I’ve Run Out of Tears
I can’t even remember the last time I cried. It’s been at least a year and a half, maybe two. If you know me, you know that is not normal. I usually cry easily and often. But, if you know me, you also know that my brain has a little switch for crisis mode. Crying shuts down and I’m 100% chop wood, carry water. I keep things going. What I’ve finally recognized, just today, is that I’ve been in crisis mode since November of 2016 and I’m unable to unclench my jaw, lower my shoulders, and relax. I’m certain I’m not alone in this prolonged hyper vigilance. But here I am. These days, I don’t wallow. I don’t cry.
I did not cry in the first week of January 2020 when sweet Jamie was killed in a hit and run by a drunk driver while he was skateboarding home to his wife and kids after work one night. My heart clenched and I had to catch my breath, but no tears came out. I didn’t cry when my strongest friend, Ludlow, suffered a stroke in March of 2020 and nearly died and is still recovering more than a year later.
I didn’t cry when a friend from our music world was found dead on a beach last spring, nor when my partner’s childhood friend was killed in crossfire while trying to protect children on a playground. Nor when Renate died, a fierce human rights advocate who’d welcomed me into her home, years ago in Venezuela. I did not cry when I learned that Clark, the gentle man who introduced me to the team I now work for, lost his long battle with cancer. Nor when my dear friend’s partner died just days before her birthday. Not even when I learned that one of the most talented women I’ve ever known, Leigh, died in December of 2020. Nothing. Dry as a bone.
And then there was COVID-19.
I did not cry when the world started shutting down or when New York City, where I live, became the epicenter. I did not cry when the constant wailing of sirens and of helicopters overhead took over the usual sounds of the city, catapulting my brain back to the mid-1980s when I lived on Castro Street in San Francisco as the AIDS crisis unfolded.
I did not cry when friends of friends died of COVID. I did not cry when the family members of my students died of COVID. I did not cry when my friends died of COVID. I did not cry when family members contracted COVID. Nor did I cry when I got COVID. I counted my blessings that while seriously ill, I did not need to make that trip to the hospital that for so many was one-way with no return. Through all that 2020 and the first half of 2021 have unleashed upon us all, I did not cry.
Until today.
Today my eyes welled up and few small tears escaped when I learned that a wonderful friend was gone. Manuel spent his life fighting for the rights of people like us, living with HIV. For the rights of the LGBTQ community. For the rights of every damn person alive. He was a good man with a kind heart and a sassy sense of humor who genuinely tried to make a difference. And he did. And then, on Friday, June 11th, he died.
I’m angry because Manuel has left us, yet there are so many (so so many) cruel people in the world who remain, going about their lives, not giving a crap about anyone else. Why then does someone so generous get plucked away?
And the kicker is that after spending a lifetime fighting the stigma and discrimination against people with HIV, for himself, for our community, for me, he died of COVID-fvcking-19. That really pisses me off. It pisses me off each time I hear of another friend or former colleague or acquaintance who has died of COVID, but it’s unbearable when they’ve survived another serious illness for decades only to be taken out by this new lethal virus.
And then, as quickly as they’d pooled, those paltry tears dried up and said, “That’s it, missy. Sit up strong, these crises are not over. Stay alert. Back to attention please.” And that was that. I still haven’t really cried but my heart aches. A lot.
I don’t know how we’re ever going to heal from our collective grief of these past years. But, alas, we continue onward, sigue adelante, on y va, avanti. Because if not, at least for me, I’m not sure I’ll ever get up again. It’s too much.
But we are all stronger than we think we are. I am stronger. You are stronger.
We must give ourselves permission to fall apart from time to time. Then pull ourselves together again with the strength of knowing that we are human. Grieving these years, this pandemic, and all the shit that came before, is not only okay, it is necessary. But so is moving forward. Even when that means without the people we adore. They are always in our hearts and we carry them with us always. And it still sucks.
Rest in Peace Manuel da Quinta, and all who have died during these past years. I’m so glad I’ve had the privilege to know so many extraordinary souls.
(Originally posted June 13, 2021 on martina-clark.com)
