I didn't know what to expect from this weekend. I am in Chicago for the Pink Party, the fundraiser event that your sister Berkley, and her husband Bob, founded to honor their beloved baby Jane who was born asleep 3 years ago. It is the event we met at. It is our two-year anniversary. A year ago, we attended this event arm-in-arm. I wore a European pink, chiffon, and sequin strapless gown. I'd bought it in Vail one day when you went skiing and I stayed at the house to work. I felt like a prima ballerina at the party that night, our one-year anniversary. You coordinated your outfit with my dress, as you always loved to do. We shopped together to find you a tie and a new shirt. Initially, you planned to wear a black suit – you felt it was appropriate for winter – but I convinced you to go with your grey one – a Hugo Boss we bought together for you in Austin. You looked so handsome in a suit. It was you in a suit that caught my eye two-years ago at this same event. But, I don't get to see you in a suit tomorrow. It is not only our two-year anniversary, but also marks three months since your death. I have my pink dress, but I don't have my love. Your sister has the memory of Jane, she has her newborn son, William, but she doesn't have her brother. Anxiety is creeping up into my chest. My skin feels chilled. My throat is raw. My heart beats loudly, a reminder that it is still working even though it's in severe pain. My eyes are cast low. The sound of my own laughter is a shock to my system; it hits like a static shock when you unknowingly touch a charged doorknob or railing. My dreams are cursed. My thoughts feel claustrophobic in the confines of my skull. I feel lost.
I walked by a store this morning called Material Possessions. I slowed and gazed at the window displays. I thought about all the things in there that people would purchase just so they could take ownership of something. So they could show off what they have. I used to show you off. I thought I had you. But I learned you cannot possess ones heart, not even your own – it can go at any time. I thought about how, over the past few months, material possessions have suddenly seemed so immaterial. And yet, at the same time, I've also felt a need to hold onto what is mine. This is my shoe. This is my car. This is my phone. You cannot take it! It is MINE. I've felt a sort-of deserving (a nasty word that I try to avoid) towards whatever I can possess. I have been robbed of what's most important to me. I am free-falling through life right now. Whatever I can cling to is giving me some sort of stability, some sort of wall to hold. When the lover is ripped from my bed, the career is pulled from before my eyes, and in some sense, the floor from beneath my feet – what am I supposed to hold on to? I wrap myself in my own arms, but I am still cold. I need your arms. But if I can't have your arms, I at least need a really warm, new, fancy blanket.
It's been painful for me to go back and look at photos of us. Seeing the joy in my eyes, the height of my cheekbones due to a smile so big, and the closeness of our bodies pressed together makes my whole being quake with sadness. I'm jealous of past-Sami. But I'm also scared that if I don't look, I'll forget. I'll forget the way I felt when I was with you – complete peacefulness, exuberant joy, unconditional love. I know the words I felt, but will I remember the feeling? When we were together, we didn't need to be anywhere else but with each other. We were just as happy under the covers alone as we were in a crowd of loved ones. We were always smiling together, even when we were grumpy about life. We were always having fun. There was never a lull in joy.
So, to preserve the memories, I looked at the photos of us from this same event, one year ago. I admired the giddyness in my eyes with an envious despair. I looked at how your fingers gripped into my shoulder in one photo, a proud possessiveness. I looked at how your hands interlaced around my waist in another, pulling me close into your hug. I pressed into you with beaming willingness. I looked at a photo of us kissing. We are smiling so big that our lips are too puckered to kiss properly. My cheekbones smash into my eye sockets because of my grin. We look like two frozen goldfish. My eyes are slivers that can't see – but they don't need to because they feel your touch, your caress. I would happily be blind for the rest of my life if I could just feel you alive, if I could just hear your voice.
As an anniversary gift to us, I plan to listen to the one voice-mail I have from you that I have never checked. You left it for me about a week before you died. It will probably be you asking me to pick up some avocados or you letting me know that you scheduled an appointment to get your tires rotated. But, just maybe, it will be a message I need to hear. Maybe you will tell me you are always around me. Maybe you will tell me that I will be happy again someday. And maybe, hopefully, I will be able to hear you say "I love you" in your voice, one final time, for the first time.
Showing posts with label true love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label true love. Show all posts
Beacon
I miss hearing you tell me I am beautiful. You would tell me when I groggily woke up to you bashfully watching me. You would tell me when I got out of the shower and you would steal my towel making me chase you, dripping wet. You would tell me when I was in jeans, a t-shirt, glasses, and a dirty ponytail – stressed out in front of my computer. You would tell me on our walk to the car after a hot yoga class, my clothes seeping in sweat. You would tell me after I spent ninety-minutes getting ready for a date with you – in a new dress, fresh lipstick, high heels, and perfume. You would tell me when I would slip into something silk and lacy for you at the end of a long day. You would whisper it again as you stroke my cheek, playfully smack my behind, and then follow it up with a kiss that said it all over again, but without words. You would tell me when I was asleep and could only hear you through the echo of my dreams.
I didn't know much I wanted to hear the words until I stopped hearing them. You spoiled me. And now I try extra hard to look beautiful so I can say it to my reflection and believe myself. It's not a question of low self-esteem or seeking attention – I had just gotten so used to your compliments, to be stripped of them is a shock to my system. It makes me feel needy. A few nights ago, a friend told me that I looked beautiful. And then she said it again in different words, and then again. It was only on the third iteration that I realized it was because she actually meant it. My skin is so thick that maybe it won't let love in, or maybe it lets it in too easily. Hearing those words made my heart open up a little bit and let some love in and out. It also triggered how much I missed it coming from you, in your voice. It reminded me that while the words were soothing to my mind, my lips ache to be kissed and my skin begs for the weight of your body on top of me.
I miss that I could read your mind through the look in your eyes. Our souls shared the sixth sense. And if I couldn't read you, you would tell me what you were thinking without me needing to ask. And you were always thinking about something just so fantastic. You put everything out on the table. No questions. No holding back. No doubts. No games. You allowed yourself to be entirely vulnerable. You allowed yourself to love completely. You allowed yourself to be fully loved. I let you move into my heart. But now, it's been vacated. The love remains, but you aren't there to bask in it. Before, my love was weightless, but now it's heavy. Where does the love end and the baggage begin?
I miss you making me laugh. Laughter is the language of love. It echos across wide open spaces. It bounces across big-city buildings. It sweeps into canyons and valleys, lifting the fog. It defeats hatred. Laughter makes us kind. Kindness breeds love. And love is the triumph. So now I am attempting to juggle all this love. But, I never learned how to juggle. You knew how, but you never had a chance to teach me. I can't drop this ball; it's far too sacred.
I miss empty space with you: the few moments when we had nothing to do except just be. You knew how to dress up boredom in a glittery costume. Now, boredom and loneliness go hand-in-hand. When space isn't filled up with some distraction, it's a reminder that I am without you by my side. I am alone. Distraction overshadows the voices in my head reminding me that I am not OK. So now, I avoid silence. It's a trigger for how different it all is now, how confused I am, how quickly everything has changed, how it will never be like it was, and how happenstance can override all plans.
I miss your love: your unique strain of love. Love is like DNA. There is no carbon copy. There is no love that is the same as another love. That's one of the most beautiful things about love, but it's also one of the most painful. Love is both limitless and irreplaceable at the same time. But damn. Your love was divine. It's as if we were both made of pure love as individuals, but when we came together it became an offering to the Universe. Our love was a beacon.
I didn't know much I wanted to hear the words until I stopped hearing them. You spoiled me. And now I try extra hard to look beautiful so I can say it to my reflection and believe myself. It's not a question of low self-esteem or seeking attention – I had just gotten so used to your compliments, to be stripped of them is a shock to my system. It makes me feel needy. A few nights ago, a friend told me that I looked beautiful. And then she said it again in different words, and then again. It was only on the third iteration that I realized it was because she actually meant it. My skin is so thick that maybe it won't let love in, or maybe it lets it in too easily. Hearing those words made my heart open up a little bit and let some love in and out. It also triggered how much I missed it coming from you, in your voice. It reminded me that while the words were soothing to my mind, my lips ache to be kissed and my skin begs for the weight of your body on top of me.
I miss that I could read your mind through the look in your eyes. Our souls shared the sixth sense. And if I couldn't read you, you would tell me what you were thinking without me needing to ask. And you were always thinking about something just so fantastic. You put everything out on the table. No questions. No holding back. No doubts. No games. You allowed yourself to be entirely vulnerable. You allowed yourself to love completely. You allowed yourself to be fully loved. I let you move into my heart. But now, it's been vacated. The love remains, but you aren't there to bask in it. Before, my love was weightless, but now it's heavy. Where does the love end and the baggage begin?
I miss you making me laugh. Laughter is the language of love. It echos across wide open spaces. It bounces across big-city buildings. It sweeps into canyons and valleys, lifting the fog. It defeats hatred. Laughter makes us kind. Kindness breeds love. And love is the triumph. So now I am attempting to juggle all this love. But, I never learned how to juggle. You knew how, but you never had a chance to teach me. I can't drop this ball; it's far too sacred.
I miss empty space with you: the few moments when we had nothing to do except just be. You knew how to dress up boredom in a glittery costume. Now, boredom and loneliness go hand-in-hand. When space isn't filled up with some distraction, it's a reminder that I am without you by my side. I am alone. Distraction overshadows the voices in my head reminding me that I am not OK. So now, I avoid silence. It's a trigger for how different it all is now, how confused I am, how quickly everything has changed, how it will never be like it was, and how happenstance can override all plans.
I miss your love: your unique strain of love. Love is like DNA. There is no carbon copy. There is no love that is the same as another love. That's one of the most beautiful things about love, but it's also one of the most painful. Love is both limitless and irreplaceable at the same time. But damn. Your love was divine. It's as if we were both made of pure love as individuals, but when we came together it became an offering to the Universe. Our love was a beacon.
Just OK
I feel like I'm riding quickly on a stationary bike. Life and time force forward motion and yet I feel stagnant. I ride a wave back and forth between feeling OK, questioning why I feel OK, judging myself, and then not feeling OK. The human body is a powerful, powerful thing when we treat it right. That has been my course of action lately: treat my body well. Feed her. Exercise her. Quiet her. Keep her busy. Rest her. Give her vitamins. I have tricked my physical body into thinking I'm OK, and honestly, it's helping. But then I remember. It hurts to remember.
I took a Kundalini yoga class this morning with a friend. I set my intention: "Remember". At one point the teacher told the class that a true yogi can fall asleep in an instant. She has the power to quiet her mind into stillness in just moments. I was drifting off when she spoke the words. I realized that the yoga I've been doing over the past two and a half months has been the most self-serving and true that my practice has ever been.
Over the past year, I would often tell you I needed a new inspiration for my yoga practice. Yoga had taken a back seat to love, music, travel, and work. I would rather lay in bed with you than jump out of bed to get my practice in. I'd choose dancing to your band's show over an evening class. And when we would get to the studio, I would often practice without much passion. I focused on sticking a handstand, hitting every pose I saw the Instagram celebrity yogis doing, wanting my ass to look hot in yoga pants, or growing my 'fan-base'. I practiced for my ego with a side serving of peace-of-mind.
I searched for new teachers, new styles, new studios. You and I drove to Denver last summer to try out a new style of yoga. "I think I can get on this bandwagon," I told you after the practice. I was slightly inspired, but honestly, hardly. You preferred the tried and true practice that we did at our local studio. You practiced because it made you centered, strong, and energized. You practiced for the right reasons. I was in a rut and searching for something to call me back to my mat.
I was fully invested in the yoga lifestyle career-wise. I taught multiple times a week to a diligent student body. I worked eight to ten hours a day designing a national yoga and conscious-living magazine. I worked on side projects in the yoga industry: yoga apparel, assisting studios, attending workshops, teaching at festivals. But my heart wasn't really committed. My heart was committed to YOU.
The day you died I taught a class about nurturing those you love. It was one of my favorite classes I'd ever taught. You had been my inspiration. It was at noon. You died just over twelve hours later. I talked about how you had been under the weather lately. You were heartbroken and ill. I spoke about how it had been the first time I'd ever really, truly been able to take care of you. You often resisted letting others help. You liked to care for yourself. You were always so capable. But, those last couple days, I took care of you in a way I had never taken care of anyone. It was beautiful. It was sacred. I cradled you in my arms those days, the way you usually cradled me. You cried on my shoulder the way I had cried on yours. I made you meals and brought them to you in bed. I held your hand because you needed your hand to be held. Nurturing you felt natural. I felt powerful in that role. I felt needed. I felt loved and loving. I am so grateful I was able to step into that role, even if it was only for a short time. I also will never forget that class I taught. I was so happy, so complete, and so purposeful.
