Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
~
Romans 12:3–8 — Humble Service in the Body of Christ
Yesterday turned out to be a wonderful day, even though I’m wrestling with the fears stirred up by my current medical appointments. There are lab tests to complete, a pending Cologuard result, and a visit to the cardiologist. It would be so easy to stay still, pretend everything is fine, and avoid the discomfort of knowing. But as a healthcare worker in the past —and as someone aging with diabetes—I know better. If my neck, shoulders, knees, and muscles ache in ways I never felt when I was younger, what more might be happening inside my body? Now that I am retired and have the time, it only makes sense to follow through with the appointments that allow the experts to “look under my hood.”
There is always anxiety when facing potential bad news. Ignorance feels like comfort, but reality eventually arrives—and its impact is far worse when we’ve refused to look. My sister, who lived most of her life morbidly obese, chose isolation over medical care, preferring the darkness of her room and the illusion that nothing was wrong. By the time she faced the truth, it was devastating and irreversible. My brother did the same, ignoring signs of kidney failure for years, dismissing everything to fate. He ended up suffering greatly in his final years, navigating dialysis in a country where treatment requires constant medical visits and financial strain.
Had they both simply gone to their doctors early on, they might still be alive today—perhaps limited in some ways, but present and enjoying the life God gave them.
I refuse to follow that path of denial. Yes, I still get anxious, but all I need is spending a few minutes with specialists covered by my insurance. Why not take advantage of that blessing? And why spend hours worrying about results that will be the same whether I panic or not? If something negative appears, then I deal with it—medication, lifestyle adjustment, or treatment. That is the cost of aging, and I am fortunate to be in the United States where follow-ups and preventive care are accessible. Medicare is coming in about a year and a half. For now, my insurance covers the rest. Even Jim, who plans to stay with me long-term, is a companion provided by God when I need one most.
The warnings from my departed siblings, the resources available to me, and the newfound discipline and attention to my health—these are all gifts authored by the Lord. Instead of anxiety, I should respond with gratitude though human nature is stubborn and fearful. I think of the early saints, apostles, and martyrs facing imprisonment, persecution, stoning, and crucifixion. They didn’t worry about diabetes or cholesterol; their faith carried them through dangers far greater than mine. Meanwhile here I am, worried about my lab tests like God has no role in my life. It humbles me.
Of course, if Peter and Paul lived in 2025, they would probably use modern medicine. Ignoring our health would be foolish. The body is the Temple of God, and we must care for it. The difference lies in how much we allow health concerns to dominate our minds. I have slipped into overthinking, overplanning, and over worrying—rather than simply living out the gifts God has given me.
The past few days have been productive: morning workouts, afternoon rest, walks, and gardening. Today is my day to physically rest, but my mind can still work. I’ll stay indoors, maybe clean the house a bit, visit the store or the library, perhaps create a new reel or finish a health article. My fiction site has been untouched for months. I may tend to my plants because they calm my mind. I’m experimenting with lighting
9dim light, bright light, artificial light) for my philodendrons. These small things give me joy.
Still, rest is needed. Three straight days of activity—walking, gardening, lifting, digging—have taken a toll. The pain in my neck, back, and shoulder last night reminded me to slow down. Aging is real, and limitations appear whether we welcome them or not.
I also noticed that sharp turns and dimly lit places trigger mild vertigo. This could be the blood pressure medication, the aftermath of my recent illness, or simply age-related changes—but the pattern is becoming clear. Walking straight is easy; turning quickly is harder. It mirrors what I sensed three years ago in Manila, when knee pain limited my ability to take public transportation. Now vertigo joins the list. I finally understand why people of a certain age no longer roam like they used to.
Yesterday was especially heavy: an hour-long walk, followed by more gardening, lifting stones, transplanting trees, clearing leaves, and working outdoors for hours. My mask and gloves were not enough to prevent the familiar flare of post-nasal drip and fatigue today. Rest was necessary, but boredom pushed me to test myself—I drove, revisited old hangouts, and discovered I no longer belong in those places. Thankfully, I had the self-control to stop before dizziness and low blood sugar took over.
