Or a group of them.
Free love and all that.
Your friends are the people who are celebrating with you at your highest. They are the ones who offer to shank those who hurt you. They are the ones who you can just hang out with in silence.
They burrow their way into your hearts and refuse to let go.
And you (eventually) realize that you like having them there.
They are the ones who show up every Sunday for dinner.
They are the ones who you stay up all night with playing video games.
They are the ones who you can go months without seeing and fall back into old routines like breathing.
They are the ones who stand with you at the end of the day.
They are the ones who you can talk to for hours and not run out of things to say.
They are the ones who let you know when you’re out of line.
They are your people. Your family. You may fight. You may hurt each other sometimes. You may split for a while. But the ones who stick it out are in for the long haul. They will be there for you to lean on. To cry with. To laugh yourself sick with.
And you are thankful for them, all of them.
Keep them close.
Be there when they need you.
Let them be there when you need them.
No one has to be lonely.
So whether it is your roommate, ex-turned-best-friend, co-worker, significant other, or the crazy wonderful people you meet through the Internet, do right by them.
They deserve nothing less.
Sunday evening, a few of you caught my outburst on Twitter, I apologize for that. For those curious, I am better now. Not a lot but I am no longer in danger of curling into a ball and sobbing or smashing something in anger.
Probably would have been both.
What could destroy every single shred of emotional stability I have like that, you ask?
If you have been reading this blog prior to last June or just read back through my archives, I make it pretty obvious that I adore children. We’re talking kid fever like woah. This is part of why I came to care for Daybreak as much and as fast as I did. If I’m in the supermarket and there is a baby around, I will make silly faces at them without fail. My paternal instincts have been turned up to 11 and have been since I hit puberty.
And in that lies the irony that played a big part in my hating God for almost 6 years.
Because of some damage to my testes, I have a very low sperm count. (Very simplified explanation.) As a result? Sterility.
The guy who wants kids so much so that it hurts? Can’t have them.
While I had known for years that I would have trouble fathering a child, going to a doctor and finding out that it would actually be a damn near impossibility outside of in vitro or adoption for me to have kids…there were tears. I eventually accepted this fact (as much as you can accept something like that) and had decided that when I was fully ready I would just adopt. Have to admit thought that it was easier to hide when I was a teenager and only two or three people I knew were having kids as opposed to now where seven couples are expecting, one just had a baby girl last week, and two others are actively trying.
Every single time I see a baby, I kind of melt into a puddle of goo. And even though it does hurt, I still love to make them smile or laugh. Seeing those eyes light up and hearing a loud giggle as they kick around leaves me with a huge smile on my face.
I am OK with that.
Then this happened.
Said video was also accompanied by a message saying I needed to learn to deal with the issue.
You, as my friend, think you are doing me a favour by shoving that in my face? Bet you were surprised by how pissed I was at you during that phone conversation huh?
Would you send someone who had a permanent limp a video of a man running a marathon and tell them to deal with it?
Then why the fuck would you send me something like that?!
I don’t get why taking a small moment to think before doing something is so hard for people. We aren’t that lazy, are we? It’s called compassion folks, practice a little.
The events of yesterday cost me a friend of 2 years. And as apparently I should be able to deal with this (in her own words, “keep how it affected me to myself and deal with it as a man ” and that I should not be angry for her “doing her duty as my friend”) I was told that she would better off without me.
Feeling’s entirely mutual, bitch.
Not letting it show how much things affect me led to me almost putting a gun in my mouth. I’m never going back to that. I refuse to.
So I’m going to bandage the new bruises on my heart. I’m going to find my happy place. And I’m gonna move on with my life.
Last night was not in the least pleasant. So after I hung up the phone and was trying to bottle the emotions until I could control them, I decided not to. I let it out and then I tried to find something that made me happy. Just one thing.
There really was no contest there.
And with tears still falling, I danced.
Even when my heart was clattering against the floor, I still found it in me to smile. That, dear friends, is dealing with it. The best way I know how.
*Thanks to everyone who sent me good wishes and checked up on me last night. You all win at life. Seriously.
**Super oh-my-god-I-would-hug-you-if-I-could thanks go to BelleRenee who having never heard of me nor knowing what my situation was not only sent her own good thoughts to me and asked how she could help but did not hesitate (there was seriously like a 2 or 3 minute wait) to agree to give me permission to use her famous vlog for this post.
***Comments are open on this post. Please don’t make me regret that.
I’m going home this evening. Woke up slightly before sunrise and spent the next two hours trying to talk myself out of it.
Should be some kind of sign that I failed in that task.
I have talked about my daddy issues several times on this blog. Once even writing a letter to him. After what seems like forever, the day I’ve known for at least 3 years was coming has arrived.
My dad is moving out.
I always thought that I was far enough removed that when the time came I could just be thankful that my mom didn’t have to deal with him. No more mood swings. No more childlike impulsive decisions. No more callousness in the guise of humour.
