Relentless and Inexplicable

      The hardest part was never laying bare my soul; it was asking others to look.

      There was no one around to listen. There could have been; I had more than my share of invitations for the day. Six different requests for my presence, from parties to quiet nights in, to one-on-one adventures, and what did I settle on? Wandering in solitude on a quest for something – anything – that felt right, only to end up lonely and unfulfilled.

      The last thing I wanted was to be around people, but an extremely close second-to-last was being alone. No, what I wanted was something I didn't have; a companion, someone with whom I could be vulnerable and intimate and talkative and silent and honest and weak and me. I didn't want romance, or sex, or any of that nice but ultimately unfulfilling “intimacy,” I wanted someone with whom I could pour out my heart without expectation or fear, someone with whom I could physically be close, whose very presence is a comfort. And I wanted someone to whom I could provide all of that, and more, someone who would be an extension of my heart, my very self.

      But it wasn't all about an as of yet fictional partner. Really, the anxiety just brought that out, and it in turn exacerbated the anxiety. No, this ran deeper, some persistent shroud clawing at my psyche. I became a series of contradictions.

      I didn't want to be around anyone, but I didn't want to be alone.

      I didn't want to do anything, but I didn't want to do nothing.

      Nothing sounded good, and nothingness sounded worse.

      I tried to figure it out and never made any progress, yet when I attempted to focus on anything else, it was all I could think about.

      The thing that made it most frustrating was the lack of definitive source. I'm well accustomed to anxiety from social situations, or stress, or any number of sources, and I know how to either address it or endure through it. But when it comes on without apparent cause and refuses to leave for weeks on end, affecting every aspect of life, how are you supposed to correct it?

      I couldn't talk about it. Mostly because I couldn't talk about the cause, but even accepting that, the anxiety plagued me such that I could never mention it when given the opportunity. I couldn't reach out. No matter that I felt it would be ineffective to discuss since I couldn't identify what I needed to work through, I couldn't even make myself say the words when I was in a safe place and had every chance to do so.

      Nothing was working. Nothing helped, nothing made anything better, I skipped out on all of my plans because I panicked thinking of each one, and instead I wandered aimlessly all day until I ended up alone in a park at midnight.

      But I wrote about it.

      I wrote about it,and put it out there for all the world to see. Not seeking sympathy, or pity, or support. Not seeking anything, really, except to get it out. To be proactive somehow. To take that little demon and get it out of my head, even if it's only long enough to shine a light on it before it worms its way back inside.

      If I can't make myself talk about it, I'll write about it. Because I don't have any fear of being seen; my only fear is that no one will care to look.

Hurry Up and Relax

[Pace yourself. Face each moment as it comes; one moment at a time. Don't think about what comes next, or what you just dealt with; think about what is right in front of you.]

A smattering of incoherent conversations flooded the room, a bombardment of almost comprehensible sounds and half-coherent words without context. The cacophony played like a nonsensical dance, people shifting this way and that seemingly at random, no sense of order or predictability. The only thing attempting to match that volume of the infinite conversations was the music blasting from the speakers; it wasn't quite clear whether the sound of the music kept being turned up to be heard over all of the talking, or if people spoke louder to be heard over the eclectic playlist vying for everyone's ear-space. Andrew assumed it was both, though he wasn't sure which frustrated him more.

[Don't try to control things. Let them be how they will be. We often get the most anxious when we feel out of control, but that's because we want to be in control; it's incredibly freeing to let go and not care about control. I know, far easier said than done, but all it takes is practice.]

The usual crack of the soda can opening was inaudible, and Andrew wasn't actually thirsty, but that didn't stop him from taking a sip and maintaining his position next to the snack table. It was daunting, seeing the ocean of faces he didn't know, everyone having a good time talking about God knows what. He inhaled sharply, held it a moment, then blew out slowly before taking another drink. This was his third can since he had approached the snack table, alone.

[Sometimes the best thing to do is let people approach you. But if that doesn't happen, come up with a topic of conversation, then choose someone to talk to. Again, it's about being deliberate, and focused. If you can focus, it won't be so overwhelming.]

The only people Andrew knew here were each in different groups. In fact, he could only pick out one of them right now, and she was laughing about... something, all the way on the other side of the room. He'd have to push his way through dozens of people just to reach her, and he'd just wind up listening to whatever apparently hilarious conversation they were having. He didn't want to be the weirdo who came over and just stood there silently, openly eavesdropping on a group that hadn't invited him. Then again, he also didn't want to be the weirdo standing in the corner alone all night. But he really didn't want to make a fool of himself talking to someone he didn't know about something they probably weren't even interested in to begin with.