This is diabetes: a seesaw of highs and lows, bursts of energy followed by sudden fatigue. Stopping medications is not an option, so the best I can do is manage the side effects. I took a short nap, ate an apple, made myself soup, and used Flonase for my congestion. Slowly, I started to feel better.
Driving may actually help me regain a sense of normalcy. Yesterday’s afternoon drive kept me awake and energized. But last night, after only four hours of sleep, everything felt off. I suspect a link between intense activity, nasal congestion from outdoor exposure, and next-day weakness. Add the dizziness from sharp turns and it all makes sense. I even remembered feeling something similar during my last doctor visit after yard work and taking my medication earlier than usual. I’m slowly connecting the dots.
Now it is almost 8 PM, and I’m feeling better. I rested for an hour but slipped into browsing the Internet. The recurring theme across the feeds was America’s dependence on a handful of companies to sustain its economy—many of them promising breakthroughs in AI without showing real profit. It reminds me of Bitcoin: a gamble, a bubble waiting to burst. AI can assist with tasks, but it cannot replace the depth of human thought. Months ago, I prompted it to create a PHP blog. It produced a skeleton, but the actual work—domain registration, hosting, building the database—still required human hands. If the project became tangled, would the AI know how to untangle it? I doubt it.
Night has arrived, and in the quiet of my room, the anxieties of aging return. I never worried this much in the hospital after my illness. But now, with lab works tomorrow and memories of my coworker announcing her cancer’s return, I feel vulnerable. The grief for my sister still sits close to the surface. I’m tired of thinking about my health, yet I can’t help it.
I often imagine the faith of the first Christians—those who died believing Christ Himself would receive them. I wish I had that same intensity of trust. But today’s world has pushed humanity toward self-reliance, away from God. Atheism has become fashionable. People act like there is no moral order, no judgment, no soul. Technology amplifies our impulses. Politics is filled with denial, dishonesty, and chaos. Young people drown in their phones, living virtually while neglecting the collapsing realities around them. Even I am not exempt—I spent two hours scrolling through lives I have no business observing. News of deaths, suicides, conflicts, vanity, and exhibitionism filled my screen. It all left me feeling lonely and disillusioned.
Earlier, I tried to revisit my old hangouts, hoping to feel traces of my former life. But that life is over. And that may be a blessing. Today, I still wake up, walk, garden, drive, read, write, and meditate. These things are enough. They are my new normal. Adventures and escapades belong to the past. And given the state of the world now, maybe retirement is my God’s protection.
Now I turn my delight back to the simple joys of my childhood—quiet, home, prayer, light routines, and honest conversations with the Holy Spirit. These are the things that anchor me. These are the things that endure.
2025-11-21 01:53:10
popong
I woke up today uncertain why I failed to meditate, as was my usual habit—unless I had worked on my blog. But no, I believe the first thing I did this morning was to step out into my backyard to check on my plants. I sat there quietly on a calm Sunday morning, savoring whatever breeze the day brought.
I spent several hours watering the plants, digging out the thick roots of stubborn snake plants, and breathing in the earthy scent of damp soil and mold. I probably went outside around seven and returned near ten, not only from fatigue but also because of a light dizziness—perhaps vertigo, congestion, or maybe the mold.
Lately, I’ve been spending more time outdoors. Despite reports of clean air and minimal allergens, I continue to suffer from a nonstop postnasal drip that never seems to end. Again, perhaps the mold.
When I came back inside, I used my Flonase inhaler, which cleared my sinuses almost instantly. For the rest of the afternoon, I felt better, especially since I didn’t move around much. I took my regular nap. Earlier, Jeff had stopped by, but I was too tired to talk. I knew he probably just wanted a soda and a few dollars for a meal.
