reminding myself of love

I've mentioned on social media that I plan to share posts related to personal finance as well as current political events--and I will. But for now, I want to write this story for the sake of memories.

In the past week, my depression spiraled. It was a slow build that started the week prior. My nightmares have increased again, and my hours of sleep have proportionately decreased. Why close my eyes when the trauma will be there regardless?

Last week, I went out every single night. I spent money that I should have saved. I flirted with the wrong people, making plans that I'm now thankful fell through. For the sake of positivity, I feel thankful to remember each night. The one that others want me to forget--some even want me to take back--is Wednesday. 

Nearly three months ago, I started the therapy process again. A few weeks prior, the breakup that broke me occurred. My best friend used a legitimate reason as a lie to end our relationship--the one which they kept a secret from all of their friends. Since November 15, I have spent far too many hours blaming myself...for everything. I blamed myself for our relationship starting. I blamed myself for their blatant disrespect of my humanity. I blamed myself for them lying to the woman whom they still call their girlfriend.

That's the kicker.

Our relationship started soon after they told me that they ended their relationship with her. A few weeks after the breakup, I totaled my car (RIP Carl), and I found out days later that they are still with her. I blamed myself. 

"I should have seen signs, red flags, something," I said repeatedly.

This past Wednesday night, I stopped blaming myself. I stopped holding their secret. I messaged their girlfriend the truth, and when she requested proof, I sent screenshots of the emailed love letters. She blocked me soon after. I sat in one of my regular bars, pretending to feel nothing but empowered in front of my friend when really I felt as if I had crushed that woman's soul. And maybe I did--after all, that type of honesty hurts. Then I realized that sharing the truth does not incriminate me in the lie that they live. I do not owe them anything, especially willingness to live in the shadows so they never have to face the consequences of their actions.

Alas I still spent Thursday and Friday and Saturday wondering if I could have done something different. I'm still counting down the moments until I see my therapist in the morning to discuss this further.

---

During most of last week, I chatted with a stranger on tinder. If you read that with judgment, I would like to remind you of two things. First, it's 2019; dating apps are not the enemy. Second, I choose how to live my life. Now that we've settled that...we talked about meeting up, and Saturday night we made it happen.

Around 9:40pm, I made myself another mug of tea to wake up before driving downtown. The blowing snow nearly turned me around, but hey, I grew up in Colorado/Nebraska/Wyoming winters. I trekked on, and I listened to some Beyonce songs along the way.

We smiled and hugged when we first saw each other, right in front of the small jazz group playing in the front of the bar. He ordered drinks, and we found a seat. I instantly felt comfortable. Why?

"We're probably never going to see each other again," he said, continuing to say that we shouldn't hold back. I'm sleepily smiling again while typing this now.

During our time at the bar, we held hands, fell into each other's laughter, and said, "I love you," through glimmering eyes. I've never felt that type of hope before. I hope to feel it again and again. We shared intimate back stories, humorous life facts, and spontaneous tangents--neither of us has the attention span required to not interrupt a conversation with something only semi-related.

We kissed in front of the bar while the snow whirled around us. The need to fulfill the romanticized aspects of winter to a man from southern California only existed in that moment. The remaining moments were mostly complaints of the frigid air and slick ground (fair points).

Continuing on the walk to my car, he asked me, "How do you know that I'm not a serial killer?"

I laughed something along the lines of, "Trust."

"Okay well how do I know that you aren't a serial killer?" he countered.

I deadpanned, "Well I have depression, so that wouldn't be the end of the world," as we walked through a back alley way.

We both lived, though, to the fullest. I'm smiling again as I continue to type this.

Those who have known me during the last five or so years know that I live with honesty first and adventure second. Everything else seems to follow. I share thoughts and feelings openly. I travel where and when I want. I cut off those who don't serve me well, and I cling to those I love. I live life without question on most days. For some, that sounds stressful. For me, it's a way to tell my anxiety, "Yeah I'm nervous but I'm doing it anyway, so ha!"

Finding someone who wanted to live as fully as I constantly do not only ended my week on a high note, but also started this anniversary with a reminder that my life will continue to look up--even when I feel down.

Two years ago today, my first real, overwhelming, almost-actions thought of suicide occurred. If I hadn't jerked my car away from the cement wall I drove toward any sooner, I might not be here today. And oh my word, if I wasn't, I wouldn't have met a friendly reminder from California that life is worth living, and in his words, "isn't going anywhere." Yes, he said that about my fear of going to grad school later than originally planned, but I'm choosing to apply it to all aspects of life.

If I wasn't here today, I wouldn't have written a book. I wouldn't have survived a lie of a relationship that, regardless, taught me values I have for family, communication, and love. I wouldn't have graduated college a year early as a first-gen who, more often than not, felt lost and defeated. I wouldn't have traveled to new places, moved to a new city, or made new friends. I wouldn't have quit a job on day six only to have to apply to forty-two more before I found my current work family (much love, y'all). I wouldn't have developed a love of sketching. I wouldn't have bought a new-to-me car on my own or rented two apartments without assistance. I wouldn't have fallen in love with life and people over and over and over.

I wouldn't have developed the self-confidence required to say, "I love you, too" on a first date. I wouldn't have known the true happiness felt after spending an almost-sleepless night with a would-be stranger who I now consider to be a friend. I wouldn't have found who I am now.

I wouldn't be continuing to find who I want to be.

But I will. I am. Thank you all for letting me just be me, even when that's terrifying.