As fucked up as it sounds, your death was the kick in the ass I needed to reinvigorate my commitment to my practice. It has become my life-force. It didn't take a new teacher. It didn't take a new style of yoga. It didn't take being able to stand on my hands. It didn't take new followers on social media. It took loosing the thing that was most important to me. It wasn't worth it. But this is what life has offered. When you take out the largest piece of the puzzle, the other pieces have a new space to fill. My yoga practice – asana, meditation, self-inquiry, breathwork, and way of being – has been crucial in this process. It has saved my life.
In suffering, as in all facets of life, we have options. We can choose avoidance. Running away from our problems, keeping our head down, not confronting our feelings, not talking about it – I have tried this. It's stifling and not my nature. We can choose to numb. Temporarily soothing ourselves with drugs, alcohol, or other agents – I have also tried this. The highs aren't worth the lows. We can sit with the pain. Empty our agenda, be still, wallow, and marinate in loss – I have tried this. At times, it's necessary, but it's also self-harming. Or we can choose creation. Taking what we have learned from the situation, the memories, the love, and building from it with a sense of forward motion – I have tried this. It's exhausting and although I feel like I'm running in place, it serves me.
As I approach the three month mark of your departure from this plane, I no longer wake each morning reaching for you. I know that you are gone before I open my eyes now. I don't have traumatic visions every time I close my eyelids down. I also have a hard time remembering. It's as if my brain has put up a wall preventing me from focusing on the past as a defense mechanism, as a way to keep me safe. So I have to really sit still and set the intention: "Remember". Sometimes I let myself. And it really, really hurts. Other times I sit with the present breath, as my practice has taught me. Just. This. Breath. And I can keep moving and feeling OK.
Not happy. Not joyful. Not loved. Not complete. Not healed. But OK.
I took a Kundalini yoga class this morning with a friend. I set my intention: "Remember". At one point the teacher told the class that a true yogi can fall asleep in an instant. She has the power to quiet her mind into stillness in just moments. I was drifting off when she spoke the words. I realized that the yoga I've been doing over the past two and a half months has been the most self-serving and true that my practice has ever been.
Over the past year, I would often tell you I needed a new inspiration for my yoga practice. Yoga had taken a back seat to love, music, travel, and work. I would rather lay in bed with you than jump out of bed to get my practice in. I'd choose dancing to your band's show over an evening class. And when we would get to the studio, I would often practice without much passion. I focused on sticking a handstand, hitting every pose I saw the Instagram celebrity yogis doing, wanting my ass to look hot in yoga pants, or growing my 'fan-base'. I practiced for my ego with a side serving of peace-of-mind.
I searched for new teachers, new styles, new studios. You and I drove to Denver last summer to try out a new style of yoga. "I think I can get on this bandwagon," I told you after the practice. I was slightly inspired, but honestly, hardly. You preferred the tried and true practice that we did at our local studio. You practiced because it made you centered, strong, and energized. You practiced for the right reasons. I was in a rut and searching for something to call me back to my mat.
I was fully invested in the yoga lifestyle career-wise. I taught multiple times a week to a diligent student body. I worked eight to ten hours a day designing a national yoga and conscious-living magazine. I worked on side projects in the yoga industry: yoga apparel, assisting studios, attending workshops, teaching at festivals. But my heart wasn't really committed. My heart was committed to YOU.
The day you died I taught a class about nurturing those you love. It was one of my favorite classes I'd ever taught. You had been my inspiration. It was at noon. You died just over twelve hours later. I talked about how you had been under the weather lately. You were heartbroken and ill. I spoke about how it had been the first time I'd ever really, truly been able to take care of you. You often resisted letting others help. You liked to care for yourself. You were always so capable. But, those last couple days, I took care of you in a way I had never taken care of anyone. It was beautiful. It was sacred. I cradled you in my arms those days, the way you usually cradled me. You cried on my shoulder the way I had cried on yours. I made you meals and brought them to you in bed. I held your hand because you needed your hand to be held. Nurturing you felt natural. I felt powerful in that role. I felt needed. I felt loved and loving. I am so grateful I was able to step into that role, even if it was only for a short time. I also will never forget that class I taught. I was so happy, so complete, and so purposeful.
As fucked up as it sounds, your death was the kick in the ass I needed to reinvigorate my commitment to my practice. It has become my life-force. It didn't take a new teacher. It didn't take a new style of yoga. It didn't take being able to stand on my hands. It didn't take new followers on social media. It took loosing the thing that was most important to me. It wasn't worth it. But this is what life has offered. When you take out the largest piece of the puzzle, the other pieces have a new space to fill. My yoga practice – asana, meditation, self-inquiry, breathwork, and way of being – has been crucial in this process. It has saved my life.
In suffering, as in all facets of life, we have options. We can choose avoidance. Running away from our problems, keeping our head down, not confronting our feelings, not talking about it – I have tried this. It's stifling and not my nature. We can choose to numb. Temporarily soothing ourselves with drugs, alcohol, or other agents – I have also tried this. The highs aren't worth the lows. We can sit with the pain. Empty our agenda, be still, wallow, and marinate in loss – I have tried this. At times, it's necessary, but it's also self-harming. Or we can choose creation. Taking what we have learned from the situation, the memories, the love, and building from it with a sense of forward motion – I have tried this. It's exhausting and although I feel like I'm running in place, it serves me.
As I approach the three month mark of your departure from this plane, I no longer wake each morning reaching for you. I know that you are gone before I open my eyes now. I don't have traumatic visions every time I close my eyelids down. I also have a hard time remembering. It's as if my brain has put up a wall preventing me from focusing on the past as a defense mechanism, as a way to keep me safe. So I have to really sit still and set the intention: "Remember". Sometimes I let myself. And it really, really hurts. Other times I sit with the present breath, as my practice has taught me. Just. This. Breath. And I can keep moving and feeling OK.
Not happy. Not joyful. Not loved. Not complete. Not healed. But OK.
Too Sad To Write
I have been too sad to write for the past three days. Grief can be like paralysis.
Three days ago we celebrated New Years. I didn't want to celebrate. I didn't open my blinds to see 2015 until this morning. I wanted to remain cocooned in darkness. I didn't want to see what a new year looked like without you. I have stepped outside one time so far this year. I don't want to feel the breath of the new year on my skin. I have hardly responded to my phone messages. I've ignored my email. I haven't opened my computer. I don't want to see what the technology is offering. I don't want to hear the "Happy New Years". I don't want to see who got engaged. I don't want to hear the pop of champagne bottles or the clink of glasses. I've stayed as horizontal as possible until friends coerced me up to eat or Kira asked to go outside. But even she didn't want to see the sun.
Everyone who knows you is sad. I know that. I don't want to compare my grief to others. But watching others smile, celebrate, and honor you through stickers, signs, stories, and memorabilia isn't enough for me. I tried to do it. It worked for a few hours. But the highs are low and the lows aren't describable by language. That's why I haven't been writing. I can't put words to my sadness. There's no way to explain the sorrow when I wake up and you're not there. There's no way to explain how it feels to remember you're gone minute-after-minute. There's no way to explain what life looks like with the knowledge that I can't be with you. Every time I close my eyes I'm taken back to that night. When I sleep, what used to be dreams are now robbed by chilling nightmares. When I feel close to you for a moment – maybe by hearing a song you loved, being near someone who reminds me of you, or seeing a sign from above – the comfort is fleeting. What lingers is a gut-wrenching reminder of how absent you are and guilt for my temporary solace.
I've spent the last week or so surrounded by friends of yours who have been in your life for years, many more years then I was. I have heard story after story that I wasn't around for. I have met people that you never got to introduce me to. I've had heart-to-hearts with friends that I wasn't able to deeply connect with until now, until tragedy hit. And they're all sad. They all miss you. They all love you. But I watch their lives continue and it makes me feel angry. It's anger that I know isn't warranted. But I want to dive under my covers, ignore any semblance of forward motion, and never come out – and definitely not watch others move forward with their new year and their happy lives.
I'm envious of all the people who shared decades with you. I didn't even get two years with you. And yet I had dreams about you since I was a child. And since we started our life together, since we fell in love, I needed to wake up with you each morning. I depended on your kiss to fuel the start of my day. I got to admire you as you did little nothings like brush your teeth, shave, or make tea. I took great care in sudsing you up in the shower, cleaning every bit of you with love and organic soap. I exercised more patience than I knew I had when I'd towel you dry. I moved slowly when I'd kiss your chest and watch your eyes light up with desire. I got to combine my pleasure with your pleasure and witness the creation of true love.
But now I wake up alone. I washed the sheets yesterday because they smelled of tears, sweat, loneliness, and nightmares. And last night I barely slept. I was cold in our bed. I felt so foreign on those clean sheets, the ones that I'd surprised you with one day because they were made out of bamboo and I knew you'd love them. When I did sleep, I dreamt that our house was being robbed while I lay in bed unaware. I woke up in fear and I realized it's a dream I've had a few times now – everything I thought was mine disappearing, everything I thought I could trust being ripped out from under me – a thinly veiled reality.
Kira sleeps on the bed next to me now. She can tell she's needed. She tries to let the weight of her body and the rise and fall of her breath comfort me, but it hardly helps. It just makes me feel even more sad for her loss. Because she misses you too. She wanders around the house and stares out into the distance with the sad eyes of an old dog who's left watching her mom cry all day when just months ago we were all so happy together.
On New Year's Eve I went all-access to your favorite show. I wore stickers with your initials all over me. I stuck smiley faces all over myself and everything I touched, something you were known for doing. I held a sign in the air that read "Team Welles". I brought a bit of your ashes with me to the show in a Ziploc bag and dozens of your friends poured tubes of glitter in with them. I told those who knew you, "If you'd like to take some of him, you can. We can all toss him up in the air at midnight." We called it 'Teddy Confetti'.
I thought people would think I was nuts. But they didn't. With gratitude and love, hand after hand after hand (including band members and their wives!) scooped up your glittery remains and not only offered you to the air, but put you on their faces like warpaint and pressed you to their lips like a kiss. There was more Ted on people's faces than I ever would have been OK with had you been alive! It was an honor to know that the man I love so much, the man I miss and crave so desperately will never be forgotten. And it was truly beautiful to witness how much people wanted a part of you to be a part of them. During the encore, the lights lit up with your name and the band sang the refrain, "Sometimes it seems like such a hard life, but there's good times around the bend. The rollercoaster's got to roll to the bottom if you want to climb to the top again". For about five-minutes, I felt joyful. But when the band left the stage and the house lights came on displaying the wreckage of dirty confetti and popped balloons, my sadness sank in deeper and the guilt-clock chimed.
For every step forward, it's a few steps back. I feel I'm still lingering somewhere around the start-point. Time slithers forward even though I regress. What is time anyway? What is something you can't see, you can't feel, you can't taste? Is it even real? And yet we celebrate the damned thing anyway. So, New Years – the end of a year that housed so much love, so much beauty, and both the happiest and the saddest days of my life. Around me, I watched people curse the old and await the new, while I curse the now and the new, and hide under my sheets hoping to go back three months – back to happiness, back to love, and back to when I wanted to see the light that each day brings.
Three days ago we celebrated New Years. I didn't want to celebrate. I didn't open my blinds to see 2015 until this morning. I wanted to remain cocooned in darkness. I didn't want to see what a new year looked like without you. I have stepped outside one time so far this year. I don't want to feel the breath of the new year on my skin. I have hardly responded to my phone messages. I've ignored my email. I haven't opened my computer. I don't want to see what the technology is offering. I don't want to hear the "Happy New Years". I don't want to see who got engaged. I don't want to hear the pop of champagne bottles or the clink of glasses. I've stayed as horizontal as possible until friends coerced me up to eat or Kira asked to go outside. But even she didn't want to see the sun.
Everyone who knows you is sad. I know that. I don't want to compare my grief to others. But watching others smile, celebrate, and honor you through stickers, signs, stories, and memorabilia isn't enough for me. I tried to do it. It worked for a few hours. But the highs are low and the lows aren't describable by language. That's why I haven't been writing. I can't put words to my sadness. There's no way to explain the sorrow when I wake up and you're not there. There's no way to explain how it feels to remember you're gone minute-after-minute. There's no way to explain what life looks like with the knowledge that I can't be with you. Every time I close my eyes I'm taken back to that night. When I sleep, what used to be dreams are now robbed by chilling nightmares. When I feel close to you for a moment – maybe by hearing a song you loved, being near someone who reminds me of you, or seeing a sign from above – the comfort is fleeting. What lingers is a gut-wrenching reminder of how absent you are and guilt for my temporary solace.