It’s not even that I’m sad or even angry any more. When it comes to the man who gave me my first name and who I resemble to a ridiculous extent; there is this sense of numbness,one born from years of practice. Of necessity.
When I sit and really think about it, I have spent a good portion of my life trying in every way possible to not be remotely similar to him. Wasn’t entirely successful and was probably never meant to be.
I intend to help him finish packing.
And I couldn’t seem to stop asking myself why.
Because of him, I know I can take pretty much anything from anyone without keeping my heart in ice.
Because of him, I know I can do what I need to.
Because of him, I know I can thrive on my own.
Because despite everything, despite the fact that he is nowhere near the ideal father, I can still be a good son.
And that, dear friends, seems to be the point of the whole thing.
“Put your money where your mouth is.”
We all heard it growing up. We all know it’s one thing to talk about doing something and quite another to actually “grow a pair” as it were and do it.
The three of us stood in the parking lot. All unsure, one concerned for the other two. The brunette eyed both me and the blond. She entwines an arm with us both and holds a hand, lending support and an almost palpable feeling of pride. I take a deep breathe and start walking, the others falling into step with me as we make our way inside the building.
The walls are covered with pictures and posters with several groups of people, mostly women, milling about.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” In the back of my mind, I note just how strange (and touching) it is to hear how concerned this normally tough as nails woman is for us.
As we had talked about it at length for a few weeks, the blond speaks–answering for the two of us. “No but we’re pretty sure we need to do this.”
We move towards the front desk, where the receptionist gives us an odd glance. I know I look out of place here but in all honesty, had much more important things to worry about. I give her our names, the two of us showing ID as requested, and tell her we have interviews scheduled.
She waves me and the blond through to the back and the brunette gives us each a quick hug before letting us go.
The woman we are here to see cannot be more than 30. Copper hair, pulled up into a bun and warm brown eyes. She beckons us to sit down and introduces herself before saying she had been looking forward to meeting us. She puts us at ease like a professional, this woman is obviously talented at her job. She tells us her story. She then asks the blond for hers.
Her mouth opens and she tells it. I hold her hand as she sits beside me. Her voice never once wavers but her hand squeezes mine to the point of pain. She finishes and turns to me, flashing a grateful smile. I return it before facing this woman behind the desk. I begin my own story, pushing down the emotion rising in my throat.
She looks at us for a long moment before asking why we want these volunteer positions.
I look her dead in the eye and say, “because we know what these people are dealing with. We want to help as no one should ever have to deal with this alone. And maybe, we’ll finally be able to help ourselves in the process.”
She steeples her hands before smiling.
Her next question is to ask when we can start training.
We all shake hands before the two of us head back into the lobby where the brunette waits. She doesn’t ask how things went, the relief on our faces is answer enough. As we’re walking away, I look back at the building. The words “Crisis Center” seem to leap back at me from across the lot. The surrealism of the situation I just found myself in gives me pause.
I shake my head to clear it.
The blond is laughing at a joke the brunette just made.
And we move on.
My eyes ease open to unfamiliar, but well used, sheets. My right arm is propping up a pillow while my left is wrapped around a woman’s waist. It takes me a moment but in the moonlight I recognize the dirty blond hair as Eva’s natural colour, even if it is several inches shorter than I remember. I begin to hear crying in another room, I feel Eva stir in my arms before kissing the back of her neck while telling her I would take care of it. She mumbles an OK before settling back into the covers.
I slide out of the bed, the cold of the hardwood floors helping to sober me up.
The crying grows louder and despite the fact that I don’t recognize this house my body knows exactly where to go. I open a door at the end of the hallway. Inside is a yellow wooden crib. I move forward and lean over the railing to look in. Laying on a white blanket is a baby, her fists balled as she cries. I pick her up, feeling the dampness of her diaper as I do, and bring her over to the changing table set up for times like this.
As I remove the soaked diaper and clean her, I take in her features — knowing beyond a doubt that this is my child. Her tanned skin, light brown and very thick hair, and facial features reminiscent of both me and Eva. I slide a new diaper under her, humming a lullaby to calm her down.
She quiets down to hiccups then cooing as I tickle her belly. She reaches up with chubby arms, wanting me to hold her and as I oblige, lays her head down on my shoulder. I sway around the room, having a chattering conversation.
Then I wake and panic. I know dreams like this lead to hurt, I all ready learned that lesson the hard way. All my experience is screaming at me to forget this ever happened and not stress about one dream.
So why is it I woke up feeling like a part of me had been ripped away?
I originally wasn’t going to participate this week as I had nothing recent that could top ingesting my girlfriend’s menstrual fluid. Keyword of that being recent.
Now as I’ve mentioned before, I worked in a small restaraunt for my entire high school career. My two coworkers, Lina and Gwen, had nominated themselves as my big sisters and acted the parts. They themselves had also been dating for years.
