What I Need From You

Tags

communication, gay, lesbian, missing you, relationships

Dear Caroline,

Since I’ve last written you, I’ve finally achieved my degree. I don’t know what I’ll do with a degree in Criminal Justice and Criminology, but it has been a goal of mine to complete for a long time. I thought that when I finished this round of education that, except for the $25,000 that I owe in student loans, that my stress level would decrease. I dreamed about all of the extra time that I would have to nurture the nonprofit, the things I could grow on my own, my hobbies, and the time I would be able to spend with the family. No more missed game nights because I had a paper due or a final to complete.

I thought I would have more time to talk with you, spend time with you, nurture and love you better. I kept telling myself that I would be able to make up for all the times that I couldn’t handle any more stress with everything going on over the last year. And now here we are: a pandemic.

The last two months with you and the kids home all day, every day, has been amazing. It’s time I never thought we would get to have. The four years that we spent apart I thought we would never get back, that your relationship with the children wouldn’t be as strong, that even though you and I had years to work on learning to communicate and asking for what we were missing, we would have some bumps, but nothing that we couldn’t overcome.

I realized last night when I couldn’t sleep again that I’m not there. And again this afternoon.

I laid in bed next to you while you were sleeping crying. I struggled to find the right words to explain to you what I am feeling.

The last year or so has been incredibly difficult. I believe that you and I are capable of handling anything together as long as we are able to communicate. But now I’m stuck.

I don’t know how to tell you that I miss being intimate with you. I miss sex with you, but I also miss cuddling, kissing, stroking, hand holding. You say that your self-image is why you don’t want to. I understand. I don’t want you to do anything you aren’t comfortable with. I don’t want you to go through the motions when you aren’t feeling it or feel like you are obligated to perform “wifely duties”. At the same time, I don’t know how many more nights I can take care of it myself while you snore gently next to me. I don’t know how to not need you. I need you emotionally, mentally, and physically. Especially now. Right now we are separated from everyone else in the world, in our circle, in our families. I need you more than ever and you need me less.

I need to be intimate and close with you. After everything I’ve dealt with in my life, my parental and abandonment issues, mental and physical abuse, sexual abuse, I choose you. I trust you. I am struggling and you don’t need me.

I needed you last night. I needed you to be close to me, to love me. I don’t know that I am ready to deal with the imminent death of our first grandchild – the one I’ve never met. I’m becoming anxious not only at the thought of leaving the house, but of you leaving the house. I am struggling with you going back to work. I am terrified that something will happen to you and that you will leave me too.

I try to make up for the connection that I miss with you. I lay in bed next to you and try to take care of my own needs but it’s not enough to be near you, to be next to you. It leaves me empty, hollow, and sad. And when you roll away from me, it’s more than I can bear.

I missed you this morning. It was the second night in a row that I’ve been unable to sleep until 5 AM and when you and Dee left at 7:30 this morning for the farmers’ market, I would have been totally incoherent if you’d tried to talk to me. Matthew met me at 9:30 with a cup of coffee while Brandon and I attempted to set up a meeting to purchase a used washer and dryer since ours are leaking and broken, respectively and we have a hole in the laundry room floor from water damage, soaked wood, mold, and I’m not even sure what else yet until we start the demo.

I missed you this afternoon. You came in from the market, dropped your bags, picked up the dryer and moved it into the house, laid down for 10 minutes and headed out the door for work. I listened to what you said last week and tried to be supportive of Brandon, understanding that he can only visit with the kids briefly right now and that he is battling his own demons after our divorce. I got a quick kiss on your dash to the car.

I texted you at work to tell you that I miss you. In response, you said that you missed me too and that you had forgotten to pick up our CSA box and asked if I could do it. I tried to text you back, but you called. And asked to speak to our daughter. You asked her to pick up our order and hung up without speaking to me again. I’ve picked up my phone a dozen times since then to tell you that I miss you and I love you, but I am afraid that you’ll miss what I’m telling you again.

Instead, I’ll wait right here for you to come home and when I tell you that I miss you and try to be affectionate, listen to you tell me that your phone didn’t go off, that I didn’t text or call you, and that you don’t feel like you are needed. Then I’ll take a bath and try to focus on my self-care. I’ll try to take care of myself because I need you.

