Steve Grosskopf ~~August 29, 1977----May 6, 2009
~~~
For 2 and a half tumultuous years, I shared my bed, my heart, my secrets, and my self with this man.
We lived together roughly half that time, and sometimes it was wonderful.
Steve was a gifted artist. He was tall, dark, and handsome, and had a wicked sense of humor.
He was also coy, contrary, and prone to long, dark depressions.
My initial attraction to him was visceral, magnetic, and impossible.
When I saw him, my hands would shake, and I would be tongue tied and nervous.
He was way too good-looking to possibly be interested in me, I thought.
But I was wrong.
We were caught up, smitten, and things were sweet for a time.
And then the cycle began. We loved each other and we hurt each other.
I never really took his depression all that seriously, believing he was just being petulant and dramatic.
"Morosekopf" was his nickname, playfully bandied about.
After he followed me to Indiana, things really fell apart.
The relationship became increasingly abusive.
I threw him out.
The last time I spoke to him, I was standing upstairs in what had once been our bedroom, on the phone.
Screaming at him.
That was about 4 and a half years ago.
So much anger, hurt, hate, and shame has followed in the wake of all that.
Moving back to Austin, I was terrified that I would run into him.
I refused to slander him publicly, but my dislike was powerful and no secret.
At 4am, driving to Indiana to clear out the house, I thought about him kindly, for the first time in years.
I imagined calling him, telling him I forgave him, that it was both our faults.
I remembered the good times, and laughing together.
I was surprised by all of these things.
Sometime, in the darkness of that morning he took his own life.
I think my imagined conversation was real.
~~~For 2 and a half tumultuous years, I shared my bed, my heart, my secrets, and my self with this man.
We lived together roughly half that time, and sometimes it was wonderful.
Steve was a gifted artist. He was tall, dark, and handsome, and had a wicked sense of humor.
He was also coy, contrary, and prone to long, dark depressions.
My initial attraction to him was visceral, magnetic, and impossible.
When I saw him, my hands would shake, and I would be tongue tied and nervous.
He was way too good-looking to possibly be interested in me, I thought.
But I was wrong.
We were caught up, smitten, and things were sweet for a time.
And then the cycle began. We loved each other and we hurt each other.
I never really took his depression all that seriously, believing he was just being petulant and dramatic.
"Morosekopf" was his nickname, playfully bandied about.
After he followed me to Indiana, things really fell apart.
The relationship became increasingly abusive.
I threw him out.
The last time I spoke to him, I was standing upstairs in what had once been our bedroom, on the phone.
Screaming at him.
That was about 4 and a half years ago.
So much anger, hurt, hate, and shame has followed in the wake of all that.
Moving back to Austin, I was terrified that I would run into him.
I refused to slander him publicly, but my dislike was powerful and no secret.
At 4am, driving to Indiana to clear out the house, I thought about him kindly, for the first time in years.
I imagined calling him, telling him I forgave him, that it was both our faults.
I remembered the good times, and laughing together.
I was surprised by all of these things.
Sometime, in the darkness of that morning he took his own life.
I think my imagined conversation was real.
I have lit candles, and spoken to the walls, I have laughed and wept and remembered.
I wish him a safe journey, and love, and peace.
Steve, I never hated you. It was love, peering at it's reflection in an angry mirror.
I am not angry anymore. And you are free.
I wish him a safe journey, and love, and peace.
Steve, I never hated you. It was love, peering at it's reflection in an angry mirror.
I am not angry anymore. And you are free.
