Alex is the person I have written about most. In a way, he’s at the heart of every word I write, and my heart will always write about him. He turned 33 two days ago, and for the first time in a few years, I wasn’t able to celebrate with him. I didn’t post anything the day of because I couldn’t come up with words to say, and, if I’m being honest, I will never be good enough with words to properly convey what he means to me.
This is and always has been who we are together.
I have spent twelve birthdays loving Alex. My entire adult life. I used to believe all love was conditional, but over the last twelve years, he has proven time and time again that some love comes without strings, rare though it may be. Through college, break ups, an enlistment, deployments, vacations, cross-country moves, deaths, coming outs, falling in love, buying cars, growing up, fights, and so much more, we have persevered.
At 31, I’m not old, but I’m no longer young. I can look back on the stunningly complicated life that I have led because Alex came into my life. Thank you choir. Every person we encounter shapes us in some small way, but there are people who are fundamentally impactful. Looking at my life, Alex is the fundamental human for me. I am who I am because of him. I am because of him. Every story I tell, I get to tell because he showed me I was worth loving, that life isn’t just pain. Life can also be joy. He saved my life in the abstract but also held my head above water many years ago.
Falling in love isn’t a choice, but the act of loving someone is a choice. To stay, to work, to be present, to ask the hard questions, to show up, to admit fault, to forgive, to see someone at their worst and at their best, to communicate, to be compassionate, to challenge, to support, and all the in betweens, that is a choice. An active choice made every moment of every day in big and little ways. Alex has made the choice to love me even when he has had every reason to walk away. From the very beginning, if he were any less of the man he is, he would have and should have walked away. When we broke each other’s hearts, he could have walked away. When I came out, he could have walked away. He never has. I hope he never will. At this point, there’s only so many life altering things I can drop in his lap.
Our love started in college. A grand, sweeping love. The kind I dove into with body and soul. The kind that is devastatingly beautiful. A once in a lifetime kind of love. I knew the moment we kissed I would die loving him, and I will. Though, I’ll never wear white or have children with him, I will grow old by his side—good lord, I hope his future wife likes me. We have never been a perfect couple; there is no such thing. To me, he will always be perfect. The pain. The love. The tears. The laughter. The life we built and lost. The love we found and have worked to maintain. It is all perfect. We are my favorite love story. Love cannot conquer all (it’s the gay bit), but it has conquered so very much.
One of my favorite pictures of us.
Life didn’t play out the way I saw it at 19. Although, looking back, I’m not exactly sure what I saw for us. I saw him. He saw me. There have been so many twists and turns to get lost in the way I used to get lost in his eyes in our bed ten years ago. I’m not going to go down the what if road because I am who I am and he deserves to find someone who is not gay. I don’t think I would change a single thing about our story. It’s beautiful and sad. If I could go back, I would tell myself to give more grace, be angry less, communicate more, be vulnerable, tell the hard truths, stop being strong all the time, lean into him because he loved me as I was, as I am, and there’s nothing I could have done that would change that.
I will never love anyone the way I have and do love Alex. A love I could spend forever writing about, and I might. A love that I can’t explain but I feel so deeply. It’s transcendent.
I recently took a trip to Denver, and while I was there, I decided to get two tattoos. I’ve kept them hidden on social media as they heal, and I wanted to show a few important people the finished product in person before announcing it to the world. So without further ado, these are my new tattoos.
Two concentric circles in the Pride Flag and Lesbian Flag colors.I think I’m really funny.
If you can’t tell by the ink, I’m gay. Both hold meaning, one more than the other. My journey to being a lesbian has been long, varied, and quite the story, and I wanted to get something to commemorate that while also acting as a reminder to be boldly myself always.
A few years ago, I knew I wanted to get a gay tattoo because I’ve been out of the closet for over a decade now. As I do, I take my time to mull all the infinite options over. I thought I wanted a rainbow ear cuff. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that was not actually what I wanted. It didn’t give me the “yes, that’s what I need” factor. So, I turned to a Pinterest search. Rainbow dots, flowers, hearts, etc. Not my thing. I decided I wanted to put whatever it would be just above the inside of my right elbow. I saw a line with gradient rainbow colors. I liked that, but… why the fuck would I want anything straight tattooed on my body?? The answer: I do not.