What I need from you is simple: I need you.

Love,

Stacy

A Long Time (A Year in Review)

Tags

anxiety, death, gay, home, humor, lesbian, past, relationships, sadness, trauma, wedding

Dear Caroline,

It’s been a long while since I’ve written to you. So much has changed in the last two years. I had to check and see when the last thing I wrote was. September 2017. That seems like a lifetime ago.

I know you’ve been struggling. I thought I would write you a list of all of the things we’ve survived together recently so that you can see that it’s not in your head. I hope it helps you understand why it was okay to move our wedding date from 9/15/2019 to 10/11/2020. I hope it helps explain in a way that you really, truly understand.

9/2018 – Hurricane Florence devastated our hometown. You were in Seattle and couldn’t get here. The kids and I evacuated and hoped our home would still be standing when we got back.

10/2018 – I flew out to bring you home.  You came home to the wreckage.

11/2018 – After much paperwork, our claim was filed to replace our roof and work on the hurricane damages to our home. Your brother came to Thanksgiving.

12/2018 – Our first ever Christmas together. We’ve been together for four years and never woken up on Christmas morning together. It was amazing.

1/2019 – My job gave me a $6,000 pay cut. We couldn’t get estimates to replace our roof because all contractors were busy. We learned to budget together. We took a trip to Connecticut to visit my father and announce that we were, in fact, getting married. The water softener died. I started the spring semester.

2/2019 – We got an estimate for the roof! Marlene was diagnosed with an inoperable brain stem tumor. Matt was diagnosed with an inoperable brain stem tumor. Our dog Hemingway was diagnosed with cancer and had major surgery. We spent a fortune on vet bills.

3/2019 – We got the roof fixed! The first time it rained, water poured in through our microwave and damaged our floor, counters, cabinets, and walls. The well died and we had no water. We got estimates to fix it. The hot water heater died. We had to fix it and rewire it all the way back to the breaker box because the wrong gauge wire was originally used. Hemi didn’t react well to surgery and his giant incision on his side split open. Matt refused treatment for his tumor. You had multiple job interviews. We completed our first 5K together.

4/2019 – Matthew saw a doctor about his anxiety who recommended that he see a therapist for testing. Wayne moved into his assisted living facility. You were working two jobs on opposite ends of the county and never slept. The extended warranty on the car expired and we found out when it needed a new transmission.

5/2019 – Wayne passed away. You took the job at the Hotel. You were so overwhelmed that you began backing out of prior commitments with the nonprofit you volunteer for. I cracked a tooth in half and had to have a root canal. I attempted to quit my job and ended up working from home instead, giving up my sales position. Matthew had 57 doctor’s appointments. Deanna was put on a new medication. We adopted Petey.

6/2019 – We had to teach a cooking class and last minute handle the entire event for a farm to table dinner in less than 7 days for the nonprofit. It was the first big project we ever worked on together. We learned a lot. You picked up caterings to supplement your work schedule. Matthew was diagnosed with autism. I started the summer semester and doubled up on classes.

7/2019 – You fell at work and tore a ligament in your wrist. You stayed in your hard brace for over 6 weeks. Matthew broke both his tibia and fibula through his ankle joint on the day before Deanna’s birthday and we had to rush him to the emergency room. We spent Deanna’s 16th birthday in the orthopedist’s office getting Matthew a hard cast. You moved to banquets at work. My boss started hiring new people and cutting my work from home hours. Hemi’s tumors started re-growing.

8/2019 – I had to go back to work at the office. The fall semester started for me. The kids went back to school with Matthew on crutches. Marlene’s health began to seriously fail and then she passed away. My parents announced that they were separating. We ended up planning another farm to table dinner but didn’t have to cook this one. Matthew was moved to a walking boot. He was then put on medication for his anxiety with his recent diagnosis. We decide that there’s no way we can get married this year.