I've spent the last week or so surrounded by friends of yours who have been in your life for years, many more years then I was. I have heard story after story that I wasn't around for. I have met people that you never got to introduce me to. I've had heart-to-hearts with friends that I wasn't able to deeply connect with until now, until tragedy hit. And they're all sad. They all miss you. They all love you. But I watch their lives continue and it makes me feel angry. It's anger that I know isn't warranted. But I want to dive under my covers, ignore any semblance of forward motion, and never come out – and definitely not watch others move forward with their new year and their happy lives.
I'm envious of all the people who shared decades with you. I didn't even get two years with you. And yet I had dreams about you since I was a child. And since we started our life together, since we fell in love, I needed to wake up with you each morning. I depended on your kiss to fuel the start of my day. I got to admire you as you did little nothings like brush your teeth, shave, or make tea. I took great care in sudsing you up in the shower, cleaning every bit of you with love and organic soap. I exercised more patience than I knew I had when I'd towel you dry. I moved slowly when I'd kiss your chest and watch your eyes light up with desire. I got to combine my pleasure with your pleasure and witness the creation of true love.
But now I wake up alone. I washed the sheets yesterday because they smelled of tears, sweat, loneliness, and nightmares. And last night I barely slept. I was cold in our bed. I felt so foreign on those clean sheets, the ones that I'd surprised you with one day because they were made out of bamboo and I knew you'd love them. When I did sleep, I dreamt that our house was being robbed while I lay in bed unaware. I woke up in fear and I realized it's a dream I've had a few times now – everything I thought was mine disappearing, everything I thought I could trust being ripped out from under me – a thinly veiled reality.
Kira sleeps on the bed next to me now. She can tell she's needed. She tries to let the weight of her body and the rise and fall of her breath comfort me, but it hardly helps. It just makes me feel even more sad for her loss. Because she misses you too. She wanders around the house and stares out into the distance with the sad eyes of an old dog who's left watching her mom cry all day when just months ago we were all so happy together.
On New Year's Eve I went all-access to your favorite show. I wore stickers with your initials all over me. I stuck smiley faces all over myself and everything I touched, something you were known for doing. I held a sign in the air that read "Team Welles". I brought a bit of your ashes with me to the show in a Ziploc bag and dozens of your friends poured tubes of glitter in with them. I told those who knew you, "If you'd like to take some of him, you can. We can all toss him up in the air at midnight." We called it 'Teddy Confetti'.
I thought people would think I was nuts. But they didn't. With gratitude and love, hand after hand after hand (including band members and their wives!) scooped up your glittery remains and not only offered you to the air, but put you on their faces like warpaint and pressed you to their lips like a kiss. There was more Ted on people's faces than I ever would have been OK with had you been alive! It was an honor to know that the man I love so much, the man I miss and crave so desperately will never be forgotten. And it was truly beautiful to witness how much people wanted a part of you to be a part of them. During the encore, the lights lit up with your name and the band sang the refrain, "Sometimes it seems like such a hard life, but there's good times around the bend. The rollercoaster's got to roll to the bottom if you want to climb to the top again". For about five-minutes, I felt joyful. But when the band left the stage and the house lights came on displaying the wreckage of dirty confetti and popped balloons, my sadness sank in deeper and the guilt-clock chimed.
For every step forward, it's a few steps back. I feel I'm still lingering somewhere around the start-point. Time slithers forward even though I regress. What is time anyway? What is something you can't see, you can't feel, you can't taste? Is it even real? And yet we celebrate the damned thing anyway. So, New Years – the end of a year that housed so much love, so much beauty, and both the happiest and the saddest days of my life. Around me, I watched people curse the old and await the new, while I curse the now and the new, and hide under my sheets hoping to go back three months – back to happiness, back to love, and back to when I wanted to see the light that each day brings.
Anchors
This week in my therapy session, we talked about anchors. Anchors are stimuli that trigger certain states of mind - thoughts and
emotions. They can be brought on unconsciously without knowing what the anchor is. They can be triggered by memories, like the smell of a rhubarb pie making me hungry, the sound of an old favorite song making me nostalgic, or the love I feel from the unconditional kiss and wagging tail my ten-year-old dog greets me with whenever I come home. An anchor can be a scent, a sight, a taste, a feeling, a person, or a sound. People develop hundreds of them as we grow, unconsciously.
I'm back in Toledo, Ohio – my hometown – for the holidays. I've been thinking about the anchors that draw me back to this place. For me, the smell of a Gino's pizza, extra crispy with pineapple and banana pepper makes me feel like a salivating seven-year-old. The Christmas Eve tradition of spaghetti dinner with our best family friends brings me back together. No matter what's happening in my life, on that night there will always be meat sauce, paper crowns, and lotto tickets on every seat. Even tomorrow night, despite all my pain and holiday cynicism, there will still be hot spaghetti and those dear friends.
Tonight, I'm in my bedroom, sitting in the same bed I've slept in since I was ten years old. My bed is an anchor.
I remember lying here when I was in the sixth grade listening to Love Phones on my alarm clock radio. It was a late-night hotline style radio show where callers rang in to ask about sex-related questions. I would listen to it for hours before falling asleep with the radio volume as low as possible, so my parents wouldn't hear. I was certainly not supposed to be listening to such content. I learned much more about sex than an eleven-year-old should have ever known.
I remember being in this bed when I was a junior in high school and my on-again/off-again boyfriend came over after school. He was just supposed to be dropping me off, but when we saw that my parents weren't home, he came in. Mid-session, my father came home. He saw my boyfriend's car in the driveway. We could barely pull ourselves together before my red-faced and furious father, stormed into my room, doors slamming. The boy had one leg out my bedroom window. He was trying to make a dash for it, Dawson's Creek style. Until that boy became a dear and platonic friend a decade later, he was never the type to enter or exit through the front door. I was grounded immediately and from that point on (until very recently) my parents had a very mean nickname for that guy.
I remember this bed when later that same year, I was recovering from a major back surgery. I had been diagnosed with stenosis and two herniated disks in my low spine. After eight months of major pain killers, physical therapy, and unrelenting numbness and pain – I was operated on at the University of Michigan. A couple weeks after the surgery, I had my preview night for my senior year of high school. I went to school a shadow of my former self. The once fun-loving, social, impressionable cheerleader could now barely put on a pair of pajama pants and had no desire to see any of her friends. It was that night when I realized the months of overly-prescribed medication had resulted in an opiate addiction. Wanting to reconnect with my true self, I went cold turkey that night. My mom had to sleep in my bed with me for days while I sweat, shook, and had visceral nightmares while I detoxed from the dosages the doctors had prescribed me. (To this day, spare a near-death motorcycle accident, I haven't gone near painkillers. That shit is poison.)
I remember this bed when I was twenty-five and got laid off of my job working with the Olympics and broke off a five-year relationship all in the same week. I moved out of the condo I had shared with my partner and came home. I stayed home that summer trying to piece back together who I was. Or maybe I was trying to figure it out for the first time. That summer, 2009, I had no plan. No man. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. Nothing. That summer, it felt like freedom. It felt like anything was possible.
The canvas has drawn a blank again for me in a way now. But this time, it doesn't feel like freedom. It feels like a noose has been tightened around my neck. It feels like the floor has been ripped out from beneath me. It feels like I can't breath. It feels like emptiness.
You and I slept in this bed together just two times. You were a part of this anchor too. The first time was about eighteen months ago. We came home for a wedding. We stayed half of the time at my parent's house and the other half at your parent's house. We liked that. We thought it would always be like that when we would return home for holidays and trips over the course of our life together. The second time was less than a year ago. My grandmother had died and I flew home immediately. You had a gig that night, but joined me in Toledo just a day later after her memorial service. Your flight came in very late and I was exhausted and worn out by the time we made it home from the airport. I was beyond emotional at the loss of my grandmother who had served as a beacon of class and generosity for me as a young woman. You cradled me as I cried myself to sleep. Of all the times I slept in this bed, that was the most comforted I had ever been. You held me tight, just like my mother had when I had sweat out painkillers a dozen years before. But that night last year, there were no nightmares. There were beautiful dreams of the beautiful life we would share. It was just the dawn.
This morning, I got out of the shower and walked into my bedroom. I dropped the towel that I'd had wrapped around my torso and I stared at my naked body in the mirror on the back of my door. 'The mirror is an anchor too,' I thought. That mirror has seen my body morph more than any person. It has seen my reflection grow over decades with many backdrops. It has seen an adolescent swimmer of ten with creamy pink walls behind her, jumping on one foot, head cocked to the side, trying to get water out of her ear. It has seen a nervous thirteen-year-old ballerina trying to pin up her bun perfectly with bobby pins while popping a zit; behind her the walls are now wallpapered with pages of fashion magazines and a collage of sixty-nine photos of Leonardo DiCaprio is taped on the mirror's glass surface. It has seen a naive young woman of sixteen trying on the outfit she'd wear to school the next day, grey pinstriped polyester pants her crush said made her butt look 'hot' – the walls are now neon green and orange. It has seen a high school senior, in her cheerleading uniform practicing herkies while lip synching to Britney Spears's remix of "I Love Rock and Roll", the walls now a more mature palette of brown and tan. It has seen a woman leaving her hometown for the second time for Austin to find herself and a new career, dressed in Banana Republic slacks because now she's grown up – the walls have finally been taken over by her parents after a remodel, they are off-white.
The mirror in my childhood bedroom has seen me more over the past month then it has in years. I looked at my thirty-year-old body. I noticed how it's changed over the decades. I noticed places that were softer, larger, firmer, or smaller. I moved my face up-close and ran my finger across the thin wrinkles on my forehead. I searched for a grey hair amongst the blonde, surely one has sprouted over the past two months. I turned the edges of my mouth into a fake smile and looked at the laugh lines that had been starting to form because of all the smiling I did with you. I started to cry, a woeful sob. I watched the tears drip down my cheeks in the mirror's reflection. I saw the tracks that the tears took, my face now recognizing the path of salty sorrow. I saw an ugly woman staring back at me. She had my eyes, but they were sadder now. She was so much older than I remembered her. In a way she looked like a stranger.
That mirror has witnessed a lot of tears over the years. But of the decades of tears it's seen, lately, they've been the most sad. There is no comparison to tears of grief. They even look different than other tears when studied under a microscope. They are sharp fractals without any order or pattern. They look painful to touch. In fact, they look an awful lot like they feel. These are not tears from a boy who didn't call a fifteen year-old girl. These aren't tears because I'm pissed at my parents for grounding me for sneaking out. These are not tears from belly laughing at a funny punchline so hard that my eyes water. These aren't tears because I was cast as the ugly step-sister instead of Cinderella. These aren't tears because I got wait-listed at my first choice university. These aren't tears because of a breakup that is sad and hard, but instigated by me. These aren't the tears I cried when my grandmother died peacefully at ninety-plus years.
These are tears of deep, deep devastation. These are the tears of loosing the father of the babies I couldn't wait to have. These are the tears of not being able to call my best friend. These are the tears of shattered tradition. These are the tears of loosing the life I'd always dreamed of. These are the tears of a second family slipping away through my fingertips. These are tears of questioning the value of life without you. These are tears of confusion. These are tears of loosing faith. These are tears that really have no words to describe them.
The anchors remain. The ones here in my bedroom remind me nostalgically of childhood. But in my current state of grief, retreating to memories of the past, before these tears, is comforting. The anchors pull me in and ground me. They remind me that while you aren't here, there was something here before you and there are still things that remain here now. This is your hometown too. And in your absence I wish I'd had the time to learn more about what pulled you back to memories, what rooted you. I am not sure how it will be when I return to our house in Colorado next week. There, the anchors all bear the weight of memories of my life with you. I want it and I fear it at the same time. So for now, I will lay in this bed. I will curl up and try to remember what it was like to sleep peacefully like I did as a child.
I'm back in Toledo, Ohio – my hometown – for the holidays. I've been thinking about the anchors that draw me back to this place. For me, the smell of a Gino's pizza, extra crispy with pineapple and banana pepper makes me feel like a salivating seven-year-old. The Christmas Eve tradition of spaghetti dinner with our best family friends brings me back together. No matter what's happening in my life, on that night there will always be meat sauce, paper crowns, and lotto tickets on every seat. Even tomorrow night, despite all my pain and holiday cynicism, there will still be hot spaghetti and those dear friends.
Tonight, I'm in my bedroom, sitting in the same bed I've slept in since I was ten years old. My bed is an anchor.
I remember lying here when I was in the sixth grade listening to Love Phones on my alarm clock radio. It was a late-night hotline style radio show where callers rang in to ask about sex-related questions. I would listen to it for hours before falling asleep with the radio volume as low as possible, so my parents wouldn't hear. I was certainly not supposed to be listening to such content. I learned much more about sex than an eleven-year-old should have ever known.