Later, I received the plant nettings I had ordered and immediately used them to protect my new seedlings. I also made a vow to reduce my posting on Facebook; I’ve grown tired of flooding my page with repetitive updates. Even I am weary of seeing my own routines. There’s no reason to post daily just to assure my family that I’m fine—two or three times a week will do.
That vow applies only to Facebook, though. I can still share my mundane posts on Instagram, YouTube, and TikTok to satisfy that lingering hunger to share. But deep down, my true desire is to return to writing—the reason I began spending time online in the first place. I feel the Holy Spirit guiding me back to it. All those other distractions—scrolling, editing, surfing—are nothing but noise. If I am to fulfill God’s plan for me, it has something to do with writing.
Remembering Alan and Robert
Yesterday, I learned about the death of Alan Ilio back in 2020. He was one of the first people I reached out to for guidance when I started writing online, as early as 1996. He died at the same age I am now—sixty-three. Apparently, he was found at his computer desk.
In his later years, Alan taught high school biology. He was known in Chicago’s LGBTQ+ community as the partner of Robert Dorfman, one of the pioneering couples who married before same-sex marriage was officially legalized, due to Robert’s failing heart. Robert died a few months after their wedding.
Alan lived a few more years, though he had been on dialysis and was probably ill for some time. Despite his accomplishments—academic, artistic, and digital—it took me five years to learn of his passing.
I met them once, during a visit they made to South Beach. The memory is hazy, but I still recall Robert’s gentle, fatherly face. Alan, from what I remember, was vibrant and youthful then, quite different from the photo I later saw after his death—older, heavier, and marked by time. I often wonder how he lived after Robert’s passing. Did he find another companion? Did he move on? Perhaps not. Illness and practicality may have kept him in the U.S., where he could access the medical care he needed.
I realize my speculations reveal more about me than about him. I’m certain the same will happen when I’m gone—some will never hear of my passing until years later.
Faces from the Past
I remember learning, years late, that my old friend Philip Gilapo had died of liver cancer. I saw his emaciated photo only after searching for him online. He had been the last person to visit me in my Fort Lauderdale condo in 2003, before I moved to West Palm Beach. He came with his partner, but I hardly paid attention—I was distraught at the time because a stranger I had trusted had taken off with my new truck. Later, I learned it wasn’t intentional; the man, Nelson, had been found asleep beside the truck, high on drugs, far from where I lived.
Back then, I was consumed by my love for David, who thankfully handled my emotions with grace. Still, he never offered comfort when I needed it most. Neither did my so-called best friend, Mark, who practically lived in my condo but vanished when I needed him. My sister was the one who came to comfort me.
I never heard from Mark again. David later fell ill with several medical conditions, and my little dog Rocky passed away from cancer.
When I look back at all the people I’ve met, loved, and fought with, I realize that what I once admired in them was often an illusion. Their seemingly carefree and secure lives were fragile—smoke and mirrors. In time, we all fall through the illusion of stability.
Fort Lauderdale Years
Though I often describe myself as solitary, I once welcomed people easily into my life. I wasn’t exactly social—just open, perhaps too open. I didn’t filter anyone who wanted to get close, and that carelessness led to many mistakes, especially in Fort Lauderdale.
After leaving my difficult life in Tennessee and North Carolina, I moved to Oakland Park, hoping to break free from years of deprivation. Living close to downtown, I wanted to enjoy the lust and youthful passion common to men—gay or otherwise—driven by their hormones. That was where I met people like Eric, Mark, and BJ.
Eric, from what I’ve heard, has suffered from mental health issues and hasn’t practiced nursing since 2018. Mark, as I’ve mentioned, was a friend until friendship became inconvenient for him. He, like David, was only around for the good times.
I was often the host; my condo became the group’s default meeting place. I even gave Mark a set of keys. He never offered the same to me—but that was fine; I never wanted to visit him in Miami anyway. I let people do whatever they wished with my space and privacy, thinking it might cure my loneliness.
