Bad Gay: Episode 15

I’m short-sighted. So was my mother. Neither of us ever needed to wear reading glasses. We just couldn’t see too far into the distance.

My mom only wore glasses when shopping for clothes, because fashion demanded her focus. Otherwise, she strode through life without them. She once told me — before I lost my own ability to see into the distance — that she refused to wear glasses because going without them was like living in an impressionist painting: everything from mid-distance onward was a beautiful blur.

I used the verb “strode” intentionally when describing my mom’s confident gait through life. I could have instead used “stumbled,” given her diminished sight. But she was a strider, not a stumbler. Maybe her inability to see clearly the road ahead made her not fear lurking potholes, and to carry on as if they didn’t exist.

As a result, she didn’t spend time anticipating danger. Instead, it sprang out of the shadows only once it was close enough for her to define it. And she’d have to battle it in the moment — often without the right weapons on hand because she didn’t see it coming.

And this is my inheritance from my mom: bad eyes and the unshakable confidence that everything is OK. Until it isn’t.

I was reflecting on this recently when a relationship from my past — an unfortunate, but distant spike on the Geiger counter of my romantic life — roared into my vision without warning. Except there was warning. I just didn’t see it.

Now, as danger goes, it was more like a little gremlin jumped out from behind a tree, small enough for me to smoosh under my foot. An annoyance more than a threat. But I was irritated with myself that I didn’t bother to see the red flags that had been waving for months. To me, those bits of fire alarm red were just tiny dots in my pointillist landscape.

The first hint of drama was a casual mention from a friend that my ex had connected with her out of the blue. My friend was baffled since she hadn’t spoken to the woman since we broke up a decade ago. And neither had I.

We had met at a Pride party in June and split six months later. Our breakup was the emotionally cleanest in my life. I found out she was cheating on me, and I was delighted! I had spent months trying to figure out how to kick her to the curb, and she gave me an easy exit! She tried to stir up a bit of mess in the months following the split, but I just ignored it and carried on. And she quickly faded into deep background.

One of her siblings — who she had a deeply fractious relationship with — remained a Facebook friend. She’d occasionally comment on my infrequent posts. Yet after a recent sibling blowup, the sister reached out to gossip, suggesting we compare notes on the many gargantuan lies my ex peddled.

I know I should have seen the clear danger in this, but short-sighted that I am, I merrily got sucked in. My ex had told me she had cancer and had had a baby (neither true), and she stole large sums of money from me. She’s the type of nut people make serialized podcasts about. Of course, our sharing session got back to my ex.

The sister wrote me in a panic that my ex was plotting revenge after being exposed. Damaged people are dangerous. Still, I laughed it off because it was all so insane.

But then an email landed like a baby bomb in my inbox. It exploded in a dark confetti of more poorly crafted lies and justifications. I deleted the email without responding.

I told my spouse about it and apologized for this minor but preventable intrusion into our lives.

My spouse is forever scolding my refusal to deal with my short-sightedness, which she blames on my inability to clean the house because I can’t see the grime. “You never see a mess until you step in it. Wear your damned glasses!”

Happy Pride! But don’t lose sight of how a beautiful point of light you see in the distance at a Pride party might just be a lunatic once they come into focus.