9/2019 – Marlene’s service. You were demoted from banquets for missing too much work and calling out. Another hurricane came through but caused minimal damage for us but did cause damage in the community. You started physical therapy for your wrist and realized you hadn’t had a period since July. We adopted Smush Cat. My mom moved out of the family home. We learn our wedding date was Wayne and Marlene’s as well.

10/2019 – The kids and I went to Connecticut for my sister’s wedding. You couldn’t get out of work and got further demoted to nights, working the 3 PM-11 PM shift. I quit my job for good. Deanna went to homecoming. Tallulah was killed. Khonsu passed away. We handled another farm to table dinner. You formally take the job as Farm & Food Director for the nonprofit.

11/2019 – We picked up Tallulah’s ashes and paw print and memorialized her with photo canvas prints. We baked cookies for the troops. You worked and kept up with physical therapy. An awkward Thanksgiving with my parents came and went. We keep our fingers crossed that the well pump holds out just a little longer. We determine that Smush Cat is pregnant. We adopt Oscar who will have a lifetime of vet bills due to his issues. We love him anyway.

12/2019 – Christmas again. We taught Pre-K kids to decorate cookies and brought Tubs and Oscar to school to visit. David is in and out of the hospital and I spend a lot of time in Greenville. End of the fall semester, papers due. I accept a job as the Business Director for the nonprofit. You still haven’t had a period since July, so we are back and forth for ultrasounds both locally and in Greenville. You interview for the job at the brewery. Work issues arise for you at the Hotel due to scheduling snafus more than once. My father comes to visit. We secretly get married on Friday the 13th.

1/2020 – You start acupuncture. You start your period. The kids go back to school. I start my last semester of school. We are planning an official October wedding. We are completely revamping the nonprofit. You learn that you will have several more months of physical therapy to heal your wrist. We have meetings and appointments nonstop for two weeks. We even have to schedule a time to go to the grocery store. You learn about an opportunity to go to France.

I’m sure that I haven’t gotten everything. The last 18 months have been incredibly difficult. When you feel that you are failing, please take a deep breath and remember how far we have come. We were meant to do this and do it together. As long as I have you, I have everything I need.

Love,

Stacy

West Coast

Unfinished from July 2018

 

Dear Caroline,

I miss you.

I know, at least intellectually, how far 3,000 miles is. I don’t think I had any real perspective on it until I had to get on two planes and fly for 7 hours, through three time zones, to get to you.

You’re so far.

I’ve spent my entire life traveling up and down the east coast. I’ve been from Connecticut, Massachusetts, New York, to Georgia, South Carolina, Florida. I’ve flown, I’ve driven. For the last year, I’ve driven to Florida numerous times. Through sun and rain and once through a category 3 hurricane.

I went to Nashville, Tennessee in March for the work conference. Until June, that was the furthest west I’d ever been.

Wednesday

I remember landing in Seattle. How the air smelled different, felt different. How exhausted I was after a full day of work and so much travel. How my skin was tingling, my heart was beating in anticipation of seeing you for the first time in months. There’s always the worry, the voice in the back of my head that tells me too much time has passed, too many miles, too many things are balanced precariously. You’ll see me and not feel the same way. I worry that too many hours are spent via text and phone call and now I’m some image in your head that I can’t possibly live up to.

There’s always the worry, the voice in the back of my head that tells me too much time has passed, too many miles, too many things are balanced precariously. You’ll see me and not feel the same way. I worry that too many hours are spent via text and phone call and now I’m some image in your head that I can’t possibly live up to. I worry that you’ve made me into something other than what I am.

I don’t know why I worry. As soon as I see you, see that grin spreading, I know nothing has changed. That we have something no distance, no number of miles, no number of hours apart can lessen.

I waited for forever for my bags, aching for the cigarette I wasn’t able to smoke for hours. I walked outside and waited by the curb with my luggage, still in my dress and heels from work. I smiled politely at those whose gaze lingered a little too long, waiting for you.

Then you were there. Tired, stressed from work and barely making the ferry, missing the traffic, there you were.

Immediately you started apologizing for the accommodations you had arranged for the evening. I took your face in my hands and kissed you. It had been so long. It felt so good.