[Doing nothing can be just as inciting as acting. Find something to occupy yourself with. There's nothing wrong with simply listening, or people watching, or coming up with something specific to look for in a group. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, and probably a thousand times more; it's all about focus.]

Many of the groups self-segregated into guys or girls, but still a lot of them were a mix. He didn't connect with guys most of the time– sports, cars, none of that interested him– but it would be weird for him to insert himself into a group of girls. So one of the groups that has a mix, but preferably with more girls– not to be creepy or anything, mind you, but because he'd connect with them better, as was already mentioned. Which meant he could narrow it down to a couple groups, but how to choose among them? It was arbitrary at that point; there were no other criteria he could think of to narrow down which would be better. He didn't want to base it off their appearance, though that probably wouldn't have made a difference anyway with these people. He could flip a coin, or hell, just eenie, meenie –

“That wall is nice and secure. Thank you!”

Andrew blinked rapidly and turned to the voice. A girl, blond, glasses, cute, hoodie, standing at the snack table, but not getting food, just looking at him.

“What?” he asked, instantly kicking himself for not coming up with something clever to say in response. He had heard her, heard what she said, but he was so taken off guard that “what?” was the most he could muster.

She smiled. “You've been over here a while,” she said, gesturing at the wall. “Most flowers look better with others, but I get it if that's not your thing.”

She smiled. She smiled. He didn't normally let himself get so infatuated with a complete stranger, but she was cute, she had approached him, and she was flir- Well, she was being nice, and smiling. Best not to assume it was flirting. But don't assume it wasn't, either, because you don't want to miss your opportunity, right?

“Sorry,” she said, her smile dissipating. “Don't let me interrupt your thinking.”

“Oh! No,” he said quickly, extending his hand to wave in STOP signal, only to realize that was the hand holding the soda can. Looking down sheepishly, he added, “It's just, I'm not a party person.”

“Well, I can see that,” her smile returned as she spoke. Rounding the table to talk to Andrew more directly, she asked, “So why are you here, then?”

“Because...” Because he felt bad saying no. Because he wanted to be a person who enjoyed parties. Because he didn't want to be so uncomfortable and he wanted to be able to let go and just have a good time but couldn't because God knows why. Because his friend had invited him and he liked her and her boyfriend and he wanted to see them even though they had only interacted for about five minutes over an hour ago. Because going sucked but not going sucked and there was no way for any of it to not suck so might as well go and regret it rather than staying home and regretting it. Because...

“Oh, no, honey!” Her brow furrowed, her eyebrows raising, and she placed a hand gently on his chest. “That was rhetorical. You don't owe me an answer.”

“Well, okay, yeah, but, uhh...” He looked at her hand still resting soothingly on his chest and tried not to look like he was looking. “I just, I don't really know anyone, and I'm not great at making friends, and–”

“And you can talk to me.” She lifted her hand, then gently pat his chest real quick, before pulling it back and putting it in her pocket. “You shouldn't be over here all by yourself unless that's really what you want, and I get the feeling that's not really what you want.” Then she turned around and walked away.

She smiled, touched his chest, refused to just leave him alone, then walked away and left him alone. Why the hell would she do that? He didn't even know what he thought of her – besides that she was cute and actually paying attention to him – but he actually had a notion that the night wouldn't completely suck and then she does this completely inexplicable thing right when he's wrestling with allowing himself to attempt to go with the flow and maybe actually connect with someone to any degree and –

“Hey!” she shouted almost inaudibly from a short distance away, coming toward him with a chair in either hand. “I didn't catch your–”

Too late. It was too much. If she had just told him what she was doing, he might have been able to handle it better. How was he supposed to know she was just going to get something to sit on? She didn't communicate at all; she just did it, leaving him to wonder. It wasn't really his fault, then; it was hers. No, that's not fair; he shouldn't blame her when he is the one that did it. He couldn't control himself, couldn't reign in his own damned mind, allowed his overactive imagination to get the better of him and ruin everything, just destroy the chance at whatever the hell that was going to be, even if only a less stressful evening because of a kind stranger. He couldn't control himself, and now... now...

Now everyone was frozen. Everything was frozen. The constant fluctuation of an overcrowded room turned into life-size models of perfectly sculpted stationary figures, that deafening cacophony instantly giving way to a horribly deafening silence; the sensory assault had been replaced with sensory deprivation.

“Nooooo,” Andrew muttered, realizing what had happened. “No no no no no no...”

The world had come crashing to a halt, as sudden as the panic had overtaken him. It was like God had pushed pause, only Andrew wasn't affected. Everywhere, people were locked in whatever position they were at the moment of the pause, no matter the awkwardness or gravity or impossibility of being stuck in that spot. They had been frozen in time–

[No, no, we talked about this.]

