The Best Damn Year of My Life

It's absolutely stunning how much can happen in only a year's time.

On a beautiful, dewy night in May, nestled in the North Carolina mountains with a houseful of friends, I sat snuggled on a bed with a box of Kashi cereal. I have a habit of bringing a snack to parties after many instances of winding up stranded and hungry, my heart palpitating, "WHY DIDN'T YOU THINK AHEAD, DUDE?!"

He walked up and sat down beside me. I had kept most of the cereal to myself, but his hands seemed clean enough and his smile was dazzling. "Sure," I said to his request for some, "but don't bogart it."

We sat together, talking and instigating our drunker pals with fake gossip for our own entertainment. We laughed and escaped to a quieter spot when our goading got a little out of hand. We talked more about everything, including our random and similar heart troubles. I barely knew him, but felt a very easy and strong connection that made me smile well after I'd departed for the evening.

The next day we all met for lunch on the beautiful patio at our favorite dive of a pub. We sat together, chatting the same invigorating chat as the night before. I had to depart back to the lowlands, but not before exchanging numbers with the most interesting person I'd met in longer than I could remember.

I sat on the edge of my seat, waiting to see if I'd imagined the connection, if he'd actually get in touch. If we'd actually ever see each other again. He put my mind at ease with an invitation to hang out that weekend and since then, it has been a whirlwind of unparalleled laughter and love, so much love.

This is the man I now call my boyfriend, but he's so much more than that trivial label. He's my best friend, my personal comedian, my supporter, my sounding board for everything. He has filled this year with so much joy for me, even during the darkest of times.

I love knowing that I can come home to him at any time. I love that when I tell him I wrote this, he will make some deprecating comment that will make both of us laugh. I love that because of the confidence I have in our relationship, I have the courage to make this (semi) public declaration of love for a man who deserves that kind of thing.

From warm summer days by the pool, to major hatin' on kids distracting our games of putt-putt, to late nights in our state's capital, to cool fall evenings in our now-home of the Twin City, to a holiday season of firsts, to cookouts every day in the spring weather, we have grown and grown together. I can only imagine the growth that waits on the road ahead.

I could wax on about a night in August when I heard the best combination of words known to man. I could tell you about the fuzzy feelings during that October Live concert. I could tell you how it still feels amazing every time he takes care of me or stands in my corner. I could tell you about every day I have spent with J in great detail, but I won't because it would overwhelm the both of us  – you with words, me with love and so much appreciation.

After a few bumps in the romantic road, I have finally found a person who respects me enough to be honest and loyal. I finally found a man who wants to walk beside me instead of in front of me, who believes in my intelligence and my dreams. I found someone I can count on, no matter how murky and rough the waters become. I found someone who can make me laugh until I feel like I might burst, and sometimes I do with tears.

So to the man in question, thank you. Thank you, J, for being who you are. Thank you for making me feel loved and secure. Thank you for being man enough to be with me through everything. Thank you for being brave enough to stand on shaky ground once and a while. Thank you for this lovely home we have with two wild pups. Thank you for making me the best version of me I've ever been. Above all, thank you for knowing like I do that laughter is the most important part of anything in life, and ensuring that I'm doing just that, first thing in the morning.

You're pretty groovy, kid. I think I might keep you around. Happy "I met you one year ago," Eddie. Bern loves you.

The Fallen

Today is always a day of grieving for me, as I mentioned quickly last year, but never really gave full justice. Some years it's easier to get through this day and luckily, 2012 is one of those times. It might just be time easing the pain, but I think it's because for the first time in my life at this particular moment, I am not only assured in myself, but in those people I have chosen to have around me for support.

Seven years ago (Jesus, really?), I lost my high school sweetheart and best friend. It was and is still the worst day of my life. I don't know how a 17-year-old pulled through the trauma of seeing death up-close so early, but I'll bet it has to do with my family and friends.

Almost three years ago, I lost my amazing uncle to cancer. Though today is not the one when he drifted away, saying he had to "Go home," today is the day he would have added another notch on his belt of life. Birthdays of the fallen are just as hard as the anniversary of their deaths.

I have honored them over the years in the best way I know how: by writing about them. I wrote about the experience of losing Jeff for a creative writing class my first year at App, and poetically, I wrote about losing my uncle for my final paper in literary journalism during my last year of college.

(I've linked to the story about my uncle here. If you want to read about Jeff's story, you'll have to ask for a personal email. While I feel truth is the best policy, I know there are some people I need to protect from the pain of re-living that day.)

Today I will take it easy with my pups. I'll do some housework. I'll go to the gym as usual, then make some dinner. But I will also stop to reflect, to take time to remember. I will look back over the scraps of memories I have with these men. They will always live on with me.

And today, I will also remember the people who have always been there through this day and through thousands of others. From my best friend who always takes me to grab Mexican, to the hundreds who call or write, to my family who is also grieving, to the newest man in my life, waiting with a handpicked rose by the door when I need it most. I will remember them because they have made it possible for me to go on with this ever-mending void in my heart.

Rest easy, Jeff and Jon. We all love you beyond words.

How the Real World Killed My Creativity

Even now as I try to write this blog, things keep pulling me away. Articles, stupid and informative. Noises, loud and soft. Issues, big and small.

I've been programmed to keep my eye on a prize that I don't want. Thanks to that programming, I have some mutant form of adult ADHD, brought on by years of procrastination, overstimulation, and worst of all, keep-what-you-love-on-the-back-burner-while-you-take-care-of-what-you-need'ism.

Now that I've gotten the requisite education and some experience under my belt, I'm trying to unleash my long-abandoned creativity into outlets that will do something for someone somewhere. Unfortunately, thanks to those multiple years of different "You have to be responsible!" messages shoved down my throat, I've kind of lost the art of making the internal external. I've actually forgotten how to do the only things I'm good at doing.

I am not good at selling things because I can't fake my way into believing in mediocre, half-functioning products. I am not good at talking to strangers who don't automatically understand things. I am not good at kissing ass, pedaling junk, or sitting inside a claustrophobia-inducing cubicle in front of a computer, overusing that devil contraption called the telephone.

I am good at writing... most days. I am good at memorizing useless facts. I am good at creating weird little crafts. I am good at planning things that are fun, organizing items before they are a mess, and endless other "non-important" tasks. However, I live in a world that doesn't grant those things merit. In fact, this world stifles them.

I won't say that it's not fair, but it is certainly counterproductive to live in a society where we scold people for wanting to do things outside the box. Sure, we award that pesky 1% for their films, television shows, music, clothing lines, etc., but the rest of us are expected to fall in line and work ourselves to death in an impossibly dull job. Even worse off are the people in countries who have two equally dire options and will never know the joy of doing something they love, not even for a fleeting moment.

This has to change. We have to fight against the powers who dictate our happiness. We have to let it be known that we aren't okay doing what we've been assigned. We have to remind them that we're individuals who long to simply be.

So I'll begin my part of that great journey. I'll start the long and arduous process of retraining myself to think how I was literally born how to think. Because I find myself in this time of unjust prejudice against art, at least as a serious subject, I have to push myself harder than I ever have before to reclaim the mind in my own head.

It sounds like a paradox. If I'm already me, it should be easy to stay me, right? No. It's going to be insanely difficult to reattain the creative programming that I was lucky enough to have at birth. It's been so stifled by so many that the hours I spend relearning my own brainwaves will be endless. I will have to structure my life rigidly around retraining my brain not to be a boring corporate asshole.

And you know what? I've never been more excited about a new job in my whole life. Me, meet me. I'll be here forever.