how to let yourself be happy.

It's harder than it sounds, letting yourself be happy. Especially for someone like me. Sometimes I think I get off on living in the shadows and clawing around like a feral animal. Maybe because it's easier. Maybe because wrapping my arms around my vices and holding them hard, closer to myself than any one actual person, is enough of a risk without exposing myself. Even for one second. One camera flash in the dark would still paint a perfect picture of all the things I work so hard to keep in dim light.

 

But this isn't really about my affinity for finding myself a crater and springing into it head first as far as my mind will take me into the realm of doom and gloom. No, this is about something entirely different. It's about letting myself be happy.  Maybe it is kind of about both.

 

You see, despite a happy childhood, I've grown into an adult with a perpetual chip on my shoulder toward the world. I don't want to be that guy, not really.

 

Sometimes I still give myself the old pass card, explain my misery as cynicism that I've somehow earned, allow myself to believe that anyone less miserable shows a remarkable lack of depth. DO YOU SEE WHAT'S GOING ON IN THE WORLD? WIPE THAT SMILE OFF YOUR STUPID FACE.  I actually let myself believe that I'm smart and everyone happy doesn't get it. You know what? That's just fucking embarrassing.  This really isn't about depth, is it? It's just as shallow to believe that my snotty bad attitude makes me somehow better, superior.

 

 

The more I think about it, the more I'd like to be a shard of sunshine on a hardwood floor that the dog sprawls his body asleep across in the afternoon. That feeling in your guts when a letter appears out of nowhere from a long lost friend. Something shiny. The tickle on your nose from the bubbles coming off a freshly poured glass of champagne. A reason to be brighter, stand up straighter.

 

And I mean, I'm not a terrible person to be around. I laugh. I joke. I smile at strangers. But man, my mind is a different story.

 

A solid and familiar state of misery is the hardest addiction I've ever had to tackle. Sometimes even on good days I can sense a landslide coming and three hours later I'm still trying to get myself lost on roads that I already know better than the backs of my hands. I never really end up getting anywhere, literally or figuratively.

 

I was reading a novel recently and the characters are arguing and something comes up along the lines of:  We are humans! We are not the weather! And that's true, we're not the weather. We have some sense of control over our actions. We don't have to unleash cold rain on someones peaceful easy feeling. But just because I don't do something that causes another person pain doesn't mean that just under that surface there isn't a storm raking through my entire being.

 

And even though March was phenomenal and my life is going in a direction that feels right and promising, I still feel this intense urge to sabotage it. To crumble it up into a ball, all of it, and just throw it into a fire. Gather the ashes and scatter them around haphazardly as I dance around on the hot coals, burning my feet, But at least giving myself a reason for cry.

 

How can this be real, do you see? I'll rub my nose in it after I'm through, just to make sure I'm thoroughly punished for my negligence.

 

 

You know, sometimes I go to the park for hours and read, an activity that I love. But I'll do it until my eyes hurt so bad that I can hardly keep them open when I get home. Part of me thinks it's because I'd rather be lost in a world of strangers that are indifferent to my existence and living their lives fully independently of what I would do to them than home with a real living person that actually adores me, who I'm bound to disappoint. Who is willing to take all the things terrible and wonderful that I have to offer and believes fully that the return is always greater than the cost no matter what. It's so much messier to actively participate.

 

And I mean, as terrible as that is to say, how can I not say it?

 

I blame myself for not falling on my knees in joy for all the Universe has offered up to me freely. What reason do I have to be unhappy? How do I dare perpetuate this negativity? And then guilt. And crippling anxiety. And more misery. Because nothing is anything if not a cycle.

 

And so I struggle. I struggle for the place where despite the fact that I'm drawn like a magpie to fastest route toward poking the tender places until I'm in too much pain to even move, that instead I reach desperately for a gritty happiness of my own. No, it's probably not sugarcoated and covered in glitter and shiny with perfectly dusted surfaces and organized drawers. But you know, it's light. Naturally lit with gaping open windows that look like mouths inhaling and exhaling in the breeze.. There's music playing, but not too loud because I want to hear everything under it too. The signs of life. There's a worn couch and my feet are tucked under the person that I share my heart with, and he's keeping them warm. We hold hands while we watch Parks and Rec. Sometimes we laugh at the same parts, and sometimes different ones.  And our dog is actually lying at our feet calmly. Sometimes we wink at each other, just to make sure we're both paying attention to this perfect moment. And I remind myself that it is enough. Of course it is.