“I don't care,” Andrew said, exhaling sharply. He ran his fingers through his hair until he was holding the back of his head, elbow pointed to the sky.

[You need to care. It's the only way you're going to work through this.]

“I don't want to work through this!” he shouted, gesturing wildly at the entire room. “I didn't want to come to the stupid party in the first place! You're the one who told me I should!”

[The only way to overcome a problem is by facing it.]

“I don't need therapy, I need to not freak out from being in a crowded room!”

[Do you hear yourself? That doesn't make any sense.]

“God, I'm not trying to make sense of this. I just want to unfreeze time and get the hell out of here.”

[Then work through this with me. And the first step is recognizing that time is not frozen. You have dislodged yourself from the time stream; it is you who are frozen. Quite literally, you are not progressing in time, but rather are stuck in this exact moment until you can bring yourself to re-enter.]

“Like I told you before, that doesn't make sense,” Andrew growled, setting his soda can down on the table and walking closer to the girl who had been nice to him. “I'm moving around. I set that can down. It's a progression of events. It's time.”

[Yes. Your time. You can move because you exist in space, you have your own awareness, you are experiencing it, which necessitates some semblance of time. But your time and the time stream are two different things entirely, like a drop of water in a river. It's–]

“No more analogies, please.” He stopped in front of the girl, his breathing heavy. His mind continued to race over why she was talking to him. Did she know someone he knew, and they sent her over to talk to him? Did she find him attractive? Was she just being nice and talking to the guy who was standing off by himself? Did she pity him? God, she pitied him. She must have seem him as a charity case, free karma points for–

[Andrew, knock it off. You don't know her, you don't know her motivations, so how dare you think so poorly of her. That's not helping anything, and you're never going to re-enter the time stream if you continue to exacerbate your agitation.]

“When has scolding someone with anxiety ever helped any?”

[When that person knows better and can stop what he is doing if only he'll choose to do so.”

He remained in front of her, looking at her closely. She was in the middle of saying something, a folding chair in either hand, walking toward the snack table where he had been standing. His initial assessment of her was entirely accurate; she really was cute. And whatever her motivation, she was being nice to him. Why did he have to complicate things by over-thinking everything? He wished he could get out of his head and not dwell on things so much.

[You mean like you're doing right now?]

Okay, that was getting annoying. Still, it wasn't wrong.

[Come on, let's go to the spot.]

Somewhat reluctantly, Andrew nodded. He reached out and gently touched the girl on the cheek, whispering softly, “I wish I at least knew your name.” Then, the mountain.

The world fell away in a bevy of mismatched senses. He couldn't quite call it synesthesia, the sounds the colors made as they shifted in sweet and savory spirals in and around him, but he couldn't come up with a better word. In truth, it was the world– reality itself– falling apart all around him, himself included– or maybe just himself, dissipating in a mist of solidified anticipation and intention, a liquid blend of too many truths and the exact texture of what it means to reach tomorrow. And through it all, the only thing more disorienting than the overwhelmingly bizarre departure was arrival.

He mostly tried to block it out, but you don't simply forget stuff like that. This is why he never teleported unless he had to. All of these powers, all of these things so many people wish they could do, and they never tell you how uncomfortable and miserable it will make you if you could actually do it.

“I fucked it up,” he muttered, chin pressed against his chest.

“You did so much better this time,” a gentle voice from behind him seemed to drift into the knots of his shoulders and ease the tension.

“Your voice sounds weird when it's not in my head,” Andrew said, suddenly becoming aware of the throbbing headache he had had now that it was starting to dissipate. Hesitantly, and with such deliberation that he wouldn't trigger any further pain, he shook his head. “I don't need you to pretend that was anything but a disaster.”

“Andrew,” the sing-song quality of the voice made the mundane name sound magical to him. “You were there far longer than either of us expected. You have made significant progress. Do not discount progress for concern over lack of definite end results; you do not reach the finish line without running the race.”

“How are you not frozen?” he asked, deliberately changing the subject.

“You know the answer to that,” she said in a disappointed sigh, placing a hand gently upon his shoulder. “Can you acknowledge that you are making progress?”

Andrew inhaled sharply, turning to look at the angelic figure speaking to him so gently. She was perfect in every way; smooth skin, straight blond hair that cupped her face flawlessly, slightly pouty lips that naturally had a trace of a smile upon them at all times. Her eyes pierced his, staring straight into his soul, ignoring every barrier he had in place, subconscious or otherwise. He in turn looked at her, and straight though her.

