Happy Anniversary

I am a romantic. Not just at heart, I am a romantic all the time, in every way in each of my toes, both eyes, and my brain. As P!nk said "I just love love." You may think that would lead to misunderstandings and disappointments and you would be absolutely correct. Until it didn't, until every romantic notion I had was elaborated upon and embellished until I was the most spoiled and doted upon heroine Harlequin ever saw. Antonio loved me. He loved me completely, protectively, endlessly, patiently, unabashedly, proudly, sweetly, and totally. There are few things in life that are certain, that I was loved and adored is one. 

Today is our anniversary. He told me the year we met that his birthday had been so awful that he decided to join Match.com so he would have someone to celebrate with next year. I saw his profile shortly after he posted it and messaged him the same evening, it took him almost 24 hours to respond. Given that we only exchanged a couple of messages on the 8th, I didn't think that it warranted "anniversary" status. His argument was either it didn't work and we wouldn't remember or that we knew right away that it was love at first type. As I would come to learn, I didn't always understand his methodology but he was almost always right.

Before we met in person, Antonio read my blog. Not just a few pieces, but every single entry. He researched the things I mentioned in them and thoughtfully talked about his ideas and responses to what I wrote. When he cooked for me, he always made my food and plate first because he liked spice and I didn't.  Most meals he prepared for me had hearts in them, whether he cut the salad veggies into heart shapes or the rice was in the shape of a heart, he never missed a chance to tell me he loved me. When I was struggling, he knew by the tone of my voice or look on my face what I most needed, he could read me so well. He knew when to be encouraging and firm and when the only thing that would do was for him to hold me. If I said "I love you" 3000 times in one day, he said it 3001. If I was angry, frustrated, or confused and was impatient or grumpy, he took it in stride and talked me through whatever was causing me distress. He celebrated every single win I had, from awards at work to that last .2 pounds that I needed to lose to reach my current goal. When I was sick, he'd be right there holding my hand, wiping my face, cleaning me up. When my wisdom teeth were pulled, he dripped water in my mouth and gently put Carmex on my mouth so my lips didn't crack. His love made me beautiful. He would sometimes hold my face in his hands and ask me just to look at him, just let him look at how beautiful I was. 

Happy heavenly anniversary, baby. Thank you for ensuring there was as much love in six years as there is for most people in sixty. Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for being my biggest fan. Thank you for keeping me organized and together. Thank you for making sure each day had smiles and laughter, especially the hardest of them. Thank you for the gift of your rare and precious love. I cannot wait to celebrate us again when we are together. FAAD you are my heart and my love and I am honored to be forever your Chi. 

Celebrate?

I feel like it is important to note this date, to recognize the last six months. But they have been the most painful and difficult of my life and there is nothing to celebrate, no achievement to mark. I have dreaded this day as much as I dread the tenth of every month. Not that it is the worst day, that honor is given to the fourth. You didn't die then but that is the day you left. The last I held your hand, kissed you, heard you call me "Chi." It was the last day you could hear me tell you how much I love you. So, really, with all that sadness at every turn, why is today remarkable?

Even if today isn't much different than most, I am different than I was six months ago. Your death, the loss of someone so vital and paramount, has altered me. Many of the things I swore I could not do I see myself managing (not always well!). Much of what I found irksome or frustrating no longer crosses my radar, it all seems so insignificant compared to the loss of you. Memories are becoming worn, like a toddler's beloved blanket that is snuggled and rubbed for the comfort it provides. I no longer worry if I am repeating myself, I want everyone to hear again and again about how brilliant and witty you were. About your romantic streak that no one would guess but was the stuff of fairy tales. I want them to know how tender you were with our kitties and how happy you were when the first strawberry appeared in our window garden. The sweet you, like a little boy, when you woke up and the excited you when you learned something new and couldn't wait to tell me. I want to tell everyone how perfectly I fit under your arm and how your strong, capable hands became so gentle when easing a hurt or wiping my tears. I want them to know the depth and breadth of your love for and pride in your family. I want them to know everything about you so that you are forever remembered and honored, long after my soul and yours are loving one another in the next life.

So while six months without you is nothing to celebrate, you my sweet, dear, beloved man, are. Antonio your love gave meaning to my life. Your love uplifted, celebrated, soothed, and comforted me. Even when things were hard and we were not our best, you chose me each and every day. And in choosing me you changed my life for the better. Your love healed and gave hope, was unconditional and uncomplicated, and you my sweet man are someone I will cherish and celebrate every day. My soul cannot wait to be with yours again.

#avsii #faad #foreveryourchi

Photo April, 2016, our first restaurant date

Another Week of Missing You

Three weeks this evening. It has only been three weeks since you slipped away. Tomorrow evening will be four weeks since you went to the hospital. But four weeks ago tomorrow morning, you answered me when I said "Good morning, love." Four weeks ago tomorrow morning, I cut watermelon for you while you  savored a white nectarine. Four weeks ago tomorrow morning I could touch you and hear you and see you, four weeks ago tomorrow morning, you were here with me.