I remember being in this bed when I was a junior in high school and my on-again/off-again boyfriend came over after school. He was just supposed to be dropping me off, but when we saw that my parents weren't home, he came in. Mid-session, my father came home. He saw my boyfriend's car in the driveway. We could barely pull ourselves together before my red-faced and furious father, stormed into my room, doors slamming. The boy had one leg out my bedroom window. He was trying to make a dash for it, Dawson's Creek style. Until that boy became a dear and platonic friend a decade later, he was never the type to enter or exit through the front door. I was grounded immediately and from that point on (until very recently) my parents had a very mean nickname for that guy.
I remember this bed when later that same year, I was recovering from a major back surgery. I had been diagnosed with stenosis and two herniated disks in my low spine. After eight months of major pain killers, physical therapy, and unrelenting numbness and pain – I was operated on at the University of Michigan. A couple weeks after the surgery, I had my preview night for my senior year of high school. I went to school a shadow of my former self. The once fun-loving, social, impressionable cheerleader could now barely put on a pair of pajama pants and had no desire to see any of her friends. It was that night when I realized the months of overly-prescribed medication had resulted in an opiate addiction. Wanting to reconnect with my true self, I went cold turkey that night. My mom had to sleep in my bed with me for days while I sweat, shook, and had visceral nightmares while I detoxed from the dosages the doctors had prescribed me. (To this day, spare a near-death motorcycle accident, I haven't gone near painkillers. That shit is poison.)
I remember this bed when I was twenty-five and got laid off of my job working with the Olympics and broke off a five-year relationship all in the same week. I moved out of the condo I had shared with my partner and came home. I stayed home that summer trying to piece back together who I was. Or maybe I was trying to figure it out for the first time. That summer, 2009, I had no plan. No man. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. Nothing. That summer, it felt like freedom. It felt like anything was possible.
The canvas has drawn a blank again for me in a way now. But this time, it doesn't feel like freedom. It feels like a noose has been tightened around my neck. It feels like the floor has been ripped out from beneath me. It feels like I can't breath. It feels like emptiness.
You and I slept in this bed together just two times. You were a part of this anchor too. The first time was about eighteen months ago. We came home for a wedding. We stayed half of the time at my parent's house and the other half at your parent's house. We liked that. We thought it would always be like that when we would return home for holidays and trips over the course of our life together. The second time was less than a year ago. My grandmother had died and I flew home immediately. You had a gig that night, but joined me in Toledo just a day later after her memorial service. Your flight came in very late and I was exhausted and worn out by the time we made it home from the airport. I was beyond emotional at the loss of my grandmother who had served as a beacon of class and generosity for me as a young woman. You cradled me as I cried myself to sleep. Of all the times I slept in this bed, that was the most comforted I had ever been. You held me tight, just like my mother had when I had sweat out painkillers a dozen years before. But that night last year, there were no nightmares. There were beautiful dreams of the beautiful life we would share. It was just the dawn.
This morning, I got out of the shower and walked into my bedroom. I dropped the towel that I'd had wrapped around my torso and I stared at my naked body in the mirror on the back of my door. 'The mirror is an anchor too,' I thought. That mirror has seen my body morph more than any person. It has seen my reflection grow over decades with many backdrops. It has seen an adolescent swimmer of ten with creamy pink walls behind her, jumping on one foot, head cocked to the side, trying to get water out of her ear. It has seen a nervous thirteen-year-old ballerina trying to pin up her bun perfectly with bobby pins while popping a zit; behind her the walls are now wallpapered with pages of fashion magazines and a collage of sixty-nine photos of Leonardo DiCaprio is taped on the mirror's glass surface. It has seen a naive young woman of sixteen trying on the outfit she'd wear to school the next day, grey pinstriped polyester pants her crush said made her butt look 'hot' – the walls are now neon green and orange. It has seen a high school senior, in her cheerleading uniform practicing herkies while lip synching to Britney Spears's remix of "I Love Rock and Roll", the walls now a more mature palette of brown and tan. It has seen a woman leaving her hometown for the second time for Austin to find herself and a new career, dressed in Banana Republic slacks because now she's grown up – the walls have finally been taken over by her parents after a remodel, they are off-white.
The mirror in my childhood bedroom has seen me more over the past month then it has in years. I looked at my thirty-year-old body. I noticed how it's changed over the decades. I noticed places that were softer, larger, firmer, or smaller. I moved my face up-close and ran my finger across the thin wrinkles on my forehead. I searched for a grey hair amongst the blonde, surely one has sprouted over the past two months. I turned the edges of my mouth into a fake smile and looked at the laugh lines that had been starting to form because of all the smiling I did with you. I started to cry, a woeful sob. I watched the tears drip down my cheeks in the mirror's reflection. I saw the tracks that the tears took, my face now recognizing the path of salty sorrow. I saw an ugly woman staring back at me. She had my eyes, but they were sadder now. She was so much older than I remembered her. In a way she looked like a stranger.
That mirror has witnessed a lot of tears over the years. But of the decades of tears it's seen, lately, they've been the most sad. There is no comparison to tears of grief. They even look different than other tears when studied under a microscope. They are sharp fractals without any order or pattern. They look painful to touch. In fact, they look an awful lot like they feel. These are not tears from a boy who didn't call a fifteen year-old girl. These aren't tears because I'm pissed at my parents for grounding me for sneaking out. These are not tears from belly laughing at a funny punchline so hard that my eyes water. These aren't tears because I was cast as the ugly step-sister instead of Cinderella. These aren't tears because I got wait-listed at my first choice university. These aren't tears because of a breakup that is sad and hard, but instigated by me. These aren't the tears I cried when my grandmother died peacefully at ninety-plus years.
These are tears of deep, deep devastation. These are the tears of loosing the father of the babies I couldn't wait to have. These are the tears of not being able to call my best friend. These are the tears of shattered tradition. These are the tears of loosing the life I'd always dreamed of. These are the tears of a second family slipping away through my fingertips. These are tears of questioning the value of life without you. These are tears of confusion. These are tears of loosing faith. These are tears that really have no words to describe them.
The anchors remain. The ones here in my bedroom remind me nostalgically of childhood. But in my current state of grief, retreating to memories of the past, before these tears, is comforting. The anchors pull me in and ground me. They remind me that while you aren't here, there was something here before you and there are still things that remain here now. This is your hometown too. And in your absence I wish I'd had the time to learn more about what pulled you back to memories, what rooted you. I am not sure how it will be when I return to our house in Colorado next week. There, the anchors all bear the weight of memories of my life with you. I want it and I fear it at the same time. So for now, I will lay in this bed. I will curl up and try to remember what it was like to sleep peacefully like I did as a child.
Obituary
Today I read your obituary in the newspaper.
I can't imagine the difficulty it took for your parents to sit down and write their only son's obituary. Their handsome and healthy son, who was just 34 years old. The son who they were planning on celebrating the thirty fifth birthday of just five days later. The son who they'd never seen so happy. The son who they were expecting a call from any day with the joyful news of engagement, not their worst nightmare, a three a.m. call from the emergency room announcing his death. And yet, that is now the reality, the reality that we are all facing every day in new ways.
Just when it feels like the news of your death has sunk in, a new discovery proves that it has not. The pain is so raw.
I remember when I wrote my eulogy for you. It was just three days after your death. I had barely slept. I was traumatized by being witness to my worst nightmare. I hadn't eaten anything and what I'd tried to eat, I'd thrown up. I was in shock. I was being held on my feet only by the sturdy arms of friends and family. I was on the brink with every breath.
I had my father go out and buy me a new notebook. I simply requested a "nice" one. I couldn't open a computer to write, that seemed too official, like work. And if I had used a computer, I knew I would be stimulated by all of the other material on the screen, like the show I had been watching just minutes before on that night you seized. So, armed with my notebook, I sat down on our bed and began to write.
As I wrote, I felt as though my hand wasn't doing the writing. I felt like I was being channeled by something larger. Maybe it was simply adrenaline. Maybe it was your help. But just like your incredible family and the obituary, I made it through. I strung sentences together and wrote down everything I needed to say out loud to a crowd of witnesses. I wrote the vows that I'd intended to write to you on our wedding day. As I wrote, it became more real. My new notebook wrinkled with dried tears. Words on paper seemed to make your death more concrete.
I heard the obituary had been printed today. I had already read the text before press with your sister Berkley. We had both cried and talked about how beautiful it was. We had chosen the final photo to be used. But today, when I asked my parents to bring me a copy of the newspaper, it became real all over again.
I saw my mom's hesitation as she handed the obituary to me, a single page already separated from the rest of the issue. I reached for the paper with an outstretched hand, fingers trembling. I felt it between the pads of my fingers, grey and thin. It is the same newspaper I read the comics in as a young child. Peanuts made me smile with anthropomorphic pets and witty punchlines every Sunday morning. The same newspaper that I saw a picture of myself in when I was eleven and in the Nutcracker. I had red cheeks, a heart painted on my lips, toe shoes on my feet, and the tight fitting red and gold trim jacket of a solider. The same paper that I would look up movie times in when scheduling teenage co-ed excursions with a boy I might hold hands with. The same newspaper I would help my grandma clip coupons from. The same newspaper that featured the firm I was at when I worked with the Olympics as a young professional. The same newspaper I dreamt would someday house our marriage announcement. The newspaper had arrived every morning to our doorstep without fail for the past thirty years. My dad would go fetch it in his robe while the current family dog would run out alongside him and take her morning pee in the front yard. But today's newspaper was different. Today, in the obituaries, alongside nine strangers who all looked so old, was you – my Ted – looking so handsome, so young, and so ready to take on the world.
Obituary can be found here.
I can't imagine the difficulty it took for your parents to sit down and write their only son's obituary. Their handsome and healthy son, who was just 34 years old. The son who they were planning on celebrating the thirty fifth birthday of just five days later. The son who they'd never seen so happy. The son who they were expecting a call from any day with the joyful news of engagement, not their worst nightmare, a three a.m. call from the emergency room announcing his death. And yet, that is now the reality, the reality that we are all facing every day in new ways.
Just when it feels like the news of your death has sunk in, a new discovery proves that it has not. The pain is so raw.
I remember when I wrote my eulogy for you. It was just three days after your death. I had barely slept. I was traumatized by being witness to my worst nightmare. I hadn't eaten anything and what I'd tried to eat, I'd thrown up. I was in shock. I was being held on my feet only by the sturdy arms of friends and family. I was on the brink with every breath.
I had my father go out and buy me a new notebook. I simply requested a "nice" one. I couldn't open a computer to write, that seemed too official, like work. And if I had used a computer, I knew I would be stimulated by all of the other material on the screen, like the show I had been watching just minutes before on that night you seized. So, armed with my notebook, I sat down on our bed and began to write.
As I wrote, I felt as though my hand wasn't doing the writing. I felt like I was being channeled by something larger. Maybe it was simply adrenaline. Maybe it was your help. But just like your incredible family and the obituary, I made it through. I strung sentences together and wrote down everything I needed to say out loud to a crowd of witnesses. I wrote the vows that I'd intended to write to you on our wedding day. As I wrote, it became more real. My new notebook wrinkled with dried tears. Words on paper seemed to make your death more concrete.
I heard the obituary had been printed today. I had already read the text before press with your sister Berkley. We had both cried and talked about how beautiful it was. We had chosen the final photo to be used. But today, when I asked my parents to bring me a copy of the newspaper, it became real all over again.
I saw my mom's hesitation as she handed the obituary to me, a single page already separated from the rest of the issue. I reached for the paper with an outstretched hand, fingers trembling. I felt it between the pads of my fingers, grey and thin. It is the same newspaper I read the comics in as a young child. Peanuts made me smile with anthropomorphic pets and witty punchlines every Sunday morning. The same newspaper that I saw a picture of myself in when I was eleven and in the Nutcracker. I had red cheeks, a heart painted on my lips, toe shoes on my feet, and the tight fitting red and gold trim jacket of a solider. The same paper that I would look up movie times in when scheduling teenage co-ed excursions with a boy I might hold hands with. The same newspaper I would help my grandma clip coupons from. The same newspaper that featured the firm I was at when I worked with the Olympics as a young professional. The same newspaper I dreamt would someday house our marriage announcement. The newspaper had arrived every morning to our doorstep without fail for the past thirty years. My dad would go fetch it in his robe while the current family dog would run out alongside him and take her morning pee in the front yard. But today's newspaper was different. Today, in the obituaries, alongside nine strangers who all looked so old, was you – my Ted – looking so handsome, so young, and so ready to take on the world.
Obituary can be found here.
