How Do I Tell You

How do I tell you what I know you need to know, but I dread speaking the words? I tell myself, “Just say the words. They will know eventually. Better they have some warning than be forced to look it in the face unprepared.”

Reading what I’ve just written, it sounds like I have to tell you that I have aids or cancer, some horrible, incurable condition that will take my life slowly and painfully.

It is not such a heartbreaking issue that I face, though. Or it shouldn’t be. And I think you have a very strong inkling, even if you haven’t said so. It’s the saying of the words that worries me. You love me; I know that. And I love you, too. There have been challenges throughout our years as a family that have threatened the integrity of the bonds that hold us close; yet we have managed to come through them and still love each other in the end.

So, why am I so afraid of these simple words that I need to say to you? Even as I sit here passing back and forth through this self-inflicted hell of indecision, I see the simplest solution is to speak the words. But that is the most difficult thing to do.

I keep trying to just put the words on paper and send them to you. It’s always been easier for me to say difficult words by putting them on paper. Somehow even that fails me at the moment.

But time is running out and I feel it would be more than unfair—it would be cruel to break this on you in the open, public world, instead of telling you in advance and letting you get used to the idea.

How hard can it be? It’s really such a simple thing. I love a man. That is the simple part. Who that man is—just as simple. He is a man who knows me and loves me for who and what I am. He is strong in his spiritual beliefs and works hard to care for the people he loves. There’s only the physical aspect that gets in the way of me telling you everything about him. The color of skin that is not creamy white; in fact it is a rich dark chocolate color, so deep in pigment that he sucks the light out of photographs. But if you only see the skin, you’ll never see the beautiful purple and white light that shines out from his spirit—the part that is what I love. I only hope I can say the words to you that will bring it home clearly. It is the man that I love, and not the skin. The skin is only flesh with pigment. The man is a dear friend and lover who makes me happy and treats me like a queen. I hope you can be happy for me, for no other reason than the fact that I am happy.