I heard your voice this morning, a recording you had made. In one of the videos, I could see your hand, holding a strawberry. My response was visceral, the hole you left inside me when you died echoing with your absence. Every time I wake there is that moment before reality hits. It isn't even a second, just a moment, before I remember you are gone. 

I love you, Antonio. I am not sure how to navigate this "new normal" without you. I am trying to make you proud: to "dig deep" when I want to give up (especially on the stairs!), to treat others with generosity and compassion, to remain curious and continue learning new things. But it is hard, baby, so very hard. I miss the way you could tell if I needed quiet, gentle encouragement or a kick in the pants. I miss starting my day laughing at the silly dances you did to be sure my day started with a smile. I can't drive the routes you drove, I can't eat food you liked, and don't get me started on music - if the song doesn't make me cry, it reminds me of a wonderful memory you made with me. I am confounded by the fact that you are simultaneously both every where and no where. 

I look for you all day. When Schrodie starts racing, running, and chattering in the middle of the night, I ask her to tell you I love you. When a feather was in my path this morning I smiled at heaven and thanked you for sending it to me so I knew you were close. The bits of magic I encounter here and there I attribute to you, too. You took such sweet care of me in life, I know you must be watching and protecting me. How lucky I am to have loved and been loved by you, you were a gift that I will cherish until I see you again. #FAAD you are #myheart and #mylove #avsii

My Antonio

His favorite color was green. He loved to garden, to nurture something from a fragile beginning to a blooming strength. He hung flowering plants by each of our windows and put together a plant stand for me. He gently repotted our monthly succulents and excitedly remarked as everything grew and bloomed.

He loved to cook - even if we were just having left overs, he took pride in everything from subtle fla
vors to presentation. Rum baked wings. Taco Tuesdays. Thanksgiving dinner. Christmas breakfast. Romantic pancakes on Valentine's Day. Crab feasts. Grilled ANYTHING. Birthday celebrations. His father's favorite Fettucine Alfredo. When he cooked for you, he was showing you he loved you. 

He was funny. A dry, subtle wit that would make you laugh long and hard - and any time you remembered something he said or did, it was as funny as it was the first time. He took notice if I was off or down and always brought my smile back. Always.

He paid attention to things that seem so little but meant so much. I mentioned my favorite episode of "Dr. Who" was when they visit Madame Du Pompadour. He arranged a trip to The Walters Museum so I could see an exhibit of her miniatures. Before we met in person, he found my blog and read everything I wrote. Everything. He liked his drinks very cold, but never put ice in mine because I don't. He walked on the outside of the sidewalk, put his arm across me if the car stopped quickly. He carried things and organized things and kept our lives running smoothly.

And on top of all that, he loved me. He loved my bed head in the morning and my grumpy, over-tired self. He loved me even when I was short-tempered and impatient. Only he could soothe me without patronizing. He knew my fears and worries and actively showed me how we would conquer them together. He knew my hopes and dreams and worked toward achieving them with me every day.  

When we first started dating, I told him he had never met a woman like me; he often reminded me of that and agreed. I had never met a man like him, either, though. A man whose enthusiasm was so contagious, even mathematical and scientific equations became interesting. A man whose strength was rivaled only by how gentle he could be. A man who both challenged me to do better, try again, not give up and also offered a safe place to fall apart. A man who embodied everything I needed home to be. 

I am so very lucky to have been loved by him. But I am even luckier to have had the privilege of being his best friend and to love him. Antonio, you were one in a billion, thank you for choosing me. FAAD, I love you.

Your Crazy is Driving Me Crazy!

I am not a fan of the word "crazy." I am guilty of using it now and then (I have tried to substitute "wonky" and people look at me like I am, well, crazy) but I don't like all the misconceptions it connotates. That is more of a disclaimer though than an actual topic...

Yesterday I talked about being "sick" and the perception others have of mental illness and of me. That led me to think about what it is like to have someone in your life who does have major depressive disorder or anxiety or any other mental illness.

I imagine loving me isn't easy, not as a friend, a parent, a child, a partner, or even sometimes an employee. I do believe I am worth it, I know that I am. I am fiercely loyal, and pretty witty. I am fairly intelligent and am well-read enough to be able to make small talk at cocktail parties and to know some Jeopardy answers. I am kind and empathetic and generous, traits I admire in others and strive to maintain.

