In 2011, I stood graveside and helped bury my first love.
Sometime in 2007, I was at a school party/dance/band thing with a good friend. He tapped the guy in front of us on the shoulder. The guy turned around. That was it.
For our first date, the day before Christmas eve, he took me sledding at night. We said ‘I love you’ for the first time to each other. We went to prom together. I stood next to him in all his graduation photos. He kept a bottle of bleu cheese dressing in the fridge at our house, spending more time cooking with my mom and I than at his own house. He told me I was better than strawberry milk and chocolate cookies, and I believed him.
We broke up. We grew apart. We’d still run into each other, and it still hurt every time. When he left he was going to be an engineer. He ended up being a drop out, covered in tattoos, making drinks and in a band. What mattered? He was happy. The last time I saw him was on 9th street in Lawrence, outside the Pig. We briefly chatted. I wish now I had scooped him up, stuck him in my purse, and kept him safe from his demons.

I knew the pictures they had posted. I felt like the him I knew was the him they still knew and held onto. Nobody would blame them for that.
Fact is, he killed himself. That sucks. It’s selfish, but I get it. I’ve been that dark before, but have managed to always hold my breath till the other side. He, evidently, ran out of air before he could surface.
Hardly anyone made it back for his funeral. We had a pack of 4. One was an old friend of mine, who had known Matt for even longer, hardly a childhood memory without him in it. We circled this silly little town for a couple of hours, crying and laughing and crying and being sad and grateful and joyful and heartbroken…all within the same sentence, sometimes.

Everything’s ok, it’s just a loss that hits me sometimes out of the blue. There’s a fresh stab when I suddenly remember that he’s just not here anymore. There’s no soup can device to facilitate the existential communication that I need to calm my tummy. So I have to sleep on it. Hope on it. Find peace in it.

Thanks for giving me ears.

And, until I can muster the gonads to bust out those photo albums again and share some real photos, here’s one of he and his best friend, Brandon. We were all in high school and completely invincible.

I get being hurt so deeply that you try to hurt the other back, even if it’s unconsciously. I do. But I finally think that I’m old enough to not only not do that, but also not put up with that childish crap from anyone else.

No one likes to be rejected. No one likes to have that pretty life they ever so carefully weaved with another yanked out from underneath them…but when people lie or cheat or deceive or don’t hold up their end of the deal or are abusive in any way…that carefully constructed love safety net turns to a rickety shit pile of leaves and twine in no time.

You want me back in your life so you call and talk for hours and hint at the great things we had built dreams on having…and then you remember the next morning that I had hurt you, so you spew the most horrible, despicable, disrespectful things you could think of. It’s sort of disgusting, really.

Note to you: don’t call again. Note to me: quit picking up.

We once had wicked pretty dreams together. They were quite perfect, in fact. But because I don’t want to be controlled and you don’t want me to be close to my family, we’re just stepping on shards.

Thing is? You were mean and you lied, and I should have trusted more and been more pliable, but none of those should-haves amount to a pile of fucking rocks. They’re all just piles waiting to be kicked on a hot day, and every conversation we have leaves me hosing myself off in the backyard.

You tell me to text when I graduate, get married, have a kid…I’m pretty certain if I become a quadriplegic you won’t hear it from my mouth. You don’t want the everyday, you just don’t get any of it. You don’t get to peek in the grab bag and pull out all the good stuff, leaving the crumbs for everyone else.

Quit being mean, I don’t want it anymore.

The new year as an idea keeps getting more weird to me as time passes, as ‘a’ new year could be celebrated at any point. There’s something about ‘the’ new year, however, that seems to always end up holding an oddly burdensome amount of weight.

Like, I always want to work to be a better person, but the sudden presence of that new number tacked onto the end of the year actually makes me more conscious of working toward that goal. Funny how that works.

I guess I’ve gotten further and further from making resolutions because it just started seeming very sort of…arbitrary? I suppose? Why not make it at the time I recognize the need instead of waiting for a holiday of resolutions to make it?

It may not seem like it, but I’m trying to circle around to a point.

I don’t like a lot of things about the person I behaved as in 2011. There are things I wish that I had handled differently. There are definitely times when I would have been a better partner, friend, daughter, aunt, sister, worker, student. There are times that I used fear and uncertainty as an excuse to brick and mortar people out of my heart and head. There are words that slipped out of my mouth that surprised even me once they hit the air.