 

So this is how I let myself be happy. Or at least this is how I grab my machete and blaze a small and inconsequential path through a place that all at once terrifies and lures me. Here is how I go out the other side instead of straight to the middle, into the thick of it.

 

I make mistakes. I do what feels good. I sing along to the radio sometimes just to drown out my thoughts. I give entire life stories to the people I see in stores and various other places I happen to be. I surprise Matt with gifts just for the hell of it, because he won't know what to say. Because it will make him happy. I read. I write about how tempting it is to get stuck in the middle of something dark, because it forces me to admit that I can't rationalize throwing away everything I've been given. I laugh at how much it hurts to be human. And then I cry about how wonderful it is to have access to all the emotions and thoughts that we do. The spectrum. And I realize that I'll never be bored, that even when I thought I was, for all that time, I was really just resisting the fight.

 

And so it's a fight, despite how the title of this post may deceive. If it were as easy as letting myself be happy, I would. But for me, it's not. So every day that I feel strong enough, I fight.

 

 

 

promises.

Once he broke down into tears as he told me there was just no other girl like me.

 

Hearing something like that from the one person you want to say it, it's some sort of trap. It's not a promise when he reaches for your hand. It's not a promise when you're leaning against your car and he reaches over and pulls your coat apart, splits it open like a pea pod. It's not a promise when he leans inside and brushes your hair out of your face and looks into your eyes.

 

It's not even a promise when he promises this is the last time you'll have to have this conversation. Please believe, you may both want to remain hopeful that it's true, but it's definitely not a promise.

 

It is a promise when he cries with his hands resting on the picnic table without gloves even though it's prickly cold and you feel a bite in your own fingers despite the fact that you're wearing a pair, so you reach over and put your little hands over his big ones and he looks up at you with those brown oil slicks of eyes and you actually return the gaze for the first time since you met that day. You're outside because you didn't want your heart to thaw this time, the frigid temperature is the only thing holding it together. When you touch him, when you look into his eyes, it's over. You're just a puddle, even if you look intact. It's a promise, but you're making it to him and he already knows you mean your promises, so please, refrain.

 

It's better to be the one not making any promises.

 

You can believe him later that day-  after following you back to your apartment and having sex with you and then falling asleep until he's got to leave again- when he tells you it's only because he hasn't slept since he last saw you. You can believe.

 

In fact, you probably should. And you probably will.

 

Go ahead and believe that he loves you and being around you makes him human.

 

But maybe keep in mind that he's already human no matter what. The chromosomes just match up, the genetic material. The way he acts, sure it's bad without you, but he'll never be anything other than human. We are still animals. Remember that. Because sometimes you'll wish you could will him to become a wolf or a lion or maybe even a bug you can squash with your shoe in passing. But he'll always be flesh and blood and nothing will change how trapped in human form he'll always remain. Behavior notwithstanding.

 

Forgive yourself for never knowing if he's really telling the truth or not. It's okay that despite everything you still want to believe every word out of his mouth. It's a pretty mouth. It's a mouth that means something to you. Even if everything he said was only half true, if you always believe him, you've got a 50/50 chance of calling it right.

 

Sometimes, when things get particularly trying, when he's really feeling low, he'll seek you out again, even after years. Don't mistake this for a change of heart, for love spanning the time and miles in one long connecting stride. He needs validation. He's coming to the person who, when they give it, it actually means something. That's not love. I know, I know. It's something.

 

It is something.

 

Try to take it as the something it is and not the something that you wish it would be. Seeing your name in his inbox, it doesn't send him into a tailspin. It doesn't change things. A wave of nausea isn't sweeping over him right now. He's not telling the whole story. Besides, you're a better storyteller.