It hurt a little knowing she wasn't real, which is why he tried not to look at her most of the time. He could make her real; he could force reality to bend in such a way that her form became manifest permanently, completely independent of him. But that wouldn't be right. It wouldn't even work properly, really. He knew that. She wasn't his idea of a perfect mate, she was the manifestation of the wisdom he wished he had. If anything, were she real, she'd still love him the same– as a counselor, a friend, but never a lover. Even in his imagination, his own creation, the girls just weren't interested.

“You need to quit doing that to yourself,” she said, lightly caressing his cheek without making contact.

“It isn't nice to read my mind all of the time,” he said bitterly.

“You know that's the only way this works. If you don't want me in there, you could–”

“I'm not getting rid of you.”

“I can't be here forever.”

Andrew dropped his head again. His lip curled, his brow furrowing. She was right, but hell if he would admit it to her, although he instantly knew that just thinking that was the same thing as telling her outright.

He forced himself to look at her again. Where she stood– or appeared to stand– was a bird, visible through her, frozen in mid flight. It's wings were extended fully behind it, and he imagined it was preparing to let loose with a powerful flap, batting away some unseen predator or creating a gust of wind to push it away.

“You know you–”

“I know. I'm 'projecting.' The bird is just flying, not fighting off invisible forces, which is me and my anxiety. You don't need to say the obvious parts.”

“Sometimes you need someone else to say it even if you already know.”

Almost imperceptibly, the wings began their push forward.

"Do you think that maybe you could try going back?” she implored gently. Andrew didn't respond. He wanted to tell her to go away, but just as he couldn't make her real, he couldn't get rid of her, either; he needed her. He needed the support, the voice that was not his own speaking into his mind, telling him what he already knew but couldn't bring himself to accept. She was perfect for that, his own personal biological artificial intelligence. He felt like Tony Stark, or Master Chief, only better, because his wasn't tied to a suit or anything like that. His was... was...

“I'm your coping mechanism.”

The bird's wings froze again, halfway into their flap, now fully extended horizontally.

“Okay,” he said, forcefully exhaling. “I'm going back. Just... please ease up. I think all of the coaching is making it worse.”

He got a chill in his spine that felt like she had smiled. It didn't make sense, but she seldom did. “That's a powerful realization. Self-awareness is the first step.”

“Thanks,” he sighed, balling his hands into fists and locking his heels together. His eyes were closed, head bowed. “Now please...”

and air rushed to fill the void where he had been standing, that otherwise untouched mountain peak far from civilization once more devoid of human life.

The bird's wings flapped with an audible snap.

“– name! I'm Jane– are you okay?”

Andrew was breathing heavily, holding the side of his head with an uncertain hand. The suddenness of the jaunt was jarring, as was the barrage of mixed up conversations.

“Yeah, just...” he responded without thinking, then became self-conscious when it registered who it was that was talking to him. “My head hurts, that's all. It's nothing, really.”

“Well then it's a good thing I brought a chair!” Jane smiled big, raising one of the chairs higher as if he couldn't see it otherwise.

“Thank you,” he said, looking down.

“Nah, no big deal. I'm actually being selfish; I did this for me.”

She opened the folding chairs, setting them down facing each other. With a careless grace, she fell into her seat silently. Andrew grabbed his soda off of the snack table and sat down facing her.

“Well?” she asked expectantly.

“Uhhh...” he scrambled to try to think of how to respond to that. What the hell was she expecting? He felt like his brain was attempting to push its way out of his temples, physics be damned. He could feel himself struggling to remain temporal, like standing firm in a fierce river, every fiber of his being wanting to let loose and dislodge from time.

[You are capable of so much.]

Time was slowing. Jane's head tilted to the side gradually, what should have been a single quick motion taking near forever.

[You have control.]

He wanted to answer, to say something, but he didn't know what. He didn't know what she wanted, he didn't know what she was expecting, he didn't know a damned thing beyond the torrential assault of–

[Take control.]

[Use it.]

Stopped. Everything frozen.

[Andrew...]

“No,” he said firmly, then added with sudden softness, “Yes, actually.”

Andrew sat still, eyes closed, breathing deliberately. He looked at Jane through his eyelids, imagining her features, forcing himself to focus exclusively on her. Shut everything else out; make her the world. Isolate. Centralize. Control.

The world began moving like a movie unpaused, life continuing from the exact spot it had stopped. But the noise did not persist. Andrew sat in a hollow silence, at the edge of a crowded room devoid of the cacophony it generated. He looked up at Jane, eyes open, forcibly calm.

