I can't say it has been easy.
These last two years have been pretty unforgiving for both of us, babe, and when I look back now, I can only think, "What would I have done without him?"
You have become such an integral part of my life, that I literally cannot imagine a life without you. And you know how active my imagination is.
We have had some pretty rough patches. There was one day, not all that long ago, that I tried to imagine a life without you, and the furthest I got was a scenario where it wasn't my life at all--it was a stranger's life. I was so angry and hurt that day, and I truly thought that we would not get through it.
But we did. And here we are, celebrating our second anniversary. On this day, two years ago, I was what I like to call, in my Britney mode: chaotic. It is not easy, to say that least, to plan, arrange, pay for, and completely organize a homemade wedding. For 150 people. At my mom's house.
It is also not easy to lose a father two months before he is supposed to walk you down the aisle, holding your manicured hand in his calloused one, tears in his eyes as he escorts you away from childhood and into a world that only you can navigate. It is not easy to stand there, in front of everyone you love--and some you don't--and with all those eyes on you, only notice the pair that aren't there. It isn't easy to acknowledge that I won't have a father-daughter dance, that I won't see my mom and dad there next to us on the dance floor, that he won't get a little too tipsy and maybe fall in the living room again. It isn't easy to watch your mother's face. To watch her miss him in every little moment as well. To watch her living out her own personal hell in front of my family, your family, and all of our friends.
It isn't easy to know that you are the only person I've ever brought home that my dad didn't want to immediately strangle. But at the same time, it is easy.
You were the one, all along. We knew it from the moment we embraced on the street corner. We knew it, and we didn't shy away from the power of it. Thank fucking god we didn't run away from it. It would have been easy to run.
It was easy to stand in front of our world of people and have my brother marry us. It was easy to have my sister there beside me, and your brother beside you--the most important people in our worlds, supporting this huge and scary step. It is easy to remember the vows we wrote for each other, the tree we planted together as a symbol of our union, the wish ribbons hanging from the arbor under which we were married. It is easy to remember dancing with our friends and family, laughing, spinning, watching the night fly away like sands through the hourglass, but on fast forward. It is very easy to remember exchanging rings, seeing your eyes fill with tears as I walked myself down the aisle, hearing everyone--especially my grandfather--belly laugh at my brother's declaration of his vested power.
On this day, two years ago, I was as excited, anxious, happy and as sad as I have ever been. I know we were both exhausted, because we both collapsed in bed that night, without even trying to get into each other's pants. Funny that we didn't even have sex on our wedding night. (I mean, not that we needed to; our sex life has been nothing short of fucking amazing, and continues to blow my mind.)
I look back over these last two years, and I have to say that I am impressed by us, honey. We have grown in ways that I never imagined possible. We have taught each other so much about love and commitment. We have made it through some very tough times.
It would be a gross understatement for me to say that I love you more now than I ever have. Robb, I have never known a love like this. I never imagined that I would be so lucky to have a love like this. You were always out there, waiting, and I was always here, waiting. We were waiting for each other, and every step we have taken in our lives has brought us to where we are today.
Marriage is strange; it is both constricting and freeing. It is rigid, but flexible. It is strange but familiar. It is a perfect balance of selfishness and selflessness.
The words that were spoken as Ginger's wedding, just two weeks ago, still ring true for me: This marriage is completely unique. There has never been, and never will be, a union like ours, for we are both individuals, and we have created something that never existed before. We are moving the world forward just by simply being together.
I want to say how proud I am of you, Robb. You are fearless. You are creative. You are vulnerable. You are chasing your dream and succeeding. You are strong, everyday, for me. You are exploring yourself in ways that you never previously imagined, and you are becoming more You every day. You, Robb; you are my heart.
YOU ARE MY HEART!!!!
I LOVE YOU!!!
Marry me.
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
5.28.2008
6.11.2007
Reflecting on Father's Day
Well, I hoped I would miss it. I told my brain to completely forget the day—to ignore all commercials, sales, and mumbo jumbo that might possibly remind me. Luckily my friends are all sensitive enough to not mention it.
After losing two fathers by the time I was 26, Father's Day holds nothing but pain.
My first father, my biological father, was a complicated man. He was the best and worst of all things. The best dad, the worst dad. The best and worst husband. The most intelligent, and the most ignorant.
My mom divorced him when I was three, after finding out that he repeatedly cheated on her. With men. In reststop bathrooms. In the early 1980s. He was excommunicated from his church—the only thing in his life that really helped him cling to a false reality. I believe, in my heart, that his horrible actions were a result of not being true to himself. I wish, for his sake and for my family's sake, that he had come out of the closet. I think things might have been very different for us all, if he had. But he had too much fear. He lived in a world where everything around him said that he was evil for having these feelings, and he denied this part of himself until he died. He died when I was 14, of complications from HIV. He told me he was sick only 6 months before he died. He never told my younger brother, and to this day I see the anger still in my brother's heart.
I think that I was sad when he died, partly because I was young and was experiencing what death meant, but also in part because I was expected to be sad. There were good and bad things about my bio dad, and that would have been fine if he had lived long enough for us to work those things out, but he didn't, and so I can only look back on our relationship from the perspective of an angry, hurt, and scared adolescent.