We drove to the little hole in the wall motel in the seedy part of town. It made me laugh. I wasn’t kidding when I told you the very first thing I wanted you to do was take me on some nasty motel carpeting, bent over some overwashed, over-bleached sheets.

It was good. It always is.

I don’t know what time we went to bed. I don’t know what time it was when I fell asleep wrapped in your arms. It didn’t really matter.

Thursday

I remember waking up to you. How beautiful you were. How long your hair had gotten and what a stark contrast the color of your hair was against the white pillow.

I remember the way your thighs parted for me. How the cleaning ladies in the next room must have heard you. How amazing it was to spend the first moments of my day inside you.

I remember begging you to take me across the street to Denny’s for breakfast. That I wanted the honey jalapeno bacon more than anything else in the world right then.

We checked out and I remember you fussing at me for not waiting in the car with the doors locked and how I laughed.

I remember how the bacon wasn’t crispy and how when they brought the same piece back out, it was black. Charcoal. We laughed.

We drove. We went shopping at WalMart, Cabela’s, anywhere that struck our fancy. I hated letting you pay for things. But I love my pink flip-flops. We looked at knives, fishing poles, tents, made plans.

We listened to music, skipping through stations, singing together with the windows down.

I remember how frantic you were to fill up the tank on the mainland and make the ferry. How we missed it and sat in the car singing. That I played you the playlist I made for us. Then I played you the dirty one. We walked to the water, skipped rocks, held hands.

I remember looking across the water, seeing mountains. Ferries I am familiar with. Mountains not so much.

We made it to the resort late. We checked in, took my bags in, and laughed because you’d not had a chance to pack the day before. I told you that I would share everything with you, even my toothbrush.

We couldn’t find food. We’d gotten in so late that everything was closed. The only place open was the bar. We ate, sitting on the same side of the booth like always, and drove back.

I remember how tired you were. How you made love to me again, like you could never get enough.

Friday

I woke you an hour before work with a hot cup of tea for you and coffee for me. That we sat on the back porch to take in the view. How many times you kissed me before driving off to work.

I worked also. Booted my laptop and worked until I got a message from Donna to knock it off and enjoy my vacation, my time with you. I laughed.

You brought mashed potatoes for lunch and we ate together, sitting on the back porch.

I took a nap with the door open, enjoying the breeze, the tangy air, the warmth of the sun spilling over the bed until you sent me a text to be ready, we had dinner plans.

I don’t remember the name of the restaurant. I don’t really remember much of what we ate. I do remember your hand on my thigh the entire time, my skin burning where you touched it. I do remember my first bite of creme brulee. I remember your first cup of French pressed coffee. I remember they didn’t have Jack Daniel’s, but we had drinks with dinner anyway.

We walked around the resort in the dark. I remember that the deer were close enough to touch and that I felt like a Disney princess having them so close.

I remember the way you took me to bed when we got back.

Saturday

It started much like Friday. I woke you up early and spent the first hour of my day with you. I don’t know that I tell you enough how beautiful you are in the morning light sleeping.

You went to work. I spent the day relaxing. I took a bubble bath, a nap, enjoyed the sunshine with a book. It was peaceful and quiet and amazing.

You sent me a message to meet you around 8 in the mansion. A little awe-struck, I wandered down the winding road to the restaurant extraordinaire. I couldn’t see enough. I wasn’t able to take in, to process everything. It was beautiful.

 

I thought tonight I would write to you. I found this unfinished. I will leave it as such. 

Protected: My Ass

Tags

gay, lesbian, sex

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Secrets and Shame

Tags

abuse, anxiety, chemistry, Cutting, depression, doubts, emotions, fears, gay, it gets better, lesbian, loving yourself, past, self harm

Dear Caroline, 

This letter is a long time coming. I’m still not sure whether I want to password protect it or not. I guess I’ll decide when I’m done, when I’ve said it. When I know how far I’ll take it. 

In keeping with the theme of today, vulnerability is weakness. However, a new friend informed me today that vulnerability can be a kind of love. The purest form. I’ve been ruminating over that all day. 

If to love you, purely and completely, is to expose myself, to show you the darkest parts of me, it will take time. I can’t let it all go at once. 