“Andrew,” he said, then quickly corrected himself. “I'm Andrew. Sorry I didn't answer you earlier.”

“You kidding?” she asked with a chuckle, and he heard her clear as day; she was the only thing he could hear. “Your head must have been killing you the way you looked. Probably still is. Need anything? Ibuprofen, acetaminophen, something stronger? Not that I have anything stronger. Not that I don't, either. But if your head is still hurting, I can get you something.”

“I...” he paused to consider. His head still hurt, but it had spread out; it was no longer attacking a central location. He couldn't say it was better, but it was more tolerable. He'd make due. “No, not yet. I don't want to take anything if I don't need to.”

A wry grin crossed Jane's lips. She tilted her head and nodded deliberately. “I like that,” she said, continuing to nod in a way that caused her whole body to rock.

Andrew couldn't help but blush, though he wasn't quite sure why. Maybe he wasn't used to getting that kind of approval from a girl. Not that it meant anything. Really he wasn't used to getting any sort of attention, let alone approval, and here he was going both without having to put in any effort. Effort into being social, anyway; he was putting a hell of a lot of effort into staying in the moment, muting the world around him, dulling the rest of the party from his vision, making the oxygen flow easier into his lungs, and using whatever power he had to simply maintain. And he wanted to maintain.

[ ]

He shut it out. He didn't shut it off, but he shut it out, so that he couldn't hear it, and it would know, so it wouldn't keep trying.

“It.” How calloused.

“Okay, Andrew,” Jane sat forward, leaning her elbows on her knees. “Go time. What makes you tick?”

“Wh-Whu–” he stammered, shaking his head.

“I know, I know, I'm putting you on the spot. But it's the only way to get to know someone. Fuck small talk. Tell me about yourself. What are your passions? What are you interested in? What drives an introvert with obvious social anxiety to go to a party where he doesn't know anyone? What makes you tick?”

[Tell her.]

He hesitated. His gaze shifted from her to the floor next to her. His heart raced, pounding loud enough that the entire room could hear, that everyone must be staring at him for the ungodly staccato emanating from his chest.

[Trust me; tell her.]

He exhaled sharply. “I like photography,” he manged, not making eye contact. “I like to see things no one else sees, and take pictures so I can show them. I want to change perspectives, even if it's insignificant. I want to help people step outside of themselves and get a different view, even if that view is of a silver screw lying in the gutter or the contrast of a dead branch against a blossoming tree. I like things that are different.”

“Andrew,” Jane said, and he snapped out of his reverie to look at her. Her whole face was smiling, gentle and awe-struck. “I knew you were the right person to talk to,” she said, subtly shaking her head in disbelief. “Can I ask you for a favor?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” he said, shrugging self-consciously.

She shuffled her chair closer to his, leaning forward intently. “Say it all again. Only this time, look at me, not the floor. Look me in the eyes. And when you're done, keep going.”

So he did. He was uneasy at first, but her interest grabbed onto that moment of vulnerability and stripped away the hesitation, layer by layer. It became easier to talk the more he did so, the more questions she asked, the more she herself spoke.

All the while, the noise levels in the room gradually returned to normal; he quit tuning everything out, a little at a time, until everything was just as loud as before. He never noticed.

Independence (A Eulogy)

Too often we're suckered by that same, sad dream. You know the one. The one we're taught all our lives is some lofty ideal, an admirable goal for which we must strive, must beat ourselves into submission that we might one day obtain. That we MUST achieve. Each and every one of us, built and destined for the same inalienable accomplishment, the grand litmus test for whatever passes as “functional” in a country teetering on the brink. Our culture depends upon it. Our nation is defined by it. And we are ruined by it.

Independence.

Such an ideal is held high with noble intent, unbeknownst to most that it bears down upon countless in horrendous, muted ways.

How many suffer in silence in a society that praises independence as ideal? It is silently frowned upon to need another, in any form. Our culture tells us to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps, stand tall, face the trial, and endure. They are even praised who would lend a hand to another, offering support and aid where needed. But where do we relegate those in need? They're labeled the victim, the persecuted, troubled, needy, weak. They are treated as lesser.

They are each and every one of us.

In a culture that denies our right to be anything short of perfect, where strength is praised and so-called weakness is something to be conquered, one of the strongest things a person can do is admit they are weak.

Each and every one of us is weak. It does not matter the person, everyone struggles with something. Confidence, anxiety, intelligence, knowledge, physical ability, (culturally mandated) aesthetics, popularity, perception. Mathematical acumen, writing, art, cooking, creativity. Understanding, application, testing. Humility, compassion, empathy. Sense of self. Identity. Loving. The list could be endless, because it is different for each and every one of us, an infinite combination of areas in which there will always be shortcomings. In which no one person will ever be able to succeed.

