The human spirit is this crazy, indomitable thing. It's beautiful and amazing, and completely and utterly surprising in its ability to drag itself out of the mud, dust itself off, and continue marching towards some unforeseen yet inevitable future.
Perhaps more surprising is the ability of those around us to catch onto that spirit and to use it to rally for our cause, not because they believe in it, but because they believe in us. It's that spirit that allows us to rally around each other.
Yesterday, Garrett and I sat thinking, "How in the hell are we going to do this? We left everything we knew and loved to come back to a place to make things better, so how the hell did it get worse?"
What a difference twenty four hours makes.
It occurred to me this afternoon that for all of the joy and pain we've been through to carve our way through this life, those around us have laughed, cried, and bled with us too. We're all just trying to make our way and be the best part of ourselves, and when we fall short, we fall hard. It doesn't matter the circumstance. It doesn't matter the fault. We see it as an ending and never a beginning. I went back to an email I was sent a few months ago in response to my last blog entry and it took the breath right out of me.
"Some of the most devastating setbacks later on turn out to have been essential turning points that led me to a much better path...we all need to persevere, and wait for the truth to reveal itself."
In the last twenty four hours I've had these beautiful, indomitable spirits step in and offer anything they could of themselves emotionally or otherwise to help me keep believing that what can be imagined can be achieved. That when one door closes, if another does not open, I can and should kick down the door.
So I want to say Thank You to my crazy, beautiful family and friends. The love I have for all of you fills my heart to the very brim and keeps me believing in every epic and amazing thing we plan to do.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Don't Give Up
Life is full of heartache. It's a lesson we don't learn until we are drowning in it, heaving with burning lungs as we desperately cling to tiny shreds of dreams we've spent a lifetime working toward. It's shocking at first, the complete and utter devastation that you feel. That devastation soon turns to anger, and after anger, guilt. First world problems. After guilt, a mind numbing sadness creeps in and takes you almost by surprise.
When you've spent your entire life working for something, slowly building it brick by brick, beating every obstacle that got in your way, how do you now cope when it crumbles beneath you?
Don't give up, they said, and they were right, only quitting feels like giving up and you're burning with shame. You're battered and bleeding, unsure of how to even make it through the day.
As you leave it behind you, watch it slowly fade in the rear-view mirror, the tears sting your eyes and trail hot down your cheeks. Your fingers tremble on the steering wheel as reality hits you hard. This is it. All the decisions and non decisions, they have all come to this. It's a heavy price to pay, and a heavy burden to swallow. You're leaving things behind, and far more things unsaid, but you know deep down that it's the only way this can go. That thought should give you comfort, but mostly it just makes you sick.
You reach the end of one chapter, and begin another. It's not at all what you wanted, and certainly not what you expected, but you make it what you can, because what other choice do you really have? The days turn into weeks, the weeks drift into months, and most of the time you can hold it together. The day-to-day is enough to not think, to not go into that place you've locked away. Every now and then you find a crack in your resolve, but you lift your chin up and you push onward. You don't give up.
Months approach a year and you know that date is coming. You fear it almost as much as you feared the day this started. You still tell yourself it was for the best, and part of you believes it. The larger part of you is still mourning the end of your future, at least the perceived ending of your perceived future. You watch those around you slowly succumb to the same fate, and the pain swallows you whole each time.
It's nearly the end of winter when you get the message that you both knew, and didn't know was coming. Your reaction is much harder than you expected. Your chest burns, the tears come, and you just sit staring out the window. Not this time, you say to yourself. Not again. You try to hold it in, to think about anything else, but all you can think about is everything that's happened over the last five years and it plays through your mind in stunning clarity. You zero in on that first moment, the one that might have changed everything, and you realize that you wouldn't do anything differently. Not if it got you to this place. Not if it got you the people that you know and love so fiercely.
It's not what you expected, and it's not what you wanted, but it is what it is. Life is full of heartache, but as you sit with your heart breaking, you re-live every moment you've had over the last five years, and you suddenly realize that without the pain, these bright, beautiful memories would somehow be less bright.
You learn a new lesson.
Not giving up has multiple meanings, and you're about to take a crash course in all of them.
When you've spent your entire life working for something, slowly building it brick by brick, beating every obstacle that got in your way, how do you now cope when it crumbles beneath you?