Eventually, I introduced Mark to some friends from New York, including an old classmate, John. Mark quickly claimed them as his best friends and dropped me, except when he wanted access to my condo. I was a friend in good times—but easily discarded when things grew difficult.
All of this is past now, buried in memory, but sometimes I revisit it to find meaning in my existence, to remind myself how far I’ve come.
People and Lessons
Through those social years, I met many others—some kind, some deceitful. A few pretended to be friends, only to use me as a point of comparison or validation. Others respected me at first, then treated me poorly later, as if their goal all along was to feel superior.
I see now that I used them, too—to prove I wasn’t antisocial, that I could fit in when necessary. But once I sensed insincerity, I distanced myself. I could never tolerate hypocrisy for long.
I remember how Mark would parade his sociability whenever we went to Miami. I often watched him from a corner as he mingled, sometimes belittling me to feel bigger. During one trip to New York, a Puerto Rican man showed interest in me, and I could see Mark’s discomfort. Another time, he tried to humiliate me in front of David by “teaching” me how to act socially. David simply squeezed my hand under the table, silently telling me to ignore him.
Today, they are all far from my world. Occasionally I recall their faces, but I’ve stopped searching for them online. My life is open enough on social media; if they wish, they can still see me there. But I no longer care to see them.
Writing, Solitude, and Faith
This is why I now turn to writing as my form of expression. Social media captures moments, but writing captures meaning. Even if I fail to recall every detail, I find greater satisfaction in expressing myself through words.
I remember visiting Alan and Robert at their hotel in South Beach. The night was dark; I recall the silhouette of a church and the old building’s wooden railings as I climbed the stairs. Alan unpacked while Robert stood beside him, quiet and fatherly. Their story reminded me of a magazine piece I once read about their meeting in Chicago—a May-December love story that defied time.
When I think of all the people who passed through my life, I see now that I was never meant to be extroverted. I thought moving to Lauderdale would change me, but the Lord guided me back to solitude.
Aging Gracefully
It has taken decades, much prayer, and countless mistakes to find this peace. At sixty-three, with diabetes, hypertension, high cholesterol, and the lingering effects of all these, I’m still here—still writing, still grateful.
Last year, my oldest brother and younger sister both passed away within weeks of each other. Yet I feel the Lord’s steady hand guiding me.
For years, I lived with my sister and her husband. I worked tirelessly, supporting the family through illness, education, and hardship. When I sold my townhouse to them and moved to a condo in Lake Worth, I thought I’d start anew. I even went to night school for an IT degree.
That period became my last attempt to build a social life—this time under the guise of charity. I opened my doors to men displaced by addiction and homelessness, convincing myself I was helping them. But it was really a way to fill my loneliness. Most took advantage; only one, Tom, eventually straightened his life and now lives with me as a tenant and friend.
It took a pandemic to end that cycle—to release me from the chaos I had enabled.
Now, looking back, I understand myself more clearly—my weaknesses, strengths, and the meaning behind my solitude. I am, for better or worse, built to live alone. Yet I am never truly alone. The Lord stands beside me.
Legacy and Grace
When I reflect on my life—the decades of work, the friendships that faded, the family I supported—I see persistence. I was never extraordinary, but I was faithful.
I helped my parents and siblings. I offered kindness to strangers, even when it cost me. I gave love freely, even when it wasn’t returned. I kept my promise to God to write, to bear witness to the life He gave me.
I don’t care if no one reads what I write. I write as the psalmist wrote his songs—for God to read.
There were countless obstacles along the way: temptation, hardship, loneliness. Yet God always lifted me from the pit, allowing me to fulfill my duty—to help, to survive, to tell my story.
Now, in these quieter years, I find greater joy in writing than in scrolling through social media. Writing brings meaning, a sense of peace, and communion with the Holy Spirit. It is, I think, my true calling—my way of thanking God for every fall and every rise that brought me here.