 

One day we were at the end of a three hour drive and I knew. I knew we were going nowhere. I started ugly crying as we passed over a set of railroad tracks. I didn't hide it, I wanted him to notice. I wanted him to see what he was doing to me. It's funny how people spring to action when the driver starts getting hysterical.

 

I told him I wasn't getting on the ferry, he'd have to go to the island without me.

 

He made me some more promises, so I got on the boat. But, looking out at the water I knew- Even his promises aren't promises.

 

 

I loved him as long as he let me anyway. I keep my promises.

 

 

And now I keep them to someone else. And it feels better when the other person means their promises too.

 

So much better.

 

 

 

i've created a monster.

For Christmas this year, I got Matt beer brewing supplies. Kits, tubes, a huge glass jug, a plastic bucket, a book and beer making ingredients among the rest of the stuff that came with it.

We both like beer, we both drink beer, we've been really into micro brews for the past year or two, so why wouldn't he enjoy the creation stage? I totally psyched myself up while I was making the purchases.

In all reality, it was kind of a wild-card gift. I wasn't 100% sure how he'd take to it, and even as he opened the boxes, I felt a little nervous. Beer brewing is very involved, it takes a lot of research and the brewer has to be very meticulous with cleaning every instrument, watching temperature, measuring, etc. It's hard work. Basically all the stuff I pay to no attention to in my own daily free time.
Anyway, I was a little nervous. Especially since Matt is like the #1 world's best gift giver. For instance, for Valentines Day he gave me a first edition of my favorite book, Tom Robbins' Jitterbug Perfume. WHO DOES THAT?! He knows me so well it's astounding at times.

So he opened the box on Christmas and seemed happy enough. And then the box sat in the middle of our bedroom floor for almost a month completely forgotten. And I grew a little more nervous.

I shouldn't have been.

Matt has become a brewer obsessed, and I say that in the nicest, most loving way possible, since I'll be reaping the benefits of his labor.

Since he's started this little hobby, it's beer all the time. We've gone to various home-brew stores, I catch him on beer forums, and he's constantly writing up word documents with his latest and greatest ideas for the next batch.

He's got three different kinds of beer going right now and one ready to drink. This weekend we bottled the second batch of beer. We stamped the cap on like 30 more beers. It's a really intense process.

So basically, we're up to our ears in beer.

Like, lots and lots and lots of beers. And he's already talking about what he's going to make for the summer!

WE HARDLY EVEN DRINK DURING THE WEEK. And by we I mean him. And usually me.


Basically, what I'm say here is that beer has overtaken my boyfriend. And not even because he's drinking too much of it.... but because he's really into the science of it.

Nerd Alert.

this would be Matt, pouring our very first bottle of beer into glasses for a trial. (it was actually pretty good)

So yeah, I've created a monster.

celebrations

Yesterday I mailed out my graduate school application packets, the final step of the process. I swiped my debit card and thanked the mail attendant who offered me his good luck wishes and strode out of the post office, back to the safe cocoon of my jeep. It was such an ordinary, mundane gesture. Just sending out a couple of pieces of mail. Just sending all my hope out into the atmosphere. Some Tuesday.

 

And when it was over, when it was finally out of my hands, all of my worldly worries were still decidedly unresolved, very much present. But that one wasn't anymore. I've done what I could, if I don't get in, I'll at least know that I gave it a shot. The first real shot I've taken in getting out of this seemingly never-ending rut in such a long while.

 

And then I made the infinitely wise decision to celebrate this small feat with five dollar pitchers of Fat Tire with my friend Erin... on an empty stomach. Not that the five dollar pitchers weren't reason enough, you know?

 

I make really bad choices sometimes.

 

 

But today is a new day and a new month and a new year of life for my darling boyfriend, who just so happened to be born on this very day, 26 years ago. So, I'm still celebrating. Just not with multiple pitchers of beer. (probably)

In honor of the birth of the man who holds my heart, here is a video of my shoddy attempt at anything 'happy birthday' via harmonica:

in case we get separated.