Don't give up, they said, and they were right, only quitting feels like giving up and you're burning with shame. You're battered and bleeding, unsure of how to even make it through the day.
As you leave it behind you, watch it slowly fade in the rear-view mirror, the tears sting your eyes and trail hot down your cheeks. Your fingers tremble on the steering wheel as reality hits you hard. This is it. All the decisions and non decisions, they have all come to this. It's a heavy price to pay, and a heavy burden to swallow. You're leaving things behind, and far more things unsaid, but you know deep down that it's the only way this can go. That thought should give you comfort, but mostly it just makes you sick.
You reach the end of one chapter, and begin another. It's not at all what you wanted, and certainly not what you expected, but you make it what you can, because what other choice do you really have? The days turn into weeks, the weeks drift into months, and most of the time you can hold it together. The day-to-day is enough to not think, to not go into that place you've locked away. Every now and then you find a crack in your resolve, but you lift your chin up and you push onward. You don't give up.
Months approach a year and you know that date is coming. You fear it almost as much as you feared the day this started. You still tell yourself it was for the best, and part of you believes it. The larger part of you is still mourning the end of your future, at least the perceived ending of your perceived future. You watch those around you slowly succumb to the same fate, and the pain swallows you whole each time.
It's nearly the end of winter when you get the message that you both knew, and didn't know was coming. Your reaction is much harder than you expected. Your chest burns, the tears come, and you just sit staring out the window. Not this time, you say to yourself. Not again. You try to hold it in, to think about anything else, but all you can think about is everything that's happened over the last five years and it plays through your mind in stunning clarity. You zero in on that first moment, the one that might have changed everything, and you realize that you wouldn't do anything differently. Not if it got you to this place. Not if it got you the people that you know and love so fiercely.
It's not what you expected, and it's not what you wanted, but it is what it is. Life is full of heartache, but as you sit with your heart breaking, you re-live every moment you've had over the last five years, and you suddenly realize that without the pain, these bright, beautiful memories would somehow be less bright.
You learn a new lesson.
Not giving up has multiple meanings, and you're about to take a crash course in all of them.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Giving In
It is not very often that I write here and I know exactly why. To write means that I have to open up and pour out that part of myself that I try and keep locked away. It's not that I don't want to share these feelings, it's that if I open up, it will all tumble out and I'll feel as if I am spinning out of control towards an inevitability that I am not prepared to accept.
We're moving back to Tennessee.
No matter how I look at it, no matter how I try and justify it to myself or anyone else, it feels like quitting. I realize that it's quitting for very legitimate reasons, but what shreds my soul is the thought that after everything, after all we've been through, this didn't work out. Could we have stuck it out, forced ourselves to live this way, and somehow made it work? Of course. Would that have been fair to the two innocent human beings that we are responsible for? Absolutely not.
We've known sacrifice since we were 17-years old. It came with the territory of having a baby when we were still children, and we've spent all this time struggling to do the right thing. We worked, we finished college, we raised one son, and then two, and just when getting to the point of being able to say, "We did it" the economy collapsed, we found out my husband had a tumor, and suddenly nothing made sense anymore. Surgery followed, along with my husband dropping out of grad school, and even though every instinct told us to turn around then, we waited another year to see if any of this was possible. It turns out that possible can have multiple meanings. It really came down to a choice. We could choose to put ourselves first, or we could choose to put our children first. Giving up means giving them a better life, a life where when we go to a store, they don't have to be afraid to ask for a box of cookies, or an extra notebook for class. It's not that I want to buy them iPhones and designer clothes, I just want to not walk into a store and have to say to them, "I'm sorry, but we can only get what is on this list" every single time I go to the store for two years. I just can't do it anymore. I'd give anything up, to not have to see that look on their faces.
So here we are, the two of us angry, sad, relieved, all at the same time. It's not easy when we're both mourning. One path obstructed, one of many, yet this is the one we couldn't overcome. After a lifetime of overcoming insurmountable odds, this is the one thing we couldn't do.
It hurts.
It hurts a lot more than I thought it would.
I am grateful to everyone who helped us along the way; our family, our friends, our eternally patient bosses who are really more family than employers.
My children are worth walking through fire for, so I'm going to be sad, but I'm also going to be happy, because they deserve the world. One day they will go through obstacles, and some they will overcome, and some they won't. But it's our choice to give them the best possible odds, even if that means giving up on our own. At least for now.