In Line
I'm sitting on the airplane flying over the Atlantic back to the USA. I think you are hanging around me on this flight. I was watching a movie. It was one we planned to see together because it stars one of my distant cousins and is his first Hollywood hit. While everyone else's TV worked flawlessly, mine had a complete mind of it's own. It kept stopping and starting and flipping to different movies and entertainment options. The mouse would appear on the screen and flail all around, even though I was not interacting with it. They restarted it twice and it kept doing the same thing, the flight attendant was quite puzzled. Then a bit later it worked just fine. Maybe it's just a coincidence. Or maybe it's not. But the thought that it was not made me happy. So I decided to choose happiness.
But then, just moments after the movie stopped it's games and I settled into the plot, a woman who was walking down the aisle to the bathroom grabbed onto the attendant in front of her as her face turned white. In mere seconds, she passed out, falling backwards and slamming her head on an armrest beside me. This is seriously happening right now? I thought to myself as my blood pressure skyrocketed. The woman remained still on the floor as panic ensued through the cabin. The pilot got on the loudspeaker and requested the aid of a doctor. One arrived on the scene before I even had time to react. There are over forty rows on this flight and three sections of seats, and this happened next to my chair. This is the third time someone has passed out near me since you died. Prior to that it had happened once, and I was nine. I sobbed openly as the woman was revived and given orange juice to help her blood sugar. The young girl next to me stared at my reaction. "I think she's fine," she told me, calmly. "Yes, I know. I'm sorry. I have some anxiety regarding this sort of thing," I said. "Oh yeah, I hate flying too!" she said. I nodded, but thought, 'That's not it. I don't mind flying... Come to think of it, I also don't mind crashing.'
One minute I choose to happy and believe you're beside me, the next minute fear and trauma erupt through my body. It's crazy how quickly things can go from high to low. Grief is more potent of a drug than anything I've ever experienced.
The lows are low… and so are the highs. But the fluctuation between the lowest of the lows and the highest of the lows are vast. I am a sticky sponge of emotion. What is around me sinks into my being. The way things land in my being is as impressionable as a fourteen-year-old girl craving popularity.
When I am involved in enlightened conversation or embodying my yoga, rooted in wisdom but open to higher consciousness, I feel connected, hopeful, and faithful. When I am around conflict, whether it's a lover's quarrel or a traffic jam, I am absorbent to that discord. I feel disconnected, nervous, and critical. When I listen to music, the mood and lyrics consume me. I can be uplifted or forlorn. When I stay in the moment, just this breath, I can make it to the next. When I open up the limits of my vision to encompass the greater future – the next inhale is a hiccup of fear.
Yesterday, I felt more lost than I have been yet. I couldn't see any light, anywhere. I recognize that feelings of futile despair are a part of this process. I did not volunteer for any of this. I did not imagine it in my worst nightmare. I don't know how to cope most of the time. The way I felt yesterday shows me that sometimes I will crawl under the dark blanket of depression, that bleak hiding place is now one of my homes. But it's not my only home. I will not let it be.
I think of the woman you loved. Me. I remind myself of what you loved about me. You loved my ambition. When I set a goal, I'm committed to it. You loved my vulnerability. I dive in headfirst and with open arms. You loved my sensitivity. I cry at half of the commercials on TV. You loved my reliability. I call when I say I'll call, no games. Although, to be honest, you could generally always rely on me to be ten minutes late. You loved my passion. Nothing more needs to be said there. You loved my empathy. We always were on the same wavelength, but when we occasionally weren't, we would communicate in the same nurturing language. We never got in a single argument, not even once. You loved my kindness. I always wanted you to be happier than you could dream. You loved my mind. You once told me you thought I was smarter than you. I disagree, but thank you. You loved my spirit. Neither of us had ever been able to have so much fun with just one other person. From the moment we awoke to falling asleep in one another's arms, it was always, ALWAYS fun.
When I am struggling, I have to remind myself of the woman you loved. I have to allow myself to realize that I am still her. I have said that you are my other half – and I believe it. But you wouldn't have fallen in love with me unless you thought I was whole, on my own. I will have faith in your investment of love.
This past August, we went to Burning Man for our second year together. Our summer had been nonstop. We had been at six music festival in the two-or-so months prior to the Burn. To be honest, we were burnt out (pun intended) before even getting to the Playa. You had been in the studio recording an album the weekend before we were to drive to BRC. I had flown to Reno on Saturday morning alone to gear up. Unlike the previous year, when you had pretty much organized everything, this year I took the lead. I secured the RV. I playa-proofed it – covering all the floors in plastic, window seals in painter's tape, and vents in air filters. I did all the shopping for the week and packed the fridge full. I stocked the bar. I organized costumes, clothes, toiletries, and put fresh batteries in all the EL wire and lights. I had the RV ready to go when I picked you up from the airport on Sunday night.
On our way into Black Rock City I was at the wheel while you slept on the couch of the RV. We had passed through the gates and were on the dirt road. We were so close! It was about 2:30 am. We would be at camp by 4am. Traffic slowed to a crawl as the wind and dust kicked up. The crawl turned to a stop. We creeped forward over the next hour and a half, only making it about a half mile closer to the gate. Then it started to rain. Rain on the Playa is not good at all. The earth is made of a thick dust that turns to a cement-like clay when wet. If the cars were to continue driving, they would get stuck as if in hard concrete. They closed the gate. Anyone on the dirt road, like us, was told to put our vehicles in park and stay tuned for more information.
This sort of announcement does not go over well for an anxious Type-A personality, like me. Wide-eyed and revved-up behind the wheel, I listened to BRC Radio as they replayed the same announcement over and over for another hour. You remained peacefully asleep. I had awoken you to tell you the news, but you simply said, "We'll get in when we get in. This is what the Universe is delivering to us." "But like, whennnn will we get in?" I responded. "In time, babe," you muttered as you drifted back to sleep. You dreamt. I paced around the RV. I went for a walk in the clay and chatted with the other Type-As in neighboring vehicles. "When do you think they'll open the gates?" we all asked one another as it continued to rain. "I mean, they can't just like, make us sit here all night and into the day… can they?" we continued. It eventually stopped raining. I sat in the driver's seat of the RV and literally, impatiently watched the earth dry. You slept, peacefully. It started to rain again.
When you woke up eventually (OK so maybe I woke you up…) you continued to persuade me that this was simply how it was supposed to be. "The Universe is delivering this to us, babe. We have been going nonstop all summer. We are being forced to just stop, just be, and wait – without knowing what's next," you told me, poetically. If I knew we would be sitting in that same spot, 100 cars from the entrance to the city for sixteen total hours, maybe I would have relaxed. But instead, for sixteen hours, I nagged like a child on a road trip, "Whennnnnn?" But no matter how many people we asked, no one knew when! It was a matter of time. You could settle into time's uncertainty. But I fought it.
Looking back at our time on the Playa this past year, those sixteen hours in line were the most fun I had the whole time. That is, in retrospect. Maybe if I'd simply learned to unleash into the uncertainty, I could have seen the fun of the situation in the moment. Twenty-thousand anxious, amazing Burners were waiting to get into the biggest celebration in the world. Why did I feel the need to be through the gate and in the city when the whole population was surrounding me? The biggest party on the Playa was happening in line and I couldn't even see it. But you could. DJs unpacked their gear and set up on the roofs of neighboring RVs. The bass started to thump before the sun even came up. We popped open champagne before breakfast. I changed from normal Earth clothing into Burning Man clothing as soon as the sun warmed up the air. As I got drunk, I still focused on watching the puddles dry. "That puddle seems smaller now, don't you think?" I'd ask. I had chosen one puddle near our RV as a 'measuring device'. You kept laughing at me. You didn't care about the size of the puddle. You tried to share your perspective with me, but I couldn't get it. I couldn't accept what the Universe had offered.
We wandered the line. You carried a smile. I carried a bottle of champagne. We adventured. We did yoga on the hot roof of our RV. I almost fell off while handstanding drunk. We danced to the music that vibrated the clay floor. We ran into old friends in line. We made up our own card game. We made new friends. We spoke with a pair of young sisters who were nine and eleven years old. It was their forth Burn. They told us that they were the most authentic versions of themselves at Burning Man. They had feathers in their hair and paint on their faces. They said they were allowed to actually be kids on the Playa because it's where everyone comes to be a kid again. They shared their innocent souls and beautiful smiles with us. We all did cartwheels together on the wet earth. You lit up and connected. I tried, but the lingering question of when the gate would open haunted the back of my mind, preventing me from truly being in the experience of living in the moment.
The Playa dried and we got into the city at about 6:00 pm., fourteen hours later than our expected arrival. I didn't actually 'arrive' until days later. I was too stuck.
In some ways, I am always stuck. Stuck in the future. Stuck in the past. Stuck with uncertainty. Stuck with impatience. Stuck in the high. Stuck in the low. Stuck in love. Stuck in fear. Stuck in place. Stuck in no place.
Despite the harrowing darkness that this time brings, the impending bouts of depression and loneliness, I commit to not staying stuck. The woman you loved would not stay stuck. She would rally. She would learn. She would grow. She would fight. She would love in whatever way she could muster love. When life deals me a shitty hand, I commit to working through it. When my permeable spirit takes a nose dive, I commit to getting unstuck – to removing myself from the place of darkness and stepping into something that gives me an ounce of peace. I will do this for you. And I will do this for me.
But then, just moments after the movie stopped it's games and I settled into the plot, a woman who was walking down the aisle to the bathroom grabbed onto the attendant in front of her as her face turned white. In mere seconds, she passed out, falling backwards and slamming her head on an armrest beside me. This is seriously happening right now? I thought to myself as my blood pressure skyrocketed. The woman remained still on the floor as panic ensued through the cabin. The pilot got on the loudspeaker and requested the aid of a doctor. One arrived on the scene before I even had time to react. There are over forty rows on this flight and three sections of seats, and this happened next to my chair. This is the third time someone has passed out near me since you died. Prior to that it had happened once, and I was nine. I sobbed openly as the woman was revived and given orange juice to help her blood sugar. The young girl next to me stared at my reaction. "I think she's fine," she told me, calmly. "Yes, I know. I'm sorry. I have some anxiety regarding this sort of thing," I said. "Oh yeah, I hate flying too!" she said. I nodded, but thought, 'That's not it. I don't mind flying... Come to think of it, I also don't mind crashing.'
One minute I choose to happy and believe you're beside me, the next minute fear and trauma erupt through my body. It's crazy how quickly things can go from high to low. Grief is more potent of a drug than anything I've ever experienced.
The lows are low… and so are the highs. But the fluctuation between the lowest of the lows and the highest of the lows are vast. I am a sticky sponge of emotion. What is around me sinks into my being. The way things land in my being is as impressionable as a fourteen-year-old girl craving popularity.
When I am involved in enlightened conversation or embodying my yoga, rooted in wisdom but open to higher consciousness, I feel connected, hopeful, and faithful. When I am around conflict, whether it's a lover's quarrel or a traffic jam, I am absorbent to that discord. I feel disconnected, nervous, and critical. When I listen to music, the mood and lyrics consume me. I can be uplifted or forlorn. When I stay in the moment, just this breath, I can make it to the next. When I open up the limits of my vision to encompass the greater future – the next inhale is a hiccup of fear.
Yesterday, I felt more lost than I have been yet. I couldn't see any light, anywhere. I recognize that feelings of futile despair are a part of this process. I did not volunteer for any of this. I did not imagine it in my worst nightmare. I don't know how to cope most of the time. The way I felt yesterday shows me that sometimes I will crawl under the dark blanket of depression, that bleak hiding place is now one of my homes. But it's not my only home. I will not let it be.
I think of the woman you loved. Me. I remind myself of what you loved about me. You loved my ambition. When I set a goal, I'm committed to it. You loved my vulnerability. I dive in headfirst and with open arms. You loved my sensitivity. I cry at half of the commercials on TV. You loved my reliability. I call when I say I'll call, no games. Although, to be honest, you could generally always rely on me to be ten minutes late. You loved my passion. Nothing more needs to be said there. You loved my empathy. We always were on the same wavelength, but when we occasionally weren't, we would communicate in the same nurturing language. We never got in a single argument, not even once. You loved my kindness. I always wanted you to be happier than you could dream. You loved my mind. You once told me you thought I was smarter than you. I disagree, but thank you. You loved my spirit. Neither of us had ever been able to have so much fun with just one other person. From the moment we awoke to falling asleep in one another's arms, it was always, ALWAYS fun.
When I am struggling, I have to remind myself of the woman you loved. I have to allow myself to realize that I am still her. I have said that you are my other half – and I believe it. But you wouldn't have fallen in love with me unless you thought I was whole, on my own. I will have faith in your investment of love.