A couple of weeks ago Matt sent me an email entitled "In Case We Get Separated." In it was the confirmation number for the hotel room he booked for our weekend trip to Cleveland.

 

In case we got separated.

 

And it struck me, how thoughtful, how prepared, how loving that smallest of things can feel to the right person. I've, without a doubt, never been with anyone else that would have thought to ease my mind that way.

 

I was reading back through some old emails when I noticed that one again, and just skimming the title sent a wave of gratitude washing over my entire being. Because those type of gestures are what made me fall in love with Matt. And those type gestures lessen my disgust and impatience at certain other pieces and parts of his being.  

 

Seeing the actual man, living with him, knowing all these pieces and parts and personality characteristics is to know that they are interwoven and that when you love someone, you don't get to separate the this from the that, what you will take versus what they will need to change, at least not if you intend for it to last. You take a whole because, I don't know, because it's worth it to you. Because the sum is greater than the parts, because love isn't checks and balances, it's an email that says without saying, I don't want to lose you. If I do, here is how we will find each other.

 

When we travel, the fact is that we rarely are out of each other's sight, although I have the tendency to just drift through places without giving a thought to how far away I'm going. The fact of us being separated was altogether incredibly unlikely.

 

 But if we did, we had a way to get back to each other, which is nice.

 

ten points if you make it through

Last night Matt and I disagreed about something that happened on a TV show we watch and I couldn't form a coherent argument as to why it bothered me so much. Not the fact that we disagreed, that's not a rare experience at all, but that we held such different views on something that we had seen simultaneously, under the same circumstances, the only differing variable being the interpretation of our own minds.

At the risk of this explanation becoming more boring and verbose than it will already be, I'll say that this was a moment built up between two fictional characters over a period of almost two seasons. That's the marketable way to do it, stretch the viewers' patience as long as possible. In this case, two seasons of meaningful glances/smiles/wistful looks,  near-misses, and talking about their feelings to everyone but each other and finally, finally, a kiss. Not just any kiss, a big whammy, an embrace, a block-all-the-world moment.

It was cathartic, for me, to watch this thing under the surface, that was so clearly just out of reach, finally come to light.

Finally a release.

As the viewer, I watched in anticipation of this moment, willing it to happen every time the two characters were in the same frame. It may be fictional, but that doesn't mean the people watching don't invest emotionally in what we see. So while I essentially squealed with delight at the dramatic first kiss between two people forbidden to be together by circumstance, I glanced over at my own love, to gauge his reaction. It's something that I do often, look to see Matt's reaction to things, because as well as I know him, as much as I like to think I've pieced together a reliable map of this mind and heart, we are two beings independent of each other, and there are always mysteries.

He was not as thrilled as I was.

Actually he was disgusted and he accused me of condoning infidelity because I was so thrilled to finally see these two characters get to share a truly happy moment together.

You see, the man of the pair was in an on-again-off-again relationship with a woman who didn't know many things about him, one of which being his feelings toward the female lead. But then again, everyone on the show lies to the people they care about. For the sake of their safety, of course. The lies, the covering up of the lies and the near-misses with them, it's a central part of the story line, woven in with the romance, another factor of suspense.

Another reason we watch.

But does it justify lying?

Matt's disapproval led me, of course, to think about my feelings on infidelity.

Cheating, I know, I believe, I fully feel, is wrong. It's grounds for separation,  for re-evaluation, to end something special that has been mutually worked for between two people.

As a person that has experienced first-hand the feelings of disgust and pain and fury and just filth that surround the person you are with, to whom you've handed over part of yourself, to whom you've tried to make yourself fit, betraying my trust for the cheap thrill of the warm touch of someone else when mine wasn't convenient and handy, I know what it's like to feel seared alive. Then to continually press on the seared spot of your being to try to understand the pain, the motive, the reason. And to find that sometimes, there is not a reason, sometimes there is not logic, sometimes the only thing you know for certain is pain. However, I have never been left at the discovery of someone better, either. Only someone more opportune.

 

I also can't say that I've always played my heart exactly by the rule book. Because in truth, I've never been able to find a rule book that seemed fair to me.