We're moving back to Tennessee.
No matter how I look at it, no matter how I try and justify it to myself or anyone else, it feels like quitting. I realize that it's quitting for very legitimate reasons, but what shreds my soul is the thought that after everything, after all we've been through, this didn't work out. Could we have stuck it out, forced ourselves to live this way, and somehow made it work? Of course. Would that have been fair to the two innocent human beings that we are responsible for? Absolutely not.
We've known sacrifice since we were 17-years old. It came with the territory of having a baby when we were still children, and we've spent all this time struggling to do the right thing. We worked, we finished college, we raised one son, and then two, and just when getting to the point of being able to say, "We did it" the economy collapsed, we found out my husband had a tumor, and suddenly nothing made sense anymore. Surgery followed, along with my husband dropping out of grad school, and even though every instinct told us to turn around then, we waited another year to see if any of this was possible. It turns out that possible can have multiple meanings. It really came down to a choice. We could choose to put ourselves first, or we could choose to put our children first. Giving up means giving them a better life, a life where when we go to a store, they don't have to be afraid to ask for a box of cookies, or an extra notebook for class. It's not that I want to buy them iPhones and designer clothes, I just want to not walk into a store and have to say to them, "I'm sorry, but we can only get what is on this list" every single time I go to the store for two years. I just can't do it anymore. I'd give anything up, to not have to see that look on their faces.
So here we are, the two of us angry, sad, relieved, all at the same time. It's not easy when we're both mourning. One path obstructed, one of many, yet this is the one we couldn't overcome. After a lifetime of overcoming insurmountable odds, this is the one thing we couldn't do.
It hurts.
It hurts a lot more than I thought it would.
I am grateful to everyone who helped us along the way; our family, our friends, our eternally patient bosses who are really more family than employers.
My children are worth walking through fire for, so I'm going to be sad, but I'm also going to be happy, because they deserve the world. One day they will go through obstacles, and some they will overcome, and some they won't. But it's our choice to give them the best possible odds, even if that means giving up on our own. At least for now.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Grateful
I am overwhelmed.
The ability of a human being to have so much compassion for another human being, astounds me.
Perhaps it's because from a very young age I learned to depend on myself only. Perhaps it's
because for every time I've clawed my way up, I've been slammed back down, only to claw back up again. Perhaps it's because deep down I am afraid to lean on someone else and so I hold in my fear, my doubt and force myself to view the world as I wish it to be.
Earlier today, another set back. Instead of doing what I normally do and rationally choosing the best course of action, I lost it. It welled up so hard and so fast that I couldn't contain it any longer and I let the fear take over and I cried and couldn't stop.
Emotionally, it felt like drowning. I'd been treading water for months and suddenly, the wave overtook me and I was slipping underneath.
"Don't make any rash decisions." Warned his father. "It will get better, you just get through this, and it will get better."
"I don't know how much longer we can keep this up." I offered.
"You can. You will. You've already been doing it." Came the response.
So I reached out.
A friend stepped in, family stepped in and the philes who had been behind me for months, keeping me busy during multiple hospital and doctors visits, sent messages and Christmas cards and offers to send food from across the country, to clean or babysit while in town. My work family has remained endlessly understanding and I love them dearly, and miss them dearly.
I sit here, truly amazed and eternally grateful because no matter how alone I feel, I am not alone. I am not the only one struggling, the only one fearing and the only one persevering. I am connected in a profound way to some truly amazing people in my life and I take the lessons I have learned from them with me each day. Some of these people I've never seen face to face. Some of them I see every day and some of them, I miss seeing.
I write this tonight because I want you all to know that I feel you and I am grateful for you. I hope that I bring as much to all of you as you have brought to me.
The ability of a human being to have so much compassion for another human being, astounds me.
Perhaps it's because from a very young age I learned to depend on myself only. Perhaps it's
because for every time I've clawed my way up, I've been slammed back down, only to claw back up again. Perhaps it's because deep down I am afraid to lean on someone else and so I hold in my fear, my doubt and force myself to view the world as I wish it to be.
Earlier today, another set back. Instead of doing what I normally do and rationally choosing the best course of action, I lost it. It welled up so hard and so fast that I couldn't contain it any longer and I let the fear take over and I cried and couldn't stop.