Circles are hugely symbolic in literature, nature, life, myth, etc. There’s no beginning or end. It made a lot of sense to have a rainbow circle. Pride! As I thought on it more, why stop at one circle and just the pride colors? I could have two concentric circles with the inner circle made up of the lesbian flag colors. I’m a genius. The moment the idea came to me, I had that feeling I always get when I know something is right. It doesn’t come often, but when it does, I pursue it with everything I’ve got.
I love the idea of concentric circles for this one because I am a lesbian—the inner circle—belonging to a larger community—the outer circle—of beautifully unique people living their authentic lives. I don’t want to hide that, and I no longer can since I have it tattooed on my left forearm.
Why is it not just above the inside of my right elbow ? Well, there’s some unintentional yet deeply meaningful overlap. One of my closest friends and someone I love with all my heart has two concentric circles in that exact spot. Though my tattoo is colorful and much bigger, I wasn’t about to have an exceptionally similar tattoo in the same exact spot as one of my people. The reason she got her tattoo was in honor of her dog, Nigel, who passed away after prolonged illness in March. He wasn’t my dog, but I loved him as much as my own babies. I was a huge part of his last few months, and my life revolved around my friend and him as she tried everything to get him better. But he passed far too soon, and it broke me wide open.
They make me happy.
Her tattoo was in the shape of his dog tag. So though I came up with the idea for my tattoo completely separately, the added meaning made it even more poignant for me. I will carry Nigel’s memory with me forever. I don’t need a tattoo to remember him, but his memory is subtly etched on my skin the way he not so subtly carved a choco-taco lab shaped spot in my heart. He really was just the best boy. The thing is, his memory will always be intertwined with his mom because I wouldn’t have gotten to know him without her. She came into my life when I had no idea I needed her and quickly became one of my favoritest people for more reasons than I can enumerate. She is also gay and well that’s a much longer story, but she has inspired, challenged, and helped me reclaim some very integral parts of who I am in the short time we have known each other, and I expect it’s only going to get better. As a writer and advocate, I know the importance of people and connection, and I believe in honoring those who impact our lives. I could probably write a piece about how influential she is, but you know an accidental matching-ish tattoo works. As a survivor, I don’t let many people in, but when I met her, I had the same feeling I had with three other people who would go on to be fundamentally impactful on my life. I knew from the first time we hung out that she would be immensely important in my life, and she has. Again the tattoo’s connection was absolutely incidental, but I love layered meaning.
After I realized why the idea of concentric circles felt so familiar, it then felt odd but not odd enough that I didn’t do. There were lots of discussions had on if I should scrap the idea completely, but I chose to keep the idea and change the location. Because at the end of the day, it also just made it feel more right. Weird but right. So very on brand for me. Luckily she’s weird too and doesn’t hate it. Or she’s lying to me because it’s a fucking tattoo and not going anywhere so she had to accept it either way. But she is the one who took these pictures, so there’s that. Lucky her, she made me look cute, so she’s found herself a new job: my personal photographer.
I will show this one of for years to come.
ga(y)me on Fun fact, I am very competitive. It manifests in subtle ways, but if it can be a competition, it will be a competition. I’m also cocky as fuck. Especially when I shouldn’t be. If I’m atrocious at something “Game on, bitch.” I have been saying “game on” since high school. Staring down the starting o-line in a fun game of tackle football in college? Game on. You want me to try water skiing for the eighteenth time, knowing full well I will not get up. Game on. Help you tile your bathroom having zero experience? Game on. Rescue a dog and tend to her thirteen puppies? Game on. Want to play a game of Scrabble? Sure. Let’s have a trivia night. Sounds nice. If I’m good at something, you won’t know until I have wiped the floor clean of your loser sweat. With a smile, obviously: I’m not an asshole.
I was in a sleep-deprived, depression induced, anxious state of mania when I said “Game on.” Wait… gayyyyme on. I was so excited about my pun, I called my best friend in Denver and told her I would be getting that tattooed on my right finger when I came to visit. I do not feel the need to explain why that finger. If you know, you know. She said, “Let’s sleep on it, and revisit.” Yeah okay. Game on. I knew it was happening. It happened. I did it. She was hesitant until the tattoo gun hit my finger, and then she was like… well, okay.