2025-10-14 10:34:36
popong
Reflection 11/20/2025
Romans 12:3–8 — Humble Service in the Body of Christ
Yesterday turned out to be a wonderful day, even though I’m wrestling with the fears stirred up by my current medical appointments. There are lab tests to complete, a pending Cologuard result, and a visit to the cardiologist. It would be so easy to stay still, pretend everything is fine, and avoid the discomfort of knowing. But as a healthcare worker in the past —and as someone aging with diabetes—I know better. If my neck, shoulders, knees, and muscles ache in ways I never felt when I was younger, what more might be happening inside my body? Now that I am retired and have the time, it only makes sense to follow through with the appointments that allow the experts to “look under my hood.”
There is always anxiety when facing potential bad news. Ignorance feels like comfort, but reality eventually arrives—and its impact is far worse when we’ve refused to look. My sister, who lived most of her life morbidly obese, chose isolation over medical care, preferring the darkness of her room and the illusion that nothing was wrong. By the time she faced the truth, it was devastating and irreversible. My brother did the same, ignoring signs of kidney failure for years, dismissing everything to fate. He ended up suffering greatly in his final years, navigating dialysis in a country where treatment requires constant medical visits and financial strain.
Had they both simply gone to their doctors early on, they might still be alive today—perhaps limited in some ways, but present and enjoying the life God gave them.
I refuse to follow that path of denial. Yes, I still get anxious, but all I need is spending a few minutes with specialists covered by my insurance. Why not take advantage of that blessing? And why spend hours worrying about results that will be the same whether I panic or not? If something negative appears, then I deal with it—medication, lifestyle adjustment, or treatment. That is the cost of aging, and I am fortunate to be in the United States where follow-ups and preventive care are accessible. Medicare is coming in about a year and a half. For now, my insurance covers the rest. Even Jim, who plans to stay with me long-term, is a companion provided by God when I need one most.
The warnings from my departed siblings, the resources available to me, and the newfound discipline and attention to my health—these are all gifts authored by the Lord. Instead of anxiety, I should respond with gratitude though human nature is stubborn and fearful. I think of the early saints, apostles, and martyrs facing imprisonment, persecution, stoning, and crucifixion. They didn’t worry about diabetes or cholesterol; their faith carried them through dangers far greater than mine. Meanwhile here I am, worried about my lab tests like God has no role in my life. It humbles me.
Of course, if Peter and Paul lived in 2025, they would probably use modern medicine. Ignoring our health would be foolish. The body is the Temple of God, and we must care for it. The difference lies in how much we allow health concerns to dominate our minds. I have slipped into overthinking, overplanning, and over worrying—rather than simply living out the gifts God has given me.
The past few days have been productive: morning workouts, afternoon rest, walks, and gardening. Today is my day to physically rest, but my mind can still work. I’ll stay indoors, maybe clean the house a bit, visit the store or the library, perhaps create a new reel or finish a health article. My fiction site has been untouched for months. I may tend to my plants because they calm my mind. I’m experimenting with lighting
9dim light, bright light, artificial light) for my philodendrons. These small things give me joy.
Still, rest is needed. Three straight days of activity—walking, gardening, lifting, digging—have taken a toll. The pain in my neck, back, and shoulder last night reminded me to slow down. Aging is real, and limitations appear whether we welcome them or not.
I also noticed that sharp turns and dimly lit places trigger mild vertigo. This could be the blood pressure medication, the aftermath of my recent illness, or simply age-related changes—but the pattern is becoming clear. Walking straight is easy; turning quickly is harder. It mirrors what I sensed three years ago in Manila, when knee pain limited my ability to take public transportation. Now vertigo joins the list. I finally understand why people of a certain age no longer roam like they used to.
Yesterday was especially heavy: an hour-long walk, followed by more gardening, lifting stones, transplanting trees, clearing leaves, and working outdoors for hours. My mask and gloves were not enough to prevent the familiar flare of post-nasal drip and fatigue today. Rest was necessary, but boredom pushed me to test myself—I drove, revisited old hangouts, and discovered I no longer belong in those places. Thankfully, I had the self-control to stop before dizziness and low blood sugar took over.
