Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #178.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:

Here’s a question I’ve been meaning to ask: How do I handle the month of March wherever we are now? Do I brush it off as if it doesn’t even bother me? Do I pretend I’ve forgotten what month it is and don’t even acknowledge it? Do I revert back to my old friend Mr. Anger and become all moody and broody? Or do I curl up in a ball of tears and wait for the month to pass because the feelings are all too real?

I only ask because, as I’m sure you know, March has never been a very happy month for me. Well, wait, I take that back. It used to be just another month like the other 11, something I usually didn’t even think twice about.

And then March 2003 came along.

The month and year of my father’s suicide.

It snuck up on me — on all of us — so swiftly and seemingly without any warning. We were, honestly, so unprepared for any of it and for the uncertain world we were about to enter.

Maybe that’s why, although the acute grief has subsided over the years, that pang is still lodged solidly and firmly in my heart; and what’s more, something tells me it always will be.

And that got me thinking: I want to be with someone who is going to want to ask me about my father, someone who is going to want to know the story and someone who is going to be OK with hearing me repeat some of those same stories every now and then.

I sometimes can’t help but feel like people don’t want to hear the story of everything that’s happened. I’m sure some of it stems from them not knowing what to say or not wanting to bring it up for fear of upsetting things, but that fact doesn’t make it any easier. The most important thing I’ve learned following my father’s death is that those left behind feel this intense need to tell their story and talk about what happened. I’m not sure this is ever something that every goes away, no matter how long the person’s been gone. There’s this distinct drive to process and reflect and just generally try and come to terms with your life now as opposed to how it used to be. Because that story is such a part of who I am, whether I try to deny it or not. So I hope you know that and that you’ll understand that. After all, there’s a whole portion of my life that you missed out on. You never knew my father, never saw first-hand how close I was with him, and that makes me a little sad. I wish you could have known him, which is why I’m probably going to want to talk about him. A lot.

My dream and my hope is that you’ll never be afraid to ask me about my father’s suicide and how it’s affected my life. I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to censor yourself or your feelings around me. And I don’t ever want you to think that I don’t want to talk about things — you can be sure you’ll KNOW when that’s the case. You should know by the time we’re married that I’m never one to hide any of my feelings — it’s never really been my style, I guess.

Don’t worry, though: I’m sure there are going to be people in your life you’ll want to talk about — people I’ll, sadly, never get the chance to meet. I hope you know that I’m going to WANT to hear ALL about them. So get those stories ready, Sweetpea! We’ve got a lot of talking to do — and a lot of lost time make up for! Until we meet… xoxo

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #177.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:

Ack! I know it’s been quite awhile since I last wrote to you, and for that, I am truly sorry. It’s not as if I haven’t been thinking about you, though, because I have been — and yes, I know that does sound a bit creepy, but seriously, I mean it in the least creepy way possible. I promise.

Anyway, it’s February 1st, and you know what that means, don’t you? The month of love and hearts and flowers and chocolate and waiting for that little guy named Cupid to make a visit with his little arrow. I’m primed and ready for that arrow, as you can probably imagine, but at least I’ll have that box of chocolates as a consolation prize if Cupid somehow runs out of those arrows.

But that certainly doesn’t mean that I’m not excited to meet you, because I am. I’m VERY excited. A couple weeks ago, I came across the above quote that really spoke to me — isn’t it amazing how just one paragraph can encapsulate everything you’re feeling or everything you want to say but just can’t seem to find the right words to say them? Well, this quote about did it for me, and naturally, I proceeded to become one melting puddle of feels — do the hip cats still use the term ‘feels’ in the future? The words and the sentences practically jump right off the screen and right into your heart — that’s how much you identify with it. It describes your life perfectly and in ways you never thought possible before. It’s sort of like that light bulb feeling, I suppose. You know, it’s like a light bulb finally went off over your head and things finally clicked the way they were supposed to.

What kind of love do I want? What kind is going to make me the happiest in life? And, how will I know when I’ve found it — that moment when I can say, at last, that, “YES, this is it. I’ve found it. I’ve found home”? It seems like everyone likes to talk about the qualities they look for in another person — they want someone who is funny, sweet, handsome, hard-working, likes to get bagels for Sunday brunch and reads 18th Century French poetry fluently. Sure, I’ve had my list or two once upon a time, and of course those things do have their place.

