Date: Friday, July 18, 2025
Mood: Vigilant
Music: Between The Bars by Elliott Smith
Dear Richard,
It’s 6:00 PM on a Friday. The "Witching Hour."
I’m sitting on the patio, pretending to read a book. Inside, I can hear the specific, hollow glug-glug-glug of wine being poured into a large glass.
Levi is celebrating. He closed a big deal today. He’s "better" now—he sees a therapist, he counts his drinks, he stops after two. He has done the work that you never could. But my body doesn't know the difference. When I hear that cork pop, my stomach tightens. I go into surveillance mode. I watch his eyes to see if they’re glazing over. I watch his hands to see if they’re getting clumsy.
I’m thinking about the "Miracle" today.
Do you remember how we used to describe ourselves? We were unicorns. Two men in their thirties, in the Midwest, in the mid-2000s, both fresh out of marriages to women, both with kids.
The odds of us finding each other were astronomical. We used to lie in bed and talk about it like it was divine intervention. We bonded over the scars of our religious upbringings—the years of sitting in pews, praying the gay away, trying to be the husbands our families wanted us to be. We bonded over the guilt of breaking our wives’ hearts to save our own souls.
We understood a language no one else spoke. The language of late bloomers. The language of men who had lived half a life in costume.
But the "Miracle" had a cost, didn't it?
We were so free, but we were so damaged. You told me once that the alcohol turned the volume down. You said that even though you were out, even though you were proud, there was a hum of anxiety in your brain—the residue of thirty years of hiding—and the whiskey was the only thing that hit the mute button.
I see that same anxiety in Levi.
He drinks for the same reasons you did. To quiet the impostor syndrome. To numb the residual guilt of the divorce. To handle the pressure of being a stepfather to three kids who aren't his.
And I ask myself the question that keeps me up at night: Why do I pick them?
Why did I leave a drunk in Cincinnati only to marry a drunk in Los Angeles?
Is it a coincidence? Or is there something broken in me that seeks out chaos? Maybe I like being the sober one. Maybe I like being the "Designated Driver" of the relationship. If you guys are the ones stumbling, then I get to be the one who is in control. I get to be the savior. I get to be the martyr.
I hated your drinking, Richard. I hated the mean things you said when you were wasted. I hated the nights you passed out in your scrubs.
But I never left you because of it. I cheated, and you left me.
And now, I stay with Levi. I hold his hand through the relapses. I drive him to his meetings when he falls off the wagon. I applaud his progress. I am doing for him what I should have done for you.
I wonder sometimes if I’m punishing myself. Or maybe I just don't know how to love a man who stands on his own two feet. Maybe if I met a man who was completely whole, I wouldn't know where to put my hands.
Levi just walked out onto the patio. He looks happy. He’s holding his one glass of wine. He kissed my forehead and asked if I wanted a sparkling water.
He’s trying, Richard. He really is. But I look at him, and I see the ghost of you holding a bottle of Jack Daniels, telling me it’s the only medicine that works.
I hope you found a different medicine. I hope you finally found the mute button.
Love always,
Taylor