Eulogy to my former self
I am ready to die. I know it, I feel it, and I understand it. Instead of channelling my hopelessness into the permanent action of suicide, I am deciding to write my own eulogy, in hopes that I can look at my life objectively, and save myself from my own negative feedback loop. Is it too late? Have I already fallen too deep down the rabbit hole of depression, reckoning, and self-pity? Is there a life for me past this moment? Is this all that I am? A stank ass laundry bag of disappointment, performance, and blank passion?
I find myself subconciously eulogizing myself all the time. I love documentaries, especially about people who died “too young”, “too soon”. I frame myself as one of these people because that’s a conformtable way for me to think about myself, from other people’s perspective. I haven’t been able to stop and conciously think about myself. Think about my worth. Most of my thoughts swim around the transactional relationship I have with the people in my life. Up until recently, I have been on a personal mission to say yes to everything. To give a damn about everything. To subsequently dim and diminish my own light, in hopes that it will somehow shine brighter when I try to illuminate others’. I have been successful in that. I have orchestrated events, parties, shows, photo shoots, clothing and so many other facets of creativity, under the gauze of talent, of being a “designer”. However, since I’ve taken on all these titles, I haven’t left any room for myself.
This all stems back from my abuse. It’s literally been the overarching theme in my life that has kept me in this fragile and emotional state. It’s the defining years of my life that have shaped me into who I am today. It’s the taking away of my innocence and voice as a child that have me at this point. A young adult, thirsty to find their place in this fucked up world, but living in situations that aren’t tailored for any personal development or growth. However, that is where I’ll start. From this point on, I’ll be referring to myself in the third person, so I can tell you how my subconcious sees myself.
Rickey was a friend and a lover. His capacity to love others was so vast, that it’s the reason we’re here celebrating his life today. At the tender age of 4 years old, Rickey was the subject of abuse that would have an everlasting impact on his life. Rickey learned to be submissive, to please, and to be secretive as a way of keeping his reputation in tact. This abuse would define the ways at which Rickey would navigate his middle school, high school and college worlds. This abuse, this learning and dire need to please, would frequently push Rickey past the point of exhaustion. Rickey was hospitalized three times during high school for stress related illnesses. That wouldn’t stop him from achieving great things, including numerous scholarhships, the student body presidency, and multiple forms of praise and accoloades to match. All of this was happening, and somehow Rickey didn’t think he’d be good enough to get into any colleges.
Rickey was a jack of trades, but a master of none. Rickey would play the piano, alto saxophone, shine in choir, play in a jazz band, learn photography, graphic design, and even start a clothing line all before the age of 17. Rickey was seen a child prodigy, who was able to stand out even amongst the brighest of stars for his personality and wit. Many of these trades were Rickey’s way of compensating for the aftermath of his abuse. He emmulated the qualities of his grandmother, the mother of his abuser, and worked tirelessly to alter the way she had seen him the night his abuse ended. As a 9 year old, when Rickey’s abuse ended, he saw psychiatrists to make sure he was ok, and after he lied to assure he was, the family moved on. Rickey still dealt with the demons of his abuse, and replayed the tale over and over again. And thought about how many times he had played what he called the “Secret Game”. He thought about how he had been taken advantage of, but somewhere deep down, he liked it. At some point, during his abuse, he started to see that this was something that felt natural, even if it was with a family member.
The most interesting part of this entire thing, is the way Rickey never had the opportunity to really heal. He never did. What’s also interesting is the strength that it took to navigate being abused by a close family member for numerous years, while simultaneously seeing that person at family events. There was just a notion of mandatory forgiveness, and mandatory forgetfullness that lingered over Rickey’s family. It would’ve been too hard to reckon with this fact. It still is too hard to reckon with this fact. That’s why it hurts so much. Rickey went into middle school with this lingering over his head, and spared no opportunity when someone who wasn’t a family member said he wanted to play the “Secret Game”.