But I can start here. Start with a topic we’ve discussed before: my cutting. 

This is a difficult topic. It’s done in secret. It’s kept hidden from everyone, especially those closest to you. To bring it out in the light, to focus on it, hurts more than any razor I’ve ever used. 

You know that feeling you get on a roller coaster? When you get to the top of that first drop, after all the anticipation, and start the ride down? The way your stomach drops and you feel the adrenaline flood your system? How shaky you get after? 

I feel that way looking at a box of replacement blades for box cutters. 

I don’t remember when it started. I don’t remember how old I was or how I got the idea. I don’t remember what reason I used to justify it. 

I do remember that I started with my wrists. My veins are large there and very close to the surface. I remember thinking at later times that if I nicked it, even a little, there would be more blood than I could hide. I remember times where that wasn’t a factor. 

My wrists are still my favorite place to cut, though I haven’t touched them like that in at least 12 years. Not since the kids were old enough to ask questions. It’s hard to hide, especially in the summer. Bandages around my arms tend to make people ask too many questions. 

I quickly ended my love affair with my wrists and moved on to other places, but not without leaving hundreds of thin scars from the crook of my elbow to my bracelets of life. 

I tried to tattoo my left wrist, the one where there are more scars.  My tattoo artist, a very dear friend, wouldn’t tattoo there with veins so close to the surface. And not through the scar tissue that wouldn’t take the ink. 

MB and I got matching tattoos there, for reasons, though different, are two sides of the same coin. I wanted my snail there to remind me that when I was alone and thinking of cutting, my baby sister loved me more than a snail, our way of saying how much we mean to each other. Especially after Sharon’s suicide. Losing my big sister like that, knowing that they found her alone in a bathtub in a motel room, was too much. I drank a lot then. 

I think MB did it so that I would always look at her and know she has my back, even when we don’t talk much. Her way of saying that she understands, as much as she can, anyway. She was one of the first people to know and she kept my secret for many years. 

It didn’t take me long to find other places, easier to hide places. So began my love affair with my thighs. 

When I’d have hundreds of cuts in various stages of healing across both thighs, I’d have to find other places. Places people wouldn’t look: my breasts, my stomach, the tops of my feet. 

You know, 16 or 17 year old me thought that cutting in these places might slow people down. I remember one time in my 20s, when cuddling turned to something else. I remember his hands on me. I remember when he pushed the pajama pants I was wearing down, running his hands over the scars, scabs, and breaking some of the newer ones open, causing fresh bleeding. I remember wincing because it hurt. He could feel them under his palm, I know he could. He could see them. No mention was made, even when he put his hands directly on them to part my thighs. He didn’t even hesitate. 

You asked me once what was ever said about it. That I was in and out of relationships, they saw me naked. The answer is nothing. Nothing was ever said. 

 The fact that no one ever mentioned it lead me to two conclusions: the first, that they didn’t see anything, I was invisible or the second, that it didn’t matter.  The older I got, the more I believed the second. 

Kind of like being six or seven and laying in bed, trying to be quiet, hurting, and not understanding why my discomfort wasn’t obvious. Why that alone wasn’t enough to make it stop.

I figured it out eventually. No matter what pain I was in, my body was still perfectly good. Still perfectly usable. It wasn’t about me rather, it was about what I could do. How I could be used. 

No one mentioned it, the disfiguring marks, but it never stopped anyone. 

You asked what gets me to that point. The answer is anything. Everything. 

Cutting is a drug. A way of self-medicating. The science behind it is simple. It hurts. The body’s response to pain is to release endorphins. The problem is that like anything that releases endorphins, drugs, sex, tattooing, it becomes addictive. 

It starts at night, in a dark room, when you can’t sleep, when you’re going over things in your head over and over and you can’t see a way out. And it stays that way for a little while. Then you start looking for reasons to do it. Just like drugs, that’s a dangerous slope. 

If you can get away from it, the longer you go without, the more you realize what an unhealthy coping mechanism it is. The problem is that it only takes one slip to go back. One day you can’t handle, when all the memories come flooding back, one hot bath, to undo it all. 