This past August, we went to Burning Man for our second year together. Our summer had been nonstop. We had been at six music festival in the two-or-so months prior to the Burn. To be honest, we were burnt out (pun intended) before even getting to the Playa. You had been in the studio recording an album the weekend before we were to drive to BRC. I had flown to Reno on Saturday morning alone to gear up. Unlike the previous year, when you had pretty much organized everything, this year I took the lead. I secured the RV. I playa-proofed it – covering all the floors in plastic, window seals in painter's tape, and vents in air filters. I did all the shopping for the week and packed the fridge full. I stocked the bar. I organized costumes, clothes, toiletries, and put fresh batteries in all the EL wire and lights. I had the RV ready to go when I picked you up from the airport on Sunday night.
On our way into Black Rock City I was at the wheel while you slept on the couch of the RV. We had passed through the gates and were on the dirt road. We were so close! It was about 2:30 am. We would be at camp by 4am. Traffic slowed to a crawl as the wind and dust kicked up. The crawl turned to a stop. We creeped forward over the next hour and a half, only making it about a half mile closer to the gate. Then it started to rain. Rain on the Playa is not good at all. The earth is made of a thick dust that turns to a cement-like clay when wet. If the cars were to continue driving, they would get stuck as if in hard concrete. They closed the gate. Anyone on the dirt road, like us, was told to put our vehicles in park and stay tuned for more information.
This sort of announcement does not go over well for an anxious Type-A personality, like me. Wide-eyed and revved-up behind the wheel, I listened to BRC Radio as they replayed the same announcement over and over for another hour. You remained peacefully asleep. I had awoken you to tell you the news, but you simply said, "We'll get in when we get in. This is what the Universe is delivering to us." "But like, whennnn will we get in?" I responded. "In time, babe," you muttered as you drifted back to sleep. You dreamt. I paced around the RV. I went for a walk in the clay and chatted with the other Type-As in neighboring vehicles. "When do you think they'll open the gates?" we all asked one another as it continued to rain. "I mean, they can't just like, make us sit here all night and into the day… can they?" we continued. It eventually stopped raining. I sat in the driver's seat of the RV and literally, impatiently watched the earth dry. You slept, peacefully. It started to rain again.
When you woke up eventually (OK so maybe I woke you up…) you continued to persuade me that this was simply how it was supposed to be. "The Universe is delivering this to us, babe. We have been going nonstop all summer. We are being forced to just stop, just be, and wait – without knowing what's next," you told me, poetically. If I knew we would be sitting in that same spot, 100 cars from the entrance to the city for sixteen total hours, maybe I would have relaxed. But instead, for sixteen hours, I nagged like a child on a road trip, "Whennnnnn?" But no matter how many people we asked, no one knew when! It was a matter of time. You could settle into time's uncertainty. But I fought it.
Looking back at our time on the Playa this past year, those sixteen hours in line were the most fun I had the whole time. That is, in retrospect. Maybe if I'd simply learned to unleash into the uncertainty, I could have seen the fun of the situation in the moment. Twenty-thousand anxious, amazing Burners were waiting to get into the biggest celebration in the world. Why did I feel the need to be through the gate and in the city when the whole population was surrounding me? The biggest party on the Playa was happening in line and I couldn't even see it. But you could. DJs unpacked their gear and set up on the roofs of neighboring RVs. The bass started to thump before the sun even came up. We popped open champagne before breakfast. I changed from normal Earth clothing into Burning Man clothing as soon as the sun warmed up the air. As I got drunk, I still focused on watching the puddles dry. "That puddle seems smaller now, don't you think?" I'd ask. I had chosen one puddle near our RV as a 'measuring device'. You kept laughing at me. You didn't care about the size of the puddle. You tried to share your perspective with me, but I couldn't get it. I couldn't accept what the Universe had offered.
We wandered the line. You carried a smile. I carried a bottle of champagne. We adventured. We did yoga on the hot roof of our RV. I almost fell off while handstanding drunk. We danced to the music that vibrated the clay floor. We ran into old friends in line. We made up our own card game. We made new friends. We spoke with a pair of young sisters who were nine and eleven years old. It was their forth Burn. They told us that they were the most authentic versions of themselves at Burning Man. They had feathers in their hair and paint on their faces. They said they were allowed to actually be kids on the Playa because it's where everyone comes to be a kid again. They shared their innocent souls and beautiful smiles with us. We all did cartwheels together on the wet earth. You lit up and connected. I tried, but the lingering question of when the gate would open haunted the back of my mind, preventing me from truly being in the experience of living in the moment.
The Playa dried and we got into the city at about 6:00 pm., fourteen hours later than our expected arrival. I didn't actually 'arrive' until days later. I was too stuck.
In some ways, I am always stuck. Stuck in the future. Stuck in the past. Stuck with uncertainty. Stuck with impatience. Stuck in the high. Stuck in the low. Stuck in love. Stuck in fear. Stuck in place. Stuck in no place.
Despite the harrowing darkness that this time brings, the impending bouts of depression and loneliness, I commit to not staying stuck. The woman you loved would not stay stuck. She would rally. She would learn. She would grow. She would fight. She would love in whatever way she could muster love. When life deals me a shitty hand, I commit to working through it. When my permeable spirit takes a nose dive, I commit to getting unstuck – to removing myself from the place of darkness and stepping into something that gives me an ounce of peace. I will do this for you. And I will do this for me.
Lost wanderer
I came on this trip to search for beauty. I came to dull the sharp pain that digs into my heart. I came hoping to find peace on the other side of the globe, as far as possible from where you died. I came in search of hope that true joy exists outside of our love.
Unfortunately, my search was not a success.
I have a cold from the constant change in temperature here in Spain. My nose is raw from running and my head is congested. My head is already full of confusion, which leaves no room for foggy sickness. I have an upset stomach from the food at our five-star hotel in Morocco. My skin is a mess from stress. I haven't done yoga in days. I haven't felt your presence in weeks and I haven't seen you in seven. Essentially, I'm falling apart.
I thought I was lost when you left that night, when I shook your body and you did not respond, when I put my cheek to your chest and your heart did not answer my cry. I thought I was lost when your death actually landed in my mind, when your family held me in their quivering arms and we all sobbed. I thought I was lost when my body finally caught up to my mind's understanding and realized that what she craved, she could no longer have. I thought I was lost when I drove into our garage, realized you weren't inside the house and would never be, and then understood it was actually no longer really my home. I thought I was lost when I tried to be grateful on Thanksgiving, even though in my heart I knew I was just reaching. I thought I was lost when I scattered your ashes in the Mediterranean Sea, and watched the dust of your beautiful bones mix with sand, shells, and seaglass.
But then today I packed my bags to leave for the States. I squeezed in dirty clothes, Moroccan rugs, Spanish pâté, and too many accumulated Christmas gifts. I saw all the stuff that meant absolutely nothing to me get zipped up in a suitcase that is probably overweight. And the one thing that meant the most to me of anything, anywhere was more absent then ever, weightless – yet so heavy on my heart. I sobbed, snotted, and sneezed as I smelled a hat of yours I carry with me through my stuffed nose. As I looked inside and touched your stray hairs that still cling to the fabric, I felt more lost then ever.
I met with a wonderful woman yesterday who lost her true love suddenly at twenty five. She shared her story and her gentle words of advice. She is now in her sixties and an inspirational soul: beautiful, wise, and deeply conscious. She has love in her life but it hasn't always been a constant. She told me that after her young love's death, she was left with a fairy tale script but without the lead actor. She wasn't willing to rewrite the story she had mapped out. She went on to find a replacement for the role in the same script. She married the father of her three children five years later. She never loved him in the way that he loved her. She wasn't willing. The marriage eventually ended. She told me that someday, I have to let go of what we had and be willing to rewrite my story.
I sat on the beach today and meditated. I thought of my story without you. It made me want to run into in the freezing water and try to swim to Africa with the clear knowledge that I would not make it. I told myself, 'Be gentle on yourself. It's too soon. You don't need to think about this.' But I kept thinking and my sobs worsened. I do not want my story without you in it. I want our fairy tale!
I am being suffocated by emotion. I feel a noose around my neck that grips me with one hand of sorrow and the other hand of fear. I pity myself. I pity those who have to be around me. Everyone is trying to help. But they can't. They can only stand guard and consider taking out stock in Kleenex while witnessing my bewildered wandering, slow self-sabotage, and vain attempts to appear OK.
I came in search of beauty. I learned that I am not open to its possibility. I came to witness love in others. But I only see love so different than what we had that it's painful to observe. I came to treat myself gently. I learned that tenderness is impossible when you're self destructive. I came to pass time. But saw that time is infinite, desolate, and a trickster: always too fast or too slow. I came to convince myself that everything will be OK. But everything is not OK. I came to heal some of my suffering. But I saw suffering magnified to the point where the whole world seems like a raw wound. I came to try to let go, just a little. But now I grip to your memory more than ever.
Unfortunately, my search was not a success.
I have a cold from the constant change in temperature here in Spain. My nose is raw from running and my head is congested. My head is already full of confusion, which leaves no room for foggy sickness. I have an upset stomach from the food at our five-star hotel in Morocco. My skin is a mess from stress. I haven't done yoga in days. I haven't felt your presence in weeks and I haven't seen you in seven. Essentially, I'm falling apart.
I thought I was lost when you left that night, when I shook your body and you did not respond, when I put my cheek to your chest and your heart did not answer my cry. I thought I was lost when your death actually landed in my mind, when your family held me in their quivering arms and we all sobbed. I thought I was lost when my body finally caught up to my mind's understanding and realized that what she craved, she could no longer have. I thought I was lost when I drove into our garage, realized you weren't inside the house and would never be, and then understood it was actually no longer really my home. I thought I was lost when I tried to be grateful on Thanksgiving, even though in my heart I knew I was just reaching. I thought I was lost when I scattered your ashes in the Mediterranean Sea, and watched the dust of your beautiful bones mix with sand, shells, and seaglass.
But then today I packed my bags to leave for the States. I squeezed in dirty clothes, Moroccan rugs, Spanish pâté, and too many accumulated Christmas gifts. I saw all the stuff that meant absolutely nothing to me get zipped up in a suitcase that is probably overweight. And the one thing that meant the most to me of anything, anywhere was more absent then ever, weightless – yet so heavy on my heart. I sobbed, snotted, and sneezed as I smelled a hat of yours I carry with me through my stuffed nose. As I looked inside and touched your stray hairs that still cling to the fabric, I felt more lost then ever.
I met with a wonderful woman yesterday who lost her true love suddenly at twenty five. She shared her story and her gentle words of advice. She is now in her sixties and an inspirational soul: beautiful, wise, and deeply conscious. She has love in her life but it hasn't always been a constant. She told me that after her young love's death, she was left with a fairy tale script but without the lead actor. She wasn't willing to rewrite the story she had mapped out. She went on to find a replacement for the role in the same script. She married the father of her three children five years later. She never loved him in the way that he loved her. She wasn't willing. The marriage eventually ended. She told me that someday, I have to let go of what we had and be willing to rewrite my story.
I sat on the beach today and meditated. I thought of my story without you. It made me want to run into in the freezing water and try to swim to Africa with the clear knowledge that I would not make it. I told myself, 'Be gentle on yourself. It's too soon. You don't need to think about this.' But I kept thinking and my sobs worsened. I do not want my story without you in it. I want our fairy tale!
I am being suffocated by emotion. I feel a noose around my neck that grips me with one hand of sorrow and the other hand of fear. I pity myself. I pity those who have to be around me. Everyone is trying to help. But they can't. They can only stand guard and consider taking out stock in Kleenex while witnessing my bewildered wandering, slow self-sabotage, and vain attempts to appear OK.
I came in search of beauty. I learned that I am not open to its possibility. I came to witness love in others. But I only see love so different than what we had that it's painful to observe. I came to treat myself gently. I learned that tenderness is impossible when you're self destructive. I came to pass time. But saw that time is infinite, desolate, and a trickster: always too fast or too slow. I came to convince myself that everything will be OK. But everything is not OK. I came to heal some of my suffering. But I saw suffering magnified to the point where the whole world seems like a raw wound. I came to try to let go, just a little. But now I grip to your memory more than ever.
Fast Forward
You taught me what it was like to be still.
Before you, I always kept moving. All day, everyday, I filled my space and time with stuff. Life was in fast forward, always trying to get somewhere, to get ahead, to rush the process. And then you came. And the pace slowed down.
I didn't need to rush with you. And when I wanted to, you helped me pause. You taught me what it was like to have ritual and to have breathing room. You showed me that I didn't need to rush anymore, because I was so happy in the present. It was the first time I was actually content with everything! More than content, overjoyed! Though our paces were probably what were differed on the most. Even in our world together, I still moved at a canter next to your walk.
