I Love You Because...

I have heard people often wonder why Peter and I are together. Ours is a relationship that other people just don't understand, for a variety of meaningless "reasons".  Frankly, for the most part, I don't care that "they" don't understand -- it's not their relationship after all.  But I realized recently, this kind of questioning is hurtful to Peter (he's a sensitive type -- unlike me), and that's just not something I will tolerate.

So, to Peter...

• I love you because you are kind to me. 
• I love you because I don't have to worry about getting bloodied, bruised, or broken with you. 
• I love that you were good to my mother, are good to my father, and are learning patience with my children, whom adore you. 
• I love that you make me laugh with ridiculous interpretive song and dance. 
• I love that you can finally admit you are defeated by Minute Rice.
• I love you because you are trying. 
• I love you because you treat me with respect.
• I love you because I will never have to worry about you putting me down or insulting me in front of others.
• I love you because you stick up for me -- even to my parents -- which could not have been easy.
• I love you because it gave my mother comfort to know I was with you when she died.
• I love you because you insist I am beautiful, even though I don't feel like I am, or ever have been.
• I love you because you knew exactly the right time to throw a hissy fit.
• I love you because you let me know it was okay to not be strong all the time.  And that I can trust you with my weaknesses.

Those are just some of the reasons. There are many others. They are private.

To "them"...

I don't care what kind of car Peter drives, or how much money he makes.  Those are not the things that are important. Neither are fashion choices or looks.  I happen to think Peter is beautiful.  Beauty, to me, is who you are, not just what you look like.  I know a lot of people who are very pretty on the outside, and very ugly on the inside.  I care about what's on the inside a whole helluva lot more.

To me, Peter is rich in all the things that matter.  How lucky am I?

Reboot

I haven't written in eight months. Well, that's not really true. I write all the time. I write stuff on Facebook (although I'm really trying to stick to my resolution to stop fighting on other people's walls), I write notes to Peter, I write in notebooks, and on the backs of envelopes, and on my iPad, and on any of the myriad of notepads I have stashed all over.  I even contributed an article to our local newspaper.  But I haven't written in months.  I find that I have run out of words, and have too many words, all at the same time.  Too much has happened in too short of a time, and I've lost my ability to deal.  I'm... empty.

In these past eight months, lots of things have happened.  In December, my mother and best friend finally lost her 5-year-long battle with pulmonary fibrosis.  It is a loss I feel every day.  There are no words for it.  I talked to my mom nearly every day for 25 years.  When she started to get really sick, we talked less, but still very often.  I wonder sometimes if that slowing down in our talking was the universe's way of preparing me for the time when we could no longer speak to one another.  I miss her voice.  I miss her laugh.  I miss the sound of humor and disgust she made when I'd done something particularly outrageous.  I miss my Mom -- you are never old enough to be motherless.  Never.

In January, I celebrated my one-year anniversary since I had the heart cath in Grand Rapids, and in February my heart started fucking up again.

In March, my friends Thomas and Erin's son, Willem, lost his battle with HLH.  The next day I turned 42.  I have never cared less about a birthday than I did this one.  My heart breaks for this beautiful couple and their unbearable loss every. single. day.  This child, who inspired so many, is gone and I, who can't even inspire myself, am still here.  Life is not fair.

April has brought with it a rainstorm of doctor's appointments and ER visits as the professionals try to "fix" what I have avoided or ignored for over 5 years.  It's a daunting task and one, quite frankly, I'm not up for.  I have not treated my body with the respect it may have deserved and we're having a mutiny. Everyone keeps telling me that I didn't break myself in 2 weeks, therefore I'm not going to fix myself in two weeks. To them I say, pffffffttttttt.  I have no patience for this shit and I'd like to be better NOW please.  But I will follow the doctor's orders (maybe) and I will do what they tell me (possibly) and things will get better (hopefully) or not (probably).

I've discovered I have a pretty great boyfriend in Peter, even if sometimes he annoys the hell out of me.  But I guess that's true love, sticking with each other even when that person deserves a rusty fork jammed in his eye.  Thank you, thank you... a million times, thank you.  For putting up with me, my kids, my friends, and my family, for all these months.  You have been my rock and I could not have done a thing without you.  You deserve respect and praise for all you have done.  You also deserve a kick in the ass for all the stupid stuff you have NOT done, but that's a post for another day.

Anyway... this is my reboot.  I'm going to try to find my words.  They may not always be good ones.  The may often be the dirty, naughty, expletive kind.  But they will be my words and I will write them, say them, and feel better for it.