My Shadow’s Dream
A love letter to myself
Article and art by Joe Raiti
I must confess to you, right from the start, there was nothing real about my life in Connecticut.
This proclamation comes three years in the making. Kind of shocking, considering the fabricated garbage I spewed about it every day for five whole months before it all came crashing down. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Sorry about that, I’ve been known to do that a bit. A lot. I’ve made up a number of stories before now, pretty convincing ones too. I can’t say I’m proud of it, not entirely. I am undeniably fearing how closely tied our health is to meaningful relationships in our lives and how easily they slip if you choose to neglect them. My fractured relationships weren’t a result of blatant ignorance, but instead a sort of ‘cheating the system’ of social webs. I’ve heard that an anchor to any good story is something called a reliable narrator, someone to fixate your attention on. Someone you root for through the arc of the plot and, in turn, someone who delivers a juicy ending in exchange for the trust you gave them. My story is not that, and neither is he.
He is me; in a literal sense. The unreliable narrator. It’s hard for me to write about him using I because this still isn’t a version of me I want to claim. In reality, he’s always been there; from the very first moment I let shame get the better of me and then lied to push it away. He’s only a dark shadow, nothing more, and nonetheless, he’s a part of me. And I could’ve really used this advice then, but there’s no real way to cheat your shadows without cheating yourself.
This is a story about what happens when the reliable narrator tricks you and leaves. Not an honest goodbye, no clue where they’re going, not even a death to mourn over. This reliable narrator, the person I knew I was, lived by what I loved. I oriented myself about the world by what I knew could be possible for me. “Keep your head where your feet are,” Ellen, the tax attorney college advisor, would always say to me.
Not to be overly dramatic—I’ve been known to do that a bit too. This story is not about dying, but what I mean to say is at least physical death has closure. There’s no closure here, he’s still smiling with you; carrying on like nothing off is happening as he creeps toward the backdoor. He, this made-up version of Joe I talked about for those five months, came to rule my life before I even knew it was happening.
I started college in Washington D.C. with a hunger to meet the world and learn what it means to be gay outside of a small town in northern New York. I did just that, and once I had a taste, I let it swallow me whole. Mom, Dad, and most of the world saw a very polished image of me; studying for my Foreign Affairs practicums and shouting at the Trump administration on the national mall. They showed how proud they were on Facebook; I knew that made them happy. I didn’t tell them I was barely passing classes for my other life as an underage male escort. Why would I tell them that and the good image I created?
I walked from class to class craving my next high of who I could seduce next. Or better, how much money I could get from the next closeted 40-something-year-old Republican to text me on Grindr. This is what it means to be young and queer, I thought, use your body and time to get anything you want in this world. Eventually, it all came crashing, as two lives stacked on top of each other eventually did. That passion to meet the world slipped away into traffic outside a cold night on U Street. No more images to keep up, I was too sick to come back to my life. I did it, I thought, the world swallowed me whole.
I decided to leave DC. It left too much of a bad taste in my mouth. No clue where I was going, but I was lost as it is, and had no intention of confronting larger patterns when I was just doing what I had to do to survive myself. Why would I do that? My family and friends had no idea what had happened. I just ‘needed some time off,’ every college student goes through that, right? I left my direction back on U Street. My Washington D.C., the most overtly international city I knew, became a monotoned conforming chamber close to a literal hell.
Now, at this point, my guess is the reliable narrator would take this time to reflect. Think about where this need to cover-up came from; and if they’re a brave hero, ready themselves to return to hell and face the horrors they created. Sure it might be hard, but in the end, they rise to the challenge, remember how much they’re loved, and reconcile to go forward with their life. They’re real life. Again, my story is not that, and neither is he.
This was when my reliable narrator slipped out the door. I didn’t go back and rebuild my life from the jagged compartmentalized pieces. Why would I do that? Everyone would be so confused as to why I did that. And frankly, I didn’t have an answer for them. I let shame best me for the first time in my life. My friendships and life were irredeemable, I thought, best to just leave it behind. Where to go next with your life behind in shame? I got it! Make up a new one!
Making up a new life was the perfect way to move forward while outrunning shame. All the greats do it. All I needed was a new desire.; another piece of the story to redeem the plot of my life. I’ll find a new place to go! Something better than Washington could ever hope to have. Somewhere as dark and brilliant and daring as I am - the shadow sure does have an ego. What’s the next place I can project onto? Somewhere I could transfer to that’s such a story everyone would be in total awe. A quick search on the U.S. News and I found my new life: “Connecticut.”
