptiness of their shared dreams. I was angry at him for that. After I was taken from her so suddenly, how could he leave her too? How dare he? It took me a while to understand. And even longer to forgive him.

But amidst the collapse of his dreams, Father found redemption on the battlefields of World War II. Rayford and I watched from the other realm as Father sailed with the Navy. We wondered if he would make it or if he would be overtaken by the water in the same way Rayford was. The fear mirrored our own tragedies, but Father's resilience shined through when he survived the sinking of the USS Yorktown.

When he came up from those salty waters of the Pacific Ocean and gasped for breath, he was a new man. Like the hundreds of congregants he had baptized before, he was ready to live a different life with a new purpose. He was ready to come home.

He knocked hesitantly on that same door he had run out of years before. When Mother came to the door, she looked like she had seen a ghost. Father got down on one knee and begged for forgiveness. She was admittedly relieved, as this exact moment had played in her dreams--and nightmares--over and over since he left. But she was also guarded. “What makes this time different?” she asked. “How do I know you won’t just run away again?” It was a fair question. “Because,” my Father replied, “this time I am running to you.”

And for the first time in a long time, he reminded me of the man that used to tuck me in at night.

Love persevered when they remarried on March 24, 1943, this time in Memphis. Vows spoken once in haste were repeated deliberately, this time after being tried by fire. And this time, they added one: Where you go, I go. Things would be different this time.

They may have reconciled, but that doesn’t mean they recovered. When my parents had me, I was a product of an act of love. But once they lost me, I was a source of fear. Mother couldn’t stand the idea of losing a child again and Father couldn’t stand the idea of losing her again. So it would be years before they were ready to welcome my little, or I guess I should say, eventually older, sister Susan into this world.

Their story wove through townships, churches, and finally, to Kentucky, where Mother Alma breathed her last. I don’t think she ever got over the fear of losing another child, but, then again, she never had to. Just months before Susan turned the same age I was when Mother laid me down for the last time, she came to lay down next to me, sharing my final resting place at Elmwood Cemetery. People cried for my Father as they gazed over at the tiny concrete cradle above my grave, right next to where Mother’s would be. It was just one week before the fifth anniversary of their second marriage, and Mother’s gift to him was another piece of his heart in a wooden box. It was her turn to leave him, and this time, she went where he couldn’t follow.

Their legacy, one I pieced together from the warmth of ephemeral embraces, remains a tender waltz between things that haunted them and things they cherished deeply. In the end, it was their undying love for one another that stood as a reminder – the difference between a haunting and a legacy lies in the heartbeats of fear and love. Even now, I still clutch my teddy bear, witnessing their eternal dance, and I smile, knowing I was a part of their story.

They established in me a firm, corrupt foundation. Concrete slabs interspersed with rebar, thick walls layered brick by brick laid with weeping mortar, I was an impenetrable fortress hiding in their hedge of protection. When the rain fell, it rolled off my feathered back without consideration. I was theirs to take and theirs to keep. My joy, my gifts, my spirit, was theirs to control, theirs to manipulate. Every personal victory of mine was repossessed as theirs. My achievements belonged to them. And my failures were mine alone to bear. Everything I am is in spite of them. And yet, everything I am, they claimed to be fruits of their labor.

And after all this time, I am no man's wine.

When I was younger, my rebellion was natural and unbridled. I would scream ferociously and dance when I felt and laughed when I desired. I would hatch ingenious six-year-old plots to get away from forces that sought to control me. That strong will was beaten out of me and I became obscenely submissive to the dogma and indoctrination I was subjected to.

My foundation was dismantled bit by bit, crack by lighting bolt crack, and when the earth beneath me quaked, I sank deep beneath the depths of my home, deeper than my feet could ever wander, and I finally knew what part of me had always known.

Neither the sledgehammer, nor the twister, or the wrecking ball-- nothing would crumble me like the rivers of your love would. I would find myself suffering your cruel intentions until I melted in your embrace and evaporated in the vibrato of your voice.

In falling for you, I climbed up from the pits of them. In falling, in laughter, in finding you, in my restoration and reconstruction, I would find myself. In my heart, a work began in me that would take years to finish and years to come. The re-wiring of my brain, the re-forging of my synapses, the reformation of my indoctrination---

a beautiful undoing.

We used to want each other desperately. I craved your skin on mine every hour of the day, to the point that I was dysfunctional in any context that wasn't being right by your side, alone with you. On my daily drive, flashbacks from the night before would disturb me while I tried to navigate around town. Touching you was exhilarating in a way that nothing else in my life had ever been. I got high on you every night and didn't care that I spent the next morning hungover. I went days without going home--your place became my home. I needed to do laundry, go to class, get my homework done, but I was a slave to the steps that led up to your door. I was chained to your bed, whipped by your lips. We didn't sleep, we forgot to eat. We were all we needed. You were the first person to ever make me feel that way, the first person I didn't have to force myself to love. The first person I didn't have to falsify or muster up affection for. You were my first and one true love. Then the distance came and we went weeks without each other, a withdrawal not even getting sober ever out me through. I longed for those rare weekend nights where I would drive for hours just to see you for an afternoon. I shook with anticipation with my hands on the steering wheel the whole way down the interstate. I made up lies to cover my tracks down that well-worn piece of I-40. Each time I crossed the Tennessee River and came home to you, I was made whole again by your embrace.

