Compassion

I once helped a lady move from a storage space in Connecticut into a midtown apartment that she'd won in a divorce.  On the ride back into the city, through rush hour traffic and too many boroughs the subject of compassion came up.  She admonished me to be conscious of the level of compassion my lover had to offer.  I didn't worry about it.  I knew he was a highly compassionate person. 

Now I am not sure what the definition of compassion is.  Dictionary.com defines it as: a feeling of deep sympathy and sorrow for another who is stricken by misfortune, accompanied by a strong desire to alleviate the suffering.  If that's the case, this doesn't qualify, but I know he has it in him.  He could alleviate my suffering with a single word, and chooses not to.  I could get through anything with his support.

I have changed my life so much because of his encouragement and support.  I have stopped drinking, whoring, doing drugs.  I have stopped whining and started doing.  I have learned so much from his words and deeds.  He used to tell me he was proud of me.  I loved hearing that.  I feel proud of him.  I could have done it on my own, but it went faster because there was somebody to push me when I needed it and to hold me when I needed it. 

I know that I am being taught a lesson.  A hard lesson.  In an attempt to feel less alone I tried to stop in at a friend's on the way to work, but when I looked through the window there was a group gathered and I couldn't face them.  Instead I found a stoop down the street, pulled my hood over my eyes, and gave in to the tears of deep sadness while I waited for the clock to tick down.  I don't even care what I look like, or how pathetic it looks for a man of 31 to be weeping like a child in the middle of the East Village. 

There is only one person who could really stop this loneliness, and he refuses.  I have tried to explain to him, to encourage him, to persuade him.  He won't have it.  I'm worried that he's growing afraid of me.  I know he's grown tired of me.  I just don't know how to avoid fighting for the one thing I want more than anything.  I know that a cure for AIDS is inevitable, and I simply have to survive the next few years until there's a breakthrough.  I don't know how to survive the next few minutes without him.  

One of the many attempts I've made is this email:  

"When I told you that you were my family, I should have been more clear.  You have reached a place in my heart where nobody else could ever be, a space all your own.  It's like it was made just for you and you never have to share it.  I understand and accept you for who you are.  Even this, no matter how much I'm hurting and no matter how much I wish it could be otherwise.  I understand; and I know it's my fault for not being stronger, for not protecting you.....Just like one of the tattoos on your beautiful soft skin, there is a part of you inside of my heart that will never rub off, never disappear.  I am not capable of many things, but of this I am.  I don't give my heart away so easily.  I can sift through the broken pieces to find the parts that are yours, but I see you there, with your shiny kind eyes, your soft comforting lips.  It is you.  It is you only.  My family, my love, the holder of my heart to do with as you please: to honor in sickness or in health, or to stomp on, to run from, to throw away."

I know there's a ton of emotional debris to dig through, but at the bottom of whatever he's feeling I know there's a golden compassionate heart.  I just wish I could reach it.