Added to that cord of wood, though? I don’t like the way I have treated myself. I don’t like that I gave up on things, I don’t like that I allowed myself to be deceived, I don’t like that I walk around as though I do not deserve any sort of respect or kindness. And I don’t like this emptiness that I keep expecting another human to fill when, in reality, I’m the only one with a shovel, standing next to a perfectly sized for me pile of dirt. And no matter how hard and pushy I get, trying to hand that shovel off to someone else to do the dirty work, it won’t happen. They can’t accept it, because I’m the only one who can roll up her sleeves and fill it.

Sounds like a lot of work to do alone, but I think I’m up for the challenge. So thanks, new number, for forcing me to, once again, sit down in my own pile of mud and really take a look at me. Maybe resolutions aren’t such a bad idea after all.

Our spazzy Christmas picture

A whole load of crazy and life-learning and far out stuff has happened this year.

I’ve gone back to school. I’ve done well at it. I am going to be a nurse. A good one, at that.

I’ve left a really good relationship. No matter what he ever says about me, or how bitter he is, he is a good man, and I will always love him. We had a great big love and big promises and a whooooole lotta heart in it. That being said, it didn’t mean it was right for me. I don’t mean to hurt people and nothing about it was easy, but that man that I will always love, will always be better off because I said goodbye. I can take his mean spews, because I know that his life will be better without me in it. Though my actions might seem selfish at the time to that person, I rarely, if ever, come first. His life will be grand and beautiful. I promise you this.

For the first time in a very, very long time, I have wholly thrown myself into something that terrifies me. I was thisclose to failing out of nursing school. 16 people got booted from the program this semester. This ain’t no joke, ya’ll. But know what?? I did it. I am finally starting to believe in me a little bit again. It’s an oddly nice feeling.

Over the last 6 mos I have gotten reacquainted with a long lost friend. Someone I was once very close to, someone whom I have had a thing for since before we met, about 14 yrs ago,someone whom has never left my heart. Someone whom I am, today, proud to call my boyfriend. My confidente. My support. My study buddy. My relaxation. My outlet. My…wait for it…love. Good or bad, this girl’s got it. Hard. Love has a way of changing your perspective, enhancing it…owning it. And this one’s got me, through and through. Wait till you meet him-horrifically handsome, pissingyourpants hilarious, amazingly in touch with great stuff like sending flowers when appropriate, night holdings and back scratches…he’s not perfect, no. But nor am I, and we give and take in a way that makes me believe that love can work. Because we both want it to, and we both care enough to put forth the effort. That feels good.

I have gotten to meet my mother again. We’ve always been close, but this is high school new. We share close space, and we both love it. She has always been, and will never cease to be, a soul mate. Lucky me.

I have turned so inward and worked so hard for so much of who I am, that I finally really give a fuck about standing up for myself. I have always been able to stand up for those who couldn’t for themselves, but believing that I have things of worth for myself to stand up for? Another thing. Yet here we are. And I have good advice, if you’d care to hear it. Well…at least it’d be free advice…

Thanks for listening. While this post is missing about 4 important paragraphs about great people and things in life, I’m tired. It’s xmas eve. I have 2 kids who are going to be bouncing on my legs in 6 hrs. I’ll try to video my niece doing ‘we wish you a merry christmas.’ You won’t be sorry.

Once, not so long ago, I had a conversation with a middle aged bachelor. He is 45, has never been married, has no kids, and prefers to date younger women. He informed me that he gets kind of leery of women who are 30+ and have never been married because, obviously, there is something wrong with them. “Makes you wonder about them, you know?”

No, I guess I don’t know.

Because I am that woman.

So I turned it on him and wondered aloud what must be wrong with him, being 45 and never married. Surprisingly, he had never thought about it that way.

What really bothers me is how tightly this conversation has clung to me. How deeply it has rooted itself and made me, in fact, wonder: What is wrong with me?

Everyday that passes I sit idly by, hands tucked under my tush, and watch as friends, family, society announce engagements, legal unions, pregnancies, births…I try to relate as best I can through my own relationship experiences, through how maternal I feel toward my niece and nephew…but, at the end of the day, when I crawl alone into my empty bed, I really have no idea what any of that kind of love feels like. And it makes me sad. Really fucking sad.

My brave face is fine and getting a new career, but a mere 1/2 layer deeper, I’m scared. My tummy hurts from worry. I put up with far more than anyone should because I feel that if I just hang on, it’ll get better. Stronger. Less scary.