Emotionally, it felt like drowning. I'd been treading water for months and suddenly, the wave overtook me and I was slipping underneath.
"Don't make any rash decisions." Warned his father. "It will get better, you just get through this, and it will get better."
"I don't know how much longer we can keep this up." I offered.
"You can. You will. You've already been doing it." Came the response.
So I reached out.
A friend stepped in, family stepped in and the philes who had been behind me for months, keeping me busy during multiple hospital and doctors visits, sent messages and Christmas cards and offers to send food from across the country, to clean or babysit while in town. My work family has remained endlessly understanding and I love them dearly, and miss them dearly.
I sit here, truly amazed and eternally grateful because no matter how alone I feel, I am not alone. I am not the only one struggling, the only one fearing and the only one persevering. I am connected in a profound way to some truly amazing people in my life and I take the lessons I have learned from them with me each day. Some of these people I've never seen face to face. Some of them I see every day and some of them, I miss seeing.
I write this tonight because I want you all to know that I feel you and I am grateful for you. I hope that I bring as much to all of you as you have brought to me.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Don't Give Up
The tumor is getting larger.
In just a few days we go in for more tests, more questions and more discussion of what 60/40 odds really means.
The comforting news is the new surgeon is Harvard educated and we've been told he is one of the best in the country for this type of surgery.
The non-comforting news is that 40% odds, while better than nothing, are still only 40%. It means fearing the worst, late at night when everyone else is asleep, it means letting go of hope for a moment, and truly fearing the worst. And then there is fearing worse than the worst, and I don't think I'm prepared to articulate that.
They remind me that 40% is still 40%. I remind them again of the rarity of this fast growing tumor. They tell me not to dwell on that and I try very hard to take their advice.
With a non existent local support system, it means going it alone with two children for a 6 hour surgery, a 1-2 day hospital stay and then 14 days of difficult recovery at home. It means preparing for the moment when the surgeon walks into the waiting room and I stand, straining to read the expression on his face. It means being stronger for the two children who will be seated behind me than I'll feel for myself.
As I watch them play together, I can't help but feel a sense of loss already. I don't want this to be the last time I see them like this. I'm grateful he'll have his life, but with a 60% chance he'll lose the ability to smile or to speak, I can't help but feel that loss.
A letter came in the mail today from his mother. In it she writes that she is proud of us for taking a chance and following our dreams. I've read the last line at least 15 times.
Just don't give up.
In just a few days we go in for more tests, more questions and more discussion of what 60/40 odds really means.
The comforting news is the new surgeon is Harvard educated and we've been told he is one of the best in the country for this type of surgery.
The non-comforting news is that 40% odds, while better than nothing, are still only 40%. It means fearing the worst, late at night when everyone else is asleep, it means letting go of hope for a moment, and truly fearing the worst. And then there is fearing worse than the worst, and I don't think I'm prepared to articulate that.
They remind me that 40% is still 40%. I remind them again of the rarity of this fast growing tumor. They tell me not to dwell on that and I try very hard to take their advice.
With a non existent local support system, it means going it alone with two children for a 6 hour surgery, a 1-2 day hospital stay and then 14 days of difficult recovery at home. It means preparing for the moment when the surgeon walks into the waiting room and I stand, straining to read the expression on his face. It means being stronger for the two children who will be seated behind me than I'll feel for myself.
As I watch them play together, I can't help but feel a sense of loss already. I don't want this to be the last time I see them like this. I'm grateful he'll have his life, but with a 60% chance he'll lose the ability to smile or to speak, I can't help but feel that loss.
A letter came in the mail today from his mother. In it she writes that she is proud of us for taking a chance and following our dreams. I've read the last line at least 15 times.
Just don't give up.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Another Twist in the Road
You know when you make a really big decision and you plan it, you spend months thinking about it and you hope that even though the odds are stacked against you, have always been stacked against you, through sheer determination and the power of will, you take that leap and once taken, that leap sends you spinning off into a new direction you never saw coming?
Welcome to California and here's your tumor.
4 months after arriving in Los Angeles for Garrett to attend the American Film Institute to pursue a Masters Degree, we have made the decision together as a family, for him to drop out of school.