I would be lying just a little bit if I said I didn’t get it as a huge flirt because I really fucking did. I know this shit is adorably cocky and competitive. It’s also a pun. It’s also gay. It’s also funny. Every person I show giggles and quickly follows it up with “That is very RaeAnna.” It is. It’s such a dumb tattoo, and it makes me brilliantly happy. I show it off a lot. I am also really excited to explain what game on means to my great nieces and nephews. That’s all the meaning there is to this tattoo. I wanted it. It makes me happy. I did it.
Those are my tattoos. I love them very much.
Yay gay! I got them at Old Larimer Street Tattoo in Denver, Colorado from Johnny Campa, a fantastic artist and human!
May 8th marks the officiality of Dylan being a significant part of my life for six years. Where the fuck has time gone?
We have managed to stay us.
When we met, I was 25 to his 23. I was bartending to pay the bills until freelancing took off. He was figuring out what life looked like after the military. We chose to move cross-country four months into dating so he could follow his dreams of becoming a race car engine builder and designer. My job allowed me the flexibility to go with.
Today, I’m making my way through my 30s as a full-time freelance writer. Not only is Dylan a race car engine builder and designer, he’s teaching others to do the same. We own a house that we’ve filled with six rescue dogs. We are best friends, partners, and co-parents in this life we have made for ourselves.
There are few people who have had the impact he has on my life. He drives me absolutely insane. I can’t stand him, I love him, and I can’t imagine my life without him. Moving cross-country was a life altering decision. One that has allowed me to distance myself physically and emotionally from a past fraught with pain. He’s given me the security to chase dreams, travel, and figure out who I am. He’s held me through more anxiety/panic/PTSD attacks than I’d care to count. He listens to my endless fears of failure and mediocrity. He has watched me climb waterfalls; gotten up at the ass crack of dawn to see my smile as hot air balloons float over the mountains; held my hand through health issue after issue; raised eyebrows as I’ve danced around at 3:30 in the morning; taste tested many a new recipe; and so much more He’s been a rock through some really difficult years.
One of the things I admire and respect most about Dylan is his unrelenting respect and support as I figure out who the fuck I am.
When we started dating, I had been out of the closet as pansexual for five years. I wasn’t necessarily loud and proud, but I never let anyone call me straight. Over the course of four years, I would start embracing my sexuality more openly because I had someone who supported that journey. He took my pride pictures and high-fived me the first time I said I was gay. It took me a long time to even consider myself part of the LGBTQ+ community because I had always been in straight passing relationships, but Dylan pushed me to include myself because pansexual is valid no matter what kind of relationship I was in or had been in. Over the past two years, I have been coming into my identity more and more, searching out community and relationships I would never have before. Partially because I’m an introvert. Partially because I hate change. Partially because of so many other things.
So often when a person comes out, we lose people. Friends, family, partners. Especially partners. They don’t usually stay, let alone support the journey. That’s not my story. Dylan stayed. He continues to stay. He was the first person I told when I decided to start calling myself a lesbian. When I decided to get the rainbow and lesbian flag colors tattooed on myself, he was the first person I showed. I would not say it’s been easy for him nor should it be, but he has never wavered in his desire for me to be happily, authentically myself.
I am so incredibly lucky to co-exist with a man I have spent six years with, building a life and a family. We are not traditional by any loose definition of the word, but we’re figuring it out. The one thing we do know: We love each other deeply, support each other eternally, and will always be there for one another.
To the man who has allowed me the safety, freedom, and unconditional love to be myself exactly as I am: I will die loving you. You’re also a huge fucking pain in my ass, and I would not change a single thing about our journey. I’ll see you at home, gingey.
I drove myself to the airport this morning. It’s not the first time I’ve had to park my car while I jetset. It definitely will not be the last. But I was not supposed to drive myself. I hate spending money I don’t have to, and honestly, there’s something really lovely about having someone care enough to do the airport drop off and pick up dance with.
I masked up. I was just alone and drinking coffee.
I booked this trip two weeks ago, and for me, that’s some pretty good advance warning. I spoke with my platonic life partner and roommate and best friend, all one person, about driving me. I had picked flights that would work with his work/life schedule. He agreed. It went on our household calendar. Last night, he got home from work. I was working at the table. He’d been invited out with friends. Great! Have fun. Remember we need to leave the house by 3:45 am, so just be home by then. He gives me a hug and says he’ll be home by nine so we can watch a show before getting some sleep and heading to the airport. 10:30 hits, and I head to bed.
