Twelve years ago, my mother became manic. She was missing for several days before being found on the Hawaiian island of Molokai. The fugue state in which she transforms into her nightmarish self, with glowing eyes and a barrage of unusual insults and delusions, whipping those she loves, lasts for about 6 months until someone finally puts her on lithium. Lasted for a month.
Once she came to her senses, I pressured her to get a dog. Since she lived alone, it would help her grasp reality. She loves whippets, so we looked for a local breeder. She wanted to name him Knut after Knut Hamsun, but she decided on Eliot after T.S.
I lost a lot of jobs, a lot of friends, a lot of family, and everyone called me a troubled crazy fringe, a bigoted weirdo, an embittered loser failure. But I couldn't let it go. I couldn't see through the lie.
I was about to graduate from law school when the fugue began. When that ended, I took up the bar and moved to Los Angeles. I had already experienced the heartbreaking divorce of my parents when I was an only child at the age of 17, but this year, at 27, was the toughest and most isolating year of my life. The safety net was torn and I fell through it. There is no doubt that everything cannot go well.
There's a sense of relief when you hit the ground, dust yourself off, and see that you're not dead. “That's what happened.” On the ground, you see the world the same way most people on Earth see it. All are victims of abandonment, neglect, abuse, poverty, and other social failings, and not in the upper-middle-class American suburban environment in which I grew up comfortably.
And when you land on Earth, you suddenly want to tell the truth. I don't want to “win” anymore. You want to help others understand this.
I was always edgy, but politically a good kid. In fact, I myself thought that if I were to be pointed for a good cause, that purpose would be “equality.” I dutifully campaigned for Mr. Obama, and when he won in 2008, a diverse group of friends tearfully celebrated.
But it was 2012, and I was a gay Hollywood agent working with six other young men, all of whom were gay. It was time to vote for Obama again, but this time I couldn't bring myself to vote. It felt like a fake, and where my righteousness used to be crooked, it was a place where it felt a little numb.
What on earth did this man know about anything? He certainly wasn't talking to me. I told my colleagues about this and they were very upset. Didn't they understand that their rights were at stake? I was already struggling to fit in, but this is the end. I quit within 3 months.
Thus began a decade of professional, personal, and family suffering as I slowly came out of the closet as a political bad boy. That was true for myself and the world as well. I was, and still am, a liberal. Nothing can completely erase my rough-and-tumble bohemian upbringing. But it became increasingly clear to me that the good guys were actually masks covering a barely perceptible Leviathan, pulsating beneath the surface and rapidly extending its tentacles over the earth.
As Elliot grew up and my mom healed, I lost a lot of jobs, a lot of friends, a lot of family, and they all thought I was a troubled, crazy fringe, a bigoted weirdo, a resentful loser. I called him a failure. But I couldn't let it go. I couldn't see through the lies.
In LA, I became a Trump supporter. I have zero MAGA friends, zero contacts to celebrate with when he wins, and maybe even in 2020 I only have one or two people to mourn his losses. On Tuesday, I celebrated with 100 friends, all the culture kids, and just about every recent convert who, like me, can't lie anymore.
What do we have in common? braking. Some loss, some failure, some death—the comfortable cloak of a bourgeois upbringing has been torn away, however fleetingly. In the past, all humans were hurt by war. Now there are far fewer of them. But everyone in the room took one look. Tuesday: Ten years of pain vindicated overnight.
Wednesday morning after a vigil, I drove to San Diego to put Elliot to bed. He had a tennis ball-sized sarcoma hanging from his arm and typical whippet heart problems. It was time. Two guys came to the house and did it – it took 20 minutes. Ten years have passed in just a few quiet moments.
My mother is better now, but she still hates my politics.
This essay was first published carousel.
