I've always dismissed the relationship I had with Selena as a passing affair between the dissolution of my marriage to Tonya and the beginning of my marriage to Her. I mentioned Selena in passing, not even by name, to my therapist while relating a quick, Reader's Digest version of my wretched love life. I dismissed her as a “Hippie chick with whom I had nothing in common.” I wonder now if I didn't have more in common with her than I was willing to admit to myself. The relationship was certainly stormy, from my side of the bed.

I wake up from a morning nap, alone, still clutching my hug pillow, hood of sweatshirt pulled over my head, hidden under the covers of my darkened bedroom. I hear the ocean. I hear things fall heavily outside in the stairwell. A car passing by. More ocean. Waves and waves. Another car. Another wave. Slowly coming in. Crashing gently, smoothly, slowly, out on the long, slick sand. Not fast. Not agitated. Slow. I am aroused. I suppress it. The synthesizer begins. I have left the ambient radio station playing. I think of Selena.

I sell my Victorian in San Francisco. A pallet's worth of my remaining possessions: Books, clothes, camping gear is on its way to Europe. All has dissolved along with the marriage. Tonya. Long, golden blond hair. A beautiful hour-glass figure. A tortured childhood. Intelligent, charming, successful in life. Leaves me for an overweight, un-showered, crawling, drunken bookkeeper, living in a dark hole of an apartment in Daly City. She fell in love with him. He loves me like a man.

I move to my friend Peter's house in Berkeley until my time at the University is complete and my position begins in Europe. It is a communal house. He is well-to-do. I get a room to myself, eat at the communal meals. Sometimes. I contribute to the income of the house, but I cannot remember how much or when. I live there for at least three months. Maybe more. I do not eat often. I am often awake for long periods of time. I am manic.

In retrospect, everyone in the house must know I am crazy, but no one ever comes out and says anything, directly, to me. A young schoolteacher lives in the basement. She has a quiet boyfriend who comes around now and again. Peter lives in the master bedroom, has an office somewhere in Berkeley. Selena is there when I move in. Or does she come later?

(I have come back from later in my narrative to amend this. Selena is living in a different house elsewhere in Berkeley. She never moves into the house where I am staying.)

Selena is seeing some guy who I do not meet until... afterwards. She is small, compact, tight, well-built. About five years younger than me. In her early thirties, I guess. She radiates sexuality. I am instantly drawn to her. We talk, a lot. I begin to mutate. I grow my beard. I let my hair grow longer. I retreat from society. I talk to Selena. Like a chameleon, I acquire her identity.

She follows me around a lot while I take care of business in The City. She meets my gay friends. She is not impressed by the gay culture in which I have immersed myself. My friends treat her at arm's length. I sense this and it piques me. I have stopped drinking and I do not smoke at this time. I am very thin. We attend the Gay Freedom Day festivities and party together at an apartment on Castro. Men are giving one another blow-jobs on the balcony. She goes to look. She returns, looks at me, and shrugs. She is unimpressed. Odd.

She follows me when I go to the Victorian to handle final clean-up and preparation before the sale. Tonya has fundamentally disappeared and, in what has been and will continue to be a pattern in my life, I am left to pick up the pieces. We are lying on the floor together listening to ambient music (called New Age at that time – I think the term is still used.) On the floor of what was once my study. Nothing left now. Sounds of the street drifting in. Cars passing by. We are talking but I cannot for the life of me remember about what. She laughs, sits up, tears off my pants, and blows me.

Or tries to. I am so caught off guard by this I am unable to respond. We talk about it. It is our first sexual encounter. We have often slept together, but no more. I ask her about her boyfriend. She says he will understand. Understand? As long as it's only oral sex. Only oral sex? I am abashed and confused. But I am lonely. I reach some sort of satisfaction. I cannot remember how.

We continue seeing one another frequently. The encounters increasingly become sexual. She begins to fall in love with me. She has difficulties at work. In retrospect, knowing what I now know about myself and this bizarre disorder, and watching others experience it, I believe she was (is) bipolar in some form or another. At this time I see nothing wrong in her. She is perfect. She has command of life. She has command of me. We decide to find a place together.

Selena often talks about her work with her therapist. I listen politely but it threatens me. I think she understands that I need to see a therapist. I do not. We talk about life, childhood, upbringing. Later, after I have moved to Europe without her, it is these musings that will enable me to break free at last of my mother's domination. I never thanked Selena for this. Our relationship ended acrimoniously. Or fizzled out. Or what??? I cannot remember now.

Selena often talks about getting raped as an infant. She explains how to detect the pre-verbal memories of such a trauma. I am fascinated but very, very dubious. I will come back to this later in life when all I have is The Icarus Project.

We move in together in a room in a house on the border between Berkeley and Oakland. Selena surprises me with a cat. I did not know she had a cat. She never spoke of it. I am allergic to her cat but decide to take antihistamines. I ask her about her boyfriend. She is evasive. We make love for the first time.

We make friends with a Shakespearean actor who lives at the house. There is someone else, too. Or not. The antihistamines begin to make me a little psychotic. I am still not eating very much. I am very thin. My memory of this time is a disassembled quilt. The actor gets us free tickets to see Shakespeare in the Round in Berkeley. We often attend these outdoor, summer performances. We get to go backstage to visit with him and other members of the cast. He gets bad reviews and is very downcast.

My parents come to visit the west coast for the first time since I moved. My father has Alzheimer's Disease. I have spoken to my mother numerous times about Selena on the telephone. They visit us at the house. I am eager with anticipation. Selena is evasive. My mother lets it be known that she does not approve of Selena. Privately I am enraged. We speak on the telephone. She says that Selena isn't pretty enough. How pretty should she be? She's too small. I should find a woman closer to my own size. What does that mean? She's too old. I should find a younger girl. Selena is around my own age. How much younger? I don't approve.

Never enough. Too short. Too tall. Too old. Too young. Too heavy. Too skinny. Too pretty. Not pretty enough. Never quite right. I should keep looking. Besides, I love you. Isn't that enough? Who do you love more? These girls or me? Even as I write this I feel the floor falling out beneath me. I must hold on. I must get this down. I must hold on.

Fucking witch blood bitch. I hope you're burning in Hell.

But at this time I am deeply disappointed. Selena is not to be mine. Another sadness to file away. The days drift into lazy waiting for my departure to Europe. We love one another but it's habit. We want each other but the divide is already between us. She watches me slip away, helpless to prevent it. She does not cry. She does not beg. I lose interest. We promise to stay in touch with one another via email. I leave for Europe. Selena drives me to the airport. She cries at my farewell. I console her but my heart and mind are already elsewhere.

Selena visits me in Europe. I have not yet mastered the language of the country in which I reside. She is disappointed. She got the impression from my mail that I was fluent. I work harder at learning the language. We make love at my second apartment. We talk about marriage afterwards. After much intellectual debate I agree to marry her. She smiles remotely and says, “Someone finally offered to marry me.” She returns to the States the next day.

The relationship dissolves in dreadful confrontation and hateful email. Mostly from my side. I accuse her of abandoning me. I accuse her of being a sexual predator. I accuse her of being a nymphomaniac. I accuse her of hurting me. I accuse her of deliberating trying to ruin my life. I accuse her of not understanding me.

I accuse her of being my mother. The projection is complete.