When I wake up and head downstairs to leave… No truck in the driveway. No ring notification. No man on the couch or in his bed or anywhere in the house at all. It’s 3:30. You know. Still time. Four calls straight to voicemail while I’m brushing my teeth. I eventually leave a voicemail. “I’m not angry. I’m not even disappointed. I’ve just come to expect this.” The petty asshole in me responds to his midnight-thirty “Love you!” text message with “Then maybe you should be home to take me to the airport…..” “But I guess not.” I did not take the high road. Grace was not given. Not my proudest moment. I let all the doggos out and said my goodbyes before hopping in the car and driving my independent lady ass to the airport. I did cry in the car. Not a breakdown cry. The silent stoic tears of a war bride waving goodbye on a train platform in a 1950s black and white movie. Probably not that pretty, but you get the picture. Hurt.
I’m taking this trip because I miss my best friend; I’m going through an intensely tough time and need to get away; the day after I get back my life will revolve around the out-all-nighter because he’s having his hip replaced, and I’ll be taking care of him. This is me being punchy about the fact I’ll be his nurse round-the-clock for six weeks and he couldn’t make it home in time to take me to the airport. Not sorry. I am also not sorry for airing this information. I’m a writer. He knows this. Life is copy.
Two quick things before I get to what I actually want to talk about. 1) This scenario is not actually a huge deal and was easily solved. The emotional aspect… Different story. Had this happened ten years ago, I would be a proper mess, but I’m so much more healed now. So I’m a slight mess instead. 2) If this were an isolated incident, I would be mad or disappointed. The problem, it’s not. So I’m hurt because it never feels lovely to be forgotten, and it’s pretty terrible never being a priority or able to depend on someone.
Trauma is a huge part of my story. I have issues. I am excessively familiar with all of my issues and triggers and the coping mechanisms I’ve developed over the course of thirty-one years. I’m quite good at telling my people what I need from them to keep functioning as optimally as I can. These things are quite easy and simple because at the end of the day, they’re my problems and I hate being a burden. I wear my trauma on my sleeve; it just makes life and relationships easier when I’m not hiding things that impact me so deeply. So everyone close to me knew what they were getting into and decided to stay. To the extreme point that if I’m dating someone or getting to know someone as a friend I lay it all out there on the first date/hang out. Truly, all they have to do is Google me and so much is out there for consumption. I am old enough to know I don’t want to waste my fucking time on people who will judge me, not support me, are intimidated by whatever, think what I do is dumb, can’t handle it. Trial by fire. Their reactions say it all.
Sad and hurt for too many reasons but ready for adventure.
When you have a relationship, platonic or romantic, with a person who has survived and lives with trauma, you have to accept that your actions, even the innocuous ones, can have a huge and sweeping impact. I struggle with worth, abandonment issues, being enough, and just feeling like an entirely forgettable human. Among other things. So when I was left to fend for myself this morning, the thought was “Alone. Like always.” Maneuvering the logistics of getting to the airport: so simple. Maneuvering the emotional toll of being forgotten and abandoned: not so simple.
Trusting people is so hard for me. I’ve let people in and been hurt over and over and over again. Trust is built over time and in the little moments. Watching TV on the couch after a rough day. Text messages to check in after falling down the stairs. Sleepovers for funsies. Showing up on time or at all when plans are made. “Safe travel” texts before planes take off. Not canceling. Including people in conversations. Remembering how to pronounce a name. Randomly reaching out for no reason. Sending a postcard. Listening without judgement. All these little things are teeny moments building trust and relationship between people. Trust takes time to build and often so little to corrode or destroy. To protect myself and cope with a life of abuse, I keep people at a distance, don’t give them chances to build trust, and make it incredibly hard to get to know me. How I have any friends is quite the mystery at this point. I’m working on it. As shitty as it is to say, when one person lets me down, it feels like another tick mark against all of humanity. Like, welp, this person can’t be trusted, and they’re human, therefore all humans are ashtrays. Refer to the first sentence of this paragraph… I am aware this is a problem.