But in the grand scheme of things, what about the simpler things in life? Shouldn’t those have an equal position in the Game of Love too? Things like being someone’s safe landing place, the place where they can let their guard down and not be afraid to be themselves. If you ask me, being someone’s soft and cozy blanket is the ultimate; it makes everything look superficial in comparison. There’s power in making someone feel safe and feeling safe in someone else’s arms, and I can’t help but feel like people are too quick to dismiss that power sometimes. I mean, if you don’t have that connection — that safe, tight connection — then what exactly do you really have in the end? A few similar hobbies in common? Not so sure that you can build a lasting, loving relationship on that. For me, at least, it’s all about the deep-down emotional connection, and how much more emotion does being someone’s ‘home’ get?

Plus, I suppose it goes without saying that you have to get to know yourself pretty well before you can even begin to figure out what you can give to another person. So, Sweetpea, I hope you’ll always know that I will be your safe place, whenever you need me. I’ll be there, just as I know you’ll always be there for me. Tell me your secrets, your fears, your dreams and even your embarrassing nightmares, and I promise to listen. Always. Until we meet… xoxo

[Bottom photo via We Heart It]

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #176.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:

It’s funny, those random things we keep around, isn’t it? I recently came across a comment from an old blog post. I’ll just let it do the talking for itself…

You said that being a virgin is your choice. It’s not. No guy has ever shown any interest in you. You’ve never been out on a date. I bet Marine Boy never looked past your wheelchair or your Play Doh face. It’s not taboo to be a virgin. I belive [sic] you should wait for the right guy. But don’t make it sound like your virginity is a choice. You’ve never had the opportunity to lose it.

This not-so-nice comment? It’s been sitting in my drafts folder for a couple years now. And even worse? I’m not exactly sure why. What sort of purpose does it even serve? You know I’m always all about turning the other cheek with those haters and that’s usually such an easy thing to do. So why would I save this, Sweetpea?

We like to think that we’re immune to so much in life, that as humans, we possess some sort of superpower. And sometimes we do. Sometimes we have no trouble just letting those whispers and looks roll off our backs. Those words? Said by those pathetically sad people who know absolutely nothing about you? Those words don’t matter — not now and not ever.

Well, that’s what we tell ourselves. Sometimes because we actually believe it and it’s true. Other times because we’re scared, and we can’t even begin to name all the things we’re scared of. So it becomes easier to put up a front — a suit of armor, if you will — and pretend like we’re The Big Bad, like our self-confidence is this impenetrable force. But if we can hush our fake roar for just one moment, we start to hear that little voice in our heart. It’s sort of like seeing the light in the dark; it’s the kind of truth that you can’t miss even if you wanted to.

When you’re a kid, all the monsters seem real at night. The ones under your bed or the ones hiding in your closet. Those are the ones you expect to jump out and attack you. As you get older, those monsters get replaced by irrational thoughts that keep you up at night, tossing and turning as you try to make sense of them. It’s that little voice that tries to take over when we find ourselves most vulnerable.

Maybe the trick, then, is realizing what those thoughts really are. Monsters. They’re not real. They’re not going to hurt me. And come the morning light, they’ll be gone and I’ll be just fine. I look forward to fighting each other’s monsters together, Sweetpea. Until we meet… xoxo

[Photos via We Heart It]

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #175.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:

The above lyric is one of my all-time favorites from Taylor Swift, and it’s one I find myself coming back to time and time again. I must be riding the Nostalgia Train today, Sweet pea, because I’ve been thinking about our Meeting The Parents story again. Of course, you already know how it turns out, but back here in August 2015, well, I haven’t a clue. Not one single clue. It could go the way of a romantic comedy, full of endearing-yet-awkward pauses and flipping through stacks of family photo albums. Or it could go the way of a horrible family Thanksgiving where people end arguing before the pumpkin pie comes out of the oven. There are a million different ways that things could turn out, and maybe that’s what makes it all sort of alluring. Right now, I can sort of approach it with a choose-your-own-adventure mentality; the possibilities are seemingly endless.