Deciding between us was the easy part, and even that took almost 5 weeks of back and forth talking, yelling, and some tears. Telling our families, was a whole other issue.
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and I really believe that, so what's another problem thrown into the mix of continuous problems that have been spinning around our lives since we met?
I guess sometimes I just want a break and once I get to that point, it doesn't take long for me to realize that I have a break. Garrett's tumor is not malignant, it's operable, though risky, and we are still married which is something that 2 years ago, I never thought would be possible now. Life is what it is. It's not easy.
The constant struggle is with the individuals in us and the parents in us. We are 30 years old, our parents owned homes by the time they were 30 and yet here we are, one of us going to grad school. I think we both have this picture of what a normal life should be for our kids and yet, that isn't their life. The fear is that our constant struggle to better ourselves, and them, may end up backfiring and yet neither one of us is quite ready to just stop. This is the part that no one tells you about when you have a baby as a teenager. Everyone warns you for the here and now, but what you don't consider is what happens when you are 30? What happens when your almost teenager has lived in multiple cities, attended multiple schools, and just when you think you've got the bull by the horns, it turns on you?
AFI was great while it lasted, but it was expensive. Far more expensive than the student loans taken to help pay for it and as we sat and counted up what we would owe after school with what we owe now, we simply couldn't continue like this. It just wasn't feasible anymore. Cutting it off at one semester means owing the least amount of money back as possible and with Garrett's surgery looming, and the costs we are about to incur, the road ahead is a bit scary. There is no savings when every penny has been spent on education.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about running away, going back to Tennessee and trying to forget I ever took a chance coming here but the bullheaded part of me just refuses to accept that as my reality. We came almost 3,000 miles, gave up everything we had, left everyone we knew and somehow, we are going to find a way to make this work because there really isn't another option this time.
This week is all about filming for a thesis project, and doctor appointments. Surgery is in 9 days, recovery is 14 days and then there's Christmas. Since leaving AFI, Garrett has been asked to join over 5 student productions starting in January, one of them for another film school. Once he heals from surgery, money will be the first priority and then if he has spare time, working on some of these productions until he lands somewhere and starts from the bottom up. One of his teachers at AFI told him when he was leaving, "Look Garrett, People come to AFI for three things and you already have them. You are going to be fine."
The light is at the end of the tunnel, but it's a long tunnel and it feels like we've been in this tunnel for a very, very long time. I remind myself that this time is different. For the first time, we are both out of school and we will both be working. That is a new dynamic. Would it have been easier to stay in Tennessee? To buy a small house in Oak Ridge and have a normal family life? Perhaps. But you don't know what you don't try and Dante, who struggled to fit in his whole life in Tennessee, suddenly fits in here and every day that I see Garrett do what he does, and see people that like his work, tell him that they need him on their projects, is another day that makes this worth it.
Welcome to California and here's your tumor.
4 months after arriving in Los Angeles for Garrett to attend the American Film Institute to pursue a Masters Degree, we have made the decision together as a family, for him to drop out of school.
Deciding between us was the easy part, and even that took almost 5 weeks of back and forth talking, yelling, and some tears. Telling our families, was a whole other issue.
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and I really believe that, so what's another problem thrown into the mix of continuous problems that have been spinning around our lives since we met?
I guess sometimes I just want a break and once I get to that point, it doesn't take long for me to realize that I have a break. Garrett's tumor is not malignant, it's operable, though risky, and we are still married which is something that 2 years ago, I never thought would be possible now. Life is what it is. It's not easy.
The constant struggle is with the individuals in us and the parents in us. We are 30 years old, our parents owned homes by the time they were 30 and yet here we are, one of us going to grad school. I think we both have this picture of what a normal life should be for our kids and yet, that isn't their life. The fear is that our constant struggle to better ourselves, and them, may end up backfiring and yet neither one of us is quite ready to just stop. This is the part that no one tells you about when you have a baby as a teenager. Everyone warns you for the here and now, but what you don't consider is what happens when you are 30? What happens when your almost teenager has lived in multiple cities, attended multiple schools, and just when you think you've got the bull by the horns, it turns on you?