Those who care for and love me do struggle at times. I am sure when Max was 6 and my depression was at it's worst, all he wanted was a "normal" Mommy who didn't do everything from her bed. I know I have caused my parents worry and concern; from middle school hospitalizations to current day romantic trouble, they vigilantly watch my behavior so they can help, intervene before all hell breaks loose. My wonderful best friend who has marched by my side for 32 years MUST be exhausted by me at times, but she has never given up on me. I am a good girlfriend, a good partner, but a highly emotional one. It has to be hard to hold a sobbing girlfriend who can't even explain what is wrong, she just says "don't let go." It can't be easy to have dinner reservations or plans to attend a party and then have them derailed at the last minute because she "just can't." And no matter how understanding an employer is, they need to know I'll be there and I'll get the work done.

I have weeks, months, even a couple years under my belt of normal. I go to work and pay my bills and laugh with friends and love my boyfriend. My hygiene is good (which, while depressed, isn't always the case), I remember birthdays, and show up with a smile even when I don't think I can. I think those periods are the ones that sustain those who love me. Those are the times that I bank so when I am feeling lost and in need of direction I have proven myself worthy of help.

Thank you to everyone who loves me, supports me, hangs in there with me. I recognize it isn't easy but am so very glad I am worth it to you.

A Disease By Any Other Name... is Still a Disease

Sometimes, I wonder what other people say when their mental illness rears its ugly head. I refer to myself as sick but that isn't right, not exactly. I don't have a fever or a cough. But I do have stomach pain. And my head hurts so horribly I wish I could decapitate myself. I am tired, too. More tired than the beginning of pregnancy tired. Tired to rival Sisyphus rolling the boulder uphill for eternity tired. Tired in a way that makes my bones ache and my eyelids feel weighted. But none of those things are technically sick.

I wonder, too, about the people that suggest taking deep breaths when I am in the midst of a panic attack. I try to be gracious, to educate, but I really want to say "You have no idea what it is like to have your heart galloping faster than a race horse and your blood feel like ice." And no idea what it is like to not know what you are afraid of, just that you are terrified. 

Mostly, I wonder about the people that suggest taking a walk and breathing deeply and counting my blessings as anecdotes for the crippling depression I feel. I am all for beautiful days and centered, cleansing breaths. I absolutely know that I am lucky, blessed beyond measure, that my problems are first world problems. But I also know that when my symptoms are at their worst it hurts to breathe. Getting out of bed to shower, brush my teeth, even use the bathroom takes forethought and planning - nevermind taking a walk to enjoy the changing leaves or blooming trees or a crisp winter day. And minimizing my disease as being "all in my head" only creates shame and limits my ability to ask for help.

When I am healthy - physically, emotionally, mentally - I am constantly aware of how I am feeling. I do self checks to see what hurts? Am I really tired or is this sleepy feeling something that needs extra attention? I am hyper vigilant about taking my medicine, in touch with close friends, and I do make time to feel the sunshine and deeply breathe the fresh air. Those are all things that maintain wellness, not things that "cure" depression. 

There is no cure. Not one. No amount of exercise, healthy eating, fresh air, meditation, yoga, or wishful thinking will make this go away. What does help those with depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, personality disorders, and/or another mental illness is compassion. Education. Reduction of stigma. Understanding. Those all help, each one makes a difference. A difference I, and the many others who get "sick," will appreciate beyond measure.

The Power of I Love You

You might think, after 23 years, that celebrating my older son's birthday would be easier. That it would be a happy blip on February 20th that involved a little singing and a special dessert. You might think that and have every reason to believe it is true. But it is never easy. It is never just a "blip," never involves singing, never involves dessert. It is bittersweet, not just happy.

When Benjamin was born, at 12:30 a.m. after 32 hours of labor and, ultimately, a caesarean section, I was freezing. I had never been nor would I ever be, so cold. While I was exhausted from being in labor and tired of being pregnant (he was 18 days late), I was not ready to relinquish him. My body tried to hold onto him as long as it could.

Ben was adopted. He grew up in a home where he was loved and adored and cherished. He wasn't very far from me geographically. His parents provided me with detailed letters about his life and included photographs so I could see his smile and the cicada on his nose and how many people around him were beaming at him. Through these letters I learned about the technology being used to combat his hearing loss and that he loved batman and skateboarding and playing the drums. But I didn't know what his voice sounded like or what his favorite food was or if his hands still looked like my mother's.

I am lucky that I am able to communicate with Ben. We send text messages to one another and, recently, photographs. He sent one yesterday with his mother and thanked me for being gracious in receiving it and asking about his family. I tried to explain that it was gratitude, not grace, that fueled my interest. I shared with him a bit about my first interactions with his parents, that they had a "baby" phone and that he often had the hiccups while I was pregnant. And I thanked him for sending a recent photo that included his hand because one of the things I wondered was if I would recognize them. His response was one of the greatest gifts I could receive; he not only said "I love you" but he showed me. And his hands still look like my mother's.