This is diabetes: a seesaw of highs and lows, bursts of energy followed by sudden fatigue. Stopping medications is not an option, so the best I can do is manage the side effects. I took a short nap, ate an apple, made myself soup, and used Flonase for my congestion. Slowly, I started to feel better.
Driving may actually help me regain a sense of normalcy. Yesterday’s afternoon drive kept me awake and energized. But last night, after only four hours of sleep, everything felt off. I suspect a link between intense activity, nasal congestion from outdoor exposure, and next-day weakness. Add the dizziness from sharp turns and it all makes sense. I even remembered feeling something similar during my last doctor visit after yard work and taking my medication earlier than usual. I’m slowly connecting the dots.
Now it is almost 8 PM, and I’m feeling better. I rested for an hour but slipped into browsing the Internet. The recurring theme across the feeds was America’s dependence on a handful of companies to sustain its economy—many of them promising breakthroughs in AI without showing real profit. It reminds me of Bitcoin: a gamble, a bubble waiting to burst. AI can assist with tasks, but it cannot replace the depth of human thought. Months ago, I prompted it to create a PHP blog. It produced a skeleton, but the actual work—domain registration, hosting, building the database—still required human hands. If the project became tangled, would the AI know how to untangle it? I doubt it.
Night has arrived, and in the quiet of my room, the anxieties of aging return. I never worried this much in the hospital after my illness. But now, with lab works tomorrow and memories of my coworker announcing her cancer’s return, I feel vulnerable. The grief for my sister still sits close to the surface. I’m tired of thinking about my health, yet I can’t help it.
I often imagine the faith of the first Christians—those who died believing Christ Himself would receive them. I wish I had that same intensity of trust. But today’s world has pushed humanity toward self-reliance, away from God. Atheism has become fashionable. People act like there is no moral order, no judgment, no soul. Technology amplifies our impulses. Politics is filled with denial, dishonesty, and chaos. Young people drown in their phones, living virtually while neglecting the collapsing realities around them. Even I am not exempt—I spent two hours scrolling through lives I have no business observing. News of deaths, suicides, conflicts, vanity, and exhibitionism filled my screen. It all left me feeling lonely and disillusioned.
Earlier, I tried to revisit my old hangouts, hoping to feel traces of my former life. But that life is over. And that may be a blessing. Today, I still wake up, walk, garden, drive, read, write, and meditate. These things are enough. They are my new normal. Adventures and escapades belong to the past. And given the state of the world now, maybe retirement is my God’s protection.
Now I turn my delight back to the simple joys of my childhood—quiet, home, prayer, light routines, and honest conversations with the Holy Spirit. These are the things that anchor me. These are the things that endure.
2025-11-21 01:53:10
popong
Nostalgia
I woke up today uncertain why I failed to meditate, as was my usual habit—unless I had worked on my blog. But no, I believe the first thing I did this morning was to step out into my backyard to check on my plants. I sat there quietly on a calm Sunday morning, savoring whatever breeze the day brought.
I spent several hours watering the plants, digging out the thick roots of stubborn snake plants, and breathing in the earthy scent of damp soil and mold. I probably went outside around seven and returned near ten, not only from fatigue but also because of a light dizziness—perhaps vertigo, congestion, or maybe the mold.
Lately, I’ve been spending more time outdoors. Despite reports of clean air and minimal allergens, I continue to suffer from a nonstop postnasal drip that never seems to end. Again, perhaps the mold.
When I came back inside, I used my Flonase inhaler, which cleared my sinuses almost instantly. For the rest of the afternoon, I felt better, especially since I didn’t move around much. I took my regular nap. Earlier, Jeff had stopped by, but I was too tired to talk. I knew he probably just wanted a soda and a few dollars for a meal.