I’m ok until you ask me face to face if I’m ok. I don’t know why, call it the true girl in me, but when someone asks me that, salty, hidden tears spring up from my very toes and reveal it all.

I have no idea where all of this ‘life’ stuff is leading me, or how badly I’m fucking it up along the way, but I could really use a ray of sunshine. And an ounce of confidence. And a hug. A really good, tight, lingering hug.

My nursing program started the year with 39 people. 15 are now gone.

Maybe even more difficult than the school work is the constant stress, always feeling so vulnerable. Oh yes, and Pharmacology. Cursed, wretched Pharmacology.

From the start of this new journey, I have been putting myself down about it. Moving back to my hometown, moving back in with my mama, going to a community college…the thing is, is I feel proud of myself now. I chose to move back here to pursue this, and I get to spend real time with my mom as an adult.

A friend in the program and I were talking about if we get kicked out, how ashamed we’d be because we would have gotten kicked out the program at friggen Dodge City Community College, for goodness sake. What I’m discovering, though, is that they’re known for their nursing program for a reason-it’s legit. Seriously. They don’t mess around.

I’m also really proud because I’m learning stuff. I feel entirely more knowledgeable than I did just 4 months ago (even though I had to use spell check for knowledgeable just then). It’s giving me a confidence boost that is both unexpected and entirely welcome.

I’m still super nervous because if I don’t pass Pharmacology this semester, I’m out. This class is hard as hell and terrifying to me, but all I can do is keep trying. And breathing. Treathing. Brying.

Just trying to repeat what she said to me “Don’t forget to stick to the plan.” It means more than it sounds like out loud. Just keep breathing, baby. Some days it’s all you’ve got.

Every decision, every connection, every look and every word could have gone differently. But it didn’t. And that’s ok, because I’m here now. I’m doing well in school, I have love in my life, I’m fortunate. Love comes in all sorts of packages, and they all teach you something you need to know about yourself. Every restart is scary and lonely and sad, but they’re necessary to find your place.

This song is for him, it’s for me, it’s for all of us.

“Next time I’ll be braver
I’ll be my own savior
When, the thunder calls for me.
Next time I’ll be braver
I’ll be my own savior
Stand, on my own two feet.”

Cheers to every good time and bad, to every tear and laugh, to every plan made and now destroyed, to every part of me that I left behind and every new part that has been built up, to that piece of someone else’s heart that I will always carry around inside, and the piece of mine that he, willingly or not, will always clutch.

Cheers to the next chapter, and to not giving up when it all seems too much to bear, and to feeling worthy of happiness.

For so many years it was my mom and brother and I. We were fine. We didn’t need interventions, no kindness, no love. Our walls were up and life was ours.

But we did need love. My mom needed a love. My brother needed more than a sister to hold onto for female companionship. I prolly needed more than a brother to complete the masculine role in my life.
So, we branched out. And I got the best sister in law that anyone could ask for, and she is the best mom to a niece and nephew who are better than anything I could have ever have dreamed up.
And I found someone who loves me in all the ways that I am me. And that’s something else…
So glad we’re all still here and breathing and adjusting and good. Wish I could gather you all into a group hug and squeeze the bejezuss out of you.

Don’t let anyone tell you different, you rule. And you make a difference. Good for you.

I’ve been around for almost 30 years. Whoa. This gal has been around for more types of love than you can count on one hand, and is better for knowing all of them.
This lucky girl has a husband to go through the rest of it as a team with. He loves me in a way I never expected anyone to, and sticks by his promise every day. No matter how much fear I show at letting all the walls down, he’s always standing guard on the other side. My soldier. My heart.
I have been through every other kind of love on the planet, looking for where I belong, where I feel the most safe and stable, finally.
The super intense but will never last, the insatiable obsession, the friendship connection that’s so deep it knows no what other direction to go in, even the lovely and safe and stable love, but with something missing. That something. I even tried to go for the ‘trophy wife’ love-if he loves me enough it doesn’t matter how I feel. Maybe it was maturity (not necessarily on their part-most likely on mine). Inadequacy? Trust? No matter, I suppose, it just wasn’t right.
But I have finally been blessed with someone who shows and works with me to explain what love is all about. Before when I pushed, they eventually all gave. My husband doesn’t falter. He loves me without prejudice, without question, without caveats.
I’m a very lucky girl with a very bright future, and a very bright man to share it with.
Thanks, almost-30. We took some time, but we’re working hard, and we are all but there. Cut those ropes and fall.

The way my husband sees me.