No bed of roses

Send flowers

When I was in high school, online chat rooms were a social necessity. In those digital spaces, I was able to chat with friends no matter where they were, whether that was a few houses down or several states over. But chat rooms also provided a way to meet new people. Specifically, other gay people. In my naivety, I didn’t realize that in this digital world you could be anyone you wanted to be, for all I wanted to be was myself.

Once in a room, the group chat would be inundated with messages, as well as a constant update of who left and joined. In my room of choice, there was a barrage of lewd messages and sassy, gay commentary. I had never experienced a place like this before. It was incredibly exciting for a teenager who was still in the closet.

Over time, there was a sense of comradery amongst this group of strangers. One of these people messaged me personally, which was apt to happen. He was just out of high school and lived out of state. The way he presented himself initially didn’t interest me. However, we still built a friendship through our daily chats. These chats eventually transformed into long phone calls. In his photos, he presented various looks. They all seemed to match the stories he told me. My favorite photo came from a series of portraits that he told me a friend of his in college took. It displayed his green eyes, black hair and slim but muscular frame. I thought he was so beautiful and that I was lucky to know him. He used to joke that one of his last names, Xóchitl, fit him perfectly. Translated, it is the Nahuatl (Aztec) word for flower. As I was nearing the end of high school, we decided to be boyfriends. Despite never having met in-person, I trusted him enough to believe this felt right.

Once in college, we kept up with our communication, although it became less of a relationship and more of a burden. He’d get angry if I forgot to call him. I did my best to convince both him and I that I was a good person despite my misstep.

After the first year, this long distance “relationship” became too cumbersome. Our calls became less frequent, but sometimes we would simply call to check in or ask for advice. I pressed for him to visit me, although he always declined. I imagined visiting him, but he convinced me his mother would run me out of town. This continued through graduation, until my first year after college when I moved to New York City.

After leaving a toxic job there, I decided to get to the bottom of this relationship. I spent a few dollars to receive an online public record of him based on the information I knew. In the record, I could see his family members’ names, all of which I recognized. But the next thing I noticed? He was eight years older than I, making him a grown adult when I was only a teenager. This changed the entire timeline. How did he keep it up for so long?

Through more searching, I found his high school yearbook on Facebook. I found his name, then his photo. He did not match the young man I believed he was. I hoped I was wrong, that I was getting this person confused with another. But, a heavy feeling came over me. It felt like someone close to me had died, and in their place were made-up stories of this man looking back at me. My heart was beating out of my chest. When do I confront him? Tomorrow? Now?

I called and informed him that I found out about his identity. He acted confused and proceeded to gaslight me, trying to convince me I was crazy. Searching for him online? Incomprehensible. He decided that we shouldn’t be friends and hung up on me.

I know what you’re thinking – how did I let it get this far? How did I let myself be convinced by this person? These questions also ran through my mind. I knew I was an intelligent individual, but here I was being, what I would have described at the time, incredibly stupid. But I think I can finally answer these questions. As a queer, late ’80s baby, I thought I could not be loved. I thought it was dangerous. Allowing a relationship with someone who couldn’t physically touch me seemed safe. But I didn’t know how powerful a strictly emotional relationship would be. I hadn’t considered how much it would require of myself.

Years later, I sent him this final message: “I feel like it’s time to get some closure from this. You took a lot from me, and I wish you could just say ‘I’m sorry.’ My current boyfriend says, ‘I hope you don’t have to lie to feel loved anymore.’ That’s so much better than anything you could have ever said to me.”

Although he did not respond, the text is noted as being “read.” Despite what was done, I hope he’s doing well. I wish him the courage to be himself and allow someone to love him for who he is. I wish that for everyone.