Later, I received the plant nettings I had ordered and immediately used them to protect my new seedlings. I also made a vow to reduce my posting on Facebook; I’ve grown tired of flooding my page with repetitive updates. Even I am weary of seeing my own routines. There’s no reason to post daily just to assure my family that I’m fine—two or three times a week will do.
That vow applies only to Facebook, though. I can still share my mundane posts on Instagram, YouTube, and TikTok to satisfy that lingering hunger to share. But deep down, my true desire is to return to writing—the reason I began spending time online in the first place. I feel the Holy Spirit guiding me back to it. All those other distractions—scrolling, editing, surfing—are nothing but noise. If I am to fulfill God’s plan for me, it has something to do with writing.
Remembering Alan and Robert
Yesterday, I learned about the death of Alan Ilio back in 2020. He was one of the first people I reached out to for guidance when I started writing online, as early as 1996. He died at the same age I am now—sixty-three. Apparently, he was found at his computer desk.
In his later years, Alan taught high school biology. He was known in Chicago’s LGBTQ+ community as the partner of Robert Dorfman, one of the pioneering couples who married before same-sex marriage was officially legalized, due to Robert’s failing heart. Robert died a few months after their wedding.
Alan lived a few more years, though he had been on dialysis and was probably ill for some time. Despite his accomplishments—academic, artistic, and digital—it took me five years to learn of his passing.
I met them once, during a visit they made to South Beach. The memory is hazy, but I still recall Robert’s gentle, fatherly face. Alan, from what I remember, was vibrant and youthful then, quite different from the photo I later saw after his death—older, heavier, and marked by time. I often wonder how he lived after Robert’s passing. Did he find another companion? Did he move on? Perhaps not. Illness and practicality may have kept him in the U.S., where he could access the medical care he needed.
I realize my speculations reveal more about me than about him. I’m certain the same will happen when I’m gone—some will never hear of my passing until years later.
Faces from the Past
I remember learning, years late, that my old friend Philip Gilapo had died of liver cancer. I saw his emaciated photo only after searching for him online. He had been the last person to visit me in my Fort Lauderdale condo in 2003, before I moved to West Palm Beach. He came with his partner, but I hardly paid attention—I was distraught at the time because a stranger I had trusted had taken off with my new truck. Later, I learned it wasn’t intentional; the man, Nelson, had been found asleep beside the truck, high on drugs, far from where I lived.
Back then, I was consumed by my love for David, who thankfully handled my emotions with grace. Still, he never offered comfort when I needed it most. Neither did my so-called best friend, Mark, who practically lived in my condo but vanished when I needed him. My sister was the one who came to comfort me.
I never heard from Mark again. David later fell ill with several medical conditions, and my little dog Rocky passed away from cancer.
When I look back at all the people I’ve met, loved, and fought with, I realize that what I once admired in them was often an illusion. Their seemingly carefree and secure lives were fragile—smoke and mirrors. In time, we all fall through the illusion of stability.
Fort Lauderdale Years
Though I often describe myself as solitary, I once welcomed people easily into my life. I wasn’t exactly social—just open, perhaps too open. I didn’t filter anyone who wanted to get close, and that carelessness led to many mistakes, especially in Fort Lauderdale.
After leaving my difficult life in Tennessee and North Carolina, I moved to Oakland Park, hoping to break free from years of deprivation. Living close to downtown, I wanted to enjoy the lust and youthful passion common to men—gay or otherwise—driven by their hormones. That was where I met people like Eric, Mark, and BJ.
Eric, from what I’ve heard, has suffered from mental health issues and hasn’t practiced nursing since 2018. Mark, as I’ve mentioned, was a friend until friendship became inconvenient for him. He, like David, was only around for the good times.
I was often the host; my condo became the group’s default meeting place. I even gave Mark a set of keys. He never offered the same to me—but that was fine; I never wanted to visit him in Miami anyway. I let people do whatever they wished with my space and privacy, thinking it might cure my loneliness.
