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Our Love is a Hormonal Teenager – 14 years of Geekery

Our Love is a Hormonal Teenager – 14 years of Geekery

Today is the infamous day, in the year of oh lawd, 2017, when my husband, Shawn and I celebrate 8 years of official marriage. Actual we gotta piece of paper ‘n everything! marriage, as opposed to use getting together back in 2003 and from then on our simply referring to one another as husband and wife married. Our love is fourteen years old today and if it were a teenager in today’s world…Jesus, I would feel pretty torn up being a teen this year, also with the added befuddlement of hormones, brain development, and figuring out your place in this society…Anyway, I got a little side tracked, as you do, when you have the attention span of a gnat. Oh. You don’t? Oh..But let’s move on.

In celebration of 8 official years of marriage, I would like to share with you the eight reasons why I love Shawn.

8 reasons why I love my husband, a celebration of full frontal geekery:

 

  1. You know how sometimes we all have ‘off’ days? Where our emotions or brain or hormones simply show up and trash the inside of your head then duck out and leave you with the mess? The first 6 years of being together, this is what Shawn had to deal with….everyday. Why is that important? It’s important because during those years I was absolutely, 100% unmedicated as well as still not diagnosed with severe depression and Bipolar II. For those of you not familiar with BP II, it’s just a much slower, surfer dude BP. You still get the manic episodes, but maybe once a month–maybe every two months. My manic episodes involved doing every fucking thing all at once as well as having hare-brained schemes for shit that made no sense but at the time I was very into it because my brain is a little broken. The depressive episodes meant not doing anything . A polar (see what I did thar?) opposite of the manic. And these could last months and months with little breaks in between. During the weeks I was PMSing I was a mess. Not even a hot mess. Just a mess. And so I had, basically, an off day for six years of our relationship. And it was pretty awful. As some of you who suffer from the same things, or have a loved one who has to go off their meds for whatever reason–or has an episode and goes off their meds–I can hear you making understanding nods. And see, this man didn’t drop my broke-brained-mountain self. Instead? He stayed. Through all of that and the medicated part.2. We have our own married language. We finish each other’s –sandwiches–sentences. Sometimes, I think we may actually be semi-telepathic or something. There can be days where I will quietly crave a food, or think about a certain song stuck in my head and I won’t say anything about it but BAM. Shawn will look at me funny one day and go, “Y’know, I’ve been thinking a lot about : indian food/pizza/chinese food/going to ___ and getting ___” and I will yodel like a dork: “I HAVE BEEN THINKING THAT ALL WEEK! OMG!” We speak in old MEME tongues often. Our cat will sit a certain way and we’ll look at it and at the same time blurt: “He should buy a boat,” or, “these aren’t my glasses?” and, “but that’s none of my business.” Sometimes we don’t even say a full MEME or hilarious Thing We’ve Seen Or Read. Sometimes I just say a single word. Just one! And he gets me. YOUUUU COMPLEEEETEEE MEEEE!3. Apparently my blanket hogging, snoring, space consuming ass is, actually, missed when it doesn’t get into bed on time when he does. He tells me that he can sleep, yes (and boy I still wanna punch him in the face with love at how quickly this man can go from wide-awake to literally snoring in 3 minutes or less!) but that if I am not in the bed, it’s a fitful sleep. That he wakes up and notices I’m not there a lot. During the first year of finding new meds to treat me brain pan, he used to physically get up out of bed and come find me. He’d peek around corners, hair stuck up as if recently gently electrocuted, eyes half glued shut and mumble: “Y’alright? Y’okay? Y’doin’ okay?” just to make sure. Interrupting your own precious sleep simply to check up on someone? That’s love, yo.4. I fail. A lot. I failed in getting a job. I failed in school. I failed at the invisible Housewife standard that some people hold where I’m apparently able to whip my house up into sparkling clean tingting sound-effects shine whilst drinking wine out of my crystal glasses that NEVER EVER BREAK and eating chocolates from paris. (Maybe that’s just my imagination.) At any rate, I don’t work. Lucky for me, he got the chance to work from home so I’m not left alone. (Because one time, I decided to step on the glass stove to paint–and the stove broke, but my foot didn’t??? some how??? but there was glass everywhere. Like…Glass dust.) Despite the fact that this part of our relationship is wildly out of balance he…just do. Like Shia Labeouf’s tired meme, he JUST DOES IT.  He goes to work. He gets dat money. He spends it all on keeping a house (that I don’t clean very well) over my head and food (lots obvs) in mah belleh and food for kitties and birds and does it all because he can and he wants to. I guess, if you look at it my way, I didn’t fail when it comes to husbanding!