Then the day we had counted down to for two years came and we finally got to be together. No secrets, no lies, no shame, no distance, nothing kept us from each other any more. We had no more walls between us, no more barriers, no more flaming hoops to jump through. So we tied the knot and I wonder if that knot was a noose around our necks, choking out the feelings we once had for each other? Of course, I still love you and I know you love me too, but the love that exists between two sisters or dear friends more closely resembles the love between us now than the love we had for each other those breathless nights in your dorm room bed. We didn't care then, that the twin sized mattress was too small, that your roommates were home, that we had to wake up early in the morning. Nothing, not even the threat of expulsion from our good Christian campus could keep us from finding each other. The attraction between us, like a magnetic force, could not be bested. Now, it seems that any excuse is good enough for you to reject me. If this was just a symptom of age or time, and if this part of our lives gradually declined at an equal rate for both of us, maybe then this wouldn't be so hard. But I still want you like I wanted you all those years ago. I still want you like I used to want you for weeks. I still want you enough to drive three hours just for another hour with you. I still want you. I still need you. What will it take for you to remember those wild nights we once shared? What will it take to bring you back to where it began? What will it take to make you want me again?

I took three pills this morning, rolled Icy Hot onto my wrists (works better than the rubber bands used to), downed a cup of coffee (the first of what will probably be six before the day is over), and actually ate breakfast (it's been staying down lately).

I haven't dissociated all day long. I haven't thrown up all day long. I haven't wanted to cut all day long. I haven't wanted to die all day long. I haven't had a panic attack all day long.

It's just day one of my fresh start. But it's a good start. It's the little victories that mean the most.

Heavy pulling my lips to yours,

Intensifying my desire;

It comes in waves as your nails run across my back,

their agenda and mine interwining,

like our fingers on the couch.

Tongues of fire rest above our heads,

that no one else sees or suspects.

My head is spinning.

I'm hesitating to confirm what I already suspect

And in a moment you shatter all doubt

with just one kiss.

Cemeteries are not for killing,

they are to bury what is already dead.

I walk through the headstones that mark deaths I've already grieved,

sit on a memory long forgotten,

and ponder

how many more I'll put to death

to keep the grass beyond the plots green.

He's got a secret in his pocket

That he covers with a smile.

He says "I'm broken but I have joy"

and we wonder where the cracks are.

His flaws are hidden, his sins unconfessed.

Nobody's perfect but nobody would have guessed

That when he goes home, and he locks the doors,

and hides behind walls no one has seen behind,

he goes in his closet and looks in the mirror

at the shattered pieces no one else has seen

that cast shadows on his bright face

and blur lines so obvious even he can see.

You get really jealous when your best friend spends too much time with her boyfriend at 12.

You jokingly call Buffy the Vampire Slayer hot at 13.

Someone explains the concept of platonic girl crushes at 14.

A girl sits in your lap in class one day and you like it too much at 15.

You try making out with every guy you can get your hands on at 16.

You prove you're not a pussy by kissing a girl on a dare at a party at 17.

You drunkenly experiment [cheat on your boyfriend] with your best friend first semester of college at 18.

So you admit you're bi at 19.

You remember how your mom was so happy you weren't boy crazy like all the other girls at 11.

And how you kept watching the third Harry Potter because Emma Watson's boobs looked so good on the cover at 10.

And that you've been wearing cargo shorts and flannels since you were 9.

And you started wearing boxers at 8.

And you wanted to be a boy at 7.

And your parents learned to ask for the Hot Wheels and not the Polly Pocket in your Happy Meals by age 6.

And you remember crying because you were different from all the other girls but didn't know how or why at 5.

And that's as far back as your memory goes so you decide you either turned gay at 4 or you were born this way.

#gay #lesbian #bisexual #LGBT #comingout #bornthisway

He asked me if I wanted it and I said yes without hesitation. He picked me up with his strong arms and carried me to his bed. My clothes came off and his hands were on me. I knew what to do. This wouldn't be the first time. I knew what I was doing.

He asked me again just to make sure, which was nice of him. "Do you want this?"

I should have wanted it. I should have been consumed with desire. I should have had to run like hell from a fire inside me that no principle, moral, or rule could put out. I should have been begging for it. I should have wanted it.

But I couldn't want it. I couldn't want him. I played the part. The part where you lay on your back and beg like you need it when really I never have and never will. I kept my eyes closed and pictured someone else and that worked until I felt something he had that she didn't.

And just like that.

Dream shattered, fantasy broken, back to reality.

He's here and he's an attractive man and he's the total package. He's everything I wanted to want before I knew who I was. Before I knew what I wanted.

And what I wanted wasn't that.

He could tell I wasn't sure so he respectfully pulled away. I got dressed and he apologized. I told him it wasn't his fault, I just wasn't ready. He looked at me terrified and asked

"Would that have been your first time?"

I look at him, tears in my eyes, and choke on my words as they

come out

"With a man."

#romance #coming out #gay #lesbian #bedroom #sex

I pity anyone who tries to get to know me. There's just so much to learn. It's a complicated mess inside this mind of mine. I have to spend as much time out of my head as possible or else I'll drown in it myself. 

There's such a distinct chasm separating who I am and who I want to be. That's the id, ego and superego battling. Desires of the flesh dying for the sake of the desires of the spirit. Who do I feed? Who do I want to be? Will I ever be that girl? 

That duality bleeds into everything. Bi-lingual. Bi-sexual. Bi-polar. Hell my Myers-Briggs can't even report accurately because I show no preference between sensing or intuition or between judging and perceiving. I do it all. Constantly. I'm indecisive. I'm a hot mess with a cold heart. But we all know what God does to lukewarm people...