By George, I Think I've Got It

I just stumbled across a Facebook posting that truly moved me. It was one man's first-person account.

His name is Ryan O'Connor.

He doesn't give the names of the two gentleman about whom he spoke.

But I know who they are.

Correction: I know who the one was. And who the other is.

Ryan's words:

"I was once employed as a personal assistant to a well known actor. He was black and he was gay. He wasn’t “out”, which was sort of bizarre because he was best known for playing an extremely flamboyant queer character on television. 

This man also suffered from alcoholism and drug addiction. 

He was in a lot of pain. 

Physically. 
Spiritually. 

My job was essentially to keep him alive between film shoots and rehab stints. This was before I got sober myself and it was probably one of the darkest periods of my life, especially in hindsight. 

I couldn’t fathom how someone who had so much, and represented so much to both black and queer culture, could be so ashamed of himself and actively abuse himself and his loved ones. 

His talent was immense and his heart, when not diluted with Grey Goose, was so warm. He would ramble a lot. I often felt it was his favorite part about drinking. The blacked out rambling. I would pick him up off the floor and take him to the bedroom, or drag him from the couch to the car service waiting outside. Whenever he was “conscious” he would ramble. Almost always his ramblings would have two themes. His family telling him he was too much and show business, black show business specifically, telling him he was not enough. 

He carried a deep responsibility to his family and his community. But, every day I saw him crumble beneath that responsibility and hate himself for being a failure. He would sometimes beam with pride when he talked to me because I enjoyed his stories about theatre school and actors he got to work with that we both admired. He was so funny and so smart. His shame was so deep. He couldn’t get out from underneath it. As the day turned in to night, day after day, the shame just caved in on him until he suffocated. 

When I was told he was dead, I wasn’t surprised. He had called me a week before and I didn’t answer. I was newly sober and listening to him drunkenly ramble no longer moved me. He died in a hospital from liver and heart failure. 

Physical. 
Spiritual. 

The past few days I’ve been thinking about him as this other queer, black actor, with the same peers, is in the spotlight. Too much. Not enough. Too much. Not enough. 

I loathe his actions. 
I will never fathom his motivations. 
I am sorry for his loneliness."

Physical and spiritual balance are key to a life well-lived.

By George, I think I've got it.