When we would leave the house for yoga class, you liked to walk out the door thirty-five minutes early, fifteen-minutes earlier than my estimated departure time. You didn't want to speed to yoga. Imagine that? Before leaving the house, you would prepare your bag with time to spare. You would fill up your favorite water bottle with water from our tap – because you preferred it triple-filtered and reverse osmosis, versus the studio sink. You would get a freshly folded yogi-toes and organize it in your bag. You would have a snack, a Kind Bar or maybe some almonds. You would put your mat in the trunk and call out, "Babe, ready to go?"
Like a firecracker, I'd shoot up from my chair in front of my computer and race to my dresser. I had felt the need to finish 'that last layout' or 'just this email'. I'd throw on a yoga top and bottom, without much thought. I'd throw some essentials in my purse and nearly fly into the passenger seat of the car. You waited patiently for my tardiness every day.
You would start the car and wait the fifteen seconds you always did for your engine to warm up. In my schedule, those fifteen seconds would make me even more late, but in your schedule, you had accounted for it. You also accounted for weather, time of day, and my tardiness. You planned to get there early in time to change, carefully fold your clothes, organize them in your locker, chat with the teacher or another student, get the spot you liked and my spot next to you, grab props for us both, and do some twisting on your back, and simply get present.
I haven't given myself nearly any moments of stillness since you've been gone. I'm scared that because I'm operating on auto-pilot through this devastation, I'm going to unlearn some of the most beautiful lessons you taught me, like being still and slowing down my pace. I'm trying to be gentle on myself, and to me, right now, gentleness is staying busy. And yet I'm scared.
I've had quite a few people tell me, "I can't believe how strong you're being! Many people wouldn't be able to get out of bed. Look at you! You're writing, you're traveling, you're in action, you're staying so busy!" The truth is, I'm not being strong. I'm taking the easiest way out. But let's face it, that doesn't exist in this situation.
I'm both requesting support and trying to help others through writing so candidly and publicly. That is not purely self-serving, which is maybe what I should be focusing on. Instead, I'm thinking, 'How can I be nurturing and inspiring to others through this experience?' The 'strong' way would be saying, 'I need to honor that much of this grief is a personal process,' and being more private. But to me, candid sharing is more natural.
I'm traveling because it's helping time pass and me get away from being suffocated by your absence from our house. A home I thought I was going to grow old in with you and our family. Now I don't even know where I'll be in a year. I'm homesick for a home I no longer have – because home was in our house with YOU. Traveling allows my ungrounded heart and soul to have ungrounded surroundings, a kind of balance that is very temporary (and already wearing on me heavily). Traveling helps pass time.
I cannot stay immobilized. For me, not moving would amplify this immeasurable pain insurmountably. I couldn't 'not move' when I was in the happiest moments of my life. Even then, I filled every minute of my day with something. You were helping to teach me stillness, but it was not my natural way of being and it was a process. When I'm still, the loneliness is amplified and the trauma comes back. I see my fears, my brokenness, and my imperfections. And largely, I see your death – which is still completely unacceptable, bewildering, and shattering to all that I am and what I thought I would be.
I miss being still with you. I miss being able to take three deep breaths and knowing that there was peace at end of my last exhale. There is no sign of peace. You cannot fast forward grief. So for now, I will do what comes naturally. I will not try to be strong. And when someone tells me I'm being strong, I will speak my truth and say, "No, I am not." I am only moving because I am the one whose heart is still beating, therefore I have no other choice.
Before you, I always kept moving. All day, everyday, I filled my space and time with stuff. Life was in fast forward, always trying to get somewhere, to get ahead, to rush the process. And then you came. And the pace slowed down.
I didn't need to rush with you. And when I wanted to, you helped me pause. You taught me what it was like to have ritual and to have breathing room. You showed me that I didn't need to rush anymore, because I was so happy in the present. It was the first time I was actually content with everything! More than content, overjoyed! Though our paces were probably what were differed on the most. Even in our world together, I still moved at a canter next to your walk.
When we would leave the house for yoga class, you liked to walk out the door thirty-five minutes early, fifteen-minutes earlier than my estimated departure time. You didn't want to speed to yoga. Imagine that? Before leaving the house, you would prepare your bag with time to spare. You would fill up your favorite water bottle with water from our tap – because you preferred it triple-filtered and reverse osmosis, versus the studio sink. You would get a freshly folded yogi-toes and organize it in your bag. You would have a snack, a Kind Bar or maybe some almonds. You would put your mat in the trunk and call out, "Babe, ready to go?"
Like a firecracker, I'd shoot up from my chair in front of my computer and race to my dresser. I had felt the need to finish 'that last layout' or 'just this email'. I'd throw on a yoga top and bottom, without much thought. I'd throw some essentials in my purse and nearly fly into the passenger seat of the car. You waited patiently for my tardiness every day.
You would start the car and wait the fifteen seconds you always did for your engine to warm up. In my schedule, those fifteen seconds would make me even more late, but in your schedule, you had accounted for it. You also accounted for weather, time of day, and my tardiness. You planned to get there early in time to change, carefully fold your clothes, organize them in your locker, chat with the teacher or another student, get the spot you liked and my spot next to you, grab props for us both, and do some twisting on your back, and simply get present.
I haven't given myself nearly any moments of stillness since you've been gone. I'm scared that because I'm operating on auto-pilot through this devastation, I'm going to unlearn some of the most beautiful lessons you taught me, like being still and slowing down my pace. I'm trying to be gentle on myself, and to me, right now, gentleness is staying busy. And yet I'm scared.
I've had quite a few people tell me, "I can't believe how strong you're being! Many people wouldn't be able to get out of bed. Look at you! You're writing, you're traveling, you're in action, you're staying so busy!" The truth is, I'm not being strong. I'm taking the easiest way out. But let's face it, that doesn't exist in this situation.
I'm both requesting support and trying to help others through writing so candidly and publicly. That is not purely self-serving, which is maybe what I should be focusing on. Instead, I'm thinking, 'How can I be nurturing and inspiring to others through this experience?' The 'strong' way would be saying, 'I need to honor that much of this grief is a personal process,' and being more private. But to me, candid sharing is more natural.
I'm traveling because it's helping time pass and me get away from being suffocated by your absence from our house. A home I thought I was going to grow old in with you and our family. Now I don't even know where I'll be in a year. I'm homesick for a home I no longer have – because home was in our house with YOU. Traveling allows my ungrounded heart and soul to have ungrounded surroundings, a kind of balance that is very temporary (and already wearing on me heavily). Traveling helps pass time.
I cannot stay immobilized. For me, not moving would amplify this immeasurable pain insurmountably. I couldn't 'not move' when I was in the happiest moments of my life. Even then, I filled every minute of my day with something. You were helping to teach me stillness, but it was not my natural way of being and it was a process. When I'm still, the loneliness is amplified and the trauma comes back. I see my fears, my brokenness, and my imperfections. And largely, I see your death – which is still completely unacceptable, bewildering, and shattering to all that I am and what I thought I would be.
I miss being still with you. I miss being able to take three deep breaths and knowing that there was peace at end of my last exhale. There is no sign of peace. You cannot fast forward grief. So for now, I will do what comes naturally. I will not try to be strong. And when someone tells me I'm being strong, I will speak my truth and say, "No, I am not." I am only moving because I am the one whose heart is still beating, therefore I have no other choice.
Thin Skin
I woke up this morning at 5:45 am to the sounds of the call-to-prayer here in Marrakech, Morocco. As my mind awoke from sad and longing dreams, I realize I'd drifted off to sleep last night without doing my own prayers and gratitude. It was almost as if the alarm had awoken me as a reminder of my own need for prayer and meditation. So as the Muslims around the city kneeled on their prayer rugs and bowed to their Allah, I prayed to my God too. While there any many different names: Allah, God, Jesus, Buddha, Moses, Mother Earth, the Universe... in my opinion, it is the exact same essence.
I don't know who I pray to, honestly. I just know I'm now devoted to the larger force in this whole mess of a world. Because I have to believe in a larger force. Because if I don't believe, then there will be no way I can see you again. And the thought of not being with you again makes living seem pointless. So I pray. So, at 5:45 am this morning, along with the pious Muslim community of Marrakech, I awoke to offer my devotion. I asked for you to be near me always. I asked for others to be able to experience the type of love I had with you. I asked that the citizens of the Universe be spared of the pain of sudden loss. I can't bear to think of anyone else suffering like I have. So if my prayers help just one being feel less pain, then they are heard.
The pain from this loss sinks in more deeply every day. Just when I think, 'It can't possibly hurt anymore.' It does. It hurts a lot more. It's like there is a dull meat cleaver that presses into my flesh constantly. The pain is always there, pushing. And then every so often, a new tendon or muscle is hit – and the pain is intolerable and all-encompassing. New depths of pain hit me this afternoon. I was sitting on a rooftop terrace here in Morocco to watch the sunset. Watching the sun inevitably reminds me of you. You were my sun. You were the biggest, brightest, and most live-giving element in my life. So watching the sun vanish below the skyline reminds me of your own disappearance each time I stand witness. I watched the star descend below the horizon, casting shadowed hued of impending darkness out over this unfamiliar city. A harrowing heaviness set in.
Natalia and I had struck up a conversation with a couple from London, Owen and Jennifer. They were also here visiting Marrakech for a long weekend. They were lovely and engaging. The conversation was really nice because Natalia and I have been a duo over the past few days and including new people into the dialogue was fresh. But as the chat developed and the sun left the sky, I began to isolate myself from the discussion. It had gotten to the point where I could no longer go on making small talk without talking about you. So I just stopped talking.
I don't really know where to go from here when I'm meeting new people. You were the biggest part of my life. You were going to be my husband. You were going to be the father of my children. You were my best friend. You were my biggest fan. You were my teacher. You were my sun, moon, stars, and the space between. You were my everything! There is no way I can have a conversation without talking about you. And acting as though you are still alive is a lie that I cannot tell. It's not only a lie to the people I'm sharing with, but more importantly, it's a lie to me.
So now, during tête-à-tête, I don't know where to go. I want to talk about you, my love, my partner, my man... and yet I don't know how to appropriately broach the subject. "Why are you visiting Marrakech?" someone would ask. "Because my true love died and I am searching for anything that reminds me to keep putting one foot in the front of the other," I can't say that. That would bring down other people on their holiday! And yet, when the conversation gets to a certain point, it's unavoidable. I'm too honest and too open not to share my own truth. So instead, I retreat. I get quiet and reclusive. I watch others connect, talk about joy, act with affection, and share – and I back out of the conversation. And the knife of pain digs into fresh, tender meat in my body.
I want others to love. I want others to be happy. I want others to enjoy their time together. I want others to enjoy life. I want others to connect. That's why I pray for them, for everyone. That's why I hope to inspire others by sharing what we had in our own love. But as much as I honestly do want all of that – witnessing it is incredibly, incredibly, incredibly painful. It's part jealousy, part disdain, part admiration – a confusing mess of emotions. I can't help but think of how it was just me who was right there – and now it's just so empty.
So I will continue to ask for peace – for myself, for others, and for the conversation between. And in the meantime, know that the knife is always there. It is always digging deep into my skin. My skin used to be thick, but it's growing weary.
I don't know who I pray to, honestly. I just know I'm now devoted to the larger force in this whole mess of a world. Because I have to believe in a larger force. Because if I don't believe, then there will be no way I can see you again. And the thought of not being with you again makes living seem pointless. So I pray. So, at 5:45 am this morning, along with the pious Muslim community of Marrakech, I awoke to offer my devotion. I asked for you to be near me always. I asked for others to be able to experience the type of love I had with you. I asked that the citizens of the Universe be spared of the pain of sudden loss. I can't bear to think of anyone else suffering like I have. So if my prayers help just one being feel less pain, then they are heard.
The pain from this loss sinks in more deeply every day. Just when I think, 'It can't possibly hurt anymore.' It does. It hurts a lot more. It's like there is a dull meat cleaver that presses into my flesh constantly. The pain is always there, pushing. And then every so often, a new tendon or muscle is hit – and the pain is intolerable and all-encompassing. New depths of pain hit me this afternoon. I was sitting on a rooftop terrace here in Morocco to watch the sunset. Watching the sun inevitably reminds me of you. You were my sun. You were the biggest, brightest, and most live-giving element in my life. So watching the sun vanish below the skyline reminds me of your own disappearance each time I stand witness. I watched the star descend below the horizon, casting shadowed hued of impending darkness out over this unfamiliar city. A harrowing heaviness set in.