It’s the spring of 2005 and I’m in New York with their families and other friends for their wedding. Now as I was the only male aside from their dads Lina’s dad said he would go help me pick out a tuxedo from the rental shop. Lina says no, they’ll take me as it gets them away from the estrogen brigade. Her words, not mine.
So I’m with them in the backseat of a taxi and looking around Manhattan as we bob and weave through traffic. I’m a 17 year-old male. Next to a gorgeous 22 and 23 year-old. Keep this fact in mind.
It is also important for you to know one fact about Lina. While she was a tiny thing, she was also the single horniest person I have ever met. When I heard girls try and say that guys were more perverted, I would think back to that taxi trip and laugh.
I hadn’t been paying a whole lot of attention to the conversation going on next to me but then I heard a very low moan. At first, I brushed it off as my imagination until I heard the same thing again. I turn now to be met with a sight that even four years later is still pretty vivid. Lina had apparently gotten bored and pulled out a vibrator the size of my finger.
Me and Gwen both look at each other in horror as we can’t say anything to her as the cabbie would hear us. Nothing puts the damper on a wedding like an arrest for public indecency.
So after I’ve gotten my tux and we’re back at the hotel I’m there when Gwen asks what the hell she was thinking masturbating in the back of a cab.
“Would you rather I brought out the dildo instead? I’m not completely indiscreet.”
It says a lot about my relationship with these two that:
A.) This was not my first time seeing a vibrator in real life.
B.) This was not even close to the first time I heard these talking about sex.
C.) That my only thought was “this nut is going to get arrested on her wedding day” and not “holy shit, there’s a girl masturbating right beside me”.
As we learn how to speak beyond one or two-word sentences, we are told by the adults around us that we should always be honest. It’s one of the first lessons a child learns and right from the start, we are also taught to bend it.
We learn to keep others at a distance, we learn to use phrases like “I’m fine” or “it’s OK” even when on the verge of breakdown.
We learn tact which I like to refer to as polite lying; for example, saying how much you love a Christmas sweater your grandmother gave you despite the fact that the sight of it makes bile rise up in your throat.
But the most numerous all are the lies we tell ourselves. We tell them to comfort ourselves or to try and glue the pieces of our lives back together. We tell them to make us feel better about ourselves. We tell them because, quite honestly, the truth freaking hurts.
It ostracizes people when they can’t handle hearing it.
It puts us out of our comfort zone and onto the guillotine.
The truth is really not what it’s cracked up to be.
This is why me and denial are such close friends, especially when it comes to feelings.
I had a conversation with Tinkerbell on Friday about denial, about how I was happy that she was finally letting herself admit she wanted a relationship with her beau Freckles. Then in our typical rhythm, the topic turned to my own denials. One of which I’ve kept up for the better part of a year.
After advising her not to deny what she wanted, I would be a hypocrite (one of my biggest peeves) if I did not do the same.
Denial #1 – “I am nothing like my father.”
I often keep people at arm’s length. Before I really tried to control it, I had an explosive temper. I can be blunt to the point of tactlessness. I use sarcasm far too heavily. I can have a “fuck the world” attitude from time to time. I am happiest outside. If someone starts a fight with me, I’ll be sure to finish it. The reason I don’t get drunk is because I’m afraid I’ll have his same problem with alcoholism. I look like him. I sound like him. My first name (not Kendall) is in honour of him. These facts bother me horribly. They probably always will.
Denial #2 – “I am confident about my teaching internship next year.”
It scares the piss out of me. Not even while I be responsible for the education of a group of children but this is on top of finishing my last year of undergrad and working as well. I’m all ready pretty sure I won’t be able to be a full-time UNC student between all of this which means I might not graduate until the summer or even Christmas. I’m going to be one tired man come Commencement.
Denial #3 – “I’m not ready to get a place with Eva.”
While yes we did talk about it at length, we decided not to just yet. She has some of her things at my apartment as do I at her townhouse. We have slept in the same bed on many occasions. While I want to say it’s because I’m afraid of taking that step, the truth is…I don’t want to have a live-in girlfriend I’m not engaged to. It’s the bits of my old-fashioned morals from my Nana rising up in me.
Denial #4 – “I may love her, but I don’t see Daybreak as my daughter.”
This one is so full of shit that I’m amazed I managed to believe even part of it for a moment, much less for months. I was always afraid to call her my daughter out loud. Afraid that because of Denial #1 I would be a horrible dad. So when I called her my daughter aloud where both Eva and Daybreak heard me, I thought I would have a panic attack. When Eva didn’t immediately jump in and correct me, she instead just smiled and said she had known that for months.
As Grey’s Anatomy has said, “denial really isn’t just a river in Egypt. It’s a freaking ocean.”
And I seem to be drowning.
So what are you deluding yourself about?