 

I'm not a cheater. I feel that my integrity is intact.

 

But come on. I'm not perfect either, as hard as it is to admit about something so charged, being faithful and trustworthy and sturdy and true, I can never claim that my slate is clean. Not completely.

 

In college, my first two years, I was in love with a man so sweet and gentle and caring. He thought we were going to get married. I wondered often what our life would look like in five, ten, fifteen years. Would we still have the same arguments? Would we still be able to make each other laugh? Would we ever stop drinking every weekend?

 

I felt committed, devoted. We practically lived together. We spent every possible moment together. It was so much fun.

 

And then I would come home for the weekend and I would immediately call Matt and hop into his truck and we'd drive around together for entire nights. Driving no where, looking at the stars, laughing and singing along to the music.

 

And I loved that too.

 

And it made me feel like a monster.

 

So that meant I was doing something wrong. Your insides know past the rationality of your mind when something strange and wrong is afoot. Anything that feels that wrong means it is wrong. Just to be clear, it doesn't seem to work both ways, just because something feels right, doesn't necessarily mean it is. Another lesson hard-learned.

 

And yet during that time Matt and I never kissed. But more than once we went down to visit friends at their colleges and got drunk at parties and I'd wake up in the same bed with him, with his arm thrown over my body, both of us fully clothed and on top of the blankets, like we'd fallen where we stood talking.  And I'd think, "Fuck fuck fuck."

 

And then I'd pretend it was nothing and I'd done nothing wrong, not violated any sacred unspoken agreements, not been a poor example of character or someone that cannot be trusted. Because I hadn't kissed him, right? I always reminded myself of that. But it felt wrong because I knew how I felt, pulled in two directions, stretched. And I knew how they both felt about me, and I learned that you don't get to dole out permission for someone to love you.


Sometimes, they just do.

 

And sometimes you don't get to decide either. Sometimes, even the most disciplined of us cannot stop the runaway train of emotions that hits unexpected, violently, defiantly.

 

I know that it was wrong that those two characters kissed before the writers made them single and available, morally right, but it adds to the drama. It adds to the conflicting emotions that stir within us and keep us coming back. Is it truer to life? If they're so broken and they're beautiful and we get to watch their most private lives unfold, then it's okay, maybe, that I'm broken and imperfect too?

 

 Am I able to be the kind of person who will close my heart off to that explosion of attraction? Is monogamy a pillar of my heart's fundamental belief system? Of course it is, but what constitutes cheating? Why are we so compelled by the idea of forbidden love, even in a fictional sense? How big should be the guilt in my soul for the sins I committed in the past on the journey to discover the lessons I've learned? How much weight should I feel for the hearts that I've surely damaged along the way?


I was 18 then, 19. Everything I felt, I meant. I meant it all so much. I don't know if I've ever let myself feel so much since then. That love at college was sacred to me, it still is, because it was my first. But this love that I feel now, it is more sacred to me. I tell myself, completely honestly and truthfully, that I would never let it go there now, not when I've learned so much and lost so much and come so far.



Not with this love. Maybe then I had the steady truth that I'd never let my feelings be proven, my lack of faith be brought to light with a physical manifestation, a kiss, but it is my perhaps ignorant belief that emotionally bonding with someone other than my partner, my lover, my best friend, Matt, would hurt him far worse. And now, certainly, I would never let myself take it there. Not only because I know pain of heart but because I treasure what I have too much to risk it, to play with it. It is not a game, not that I ever felt like it was anyway. 

 

Also what of the media? Is is desensitizing me to monogamy? Is it fucking with my moral code? Am I less now, less because I wanted, hoped, wished, imagined, obsessed, fixated these two people sharing that first kiss?

Is Matt hypocritical for reacting the way he did when in fact, he told me he was still in love with me before he'd had the chance to end things with his ex-girlfriend after reading my letter, in which I begged, calling him back to me? Or is it okay because we didn't actually see each other until after it was done, ended. Who am I to declare my feelings at the expense of some other girl's happiness anyway? Is it because I felt we were meant to be together, that despite circumstances and obstacles in the way, I was willing to forsake the code to make it known?

