Will’s Window: Vol. 3

There’s a scene in “The Addams Family” movie where Uncle Fester, desperate to find the family fortune, attempts to locate the gold by selecting a singular chain—one among the numerous links hidden behind a book in the grand library—to, hopefully, transport him, for all intents and purposes, to Narnia. I’ll leave whether-or-not he succeeds to your memory, or, if you’re twelve, to Netflix, but my point is…for the last year—the last five years, really—I have spent every day choosing a different chain amongst the many, in the hopes of catching a glimpse of Narnia’s sunrise. Alas, like Fester, every day I have ended up getting spat out the sewer in the backyard.

I’m tired, y’all. I am one of Whitney Houston’s “Children are our future,” and I would very-much like a word with the fucktard hippy who wrote that bullshit on a piece of paper, in exchange for a Clive Davis check, and then went on ‘bout his business, probably denying a child a single tuppence on his way home. For shame!

I say all that to say...adulthood is a scam, and I want out!
Not really, but...

Something’s gotta give. And, as much as I hate to admit or step-up-to it, I may have to rely, this time, more on myself than God. Cuz she’s late AF. Like, ma’am...in the last five years You’ve taken my sister; my job; my life in New York and the foundation/sense-of-self I built those 20 years; my close in-person friendships, due to the move; my privacy; my dad; my new(er) job; and the figments that were my dreams. Only to, what....force me to move back to the home and city I left on purpose to care for my mom—who only knows/accepts me conditionally due to my sexuality—and watch her deteriorate to Alzheimer’s, forgetting what “keys” are, let alone who I am, all the while unflinching in the habits, behaviors, beliefs, and traumas that put her here in the first place?? I am not Job, Lord! Surely, you know that!!

Most of y’all are new to Will McNair, but—and you can ask anyone as far back as my adolescence—I am usually the most joyful, Fräulein Maria, Buddy-the-Elf, Pippy Longstocking-ass human you’ve ever met. And now, for reasons known only to heaven and hades, I’m being, what...tested? At length? Why come?!?

I call shenanigans!

This is, typically, the part of the blog where I acquiesce into hopeful, “Oh, look, a rainbow,” territory, but today is what would have been my sister Melissa’s 44th birthday, and I’m sad, drunk on bourbon and high on sativa, and feeling a few—many—things! I am one Tegridy Weed puff away from Randy Marsh-ing the fuck out of my life.

I miss myself. I miss my joie de vivre. I can’t see beyond the gray sky. I know light exists on the other side, but I can’t seem to touch it, or even bask in its glow long enough to get up and stand on two feet.

So I guess I’ll go to bed.