    5.  We equally hate socializing and yesterday when we early celebrated our anniversary by seeing Wonder Woman and eating Indian food, we went home and things got really exciting if ya know what I mean. Wink Wink. Nudge Nudge. …..we napped. That’s right. We romantically napped together in a food coma. Awww yisss.

    6.  We are both Star Wars nerds. He is more inclined to the tech side. I love the stories. We both know shit just got real however whenever one of us says: “I love you more than Star Wars.” Awww hells yeah, it’s romanticle time!

    7. Neither of us can be trusted to go into any pet store to purchase supplies for our cats in case of Adoption Days. We literally cannot say no. To kittens. To one eyed tom cats with half an ear

and multiple scars and broken tails to old grumpy hissy spitty cats that like to hide. We are not allowed near any cat adoption days anymore and we certainly are not allowed to know their name or give them a name or else good bye heart, good bye forever. Shawn used to be able to go and get cat food, kitty litter, etc–but ever since the day he almost broke because of a fluffy white siamese kitten that would not stop staring at him–he has decided that we will henceforth purchase cat food and kitty litter and toys via Amazon. And as much as that means I won’t get to fondle kittens….I think it’s a very good idea. And what that means is, we’re both cat people. And I love that he loves cats. And gets me. I am the rare married crazy cat lady.

8. He loves me. I am not a good human. Or at least, I wasn’t. I was not an easy person to love. My mental health made barriers, made issues that weren’t there, made arguments that should have never happened, happen and made me, as I’ve described before–a little blob of hurt, confused spite–that lashed out for seemingly no reason. It took a lot to love me then. But he did. He loved me even when he should have given up. He loved me even when I floundered. He loved me when I was at my absolute worst, morning breath and all, and he loved me when I got better, too. He loved me when I stayed in bed all day and could barely get the energy to wash myself and he loved me when I went through the house like a whirlwind with a scrub brush. He loved me when I stood in the middle of a pet store and cried because we couldn’t afford to save a third cat, when we already had 2 (the apartment we were living in at the time, had a 2 large pet restriction.) And he still loves me. I’m not sure what I did to deserve this. Actually, I’m pretty sure I didn’t. But hey, if there’s hope for me then there’s hope for everyone.

There are a million more reasons why I am celebrating our marriage today and everyday. But this page won’t hold a million. So I showcased 8. Here’s to us, honey. We did it! We survived! Let’s keep that up!

It’s like we’re coffee married!

Shawn: [while I am coming out of the bathroom.] “You know…I wouldn’t be adverse to you making more coffee. Just puttin’ that out there. Y’know. Just in case.”

Me: [ Stop in mid step. Widen eyes. GASP. Flail my arms, ] ” OH MY GOD I just got the greatest idea ever…What IF…”

Shawn: [Pretends to lean on the wall and looks enthralled.] Me:“WHAT if…WHAT IF….What if I made some more coffee?”

Shawn: “HOLY SHIT it’s like you can read my mind!”

Me: “I NO RITE???”

Me: makes more coffee. Life returns to usual morning routine.

To my Husband in the New Year.

You are my little planet, my earth. Hard packed from the way my feet pace back and forth in your heart–worrying about the things you’d never think of. Because really, they aren’t things that were meant to be worried about. Do you think I will die first? What will happen if you do? You know, I cannot live without you. I would have to go right after. You watch as I say these things and wring my hands as old women in markets haggling over the price of life. Your earth is soft and cool;  never too hot or baked from Floridian sunrises. I like to bury my toes deep into you, because I know that through you…I will grow.