That's why independence is so dangerous. We are each of us a fragment of a person, improved upon by those with whom we differ. The more we are able to love those that are not like us, those that we do not understand, the more complete we will be. Our strengths are meant to build one another up, to buttress the areas in each other where we might somehow fall short.

If I do not know you are weak, how can I offer you my strength?

If you do not know I am weak, what hope is there for me?

Certainly independence is a powerful tool, one important to each, lest we succumb and become slaves and burdens to others. But let us shatter the perception of independence as some ideal, hindering us from connecting with others in truly meaningful ways. Let the strength of another be your own; let your strength be for another.

Admit, and accept, that you are weak; there is great strength to be found there.

A Not-Love Story

The way she touches me is amazing/terrible. I hate that I love it. The tips of her fingers running up my arm as she goes for the too-affectionate hug when we're simply saying hi. The lingering, preventing me from moving on to hug the others just enough that it is awkward, but not long enough that anyone else seems to notice. At least, not that they show, anyway. And it's driving me mad, because it's exactly the kind of affection I have been craving, but coming from someone I barely even tolerate. I want more and want to pull away quickly.

Thank God we're in a group. I can't see her acting on how she is feeling, not openly. If anyone sees anything, they'll know she's interested and I'm not. I'll have to try my best to just act normal and pay equal attention to everyone. I want to say I'd pay less attention to her, that I would all but ignore her, but I don't know how to be mean like that; in my head maybe, but never actually acting on it.

The bar is unusually crowded for a Wednesday night. Some football game is on or something; I don't really care enough to find out for certain. All I know is that I don't like it. I don't like having to shout to have a casual conversation. I don't like fighting to get the bartender's attention just to get a refill. I don't like being crowded and jostled and claustrophobic when I'm just trying to hang out with my friends.

I excuse myself, say I'm going to the bathroom, but really I'm stepping outside for a smoke. I get too stressed out in these settings. I don't know why I even come, except that I want to see my friends and this is what they all want to do. Maybe I should finally tell them that I don't like coming here. I open up a new pack, and can feel myself instantly relax as I put a cigarette in my mouth and light it.

“You okay?” Kaitlyn's voice comes, and before I turn to see that it's her, she's running her fingers up my back– up my spine– in a too-familiar manner that is supposed to be comforting. I shudder, and I can't tell if it's because it feels good or because I really don't want her touching me like that. There's no way I have been out here long enough for anyone to question my continued absence.

“Yeah,” I shrug, turning toward her mostly so that her hand will be off my back. “Fine.”

“You only smoke this much when we come to the bar,” she notes, allowing her hand to drift back down to her side.

“This is my first one.”

“Yeah, but we've only been here 20 minutes.”

I raise my eyebrows and extend my hands with palms to the sky.

“I'm not judging,” she is quick to say, placing her hand gently on my wrist. “We don't have to go back in there if you don't want to.”

We. She said we.

“Really,” I insist, “Just wanted a cigarette where it was quiet, that's all.”

“Yeah, it's way too loud in there. Almost makes me wish I smoked so I could have an excuse to escape.”

I don't respond. Instead, I look out at the night sky, picking out the stars that manage to pierce the city's light pollution. It's a sad image, so much natural light fought back by so many over-illuminated streets and buildings that aren't even being used.

Kaitlyn sits down on the curb and leans back, looking up with me. “I could stare at them forever,” she practically sighs.

I pull out my phone and internally groan when I have no notifications; no texts, no comments, nothing. There are no new posts interesting enough to even pretend to be distracted. Stupid social media.

“Do you have any plans this weekend?” she asks. I pocket my phone and answer.

“Yeah. Supposed to have dinner with my parents on Saturday, and I'm going hiking on Sunday.”

“That sounds fun! Where are you going hiking?”

“Haven't really figured that out yet.”

“Are you going by yourself...?”

“Going with my friend Ashley, maybe our friend Julie.”

“Oh.”

I take the last drag of my cigarette and throw it in the gutter. Before I can turn to head back inside, Kaitlyn asks me another question.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?”

“Have to work late. Closing shift, everyone's favorite.”

“I hate jobs that have schedules like that; you can't ever do anything. Are you busy Friday night? I'm going to this concert just a few blocks from here. It's a bunch of local bands, but they're all really good. You'd probably enjoy it.”

“Yeah?” I shift, crossing my arms. There's an alley cat barely visible a couple blocks away, and even though it's just sitting there, I can't stop watching it. “What kind of music?”