I’m not someone who needs, wants, or even craves grand gestures. (Maybe I am, but I’ve never had anyone remotely try, so I wouldn’t actually know. I do love doing them, however.) Little things mean the most. A ride to the airport is not life altering, but it’s a little thing. Love, true love, exists in those little things, the quotidian, the quiet moments, the in betweens. It’s not always explosions or fireworks. It’s life altering in fundamentally consistent, persistent ways of sharing joys and sorrows, every big and little moment. Love is showing up and bearing witness to a lived life. Those tiny moments mean everything. To someone with trauma, it means everything and so much more. I don’t ask for much. I don’t need much. I probably need more than I realize, but I’ve been alone and self-sufficient for so long, I don’t know what it’s like to lean on someone or ask for help. Maybe someone will force my walls down and make me realize it’s okay to need things. To that woman, I say, “Best of luck. I’ll be quite the challenge.” Until then if ever. Fuck that shit; I’m a strong, independent woman. I don’t need anyone. I got myself to the airport like I’ve done numerous times before. And I’ll take myself home.
That doesn’t mean I’m not hurting. I’m not struggling. I’m not wondering if he forgot because I’m forgettable. Or he didn’t come because I wasn’t supportive enough of his night out. Or he didn’t think I was worth taking to the airport. Or that maybe I just don’t deserve someone to care about me. Or he just doesn’t want me in his life anymore. Or he never cared at all. Logically, I know all of this is untrue and it was an accident. But that doesn’t mean I believe it. Feelings and logic rarely coexist peacefully.
When you decide to be in someone’s life who is dealing with trauma, you better be damn sure you know what you’re getting into and that your actions have repurcussions. Your accidents and mistakes carry more weight. Little things mean the most, for the good and the bad. I know what it’s like to be on both sides. Being the traumatized and loving someone with trauma. It’s hard doing the loving, but I also know just how worth it it is. Then again, I also know how to be there for them because I know. And when you love someone, you just show up. Trauma or no trauma. Show up. That’s the bare minimum, and it shouldn’t be a lot to ask for. Then again, my bare minimum was “This one doesn’t rape me!” for the longest time. It’s been upped to, “This one doesn’t make me cry every day!” I’m fucked up. I know.
So I’m sitting on this fucking plane, crying my big, gay tears next to a man in a MAGA hat, trying to convince myself that maybe someday I’ll find someone who will ask if I need a ride to the airport and show up. (Shout out to Amanda, who offered, but I “had a ride.”) It should be simple. But it’s not for me. The idea of my having worth enough for anyone to take me to the airport let alone love me does not exist. The accident of falling asleep at a friend’s house after a fun night out is small, but to me, it carries connotations of so much more.
I don’t exactly know what I’m trying to write, what the point of this is, if there’s a point at all, where this will even start, or end.
I love old and forgotten things. Broken. Worn. I see myself in them.
All I know is that it feels like my lungs and heart are slowly being compressed in a vice grip I can’t shake. I can’t stop crying. But I can’t seem to start breathing. Every time I almost get a breath in my lungs, the vice grip clamps down even harder. My body feels like it’s slowly dying, and I actually know what that feels like. Though, I know this time it’s just emotional pain corporally manifesting rather than internal organ failure. I’ll take one over the other, and it’s not the one I’m struggling with right now.
My pain is so interwoven with one another. Start pulling on one string of pain, and all the rest start to twinge. Trauma. Survivor. PTSD. Love. Anxiety. Failure. Depression. Abandonment. Worth. I can handle them all. I’ve done it over and over and over again for so many reasons. I fight those demons daily, and I’m still here. I’ll be okay, but I’m crumbling right now.
I can’t sleep. And food, just, yeah. I’ve been exercising like my life depends on it. In a way maybe it does. The mind needs sleep more than the body, but both have learned how to survive on all but none. I run and do yoga every day. I never stop moving, trying to find something to take my mind off of this pain. Pushing myself past boundaries I hadn’t known existed so the physical pain can, at least, match the emotional.
I couldn’t sleep last night. So I took to the woods at 3:00 am with my dog to run until my legs couldn’t go on. Truly. I ran until my legs couldn’t, so I sat down and cried. I focused on my heart beat. Feeling my heart condition being pushed to its most extreme limits so my heart would feel like it could explode at any moment because the physical pain made the fact my heart is imploding on itself over and over again a little less poignant. I crawled back in bed and never found sleep. So I laid on the bathroom floor and sobbed until the sun came up.
I left my room and chose to use my rare free time to chase happiness, doing things that bring me joy. REI, the zoo, a carousel ride, walking Hermann Park, a train ride, dinosaurs at the Science Museum, art at the MFA, more walking, writing at one of my favorite coffee shops. I’ve managed to make my feet cover 26 miles in the last sixteen hours. Yet I’m not tired. I’m not happy. Nothing I do allows me to breathe or dry my tears.