Eventually, I introduced Mark to some friends from New York, including an old classmate, John. Mark quickly claimed them as his best friends and dropped me, except when he wanted access to my condo. I was a friend in good times—but easily discarded when things grew difficult.
All of this is past now, buried in memory, but sometimes I revisit it to find meaning in my existence, to remind myself how far I’ve come.
People and Lessons
Through those social years, I met many others—some kind, some deceitful. A few pretended to be friends, only to use me as a point of comparison or validation. Others respected me at first, then treated me poorly later, as if their goal all along was to feel superior.
I see now that I used them, too—to prove I wasn’t antisocial, that I could fit in when necessary. But once I sensed insincerity, I distanced myself. I could never tolerate hypocrisy for long.
I remember how Mark would parade his sociability whenever we went to Miami. I often watched him from a corner as he mingled, sometimes belittling me to feel bigger. During one trip to New York, a Puerto Rican man showed interest in me, and I could see Mark’s discomfort. Another time, he tried to humiliate me in front of David by “teaching” me how to act socially. David simply squeezed my hand under the table, silently telling me to ignore him.
Today, they are all far from my world. Occasionally I recall their faces, but I’ve stopped searching for them online. My life is open enough on social media; if they wish, they can still see me there. But I no longer care to see them.
Writing, Solitude, and Faith
This is why I now turn to writing as my form of expression. Social media captures moments, but writing captures meaning. Even if I fail to recall every detail, I find greater satisfaction in expressing myself through words.
I remember visiting Alan and Robert at their hotel in South Beach. The night was dark; I recall the silhouette of a church and the old building’s wooden railings as I climbed the stairs. Alan unpacked while Robert stood beside him, quiet and fatherly. Their story reminded me of a magazine piece I once read about their meeting in Chicago—a May-December love story that defied time.
When I think of all the people who passed through my life, I see now that I was never meant to be extroverted. I thought moving to Lauderdale would change me, but the Lord guided me back to solitude.
Aging Gracefully
It has taken decades, much prayer, and countless mistakes to find this peace. At sixty-three, with diabetes, hypertension, high cholesterol, and the lingering effects of all these, I’m still here—still writing, still grateful.
Last year, my oldest brother and younger sister both passed away within weeks of each other. Yet I feel the Lord’s steady hand guiding me.
For years, I lived with my sister and her husband. I worked tirelessly, supporting the family through illness, education, and hardship. When I sold my townhouse to them and moved to a condo in Lake Worth, I thought I’d start anew. I even went to night school for an IT degree.
That period became my last attempt to build a social life—this time under the guise of charity. I opened my doors to men displaced by addiction and homelessness, convincing myself I was helping them. But it was really a way to fill my loneliness. Most took advantage; only one, Tom, eventually straightened his life and now lives with me as a tenant and friend.
It took a pandemic to end that cycle—to release me from the chaos I had enabled.
Now, looking back, I understand myself more clearly—my weaknesses, strengths, and the meaning behind my solitude. I am, for better or worse, built to live alone. Yet I am never truly alone. The Lord stands beside me.
Legacy and Grace
When I reflect on my life—the decades of work, the friendships that faded, the family I supported—I see persistence. I was never extraordinary, but I was faithful.
I helped my parents and siblings. I offered kindness to strangers, even when it cost me. I gave love freely, even when it wasn’t returned. I kept my promise to God to write, to bear witness to the life He gave me.
I don’t care if no one reads what I write. I write as the psalmist wrote his songs—for God to read.
There were countless obstacles along the way: temptation, hardship, loneliness. Yet God always lifted me from the pit, allowing me to fulfill my duty—to help, to survive, to tell my story.
Now, in these quieter years, I find greater joy in writing than in scrolling through social media. Writing brings meaning, a sense of peace, and communion with the Holy Spirit. It is, I think, my true calling—my way of thanking God for every fall and every rise that brought me here.
2025-10-14 10:34:36
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