“Mostly folk, but with a lot of edge. Think Bob Dylan writing an album with Opeth. You can instantly pick out the influences, but it sounds completely original. It's like nothing you've ever heard.”

I shrug and hold that position for a moment, shaking my head. “Doesn't really sound like my kind of thing. I'm not into that heavier stuff. I hope you enjoy it, though.”

“Oh, okay then,” she says, nodding emphatically. “Yeah, I definitely will.”

The cat moves from where it was sitting and lays down against the side of a building. If I hadn't already known what it was, I wouldn't have been able to pick it out as anything more than an indistinguishable blob of darkness, if I even noticed it at all.

No notifications still.

I open the door to go inside, and Kaitlyn reaches out, gently touching my leg.

“We really don't have to go back in if you don't want to,” she says, lightly rubbing my knee.

So much noise is pouring out just from the couple of inches I have the door cracked. I can feel and smell the heat pouring out, all of it produced by more people than the AC was designed to handle.

I look at her and shrug. “Finished my cigarette. If I stayed out here, I'd smoke more, and I don't really have enough to do that.”

“We could go for a walk or something. You shouldn't have to be somewhere you're uncomfortable.”

I turn and gaze back inside, at the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd of people I don't know and will probably never see again, the stranger-barricades I will have to push through to get back to our group, the ever-shrinking space we have where we must awkwardly shout at each other just to be heard.

That gentle, affectionate hand lightly touching my knee.

“It's fine,” I say, and go inside.

Inspiration

    It starts with an image.
    One image, that's all it took. I had an idea pop into my head of a picture, and a simple one at that: My hands extended before me, looking at my palms, the picture taken from my perspective.
    I had ideas. A lot. I knew what I was going to do with that image, and others came flooding to mind. In what seemed like an instant, I had a metaphor, something I wanted to say, other images to create, a structure, and a strong sense of how I wanted to convey everything. It formed so complete in my mind, and it didn't take long to write down. Now I just have to do the actual work of creating the project, which will be time consuming, but with this clear a vision, it shouldn't be too difficult.
    And to think it started with this:

A Strange Kind of Loss

A large part of me was unceremoniously ripped out of my chest yesterday.

Anyone who really knows me knows that I am first and foremost a father by nature. I love kids, and I have earned a couple of playful nicknames as a result (Baby Stealer, because I'll hold any baby if given the opportunity, and Baby Whisperer, because I am so good with kids). So it should come as no surprise to anyone that the role which is most important to me is that of Uncle.

My life largely revolves around my nieces and nephew. Cali, Ellora, Tigo (and soon Bailey) are my greatest joy; I love them more than I could possibly put into words, and it is obvious to anyone that they love me. Other than her mom and dad, I am Ellora's favorite. Cali loves going to my house every Monday for "date night," as she calls it; the question I have heard most from her is, "When is it Monday?" Whenever I saw Tigo, he'd get excited and say, "Bedroom!" which meant it was time to go wrestle and let him beat me up with a pillow. To say I am an involved uncle is an understatement; it's not something I do, it is who I am.

I don't know when I will see Cali and Tigo again.

Yesterday (Friday, September 18th, 2015), Jessi and Michael (Cali's and Tigo's mom and dad) took the kids and left to move to the other side of the country. Thousands of miles away. And I barely had 24 hour notice. (This isn't about anger or blame or anything like that, so please don't take it that way or use it that way; this is about my difficulty with the situation). I went from having Cali over every Monday to not knowing when I will see her again. I went from being able to drop by and see them any time to knowing I won't see them again AT LEAST until sometime next year. I went from feeling like I wrestled with Tigo too much to wondering if he'll still want to wrestle like that next time I see him (he will, but he'll be older, so I'll have to learn anew what he likes at that point).

No more taking Cali to Comics FTW.

No more walking in the door randomly and seeing both of them get super excited to see me.

Mondays won't have the same meaning anymore.

No more Animal Crossing, Superman, trips to the park, letting Cali pick the song as I drive, games on my tablet.

No more laughter from Tigo as I pretend to beat him up.

No taking Cali to Rebounderz again as I have been telling her we would.

They're gone. It won't be cheap or easy to visit, so I won't be able to do so much at all.

They are a part of me, a HUGE part of me, and they are gone; Two of the largest parts of my heart unexpectedly stripped away.

I'll miss Jessi and Michael, Cali and Tigo. I'll still have contact, but it's not the same; I am someone who much prefers face-to-face contact over phone calls or written communication.

I am writing all of this very matter-of-fact and disjointed because I don't know how else to do it. It's overwhelming. This is one of the most difficult things I have gone through, and I can't even process any of it. It doesn't even feel entirely real.