Natalia and I had struck up a conversation with a couple from London, Owen and Jennifer. They were also here visiting Marrakech for a long weekend. They were lovely and engaging. The conversation was really nice because Natalia and I have been a duo over the past few days and including new people into the dialogue was fresh. But as the chat developed and the sun left the sky, I began to isolate myself from the discussion. It had gotten to the point where I could no longer go on making small talk without talking about you. So I just stopped talking.
I don't really know where to go from here when I'm meeting new people. You were the biggest part of my life. You were going to be my husband. You were going to be the father of my children. You were my best friend. You were my biggest fan. You were my teacher. You were my sun, moon, stars, and the space between. You were my everything! There is no way I can have a conversation without talking about you. And acting as though you are still alive is a lie that I cannot tell. It's not only a lie to the people I'm sharing with, but more importantly, it's a lie to me.
So now, during tête-à-tête, I don't know where to go. I want to talk about you, my love, my partner, my man... and yet I don't know how to appropriately broach the subject. "Why are you visiting Marrakech?" someone would ask. "Because my true love died and I am searching for anything that reminds me to keep putting one foot in the front of the other," I can't say that. That would bring down other people on their holiday! And yet, when the conversation gets to a certain point, it's unavoidable. I'm too honest and too open not to share my own truth. So instead, I retreat. I get quiet and reclusive. I watch others connect, talk about joy, act with affection, and share – and I back out of the conversation. And the knife of pain digs into fresh, tender meat in my body.
I want others to love. I want others to be happy. I want others to enjoy their time together. I want others to enjoy life. I want others to connect. That's why I pray for them, for everyone. That's why I hope to inspire others by sharing what we had in our own love. But as much as I honestly do want all of that – witnessing it is incredibly, incredibly, incredibly painful. It's part jealousy, part disdain, part admiration – a confusing mess of emotions. I can't help but think of how it was just me who was right there – and now it's just so empty.
So I will continue to ask for peace – for myself, for others, and for the conversation between. And in the meantime, know that the knife is always there. It is always digging deep into my skin. My skin used to be thick, but it's growing weary.
Witness to love
About ten years ago, my second-cousin Celine got married. I went to the wedding. It was on the beach on Long Island, just outside of the City. It was the most spectacular wedding I'd ever attended. The one-hundred or so chairs faced the ocean right near the sand volleyball court that Celine and her family had played on most summer weekends throughout her life. Celine looked stunning as she walked down the aisle – a gorgeous dress, black hair, olive skin, light eyes, and supermodel looks made her radiant. But there was another thing that made her even more radiant – her love.
When Ken, her fiance, saw her approaching – I witnessed a powerful and genuine display of unconditional love. Tears streamed down his face as his eyes danced with unabashed joy. I had never seen anything like it. I remember an onlooker near me whispering to her neighbor, "Not many people are lucky enough to find a love like that."
At one point during the ceremony Ken surprised Celine by having an airplane fly across the horizon, above the beach, with a love note trailing behind it – in French! It was a inside message the two of them shared, they're own secret flying overhead. It was the most romantic thing I'd ever witnessed. She was giddy. Even more giddy than she had been moments prior, on the beach altar, on the happiest day of her life, next to the man she was marrying. When they kissed after the pronouncement, I felt as though I was inside of a romance movie. It was perfect. The love I saw between the two of them was unexplainable – it was simply true love.
The wedding turned into a reception on the beach. Ken, besides being the most adoring man I'd ever seen, is also a famous chef and had graced the pages of People Magazine as one of their most eligible bachelors. Celine had walked into one of his restaurants in Boston one day. They met when she sold him French delicacies for his shop – fine cheese, truffles, or maybe caviar. They both spoke French, they both spoke food, and they soon learned, they both spoke love.
For dinner, Ken's friends, renowned chefs, many of whom appear on the Food Network, all set up food booths as their gift to the new couple. Much like the love, the food was out of this world. The dancing began and continued late into the night. A Spanish glass wine vessel, called a porron, was passed around the dance floor all night, spilling thin streams of fine champagne into our mouths. I danced with family and friends, but what I really remember was watching Ken and Celine embrace, love, and dote on one another throughout the celebration. I, as a woman in my early twenties, had been to many weddings, but I had never seen an honest display of love like this.
It was that night when I decided someday I too, would find true love.
Over the next ten years, I gave it my best shot. Over and over, in fact. I love hard. I put it all out there. And I give it my best. Then I met you. And you were searching for the same thing. And then, we finally had it.
I knew our wedding was going to be a showcase of that same love I'd witnessed on the beach between Ken and Celine. I knew what they had, we now had too. I'd waited, and it was worth it. The first time I visited you in Boulder, I walked into your bar and saw a porron sitting on the counter smiling at me. A sign, I thought to myself. I often told you, "I would do it all over again if I knew I got to be with you in the end, Ted. I would go through all the heartbreak, all the wrong choices, all the shit, all of it. As long as you are at the end." Is the Universe testing me now? Is that what this is?
About six months after we began dating, you came with me to Maine where my parents live in the summers. It was your first family trip with me. On the front end of the journey, we traveled to Kennebunkport to meet up with my dad's cousin Tom, his wife Maryanne, daughter Melanie, Celine, Ken, and their babies. I had told you about that infamous wedding and you were excited to meet the family I loved so dearly and the couple I admired. On top of that, we were dining at one of Ken's restaurants called "Earth" – you were impressed by the James Beard award, the menu, and the dedication to local fare.
The visit went well. Almost perfectly. Almost. You had let the kitchen know about your allergy to sunflower seeds and pine nuts. We both knew everything on the table was fine for you to eat – except the squash ravioli. At some point, your appetite and curiosity got the best of you. You looked at me, your face was swollen and your eyes were watering. "Not the squash ravioli?!" I asked. "I forgot. Everything was so good and I just got excited," you responded.
You begged me not to tell anyone. This was your first trip with my family and there was no way you'd want to upset the Iron Chef winner and cousin of mine who was seated just a few chairs down. I swore I wouldn't. You excused yourself to the bathroom, to, as you always said, "pull the trigger." I stealthily got a hold of the car keys and looted your dop kit for Benadryl.
You were gone from the table for a very long time. By the time you came back from the bathroom, most of the table was done eating. You, being a tortoise-paced eater, still had nearly all your food on your plate. More wine was drank by the rest of us as you tried to eat your food and hide the nausea that was consuming you. But the chef never found out. (Until now, possibly.)
On our drive from Earth to our cabin, about 2-hours along windy coastal roads, my father decided to take the "scenic route". It was dark out and there was little to see, so my dad's choice was confusing. My father also happens to be one of the world's most jerky drivers. You sat, stone-faced and silent in the back of the car – stomach writhing and throat contracting. I gripped your hand as we swerved our way to the cabin. You were such a gentleman. You didn't want anyone to know. I honored that, but all I really wanted to do was cradle you, rub your belly, and run my fingers through your hair until you drifted to sleep in my arms.
Ken and Celine's wedding was the first time I started dreaming about my own. And then when I finally met you, nearly a decade later, I knew it would finally happen. While a wedding seems trivial to me now after all of this loss – for that decade, I longed for my big day. And when I met you, I could finally see it. I imagined friends witnessing our love and it being proof to them, after their own potential doubt, that true love was real. That they too deserved it. That it was worth the wait. And then we would help other people to fall in love too.
So now, here I sit – alone, but knowing. I know it's real. I know I got to taste it. And maybe I'll have to wait another lifetime to taste it again, like I said I would. I will have to go through it all over, just to see that glimmer, to feel that warmth, and to dip my toe into unconditional love. And if that's the case and you're there on the other side, it will be worth the wait.
When Ken, her fiance, saw her approaching – I witnessed a powerful and genuine display of unconditional love. Tears streamed down his face as his eyes danced with unabashed joy. I had never seen anything like it. I remember an onlooker near me whispering to her neighbor, "Not many people are lucky enough to find a love like that."
At one point during the ceremony Ken surprised Celine by having an airplane fly across the horizon, above the beach, with a love note trailing behind it – in French! It was a inside message the two of them shared, they're own secret flying overhead. It was the most romantic thing I'd ever witnessed. She was giddy. Even more giddy than she had been moments prior, on the beach altar, on the happiest day of her life, next to the man she was marrying. When they kissed after the pronouncement, I felt as though I was inside of a romance movie. It was perfect. The love I saw between the two of them was unexplainable – it was simply true love.
The wedding turned into a reception on the beach. Ken, besides being the most adoring man I'd ever seen, is also a famous chef and had graced the pages of People Magazine as one of their most eligible bachelors. Celine had walked into one of his restaurants in Boston one day. They met when she sold him French delicacies for his shop – fine cheese, truffles, or maybe caviar. They both spoke French, they both spoke food, and they soon learned, they both spoke love.
For dinner, Ken's friends, renowned chefs, many of whom appear on the Food Network, all set up food booths as their gift to the new couple. Much like the love, the food was out of this world. The dancing began and continued late into the night. A Spanish glass wine vessel, called a porron, was passed around the dance floor all night, spilling thin streams of fine champagne into our mouths. I danced with family and friends, but what I really remember was watching Ken and Celine embrace, love, and dote on one another throughout the celebration. I, as a woman in my early twenties, had been to many weddings, but I had never seen an honest display of love like this.
It was that night when I decided someday I too, would find true love.
Over the next ten years, I gave it my best shot. Over and over, in fact. I love hard. I put it all out there. And I give it my best. Then I met you. And you were searching for the same thing. And then, we finally had it.
I knew our wedding was going to be a showcase of that same love I'd witnessed on the beach between Ken and Celine. I knew what they had, we now had too. I'd waited, and it was worth it. The first time I visited you in Boulder, I walked into your bar and saw a porron sitting on the counter smiling at me. A sign, I thought to myself. I often told you, "I would do it all over again if I knew I got to be with you in the end, Ted. I would go through all the heartbreak, all the wrong choices, all the shit, all of it. As long as you are at the end." Is the Universe testing me now? Is that what this is?
About six months after we began dating, you came with me to Maine where my parents live in the summers. It was your first family trip with me. On the front end of the journey, we traveled to Kennebunkport to meet up with my dad's cousin Tom, his wife Maryanne, daughter Melanie, Celine, Ken, and their babies. I had told you about that infamous wedding and you were excited to meet the family I loved so dearly and the couple I admired. On top of that, we were dining at one of Ken's restaurants called "Earth" – you were impressed by the James Beard award, the menu, and the dedication to local fare.
The visit went well. Almost perfectly. Almost. You had let the kitchen know about your allergy to sunflower seeds and pine nuts. We both knew everything on the table was fine for you to eat – except the squash ravioli. At some point, your appetite and curiosity got the best of you. You looked at me, your face was swollen and your eyes were watering. "Not the squash ravioli?!" I asked. "I forgot. Everything was so good and I just got excited," you responded.
You begged me not to tell anyone. This was your first trip with my family and there was no way you'd want to upset the Iron Chef winner and cousin of mine who was seated just a few chairs down. I swore I wouldn't. You excused yourself to the bathroom, to, as you always said, "pull the trigger." I stealthily got a hold of the car keys and looted your dop kit for Benadryl.
You were gone from the table for a very long time. By the time you came back from the bathroom, most of the table was done eating. You, being a tortoise-paced eater, still had nearly all your food on your plate. More wine was drank by the rest of us as you tried to eat your food and hide the nausea that was consuming you. But the chef never found out. (Until now, possibly.)
On our drive from Earth to our cabin, about 2-hours along windy coastal roads, my father decided to take the "scenic route". It was dark out and there was little to see, so my dad's choice was confusing. My father also happens to be one of the world's most jerky drivers. You sat, stone-faced and silent in the back of the car – stomach writhing and throat contracting. I gripped your hand as we swerved our way to the cabin. You were such a gentleman. You didn't want anyone to know. I honored that, but all I really wanted to do was cradle you, rub your belly, and run my fingers through your hair until you drifted to sleep in my arms.
Ken and Celine's wedding was the first time I started dreaming about my own. And then when I finally met you, nearly a decade later, I knew it would finally happen. While a wedding seems trivial to me now after all of this loss – for that decade, I longed for my big day. And when I met you, I could finally see it. I imagined friends witnessing our love and it being proof to them, after their own potential doubt, that true love was real. That they too deserved it. That it was worth the wait. And then we would help other people to fall in love too.
So now, here I sit – alone, but knowing. I know it's real. I know I got to taste it. And maybe I'll have to wait another lifetime to taste it again, like I said I would. I will have to go through it all over, just to see that glimmer, to feel that warmth, and to dip my toe into unconditional love. And if that's the case and you're there on the other side, it will be worth the wait.
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