 

Is 'fair' just an ideal we can use as a point to strive for, like Utopia? What is fair? Who gets to say? I want to know.

 

In life, things are less compressed, action packed. When events unfold slowly as they usually do, some of the drama of the situations we endure is lost, or spread out to seem less extreme. And thank god for that, our lives were not fabricated for the entertainment of others. But have we been trained to set that as the benchmark for success? Do we need the explosions and fireworks or are they just a precursor for disaster? I recently learned that we're not the only organisms that can manipulate one another. Is that all we are,  animals? 

 

Would we tolerate all that drama that we get sucked into,  or do we long for it?

 

I don't need to know that answer to the last question.

I just want to get back to my show.

family tradition.

My family has many very weird and borderline awkward traditions that, at this point, are absolutely crucial to life running smoothly. Like, some people having very specific coffee cups. And our parents always deliver really bad news in sketchy McDonald's. It's like "Count your blessings, at least your life isn't as bad as most of the other patrons here." Tactical strategy. Although now the golden arches kind of set me into panic sweats. Except when the fries are really hot, because DAMN, are they delicious.

In my opinion these family quirks are really the most pronounced during this, the most wonderful time of the year. Honestly, I wouldn't trade our weird and zany for caroling, trips to Steamboat or all the peppermint ice cream in the world.

Okay, maybe the ski trip, but since none are being offered that's not a decision I'll be forced to make. Unfortunately. Thankfully.

Whatever. So last Saturday we partook in my FAVORITE family Christmas tradition, the procuring of The Tree. This year Matt and Angelo, my sister's new husband, joined us for the first time. My dad gets all Clark Griswald up in the tree farm's biz, my mom makes copious amount of cocoa, and my brothers strive to every year choose a larger, more challenging tree to cart home. Heartwarming.

That's right, we rolled in a three vehicle caravan to murder us some Christmas trees.

Ok, murder probably isn't the right word. It's honest to god a pretty heartwarming tradition that I get schoolgirl gleeful about, but I do sort of have a guilt complex about chopping down trees for sport, only to discard them like three weeks later like garbage.

Que sera sera.


yes. a trailer is required. this is about to get REAL.



Just know I feel guilty about what you're about to see.

But not guilty enough to stop doing it once a year. For the duration.

Okay cool.

Also, nothing is in order. I tried, and then I got frustrated and gave up. Sue me.

the brothers decided on this tree early, but we still walked around the entire farm three times.



matt murdering preparing our tree to ride home with us.




this is just sad. that tree was probably older than I am.



matt and I dragging our tree to the car. a true bonding experience.

yep. that's in my parent's home now.



victory was ours.



wandering through fields of pine and chopping down trees can be exhausting.



i promse we didn't let him ride all the way home in the trailer. although my parents have grown a little lax when it comes to safety, in my opinon.



hot cocoa from the kitchen of mama drake.



newlyweds. they must still be in honeymoon phase because they didn't argue about which tree they wanted NEARLY as much as matt and me.



he's probably trying to see the top of the tree my dad and brothers are about to chop down. it was that tall.

 


my mom assisting on the carry on account of my sister being in the family way and all.

 

we found one that we thought was prickly enough to deter our dog monster.



we love each other sometimes.



yeah mom and dad, this 16 footer is totally the one.



moms and pops debating about whether or not this tree will actually fit in the foyer.



guys doing manly things.




the ten year old gets some saw action.



sis and brother in law christening their first tree.



errrrrrrbody getting in on this one.

nice clean cut matt, no one would know you've had fake trees your whole life.



the bounty has been secured. my dad looks a bit smug about it if you ask me.



too bad there's no shots of my climbing on top of my car to secure our tree. it stayed on... pretty well.

 



being the artist I was born to be.

  

hally already chewed the outlet plug-in off of the light cord. Merry Christmas.

my shady past... with dating. part 4.

So far I've written three posts about my inability to date properly in the past. Right here is the last post, if you want to get caught up.