All I know is, Monday is going to be very difficult.

------------------------

A poem I wrote about this, titled "A Strange Kind of Loss."

I crippled my hope in hopes that I might walk tall

Walk strong

Walk away from it all

I'm bleeding in colors I never have seen

Bleeding out my dreams

Bleeding a river, a pall, a desert, and all that I see

All is wrong

All it's been, all I need, all I ever seem to be is broken, tired, trapped in the river flowing thrall

I damned my hope in the midst of it all

Let go of the ones you love

Call it tired in the black unquiet

Call it the unsleep and unknown

Call out in the silent deny-it

Call this great river my home

Let go

Let go

Let go

But HOLD FIRM

Let go

Let go

Let go

But hold firm

Of Empathy and (Re)Defining Love

You know how much it hurts– how much it kills– when you smash your finger? Maybe you shut it in a drawer, or slammed it in the door, or hit it with a hammer. Whatever the cause, there's nothing you can do to stop the pain. You grasp at your hand, trying desperately to hold it while at the same time terrified of touching it. You're frantic, in a panic to make it stop when all you can actually do is wait it out. Endure. Face the pain, because it's not going away, not from anything you do anyway.

That finger isn't you. It's a part of you, but if you lost that finger, you would still be you. A part of you would be missing, and you'd never be the same, but it wouldn't change who you are fundamentally. And yet, it would change who you are to some degree; you would have a new story to tell, you would function differently, your life would be altered undeniably.

Your finger (or any body part) is not you, but it is a part of you. When it hurts, you hurt, because again, it is a part of you.

Now extend that to emotions and people.

I believe love is recognizing that who you are is not the limit of who you are. Who I am is not the limit of who I am. My thoughts, my dreams, my emotions, aspirations, desires, pains, my every invisible aspect that composes my self is not the entirety of who I am. I am also my parents, my brothers, my sisters, my cousins, my aunts, my uncles, my grandparents, my nieces, my nephew, my friends, every person I love. They are not me, but they are a part of me.

And it kills when one of them hurts.

That's the thing of being a highly empathic person; the pain of others can be more difficult than my own difficulties. If I've had a stressful day at work, I know how to deal with it. If I'm having difficulty with a specific person, I can handle it. I can feel lonely and still cope, angry and keep it in check, sad and know how to process. But when someone I love is hurting, it's like smashing my finger; I want to grasp at it and do whatever I can to make it better, but I know nothing I do can actually stop the pain. I can help them cope, I can make it easier for them in some ways, but I can't FIX anything.

I'm an extremely sensitive person, I'm very emotional, and I am highly empathic. It consumes me when someone I care about is suffering; their pain becomes my own. “When you hurt, I suffer.” It's not easy– at times it can be unbearably overwhelming. But for all the difficulty, there is so much beauty in it, and I see so much good come from it, I could never truly wish that I was free from this burden-gift.

Like losing a finger, losing someone is losing a part of myself. But unlike a body part, a person will always be a part of me, no matter the time or distance between us. All the severed ties, the ex-girlfriend, the friends who have drifted away, those who have died, everyone who is not an active part of my life anymore for one reason or another, they are all still a part of me, for good or ill. They are a part of who I am, and my life changes as people come and go; it's impossible for them not to affect me.

This is what I believe love to be, that force that bonds all of these people to me in such a way that they are a part of who I am. It's not some feeling, some emotion, something fleeting that ebbs and flows– you will ever be a part of me, regardless of how we might feel about one another. It's not c mystical force that acts in a happy-go-lucky manner and makes everything roses and sunshine– I have felt the most love for people in the darkest times, when I have been in more pain I imagined possible. It isn't romance, or affection, it isn't amorous or concerned with itself– although I do believe that all of this can be aspects and expressions of love. Love is deep, the bond between people that goes beyond selfish desires or romantic feelings or mere sensations. Love is recognizing and acknowledging that we are a part of one another, and to act in love towards someone is to foster that love, to treat them as they are; a part of yourself.

This is why I believe real love never dies; whatever change in emotion or thinking there might be, I don't think you can ever fully let go of someone to the point that they aren't a part of you anymore to some degree. They molded you, however much or little it might have been, if they were a part of your life in a significant manner at any point, that bond is permanent, their influence permanent, a part of you that may lose significance, but ever a part of you.

So when I say, “I love you,” understand that it means something. It doesn't mean that I am experiencing a certain emotion (although that might inform and/or inspire me to say it). It means that you are a part of me. Like my finger, or my limbs, or any part of my body, only so much more significant, so much more meaningful.

You are a part of me.

I love you.