Happier

A lot can happen in one year...

...the Earth rotates the sun.
...a Whale can have one baby from conception to birth.
...a rabbit can have 12 pregnancies.
...McDonald's sells 29 billion dollars worth of McDoubles.
...the heart beats 37,869,120 times...

This is what interests me tonight. The heart. It's an amazing little freak. It can feel so deep, yet it can be so shallow. It can be so easily exposed, yet it can shield itself like a fortress. It can keep beating even though it is broken. Exactly one year ago today, I went to bed crying, and tonight I laid my head down with tears in my eyes yet again. However, the tears are so incredibly different that even I am trying to understand them. A year ago, I was crying over love lost, a future made unsure, and an insult to lead to permanent injury. It is true what they say about heartbreak: your heart is literally broken. The body is made to heal though, and after crying for a bit, taking a heavy dose of NyQuil, and crawling into bed, by heart started healing. It was a slow and painful process, but I eventually decided that I was not doomed to a life of jilted love and cats, nor was my future a black hole, but it was back to open and minus hot weather. Suzanne Collins created a scene in Mockingjay where Finnick Odair says, "It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart." Oh, how true that quote is, but it may take ten times as long, but that does mean there is a definite end to that ten times. My ten times ended long ago. I remember counting one week; one week since it so quickly changed. Then two. Three. Four. Five. Six...I counted of awhile, but soon, I forgot to count, and soon I forgot to care, and soon I was okay. Just okay. It was long after putting myself back together that I discovered I could be far more happier than I ever had been in the past. Then I became better than okay, and better than I had ever been.

Tonight I lay down crying not because some freak luck that repeated the night's events of 365 days ago, but because I can't change things. I realized today that I wish I could take away pain and frustration. I wish I could heal . Let's go back to that insult/injury comment. That's why that past love didn't work. The wish to heal wasn't there. Oh, sure, the wish to ignore and make disappear was there, but not because of empathy or sympathy, but because it was a burden. I was a burden. Not anymore though, now, it's just another nightly routine-like washing your face, saying your prayers, or if you were Petunia Dudley from Harry Potter it would be wiping down the kitchen. Now, it's just "everybody gets something, but just because [I] know mine now doesn't mean it's bad. It just means I know sooner than most." Now, it isn't embarrassing or shameful; in fact, now it's no big deal-just another shot. Tonight I realized the difference a year can make. At the time, it hurt so deep, but I'm glad it happened. If it hadn't, I wouldn't be where I am today. I wouldn't be going to bed praying for another man's health instead of my own.

Pain Killers without the Pill

Just over four years ago my dad was in an accident that damaged his leg quite badly. Four years ago? It seems like just yesterday since I can hear the siren on the ambulance ringing clear as a bell, and the sight of the bale wagon mangled in the exact place where I know-because I saw it for 18 years-my dad kept his left leg: cocked back against the seat, the open door and so unfortunately close to that trigger bar that would later find its home in my dad's mid calf. Yes, I remember the car ride over to the hospital, the sight of my dad's shoe with the laces sliced off, and his bloodied pant leg cut up around his knee. I remember the walk I took with my brother, and when we stopped in the hospital cafeteria that smelled like PineSol and chocolate milk, and hugged hard and long as we both cried  far out of the public eyes that we thought would scorn our tears (that's how bad both of us hate crying). I remember the family that flocked to fill cars with gas, grab extra clothes and stuff money in hands and pockets to send with us to the Pocatello hospital. I remember looking at my dad's familiar hand with the dark brown, calloused skin and  crooked pinky holding my sister's petite, white one. I remember the waiting, the stress and the worry. I remember drugging my brother with Tylenol PM so he would sleep that night. We slept in the same bed, and neither one of minded; in fact, we were happy to have each other close by. One detail that I never paid much attention to until tonight was what my mother did. Of course she was stressed, worried, anxious and exhausted, but tonight I remembered exactly what she was doing. She held my dad's hand with one of her's and stroked his eyebrows with the other. She did this for hours after his emergency surgery. Actually, I'm willing to bet she stood by him and did it all night long, because the next morning she was doing the same thing: holding his hand and stroking his eyebrows. And the day after, and the next and the next. When my dad was able  to come home, my mom went straight to the store and bought tubes, bottles and jars of every kind of lotion, numbing lotion, smelly lotion, soothing lotion ect. Then for the next 6 months she rubbed my dad's feet every single day.

Sometimes that's all you can do: hold a hand and  rub feet. If you're not a doctor, then you can't really help, even if you sit there and get all anxious as you scope around for something to do. The minute you see a pillow that could stand to be fluffed, you fluff it. As soon as you see the water glass inching just out of comfortable reach, you scootch it closer. Sometimes, no matter how badly you want to help someone, make them feel better or take away their pain, there is nothing you can do but hold their hand and rub their feet--for the next 9 months. 

Wanted

There is something to be said about being wanted. Everyone needs to be wanted; despite what some may say about not having feelings or emotions, if another makes you feel wanted, you better hold on to that person. There is something about a hand holding yours, that gives you security and confidence. However, take that hand away, and you cannot help but feel. You feel slighted. You feel embarrassed. You feel alone. You feel ashamed. You feel as though you are not wanted. I wager that one of the best feelings to be felt is to feel as though you are wanted. To feel like he wants to wrap you up. To feel as though he wants to kiss you. To feel as though he wants to call you his own. To feel as though he wants to hold your hand forever. To feel wanted.

It's hard to separate though. The ideal is being able to have privacy, confidence and trust in each other. Just each other--without the scrutiny of any other person. I want the ideal. But then again, I want to feel wanted. No, wait, I want the ideal. Changed my mind, I want to feel wanted. Wait, no, yes, no. Nevermind, I don't know. That's my answer: I don't know.

But I do know I want to make you happy. I do know that no matter what I feel in a passing moment, I know that I consistently feel happy with you. I may not know what I want some of the time, but I do know that I want to be with you all of the time. You make me feel wanted.

420

The other night, someone did me a service.
They did nothing more than simply hold me.
Such a small act, but it cured me.
If only I had known...

The other night, I learned what trust means.
It means leaving yourself completely exposed
While exploratory surgery is performed on the heart.
If only I had known...

The other night, I discovered I am weak.
I can do hard thing as long as I know no other way,
But all things in the right time and dosage.
If only I had known...

If only I had known...
How to say thank you.
How to make another understand.
How to repay such a service.
How to appreciate it in the moment.

How to do it alone the next night...