Rickey grew up in the church. As the son of an ordained pastor, and a mother who’s nickname could be “Mother Teresa”, Rickey’s impending struggles with sexuality and gender expression would prove to be too much for his parents. His father dealt with similar issues, and suppressed those issues by leaning more into God, and giving up his entire life to self-isolate and preach. His mother, after his parents’ divorce, would lean more into God than ever before, to be able to make it through the toughest times. She too had emmulated some of the struggles of Rickey’s past. However, instead of having the internet and secular influences, she from a little girl made sure that the Bible was her doctrine, and lives this life even to this day. Rickey, as the first born, wouldn’t ultimately grow into his parents’ expectations of him. What’s funny is, that expectation was predicated on what Rickey had presented to them. Rickey had learned his father’s way of being overly active in the lives of other people, and that somehow, it was better to do for others than to truly do for yourself. Rickey’s mother wasn’t exempt from these same tendencies, and it made for their child’s daily struggle for positive self-esteem. The self-esteem Rickey presented was based on his achievement in school. It was based on being asked to stand up at church and speak. It was based on how many different clubs and activities Rickey found himself a part of. It was never enough, there was always a void. A sense of not being good enough.
Rickey failed to mention that this not being good enough, was directly related to the ways at which his cousins and uncle teased him and exlcluded him for his inabilities to dance with the same agility they did. Dance and song were the only activites they participated in. There was rarely if ever anything different. He would get the steps, and dance the dance, but it wasn’t without ridicule. He wanted to prove himself so badly, that it was the recipe for a life of overcompensation and people pleasing. All while simultaneously being conditioned to sexual pleasure by the leader of this pack.
High school and college for Rickey were no isolated events, because they were practically carbon copies of each other. Immense popularity, never ever saying no, and riding the highs of being creative, dependable and someone who displayed quality in every facet of their work. That’s the best part about Rickey, he was great about he was so good. Literal goodness oozed out of him like Gogurt. He was able to make people feel good about themselves, but did it in a way that made everyone question their own validity. Rickey was popping, so shouldn’t we be more popping? Rickey had style, so shouldn’t everyone else around him give a damn about what they wore too? Rickey had a certain quality that was adopted from too much television and movies. He saw school as a hierarchal playground of moving parts. In high school and college, Rickey navigated spaces and found himself coming in as an outsider, and leaving as the pinnacle.
Since we’re here though, I don’t think I have to tell you that the predication of all that popularity and praise would send Rickey spiraling into a deep depression. One where, even as high as he got on achievement, the crashing lows of self-esteem, and anxieties about various aspects of his life would make him question the purpose of it all. Why did he feel like such a flop, even when he wasn’t? How did all the validation and support he recieved not be materialized into something past collegiate popularity?
At the end of the day, I’m not sure if Rickey was really able to live in his own life. No one’s life is perfect by any means, but I can say that the overarching theme of Rickey’s life, was that he was the first child of two people who loved everyone. Those two people also had people in their lives who looked up to them as parental figures. Once Rickey was born, the dynamics changed and while Rickey was showered with love and affection from both of his parents. They were unable to see the hurt and pain Rickey went through as a child, as a result of other people’s jealousy. That jealousy ultimately trained Rickey to show them just how he could rise above it. It showed him how, even in the face of adversity and being different, he would emerge.
Rickey wasn’t able to beat the sex addiction that followed his abuse. He wasn’t given the proper tools to channel that sexual frustration into things outside of sex. Rickey wasn’t able to stop saying yes to any and every creative opportunity, and subsequently failed to complete numerous projects. Rickey wasn’t able to see the harm he did to his body, while trying to fuel it with fast food to numb the pain. Rickey wasn’t able to enter adulthood smoothly because well, he wasn’t an adult. He was still that four year old child, who was so willing to please that it funneled into so many residual problems and issues.
Rickey, if you’re reading this, please know it’s not your fault. Please know that you were just the product of sticky situations that stemmed long before your birth. That you were destined to stand out and do something special. That you are beautiful, capable, smart, ambitious, and that you deserve to be happy. That your body is a temple, and you should take care of it, even when it seems impossible. That your words mean something. And you have a story that is meant to be told, and shared, and cherished. That although this is the end of you, it’s just the beginning of your legacy.
If you’ve made it this far, I hope you can still see through the tears. I’m barely making it right now. I want to look back on this and read it, and laugh. I don’t want to die, literally, but. I do want structural change in the way I see myself. I want a chance to be able to write my own story, as opposed to being the victim. I want to know my past, but write my future. I want to be completely me, and present myself as such. I want to live fully. I want to know that while these demons will never go away fully, I will still be able to maintain a life that’s good for me. I want to create that life.
Writing my own eulogy, even at this age, is therapy. It’s analyzing my life up to this point, and realizing that I haven’t done nearly as much as I would’ve liked to by this point. I know that’s all subjective to my own insecurities, but I want to be me. I want to love me. And I want my writing to reflect the love I’m discovering for myself everyday.
However that may happen, I want to live…