Then it’s nothing to slide back. It’s comfortable. Like a warm blanket on a cold night. It’s safe and secure. It’s the only thing I’ve ever known to bring me back when I’m in my head like that. 

Until you. Until your touch. 

I’m not saying I’ve never relapsed since we’ve been together. I have and you know it. I’m in my 30s and I still struggle with it. But when you put your hands on them, on the cuts, you asked questions. You held me. You cried with me. 

I’m not saying I’ll never do it again. Never is a long time. But I know that you’ll be there with me. That you won’t keep my secret and be silent. You’ll make me understand how I got there. And I can finally let go of the shame. 

Thank you. 

Love, 

Stacy

P.S. I’ve decided not to password protect this letter for two reasons: 

One, because I want it out in the open. I don’t want to hide it. 

And two, because while I write these for you, I understand that other people read them. If anyone else reads it and understands what I’m talking about, I want them to know it’s okay. That they aren’t alone. 

Scars and Bruises

Tags

afraid, anxiety, cuts and bruises, depression, doubts, emotions, fears, gay, lesbian, long distance relationships

Dear Caroline,

I tried to write you last night. I really wanted to. The urge to put words down, let them spill out, was too great. I tried. Everything I wrote made me sound crazy. Needy. Incapable of taking care of myself. I sounded weak and desperate. Hundreds of words that I erased. 

I wanted you to know but at the same time I couldn’t stand letting you see that. It was the emotional equivalent of being open, raw and bleeding, crying, naked in a corner for you to peer over with a magnifying glass. 

I tried but I couldn’t. I guess I still have work to do. 

I want to be there, with you. I want to not be afraid to show you all of my cuts and bruises. My scars. Hundreds of them. To be able to tell you the story behind each one. 

You’ve been so open and honest with me. About parts of yourself that you’ve never shared with anyone. You’re learning to be comfortable in your own skin. I don’t want to take credit for that, but I’m hoping that I helped in some small way. 

I hope my love gives you confidence. 

I want you to know that you do that for me also. You are the one who knows I’m not everything everyone thinks I am. That I appear confident and cool and collected, but that I am actually a hot mess filled with self loathing, doubt, and plagued by insecurities. 

It’s been hard getting here, showing you my shortcomings. I just don’t ever want to disappoint you. I’m afraid that if you see too much I’ll be too ugly and you’ll turn your head away in disgust and pity. 

I’ve been there before. I’ve picked myself up out of the dirt and walked on before. But you, oh my God, you could level me. Bring me to my knees so that I can’t ever walk again. 

And I couldn’t handle that. 

So I didn’t write you last night. I’m sorry. 

Love,

Stacy

Johnny and June

Tags

gay, johnny & june, ldr, lesbian, long distance relationships, red string of fate, relationships, travel

Dear Caroline,

I heard that Johnny Cash once described his version of heaven as “This morning, with her, having coffee.” 

I want a love like Johnny and June.

Maybe we should get married on their anniversary. How do you feel about March 1st as a wedding date?

I feel like that everything we have been through, everything we have done has led us to this point.

There is a story that I read somewhere that there is a red string that ties soulmates together. The string may tangle, it may stretch or get knotted, but it cannot break.

It’s the only way I know how to how to describe our relationship over the years.

It tangled and knotted when I got married, it stretched to the breaking point when you left without saying goodbye and disappeared on a boat. But it never broke.

We may have been separated by miles, spouses, partners, and friends, but we were never so far away that we didn’t maintain contact. And you always found your way back to me. Oceans couldn’t keep us apart.

Do you ever wonder why?

I have done terrible things in my past. Things that I am ashamed of, things I wish I hadn’t. I know you have also.

So why am I here now, with the most beautiful, intelligent, kind, caring, generous, and hilarious woman in the world?  What did I do to deserve you?

The only thing I can come up with is our string.

It’s the only explanation for why this amazing creature loves me. Why she fights so hard to maintain communication, battles every day and wins over doubt, why she works so hard to love and support me.

It’s got to be the reason she doesn’t let them get to her when they say it won’t work. Why she keeps her head up. Why she’s comfortable in her own skin, doing things her own way.