From what I gathered, this place is a $70,000 college for tortured mediocre artists with God complexes. I wanted to be just like them. With a somehow both disinterested and narcissistic air about the campus, you could watch the intensely queer-punk students perform unredeemable critiques on society; making little 18-year-old “This Is What Democracy Looks Like” me quake in my Vineyard Vines quarter-zip. I was scared shitless. And I liked that fear. I couldn’t get enough of it, in fact. I would do anything to get there. So, he came out, a Joe already transferred; thriving in Connecticut with the past behind just like everyone had hoped for. I didn’t want to wait for that life. I couldn’t wait to feel the relief of a new story for myself. At first, he told his stories to an acquaintance, then to a group of people, and a few days later, some close old friends, then anyone who would listen until I forgot he was a story. Finally, a lie as sweet as the life I wanted.
None of it was real. He was a theater major, for starters; but the avant-garde type. He thought those dumb Rodgers and Hammerstein shows about U.S. soldiers finding love with sweet island girls at their bases in Polynesia were simply irksome, orientalist, and dreadfully gauche. I picked up that line from an episode of Bojack Horseman. I was a college drop out-after all. He said he met his best friends through acapella, or sometimes, at a lowkey off-campus house show that only super cool people knew about. I loved telling that story. He was a part of an elite arts society with Eliana from summer camp. He wasn’t even going to apply originally, didn’t think new students were well-connected enough to the rest of the campus to get in; but Eliana was the president, and she fought tooth and nail to get him in. “He just belongs here.” I was never “there” to begin with.
I put up a front, but at my core, I’m a risk-averse person; also risk addicted. I never take a blind gamble unless I’m sure the benefits will pay off no matter what. An oxymoron? Maybe. But have you ever wanted something so badly that you didn’t care how you got it? It’s something of a dangerously blissful yearning. Your vision closes on all sides and your eyes lock dead ahead. You practically start thrashing to close the distance between you and that dream. I’ll deal with the bruises later, you think, but sometimes later only gives you a false sense of safety. Later was realized on December 4th, 2019; my 20th birthday - the day my lies about Connecticut caught up to me, but the shadow’s dream came true.
I spent my 20th birthday wandering Warren Street in Hudson, New York, alone, waiting for the phone call deciding whether this new life would live or die. I had gotten into CC earlier that last week; as soon as I saw the word “Congratulations!” I threw my phone flat on the table and let out a massive wail with tears of joy. I did it! I got somewhere to go. I’ll figure out where I end up later, but today, I celebrate 20 years and a new potential life. I bought some cute records earlier in the day, went to some herbal shop, and talked about Sandalwood with the owner; who had some sweet Mahogany Doc Martens and fresh-cut bangs. Then as the afternoon grew darker I sat down in an old hotel with a hot cortado. Everything was calm until I felt the soft buzz of my phone pressed against my back pocket and the leather booth. It kept ringing. A number I didn’t recognize came up on the screen with the usual red and green buttons. Connecticut was on the line.
I picked up the phone, gasping for air to catch my breath and sound unshaken either way.
“Is this Joseph Raiti?” - I almost had to think about my answer.
“Yes, this is he” - The first time I’ve said that in a while.
“Hi Joseph this is Chandra, head of the admissions office here, how are you today?”
Oh my fucking god. This is it. My heart was racing at 10x speed and tunnel vision set in. My breath stopped dead, my arms and thighs raced with searing adrenaline and if I waited one second further I would’ve run right into that December river.
WHAT DO I DO. Collect yourself. I swallowed every emotion in me and proceeded.
“I’m good! Thanks for your call. How are you?”
“Great, great thanks...”
I could not be admitted at this time.
Proceed on casually.
“I hear you have another offer to continue college?”
“Yeah I do, from Colorado College”
She picked her voice up a comforting octave.
“Ugh! A fantastic institution, you'll get a great education there.”
“Ah, thank you I’m excited”
“Alright well, congratulations, and thanks for picking up. Buh-bye.”
*click*
And just like that, he slipped away outside on a cold day on Warren Street. The dream came true. But the lies haven’t been put to rest, not until now.
It’s an easy fix, displacing discomfort. Our truths are sometimes uncomfortable, but they’re always sound. In that discomfort, amidst maybe everything in our body screaming and shouting at us not to, we have glimmers of our souls screaming out when we come to that age-old, everyday choice. To either keep inside an uncomfortable, human, fragile truth or let the mess out, be seen - engaging in the small, delicate, volatile acts of being human and being fragile creatures.
This is a story of a time someone let deep insecurity fuel a lie-induced mania to compensate for their actual life while dreaming about another one. The story comes to its implosion point on my 20th birthday when the lie finally proves unattainable. And the aftermath, in all its covert forms, unfolds. The story concludes when I realize I must write my own resolution, come to terms with the effects of lying about life, and realize I can atone and move on. It’s my story
Bob the Drag Queen says people in recovery, for any addiction, have two kinds of days. There are good days when everything is peachy and you don’t engage in old habits, and there are great days, when life throws everything it’s got toward you and you still don’t engage. I hated writing this piece, every fiber of my being wanted to lock it away forever. But once the truth is in your hands, it’s one step closer to a great fucking day.