You are not a rock.  I hope you will  never be a rock.  Rocks are too hard, too tough. They feel stress fractures and before you know it they’ve split and grown harsh edges to cut with.

You are the grass covered hill waiting in the shadow of a sunny day to cool me. So I can lay down in long plants, watch the clouds of your mind take the shapes and forms of  love for me. And I feel nothing but peace. If it rains, I’ll just roll down the hill a little bit, until the worst of it hits the side.

I would have marked you a Knight. But there are problems with Knights, too. So bound up in rigid codes or behaviors. So wrapped up in their armor that sometimes they forget there’s more to see of the world outside the slit of a visor.

You are my little planet. My cool grass. My soft hill. My reason. My husband.

I love you.

First date snob.

First date snob.

Me: [Reads a screenshot of a twitter play-by-play of possibly the worst date in Starbucks history. Starts giggle snorting.] Shawn: “What?”
Me: [Reads it.] Both of us: “Oh my god. That was awful.”
Me: “He took her to Starbucks. Who does that?”
Shawn: [Look over his glasses at me.] “Go get a coffee? On the first date. You know?”
Me: [Stare.] Shawn: “It’s the first date. ‘Let’s get to know each other and see if the dating thing is plausible’ thing?”
Me: “Who the fuck does that? Nobody does that. Take me out for gourmet dinner and diamonds.”
Shawn: [Snort.] “People don’t just give you diamonds.”
Me: “YES THEY DO. YOU SHUT UP.”
Shawn: “I think your idea of dating is a bit askew.”
Me: [Ignore]

I can’t imagine

I can’t imagine

I can’t imagine loving me.

I am a difficult woman to understand. For the longest time in my life I was nothing more than a ball of smothering love and sulfurous self-hate, mingling together until neither side could determine who would win and one moment I was loving the world and the next minute I was sobbing over broken incense burners.

How do you love someone like that? How do you dedicate—willingly—your life and spending it with someone who’s apparently emotional maturity is that of a confused and angry seven year old?

I don’t know.

For the longest time, I couldn’t imagine loving myself, let alone anyone else.

And yet, there is Shawn.

Shawn has seen all sides of me. All the sides. ALL THE SIDES. The sides which people don’t get to see. The angry, the jaded, the hurt, the insulted, the temperamental. He saw me at my worst—when everything in my life seemed like an argument waiting to happen. When I was so lost within myself I was sure everyone and everything was out to get me. When I was angry for no reason. When I was depressed. When I got so depressed that I was actually blind to my own depression.

I cannot say that I have been a good wife these last ten years (officially married and not officially married.) I forgot to iron his clothes. Sometimes I forget to wash them. There are dishes in the sink and crumbs on the floor. Some days I roll out of bed in a pair of pajamas and shuck them to put on another pair and my idea of primping myself up is making sure I am clean and my pony tail isn’t too messy.

I have never heard him tell me he was giving up.
At the worst of me, he never left. He never, ever, gave up.

There were times in the beginning where he had to simply get up and go for a walk—but he never gave up. He always came back. He always tried. He has always tried to understand, to be supportive the best way he can be, and he has always, always been in my life.

For the last decade I have never truly been alone even when I have convinced myself to think I am. If I fall, he laughs at me for being a goof and picks me up. If I yell at him for no reason he yells back to inform me I’m yelling at him for no reason. If I cry, he wraps me up in his arms and holds me. And if he finds out I cried without him he chides me for crying alone and reminds me that he loves me and I can cry whenever I need to.

I don’t know what I did to deserve a man like this who has been patient in the storm that I am. Who sighs and picks up the socks I promised to pick up two days ago but I forget because I am busy trying to get to level 50 in SWTOR.  My house and my life and my insides might be a mess—but that never mattered to him. All that mattered was whether or not I was happy.

It took a long time to get to that point. But I am. I hope he knows it—I am happy.

I can’t imagine loving me like he has through all of this.
But he does.

And for that, there are no words eloquent enough, pretty enough, or poetic enough to say: thank you.
I love you, too.