Where was I?

Right. We're at the part where I actually let myself be single for a while.
I sat. I stewed. I raged. I drank heavily. I watched a lot of rom coms. I wrote rambling letters that I never sent. And then I laughed. I learned to enjoy doing whatever I wanted, like watching the entire Veronica Mars series straight through in three days.

Yeah, I got really into that.

I made promises to myself that resembled the sentiment of Scarlett O'Hara as she declares "I'll never be hungry again!"

It was a pretty good time to be me. Minus the losing my job and blowing all my money on expensive boots, moving to Chicago on a whim,  and weekly pedicures.

I also realized that I had settled into a pattern of dating. Aka, the Chameleon Act where I became a child that needed to be taken care of OR a cheerleader that had to prod! my! boyfriend! along! encouragingly! in! every! tiny! daily! task!, whichever the current love interest preferred. I decided that I didn't want a relationship where I had to buy a whole new wardrobe to feel like I fit nor a life where I had to reassure myself constantly that it wasn't that serious to avoid panicking about the fact that I was disappearing beside the guy I was seeing.

I decided I needed to stop being swallowed up.

After months of brooding and and bitching to my friends and a lot to talking to myself like a crazy person I decided I was ready to do the one thing I'd been avoiding for six or so years, actually dating my best friend.

Matt.

2004. we've always been badass, we just smoke less cigars now.

The only problem was that Matt had given up on me after five years of trying to date me to no avail, because I'm a cold and heartless bitch and I never gave him a chance. Probably because I convinced myself I'd lose him as a friend if we dated. That plan backfired because he finally went out and found himself a willing girlfriend and I lost him anyway. We became Christmas card and birthday card friends. It sucked.

Really, the kicker for me was when I realized I had essentially been dating Matt more than the guys I was actually dating- the entire time. I told him my secrets, called him when I was scared or sad or mad, talked in my weird voices without a hint of embarrassment and laughed with him about the stupid mundane things that happened in my day-to-day. I really only noticed how much I relied on our daily conversations when they suddenly stopped. While I had always continued our interactions despite my relationships, he actually focused on his and cut me out.
What a concept.

Anyway. I tried to just ignore it and let him be happy after everything I'd put him through. But I couldn't. So after a year and a half of stewing about it, I sent him what I can only call a manifesto of crazy. It was intense. Sort of a 'Sorry I just realized I've been in love with you the entire time, let's give this a shot now, please?'

And then I sent it off and got whiskey drunk.

And then he read it. And he told me it was too late and he was sorry.


BUT WE'RE TOGETHER SO THAT'S NOT HOW IT ENDS.

Ten days later Matt decided that we should probably see if we could date without killing each other.

And we haven't killed each other.... yet. It's been a year and a half. We live together. We have a giant 150 pound dog baby. We're pretty happy. It's the most healthy relationship I've ever been a part of. I get to dance around the house singing in insane falsetto at the top of my lungs wearing no makeup and my dorky-ass glasses and he gets to walk around in his underwear and play video games involving head sets.

We fight. It's definitely not easy. Compromise sucks ass sometimes. He hates people and I want to attend every party ever. I need to see my girlfriends twice a week and he needs to see his guy friends twice a year. He wants to have deep conversation right before we fall asleep and I'm like zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.  He won't eat anything green that grows from a seed and sometimes all I want is a salad and some hummus. I fight like a junkyard dog every time we disagree about the tiniest thing because I feel that I desperately need to hold onto my own way so that I don't lose my identity again.

We're different people, we see things differently- I think that's pretty normal. I'm just glad one or both of us isn't pretending to see things the same way just to keep the status quo. We'd never grow that way.

We both stay. Have stayed so far.  He gives me back rubs and I occasionally sit still long enough to watch a hockey game. I can't say I've never felt trapped and frustrated and just angry to the level of pissedoffedness where I'm over it and I'M DOING WHATEVER I FUCKING WANT TO OKAY.

But we love each other, so we try.

And since that seems to work pretty well, I going to keep on trying.




At my sister's wedding. 2011.


FIN.