Finding Myself in Mexico: Part III

    Imagine if you will, you are 32 years old, alone, and surrounded by gaggles of people that are 10 years your junior. And not only that, but it seems like you may be the only gay person for miles. At least, that’s what loneliness will do to you: suddenly you are the only person in the world who is simply you. Somehow everyone was let in on a secret and you missed the memo. Not only did you miss the memo, you were out sick the day they had a meeting about it too. That’s essentially how I have felt every day for the past week, with increasing intensity while on the beach, when out to eat, when drinking alone at a bar, when sleeping in the dark of my room as what sounds like the entire hotel parties in the “shared kitchen”. 

    Having gotten that out of the way, what I really want for today is to not complain. I try not to look at it as ignoring the massive pull of the emotions that ride my mind like the heavy tides in this surf town, but rather, that I have acknowledged them and decided not to give them anymore room to grow and instead counteract them with walks on the beach, exploring new neighborhoods, and sitting in this cafe to write and trying to speak spanish when I order but still getting lost in my own loose pronunciation and the speed with which I am asked questions. That latter idea has kept me in my hotel room more often than I would like to admit. The fear of having to slide my way through another language that I should have picked up more of somewhere along the way in my 7 year relationship with a man who was ESL. But now I’m rambling, which I hate to do in my writing, so let's try and stay on a topic: a recap of my first true adventure.

    On Monday, of all days, I visited the hostel Selina here on the Zicatela strip and ventured my way up into the lofty and staircase-filled heights. This was my first journey into the land of the youth. A hostel in it’s true form, yet catered to the luxuriant Californian’s and spoiled youth’s of various countries. I discovered the shared unisex bathrooms where shirtless men chatted nonchalantly with towel-wrappd women as they brushed their teeth over crumbling sinks. I lost my way for the tenth time and stumbled into the huts circled around a bonfire wherein people choose to camp in an open air environment (and why not? The weather here allows, if you’re not perturbed by the bite of indistinguishable bugs). Three men (or teenagers it seemed) gathered around a pool table - shirtless, of course - as a group of millennials practiced yoga and thai chi in a common area. And eventually I made my way to the tiny upstairs bar that sat aloft on the hillside and looked down upon the sprawling ocean blanketed by the beautiful night sky. It was a promising start.

    Now, I had a goal in coming to this location, as I had learned earlier in the week that it was karaoke night. Perfect! In a way. Being that my one true talent may actually be singing, I thought to myself: “Here is the way to get people to come to you and say hello, just sing, it always does the trick”! And I was not disappointed. After my first roar of applause (by the way, not trying to toot my own horn here, but come on, I have to have some confidence in my abilities in life) I made my way back to my table through a crowd of high-fives and pats on the back, and returned to a free shot, the first of many that night. “Success,” I thought! My plan was already working, and continued to do so. I began to hear more people calling out my name, more drinks floated in my direction, and eventually I had a small following, all fueled by - of course - the free flow of alcohol; oh how luxurious that social lubricant. 

    At a pivotal point in the night, I was recruited by a ringleader. As I came to find out from the group of eight or so people, they had all met within the last few days and this man was the one to pull the strings. Everything was coming together, just as I hoped it would. But now I must preface the rest of the story, because it was the point in the night where my memories become as scatter shot as the stars in the sky that night. “Shot” being the key word in that analogy, because I was too deep in but nowhere near the stopping point of alcohol consumption. But nonetheless, the wheels of the night were turning, and I was ready to finally slide into a group of fellow travelers, even if they were blinded by my liquid courage and thought I was straight and 26 years old. 

    I will relay the rest of the night as I see it in my mind; in flashes: Walking down the main street and losing each other inside of stores and on mopeds, but always coming back together; claiming another enrollee from a random street corner; posting outside an OXXO convenience store and being handed a beer from someone exiting; arriving to our goal and entering a nightclub on the beach, with a sand covered floor and open ceiling (which, by the way, was such an odd feeling after being so isolated for the past year and forgetting what the inside of a bar looks like); hearing my name called out every time I sat at a new table; being handed drink after drink from my new group of friends; missing an invitation into a threeway with two of the men because I don’t understanding flirting until smacks me in the face a day later, and also because I got lost in playing my part of a straight man as not to kill the buzz around my name; standing on the shore in pitch black darkness and staring in awe at the massive sky and it’s abundance of sparkling motes, marveling at the idea each one was a burning ball of gas; a different darkness settling over my mind and ending my mind's ability to make memories.

    There I was, the star of the night burning brighter than that Northern legend, and yet when I woke in the morning, I still found an emptiness hollowing me out. Ashamed with myself for allowing liquor to be a motivator, disappointed for not seeing opportunities for sexual connection when they were right in front of me, lost in my reasonings for being anywhere other than home and trying to get my life together, I succumbed to the pressure that was flattening me and stayed horizontal for almost the entirety of the day. Going from the high of the night, to the low of the morning, left me exhausted and emotionally drained. I put in ear plugs to drown out the joyful sounds of other people living and did my best to simply float in nothingness. Another day spent not sticking to my plans, not accomplishing any of my goals, not advancing forward by any degree. Somehow, I was still failing, after 32 years of being alive, at being something more than a disappointment. And the part that leveled me flat to the bed, is that the only person to blame for any of this is myself. 

    Yet, although I lost another day, another opportunity to try and become something new, I was gifted a new day to wake up and try again. So here I sit, a cappuccino at hand, warm banana bread at the ready, tropical breeze dancing around me and tropical bugs nipping at my ankles, and I have found the inner-momentum to share my story with anyone who will listen. And while I am grateful to be able to share my story, I will freely admit that my gratitude is largely placed in the fact that I was able to put my words down and accomplish a task, even if it may be as menial as a “journal entry”, it is still better than being lost in self-loathing.