I’ve been told my entire life I’m horrible at being vulnerable. Vulnerability has always been dangerous. Surviving doesn’t allow any room for weakness, mistakes, failure. I can. With a chosen few… The few who chose themselves to put in the work, to push. To not take ‘no’ for an answer.
It’s the common complaint from friends and partners. They don’t know me because I don’t show them the parts I’m scared of. I’m scared because I can’t change them. I have no control over them. I’ve been met with callous cruelty far more than loving empathy. I make jokes to distract from the agony of so many things. If I make them laugh, they won’t see the silent desperation in my eyes or the tremble in my voice or the way my body language gives nothing away. I have no problem putting down these feelings here, sharing it with the world. Ask me to crumble in front of my people, I can’t.
I can, but they have to push. They have to demand, leave me with no other option. They have to keep showing up and saying they want the broken parts. They have to see the shine in my eyes and the stoicism take over. An absence of feeling usually means only one thing: They’re on to something. I’m not okay. I’m falling apart. Quickly. I will leave and disintegrate if they don’t just ask the one question: “Why?” Then make me answer it, no matter what. Don’t try to dry my eyes or let me make jokes. Don’t even try to hold me or make it better because they can’t. Not until it’s come out. Then simply exist with me as I lose it.
The moment I know something is off, wrong, different, emotional, I steal myself. Compartmentalizing every single feeling except kindness and empathy far away from the surface so I can be there for them without needing a single thing in return. I’m a great friend, but I’ve had a hard time letting others be friends to me. So they’re left wondering if I ever felt anything at all.
I’ve been told I have no feelings; computer programs have more emotions than I do; psychopathic tendencies; cruelly unfeeling. Surviving meant keeping emotions at bay until there was an appropriately solitary moment to deal with them, the shower, before holding my chin up to keep on keeping on. The truth is, I feel everything. All the time. So deeply. So viscerally. I take everything personally. Over-analyzing every conversation and interaction to find out what I did wrong, what I could have done better, how I could have been better. I just don’t show it.
Someone spent eleven years loving me without knowing I’m sensitive.
I compartmentalize to survive. I hurt people with my compartmentalization, which only makes me hurt more.
The fact is, my inability to be vulnerable means I have so few people in my life. I know this to be true. I’ve known it for a long time. But people keep leaving without ever trying to push past a single boundary I’ve erected purely for self-preservation. I can give help without ever asking for what I need.
So I’m thirty and broken.
I’m going through it.
I know I’ll get used to this new vice grip in my chest, and I’ll breathe again. I don’t know when. I know because I have a few I’m already used to, but this one feels different. Bigger. More real.
It’s funny how life works out. I’ve spent the better part of thirty years telling people I don’t want kids. Those closest to me knew I wasn’t being honest with myself. If I’m telling truths, I knew I was lying to myself the entire time. I finally found the missing puzzle piece. I’m full gay, and the idea of having a baby or two with a woman doesn’t make me nauseous or feel like the world is collapsing in on me. On the contrary, I really would like that someday with the right partner. Wow, no nausea.
My life would not be what it is if I had become a mother, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get sad sometimes.
Today is the seventh anniversary of what should have been my due date had my body decided to keep my baby instead of yeeting my baby. (I’m really proud I know that slang term, and yes, I giggle every time I read that, so you can too.) I’ve written about the grief and the opposing feelings of grief and relief going along with my miscarriage. There’s a new feeling starting to creep into my soul on the topic. Anxiety. Which I’m probably going to talk about at some point, but that’s not really where I want this piece to go. Nothing but time to let those feelings marinate.
Life is funny. In a deeply dark and very rude way.
Shockingly, my baby was not an immaculate conception. Though, I was on birth control at the time. I got pregnant with a man, Rob*, who I was very much in love with at the time and still love to this day. That being said, he was an absolute ass hat when he put me up the duff. He would be happy to tell you exactly the same but probably less nicely.** He and I had met four summers before while I was vacationing in San Diego. We kept stayed in contact via Facebook and text. I visited a few times. We went in and out of touch. The games life plays. After I graduated college and he’d gotten out of the military, we both ended up in the teensiest bumfucknowhere town an hour south of Chicago. Long story short, we got drunk separately and ended up at one of two bars in town on Fourth of July 2014. Longer story short, he dropped me off at my home the next morning, and I basically never saw him again. What a dick!