AFI was great while it lasted, but it was expensive. Far more expensive than the student loans taken to help pay for it and as we sat and counted up what we would owe after school with what we owe now, we simply couldn't continue like this. It just wasn't feasible anymore. Cutting it off at one semester means owing the least amount of money back as possible and with Garrett's surgery looming, and the costs we are about to incur, the road ahead is a bit scary. There is no savings when every penny has been spent on education.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about running away, going back to Tennessee and trying to forget I ever took a chance coming here but the bullheaded part of me just refuses to accept that as my reality. We came almost 3,000 miles, gave up everything we had, left everyone we knew and somehow, we are going to find a way to make this work because there really isn't another option this time.
This week is all about filming for a thesis project, and doctor appointments. Surgery is in 9 days, recovery is 14 days and then there's Christmas. Since leaving AFI, Garrett has been asked to join over 5 student productions starting in January, one of them for another film school. Once he heals from surgery, money will be the first priority and then if he has spare time, working on some of these productions until he lands somewhere and starts from the bottom up. One of his teachers at AFI told him when he was leaving, "Look Garrett, People come to AFI for three things and you already have them. You are going to be fine."
The light is at the end of the tunnel, but it's a long tunnel and it feels like we've been in this tunnel for a very, very long time. I remind myself that this time is different. For the first time, we are both out of school and we will both be working. That is a new dynamic. Would it have been easier to stay in Tennessee? To buy a small house in Oak Ridge and have a normal family life? Perhaps. But you don't know what you don't try and Dante, who struggled to fit in his whole life in Tennessee, suddenly fits in here and every day that I see Garrett do what he does, and see people that like his work, tell him that they need him on their projects, is another day that makes this worth it.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Begin Again
Life is surprising.
There was a time when I was so sure of how my story would end that I could taste its bitter and metallic flavor deep in my throat. I could feel it in my soul as if the last page of one huge chapter in my life carried a burden so heavy that the force of it on my chest made it hard to breathe.
Panic. I remember feeling panic.
With multiple paths laid before us, we walked on in opposite directions.
It was dark and confusing and heartbreaking and after months of walking through life haunted, the paths started winding and twisting and slowly, very slowly, they met once more.
Something shifted.
When I was a child my teacher told me that people move like glaciers, ever so slowly toward change. I hadn't believed her at the time but as I felt myself standing in front of him once more, I didn't have to believe her. Change had found us.
The steps were tentative at first and pained with neither knowing what to say or do. It wasn't one day of waking up to a different life but multiple days in succession of waking up to a life ever changing. Eventually so many days went by that looking back, I couldn't tell you what one day changed it all. Conscious decisions to move forward kept us walking the same path with both of us nervously waiting for the time when the two paths would again split. But days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months and we were still walking together. The fear that kept us from getting used to each other, from getting used to walking together began to slowly dissipate. Months turned into a year. A year turned into more.
Not many people come back from where we were. Not many people can.
On this day I am reminded of how close my story came to being very different and on this day I know that it's not just my story but our story and we've never exactly done things the normal way.
You could say we look at each other differently now but different isn't bad. At least it doesn't have to be.
There was a time when I was so sure of how my story would end that I could taste its bitter and metallic flavor deep in my throat. I could feel it in my soul as if the last page of one huge chapter in my life carried a burden so heavy that the force of it on my chest made it hard to breathe.
Panic. I remember feeling panic.
With multiple paths laid before us, we walked on in opposite directions.
It was dark and confusing and heartbreaking and after months of walking through life haunted, the paths started winding and twisting and slowly, very slowly, they met once more.
Something shifted.
When I was a child my teacher told me that people move like glaciers, ever so slowly toward change. I hadn't believed her at the time but as I felt myself standing in front of him once more, I didn't have to believe her. Change had found us.
The steps were tentative at first and pained with neither knowing what to say or do. It wasn't one day of waking up to a different life but multiple days in succession of waking up to a life ever changing. Eventually so many days went by that looking back, I couldn't tell you what one day changed it all. Conscious decisions to move forward kept us walking the same path with both of us nervously waiting for the time when the two paths would again split. But days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months and we were still walking together. The fear that kept us from getting used to each other, from getting used to walking together began to slowly dissipate. Months turned into a year. A year turned into more.
Not many people come back from where we were. Not many people can.
On this day I am reminded of how close my story came to being very different and on this day I know that it's not just my story but our story and we've never exactly done things the normal way.
You could say we look at each other differently now but different isn't bad. At least it doesn't have to be.
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