My second father, my "heart" father, was the best of men. He was kind, thoughtful, strong. I often referred to him as the epitome of "strong silent" type. He and my mom married when I was ten, and helped me through the death of my bio father. He was my rock. He was the opposite of my bio father in every way. Where my bio dad was selfish, my heart father was concerned with others first. Where my bio dad was thoughtless, my heart father was considerate and thoughtful.
My heart father came to every soccer and volleyball game; he came to every concert. He cried (silently and with much masculine pride, trying to conceal his tears) on my 18th birthday was he and my mom gave me a particularly beautiful gift. He was a man; proud of his children, loving to his wife, and hardworking. I can't think of a time where I didn't see him working. Even on weekends, after he had spent all week traveling, he would work around the house and the yard, making secret passages in the walls (seriously) or raised beds for my mother's garden.
He was a strong man. He had three heart attacks before he was 40, and never once complained. He was a walk-it-off kind of man.
Last year, 2 months before he was to walk me down the aisle, he died of a heart attack. He was 48. There are no words to describe how devastating this was, and still is. Even now, as I write this, tears are streaming down my face. Even though it was been over a year since he died, I still feel it as though it happened yesterday.
When they tell you that time heals, they are wrong. Time merely helps your memory of pain to fade.
I am thankful, though, that his heart attack took him quickly. He did not suffer; we did not have to live hooked up to tubes and monitors. He was at the beach with his best friend, and had spent the weekend doing exactly what he wanted: smoking cigars, fishing, drinking beer. I couldn't have asked for a better way for him to leave us. My family was spared the heartbreak of finding his body, or seeing him in the hospital.
But now I have the heartbreak of knowing he will never see his grandchildren, or celebrate another wedding anniversary, or will never dance with either of his daughters.
My only memories of that day he died, and the haze of days that followed, are the words I screamed when I knew he was dead. Oh my GOD, NO. They haunt me. They will for the rest of my life.
Father's Day is over for me.
After losing two fathers by the time I was 26, Father's Day holds nothing but pain.
My first father, my biological father, was a complicated man. He was the best and worst of all things. The best dad, the worst dad. The best and worst husband. The most intelligent, and the most ignorant.
My mom divorced him when I was three, after finding out that he repeatedly cheated on her. With men. In reststop bathrooms. In the early 1980s. He was excommunicated from his church—the only thing in his life that really helped him cling to a false reality. I believe, in my heart, that his horrible actions were a result of not being true to himself. I wish, for his sake and for my family's sake, that he had come out of the closet. I think things might have been very different for us all, if he had. But he had too much fear. He lived in a world where everything around him said that he was evil for having these feelings, and he denied this part of himself until he died. He died when I was 14, of complications from HIV. He told me he was sick only 6 months before he died. He never told my younger brother, and to this day I see the anger still in my brother's heart.
I think that I was sad when he died, partly because I was young and was experiencing what death meant, but also in part because I was expected to be sad. There were good and bad things about my bio dad, and that would have been fine if he had lived long enough for us to work those things out, but he didn't, and so I can only look back on our relationship from the perspective of an angry, hurt, and scared adolescent.
My second father, my "heart" father, was the best of men. He was kind, thoughtful, strong. I often referred to him as the epitome of "strong silent" type. He and my mom married when I was ten, and helped me through the death of my bio father. He was my rock. He was the opposite of my bio father in every way. Where my bio dad was selfish, my heart father was concerned with others first. Where my bio dad was thoughtless, my heart father was considerate and thoughtful.
My heart father came to every soccer and volleyball game; he came to every concert. He cried (silently and with much masculine pride, trying to conceal his tears) on my 18th birthday was he and my mom gave me a particularly beautiful gift. He was a man; proud of his children, loving to his wife, and hardworking. I can't think of a time where I didn't see him working. Even on weekends, after he had spent all week traveling, he would work around the house and the yard, making secret passages in the walls (seriously) or raised beds for my mother's garden.
He was a strong man. He had three heart attacks before he was 40, and never once complained. He was a walk-it-off kind of man.
Last year, 2 months before he was to walk me down the aisle, he died of a heart attack. He was 48. There are no words to describe how devastating this was, and still is. Even now, as I write this, tears are streaming down my face. Even though it was been over a year since he died, I still feel it as though it happened yesterday.
When they tell you that time heals, they are wrong. Time merely helps your memory of pain to fade.
I am thankful, though, that his heart attack took him quickly. He did not suffer; we did not have to live hooked up to tubes and monitors. He was at the beach with his best friend, and had spent the weekend doing exactly what he wanted: smoking cigars, fishing, drinking beer. I couldn't have asked for a better way for him to leave us. My family was spared the heartbreak of finding his body, or seeing him in the hospital.
But now I have the heartbreak of knowing he will never see his grandchildren, or celebrate another wedding anniversary, or will never dance with either of his daughters.
My only memories of that day he died, and the haze of days that followed, are the words I screamed when I knew he was dead. Oh my GOD, NO. They haunt me. They will for the rest of my life.
Father's Day is over for me.
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