It’s why you knew you could go to Seattle, isn’t it? Because you knew we would make it work. You knew our string wouldn’t break. 

You know, maybe I don’t want a love like Johnny and June.

I want a love like Caroline and Stacy.

Love,

Stacy

Imperfectly Perfect

Tags

afraid, fears, gay, home, humor, I love you, ldr, lesbian, long distance relationships, love letters, relationships

Dear Caroline,

Last night we stayed up late and talked so much.

We talked about why sex is important to us, about fantasies, about what we each get from it. What we give. Why.

I understand being afraid. I understand being overwhelmed by the idea of coming home, living together, waking up next to each other every morning and going to sleep next to each other every night.

Then you said something that broke my heart a little: you asked me what would happen when you screwed it up. Not if you screwed it up, but when. 

I couldn’t even catch my breath for a minute. Then the words came flooding out. I wanted to give you a synopsis of what was said to come back and read when you are afraid:

What will happen when we’ve made plans and have to cancel last minute because you have to work? 

Nothing, honey. I will laugh. Part of loving a chef is understanding that you are not a line cook. You are not a dishwasher. You are not a server. There isn’t anyone who can replace you. If you have to go, you have to go. You are passionate about what you do.  That’s one of the things I find so sexy about you. We will reschedule. If they don’t understand, that’s too bad. I do.

What about holidays? 

You work in a kitchen, babycakes. We’ll never have holidays together. Well, maybe Christmas, but never Christmas Eve. It means that Memorial Day through Labor Day I’ll know you’re alive because your checks direct deposit. I’ll know you’re alive because food will mysteriously disappear from the fridge and the hamper will mysteriously be full. I assume that I’ll stumble across your handwriting on the grocery list and know you’ve been home. Does that mean I’ll never be disappointed? No. I’m sure I will be at times. But I will understand.

What about anniversaries? 

Remember our first anniversary? When we made plans to go out, spend the first day of our second year together over dinner and drinks? I still don’t know what all you had planned. You told me to get pretty and wear something nice. I was getting my nails done when I got the text. Everyone called out. You worked six days a week and you were supposed to rest on the seventh, but you had to go.

I came and sat at the bar in ripped jeans and a tank top and waited for you. I had a drink. You clocked out for a few but didn’t want to leave the kids in the kitchen unattended, so you made me dinner there and brought it out to me. My favorite. Chicken Alfredo.

Remember how worried you were  I would be upset? That I would hold onto that and bring it up later, kick you when you were down, remind you that we couldn’t even spend our first anniversary together?

Do you remember what we did do? In case you don’t, here’s a rundown: Anniversary Dinner. It was perfect. The calendar is not the boss of us.

What about when you’re tired and sit for a second and pass out in the chair in the living room, never coming to bed? 

When you’re not in bed by the time you should be home, I’ll go looking for you. If I find you asleep in our chair, head back and snoring, shoes still on, I’ll take your shoes off for you. I’ll try to wake you up. If you’re so sleepy that you just can’t, I’ll get you a blanket and kiss your forehead.

I am so lucky that you work so hard that you can’t even get all the way in the house before passing out. I know you want to be in bed with me. If you aren’t, it isn’t a decision you willfully made. You sat down to take your shoes off and that was it. How could I be angry?

What about when you smell like food? 

Well, you’re a fantastic chef. I assume that means you would smell good. And I like the way your sweat tastes. Yum.

But if it makes you miserable, I’ll run you a bubble bath and sit on the side of the tub to wash your back. If you put your head in my lap, I’ll even wash your hair for you.

What about when you leave debris laying around? 

You mean your sixty-seven water glasses next to the bed? I’ll pick them up on my way through in the morning and put them in the sink. Then I’ll make sure you have a full one and your Claritin and ibuprofen are waiting next to it when you wake up.

If your clothes are in a pile next to the bed because you were too tired to put them in the hamper, I’ll shake Tallulah out of them and put them in the wash for you. You’ll need them again tomorrow anyway.

I don’t care how it happened before. That wasn’t me.

I love you for you. Every part of me loves every part of you.

I understand that you aren’t perfect. But you’re perfect for me. 