One thing I know I’ll miss witnessing, though, is your first interaction with my father. That infamous father-boyfriend first meeting is the stuff of legends, the colliding of two worlds, the introduction of the two most important men in your life. You’d be in for a real treat with my father, let me tell you. Truth be told, you’d probably even be a little intimidated. He was a pretty powerful force and even more of an overprotecting force when it came to his family. Sure, he was really just a big teddy bear, but bears are also natural wild animals, remember — they run on instinct, and when it came to instinct, my father’s was to take care of his family.

His was a firm handshake. He had the kind of handshake that was self-assured, at once both alarming and inviting. It put you at ease and kept you on your toes. It helped you figure out just where you stood so there’d be no confusion. I remember my father shaking everyone’s had with a solid grip — he was always old-fashioned that way, I suppose. Your first handshake with him, Sweetpea? Oh, I’m sure it would have been quite the sight to see. Honestly, it might have left you shivering in your boots — or at the very least, rendered pretty speechless. My father just had a way with people like that.

Is that weird, though? I mean, can you really even miss something you never had in the first place? Maybe ‘miss’ isn’t really the right word. Whimsical? Nope, that doesn’t really work either. What do you call something that you know will never even happen and yet, you still pine for it? You still wish with all your heart that it could happen, and maybe, in a tiny naive corner of your heart, a part of you will always hold on to that hope that it will happen — that you’ll somehow find yourself in an alternate universe one day where everything will happen just the way you’ve always wanted it to.

So for now, you learn to be content with the dreams and the choose-your-own-adventures. Not because they’re all you’ve got, but because, as odd as it all sounds, they bring you comfort. And for now, you realize that’s enough. I look forward to seeing how it all plays out, Sweetpea. Until we meet… xoxo

[Photos via We Heart It]

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #174.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:

I came across this quote while I was browsing the Web, and I immediately fell in love with it. I’m a sucker for those quotes that just tug away at your heartstrings and this quote hasn’t let go of my heart since. The sentiment is beautiful, but more than that, it made me think.

It wasn’t long until I thought of you, Sweetpea. Well, I suppose, I thought of us (still trying to wrap my head around a future where I am part of an ‘us’), and I’m making a Couple’s Decision for us right now, way back in 2015: This is our quote. Is that even a thing? I mean, do couples have quotes? I figure that if they can have songs, then we can have quotes. And this one will be ours. I can just picture it now: Printed in pretty calligraphy on our wedding invitations, or maybe even a snippet of it inscribed inside our wedding rings. Oh, the possibilities are endless. What? You don’t like the wedding ring idea? Well, we’ll just see about that one.

Now don’t get me wrong here. I’m still a forever hopeless romantic with visions of soul mates and grand, romantic-comedy style speeches in my head. The truth is, you can’t help who you fall in love with — there’s no logic or reason when it comes to the actual falling. But after that? That’s when you get into the choice aspect of it all. We make choices all the time — what to eat, where to go, where to live, what to do, what TV shows to binge-watch over the long weekend. And every choice helps to shape us and chart our course into the future, even if only a little bit.

Sure, you can declare your love for someone in some sweeping gesture that rivals even the Greek gods themselves, but for me, it’s what comes after said declaration that is far more important. Life is scary and messy and complicated; it forces us to make choices at every single turn. It forces us to act

But every day? You can choose to stay or you can choose to walk away. That’s the choice that you — and only you — can make. You’re the one in charge of you, and I’m in charge of me. I may not have a crystal ball to tell us everything about our future, but I can be sure of a few things. I am always going to choose you. I’m going to choose you every morning when I wake up and every night when I go to bed. I’m going to choose you even when we’re having our first fight and I’m SO MAD because you have no idea what you did. I’m going to choose you even when you hog the remote and make fun of my reality TV obsession. I’m going to choose you when going anywhere in the world doesn’t seem half as fun as staying right here with you. I’m going to choose you the first time you’re really sick, through every awkward family holiday and that day when we’re 90 and, although our pasts are fuzzy, we still clearly remember that we did it all together.

I’m going to choose you even when life gets scary and messy and complicated.

I choose you.

There are some 7 billion people in this world. Of all those people, I choose you. And I’ll keep choosing you every single day. That’s something pretty special, don’t you think, Sweetpea? Until we meet… xoxo

P.S. In reading this back, I can’t help but notice that it all sort of reads like some dramatic monologue in a late ’90s teen soap on the WB — I’m looking at you, Dawson Leery. I’m OK with that, and I still choose you. 🙂