I had been released from the hospital a little over a year ago. Everyone whom I ran into, or whom my Mom ran into, was glad that I was ‘doing so well.’ ‘Well’ was what always got me. ‘Well’ wasn’t a word I would have necessarily ascribed to my situation. ‘Well’ meant that there was a time when I wasn’t ‘well.’ ‘Well’ meant that there was a period of time during which ‘not so well’ would have been more apt. I didn’t like when people told me I was doing ‘well.’ And, though I had learned to live with the dry mouth, the night sweats, the weight gain – Jesus Fucking Christ, the weight gain – the shakes, the increase in appetite – Jesus Fucking Christ, the increase in appetite – and all of the pyramidal stuff that came along with the primary stuff, I’m not sure I’d learned to live with an actual disease. That is, I wasn’t sure I really was doing ‘well.’ I hadn’t finished school (a project that should have been wrapped up three years ago), I had just moved out in August (something that should have probably happened seven years ago), and I was ten months into a job that I prayed to whoever would listen each night that I would maintain for as long as I needed or wanted it. I don’t particularly think this is ‘well.’ Do you?

I climbed into my Mom’s new car for the ride over to the Meersmans. It was unseasonably warm for a Thanksgiving day, thanks likely – in no small part – to global warming. We barely spoke on the ride over; it felt like one of us was on the way to a chemotherapy appointment. There was tension, irritability: all the things that seem to accompany the menstrual cycle. We smoked. We smoked like chimneys. The windows were down and the ride was maybe a ten minute jaunt, but be each managed to get three cigarettes in. The windows were down – it was warm enough, after all.

Mom used to ask that we not smoke on rides over to events like this. I never thought it mattered. Everyone I knew knew I smoked, knew my Mom smoked. It was a dirty habit, sure. But it was one of those dirty habits that was actually still allowed in public, that still forced you to show others that you were an addict, that you were dirty. Cheating on your wife doesn’t come out in public. Shooting up the horse doesn’t (usually) happen in public. Even alcoholism is generally forced behind doors. But smoking – a habit so obvious, so clear: from the smell, from your breath, from your teeth – is taboo and is completely allowed in public. Funny.

That my Mom wanted to make an effort – at least at some point and however halfhearted – to hide the smoking was actually endearing. That she wanted to tell the whole world I was a manic depressive was also endearing at times. It was infuriating at others. It was both occasionally.

So, we’re riding to the Meersmans to dine among eight or ten people – all of whom, bear in mind, know I’m bipolar (oh, and gay, did I mention that part?) – and we’re taking abbreviated drags from our squares. Another. Another. Damn, the cherry is so long! Another, another. Light another. Can you get me one out of my purse and light it for me? Another. Let’s get enough nicotine in our system so that we can last as long as possible without having to go smoke while we’re guests in another family’s house; there’s the logic behind this decision.

So we arrive. I tote the stuffed dates and the bag of wine and mashed potatoes into the house and greet everyone. We’re actually the first to arrive; this never happens. I am especially happy to see Sam, to touch him and give him a huge hug. Sam generally has the same effect on me as does Xanax®, yes, he’s like a giant, 6’3,” 190 pound Xanax®. He’s calming, and I feel when I’m with him that nothing bad will overtake me. Sure, bad things might actually happen, but they’ll happen only to other people. And if I’m around Sam too often or for too long, he still has the same affect on me as when I’ve taken Xanax®: I get irritable. I get a little clumsy, careless. I drink too much. And when he’s gone, I miss him. Terribly. And I want a refill. If one were to boil it down further, really the only difference between Sam and Xanax® would be that you can’t author an email to Xanax®. In final analysis, it’s probably a good thing that Sam lives in Chicago and I don’t. Just like it’s more likely than not that Xanax® lives behind a pharmacy counter.

And we hug, and it’s good. I feel like whenever a gay man hugs a straight man, there’s a very small window of time during which it’s not weird. And I’ve never been very good at determining – especially with Sam – when that window closes. So I figure a three second embrace is good, and I almost count audibly. Pretty much this is how I feel whenever I hug any of my straight, male friends, but it’s accentuated more with Sam because a) he’s Xanax personified and b) I see him most often of all the friends who don’t live where I live, i.e., there are more opportunities to hug.

Sam is a victim (I’m not sure that’s the correct word) of ridiculously high expectations. (Remember now, the posit here is that things tend toward relativity and that success vis-à-vis expectations thereof are everything. Or is it vice versa?) He had high expectations of himself and his parent had high expectations of him. He still does, and they still do. He finished in the top of his class at UW – Madison and went to Berkeley for grad school. He practices engineering in Chicago; he’ll probably make partner before I have an undergraduate degree. He’s also earned everything he has up to this point. That’s why I’m not really sure he’s a victim.