Love,

Stacy

The Difference You Make

Tags

anxiety, being home, come home to me, depression, difficulty, gay, lesbian, long distance relationships

Dear Caroline,

Have I ever told you how I write you? Obviously, it’s via my phone or the computer in the living room when no one’s around. I mean, have I ever told you why I write you the things I write?

Sometimes it’s because of something I said that I wanted you to remember. Sometimes it’s because you’re busy and I still want to tell you all of these things. Sometimes I cut and paste text conversations. And sometimes it’s what I’d say to you if you were here.

Sometimes, like tonight, it’s just to inform you.

I’m home alone. I worked all day. Jenn is working, our children are with their father. It’s me and the dogs and Netflix.

I got up to make myself a cup of coffee after working online for a bit. I looked around at the house that needs to be dusted, vacuumed, painted, have carpet ripped up. I looked out the window to the yard that needs to be mowed, bushes that need to be trimmed, general maintenance that needs to be done.

Then it hit me.

The difference you make.

When you are home, there’s no laundry on our bed, waiting to be folded and put away. No tangled sheets where I’ve pushed and pulled them into a shape that resembles you on your side of the bed.

When you are home, there are no dishes in the sink to be washed, no empty dinner table. No trash to be taken out.

There’s no dog fur on the carpet, waiting for me to vacuum. No dust on the shelves and photo frames. My plants aren’t falling over, begging to be watered. My orchids bloom.

My legs are smooth, my gray hairs colored, my nails and toenails are painted perfectly when you are home. My makeup is flawless.

I don’t sit in the dark, watching episode after episode of some true crime show on Netflix. I don’t drink coffee by the gallon and Mountain Dew by the oceanful twenty ounces at a time. I don’t chain smoke.

We cook together, eat together, clean up together, take the dogs for a walk.

I look over at them now, stretched out on the floor and feel sorry for them. I know that you’ll call later and just hearing your voice on speakerphone is enough to get them up and moving. How excited they get just to hear you.

I can relate.

When you’re home, I wake up slowly and lay next to you, taking in the vision before me. The way the sun comes in our windows and plays on your face. I bounce out of bed. I water plants and cook and sing out loud.

When you’re gone it’s all I can do to claw my way out of the sheets and put my feet on the floor.

When you’re home we shower together, we take bubble baths together, we watch movies, listen to music, talk.

When you’re gone the idea of taking a shower is too much. I can’t stand a bath. I guess I still haven’t gotten over my near drowning experience. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I ignore phone calls and texts.

I just wanted you to know the difference you make in my life.

I know that it’s depression. I know that I am struggling. I also know that it won’t always be this way.

That’s how I get out of bed.

Love,

Stacy

Marriage

Tags

gay, lesbian, long distance relationships, love letters, marriage, marry me, romance, why i love you

Dear Caroline,

I feel like a failure when it comes to marriage. Like I’ve said before, my track record sucks. I’ve been married before, but I don’t remember ever being as excited about it, even on my wedding day, as I am about every day with you.

I love being with you.

I do worry that the little piece of paper will somehow change me back into the other person. The miserable, sad, depressed person. I’m trying to remember that I was unhappy with me and being in the situation, not marriage itself.

At the same time, I want to marry you, to tie you to me so that you can’t change your mind.

Not that being married ever makes changing your mind impossible.

Then I take a deep breath and remember how wonderful you are. How much you make me laugh. How you make me feel about myself. Like I can do anything, be anyone. How you make me feel sexy and wanted and desirable.

All I want is to hold on to that feeling, how you make me feel, for forever.
I know that’s circular and roundabout logic. I hope you can follow.

Being married to you is more to me than something to do, the next logical step, just because. It’s because I want to take care of you when you’re sick, make the hard decisions with you, laugh with you through the good times and cry with you through the bad. I want to bring you your ibuprofen and allergy medicine, cook meals for you, clean up the kitchen with you. I want to make love to you, sleep next to you, wake up beside you. Not just for a little while, but for the rest of my life.

And I do. I do want that receipt that says that I am yours. Because for me, it also means that you are mine.
Love,

Stacy