Three months later, oopsies, I was in the family way. And very much alone. Past the point of being able to take care of my problem. I was a mom. Motherhood was not in my plan. Especially not in my 23 years old, just graduated from college, had a big-girl job in the city, finally ready to live my life, single plans. What the fuck, birth control? Call me Myrtle. I was fertile. But, I embraced this new life plan. Fully. I was on board with what was on board me because the baby was conceived out of love and being grown with love. I started dreaming and planning and preparing. Then I miscarried. Grief. So much grief. I drowned in grief for months. There’s still grief. Also relief because again… 23, new college grad, corporate job, single. Did I mention I was 23? I was relieved. Sad but relieved. I also went through it alone. At the time, there was no possibility in my mind of including or even telling Rob.
Here’s where life gets funny. A few months ago, Rob reached out with an apology letter. A real, hand-written, sent in the mail letter. I was bowled over. The thing about our story is that we were very much in love without having ever been together. He may know me better than just about anyone. Still to this day. He knows my heart in a way very few people do. We fell in love at a distance, but we were only ever best friends. If life were a Hallmark movie, this would be our moment to create the family we almost had seven years ago. But I’m gay! And he holds far too much guilt over what he did to me.
Suffice to say, his letter rekindled the friendship we once had. Instead of me in Iowa and him in San Diego talking constantly, I’m in Texas, and he’s in Illinois. We talk frequently, almost daily. It’s going to take some time for us to go back to what we once were. What was so amazing about the aftermath of the letter is the conversation we were finally able to have about my baby. Our baby. Which is a really fucking weird thing to say after almost eight years of referring to the baby that never was as mine. That baby can now belong to us both. We can share that grief in a way we couldn’t eight years ago because he did find out about my miscarriage in a really fucked up way. This story is long and great fodder for the writer in me. So buy the book at your local bookstore… someday.
I just had to stop and message him to tell him I’m writing this because holy shit after nine years (our timeline is weird), I am finally able to text him freely again. I have one of my closest friends back. That was the thing. Tied up in all the grief over losing my… our baby, I was also grieving over the loss of my best friend and a man I loved deeply. Losing him was physically painful. I wrote so many letters. I kept copies, and to this day, I can’t read them because of the pain I can still feel in my chest. My baby was ripped from my body, but I felt like my heart was too. I lost two people. I grieved over someone I would never get to know, and someone I knew all too well.
Knowing someone as deeply as we knew each other, I knew exactly why Rob left me. I knew exactly what he was thinking. I knew in my core that one day he would reach out. I knew that even though he treated me like shit, his heart, as misguided as it was, was doing it for what he thought to be all the right reasons. The years faded the pain of both losses. I stopped glancing around corners in the grocery store. I stopped listening for his name when I saw mutual friends. I stopped pretending to be happy when I passed him at the gas station. When I moved across the country, I left the last connection we had. I stopped hoping he would reach out, which turned into a faint possibility that had no actual impact on my life. When I talked about him, it was always with warmth and love because I could never let the bad ending (we’ll call it a hiatus now) tarnish the great years we had together and every wonderful thing he did for me. Rob, the best friend, was always separated from Rob, the baby daddy, in my mind.
Then he did reach out. Exactly one month after the seventh anniversary of my miscarriage. And my best friend walked back into my life.
Miscarrying was one of the most emotionally taxing things I’ve been through. It has long and lasting repercussions; some of which I’m just starting to grasp. As I look to my potential future as a mother, I know my relationship with miscarriage is not over. I know I am going to have to confront my feelings and anxieties if and when I get pregnant. I know when I do get pregnant, it’s going to be a choice with a partner who I will love beyond measure and trust to hold my hand through every step of the way. I never faulted him for leaving me because he didn’t know how that night would end, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt for years.
But today will always be the day I honor the baby I’ve never held. For the first time, I’m getting to share today with the man who helped me make that baby. In a way, today is easier because I have him back. I know how hard it was for him to send me the letter in November… I have always known his heart. He put words to his vulnerabilities, and I took a chance. I am grateful for the baby I wanted to raise. I’m grateful for the man who gave me those thirteen weeks. I am grateful that I get to call him a friend again.
*He specifically asked to be named, so Rob is his real name. **He was the very first to read this before it went public.
