Sunday, October 31, 2010

Something for Cat

I tend to describe people by their connections. Not just with others, but how they themselves are connected to me. It makes for an odd conversation - Oh, that's Fred. He used to work with me but he grew up with Jimmy who is a really good friend of mine, even though I haven't really talked to him for almost a year.

This intro is not getting me where I want to go. Retry.

My senior year of high school I tried (fairly successfully) to convince myself that my anger at the world was not caused by what I was doing but what other people were. And since I'd be leaving for school two states away and would never ever be back, I found it useless to meet new people and make new friends. I took the thought that I really didn't need anymore friends and ran with it.

I ran pretty far.

I ran so far, that even now, my new friend-making skills are a little different. I don't network anymore, I don't try to get to know as many people as I can as deeply as I can in as little time possible. Within the last year and a half, If I've made a friend, they are far more likely to be near and dear to my heart, and stay that way. Probably because every single one of them have been able to help me out of the roughest rough patches of my life so far.

And oddly enough, they become near and dear to my heart very quickly. Point in case, there's the girl that lived the floor above me, and within a few months of actually meeting, I was talking to her about the depression I hardly mentioned to my own sister. Or the man this same friend introduced me to, two weeks after we met we were dating. Six months later, we still are. But this isn't about him.

It's about the girl I met at work two months ago. I thought she was mexican (she's not), and I couldn't remember her name (yesterday my boy proved he still can't). I'm not sure how we bonded. Maybe it was our shared confusion at the new job, maybe it was her telling me that she was to leave for her mission soon, the same day my sister returns from her own. That the mission was in the same state. That the bosses didn't know yet and I shouldn't say anything to anyone. That she'd give me a ride whenever I needed. That Dr. Who's blue phone booth were on her shoes. That we had not one but two pairs of matching shoes. That we didn't have to actually talk and it was still fine. Maybe really we saw each other in each other. But she's a better driver.

My sister returns home in three days. Which means Cat is leaving in three days. I don't know why we met when we did, or why it had to be so short. I suppose it's a blessing, because had it been longer, she'd be the third bestie in a year and a half to leave me for the same reason. So maybe this is a mercy. Either way, right now, I'm Feeling Good.

Amish ewe, Cait. amish ewe.

Friday, October 8, 2010


The morning after Scott talked to me again, I had woken heartsick. Not just the heavy heart kind, it was the sick through the entire body, especially around my heart. I could hardly eat, and I was supposed to go to work that day. Andy was there, like he always was. Somehow I was able to put on a passable grimace, laid my head on his chest, and endured until we got in the car to go to work. While in the car, I was still ill. My limbs ached, my stomach churned, my breaths were shallow and uncontrolled.

I sat next to him holding his hand in mine. I looked at it, and kept looking because the pain somehow disappeared every time I did. When he pulled his hand away to shift gears, the pain returned, but muted. His hand returned and the pain fled.

I tried not to tell Andy. I could only keep it bottled for a single day. As we sat tangled in each other's arms I whispered it in his ear, “I love you.”

That was only a few short weeks ago. His parting words were, “Good luck,” and, “I still love you.”

My only words were, “Thank you.”

In a way, I left because I loved another more. Not Scott, no. I loved another even before Scott. Deeper than I could ever love either of these wonderful men I've chosen. It has come time to choose again, and I wish to God that I will always choose Him over any other.

Andy, I know I just broke your heart, and I'm sorry for it.

Thank you.

For everything.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

the why not

"A writer never forgets the first time he accepted a few coins or a word of praise in exchange for a story. He will never forget the sweet poison of vanity in his blood and the belief that, if he succeeds in not letting anyone discover his lack of talent, the dream of literature will provide him with a roof over his head, a hot meal at the end of the day, and what he covets the most: his name printed on a miserable piece of paper that surely will outlive him. A write is condemned to remember that moment, because from then on he is doomed and his soul has a price."

The Angel's Game, by Carlos Ruiz Zafon