A Man in the Throes of a Life that Ain't Grindstone to Nose but Pedal to Floor

I don't think this day ever gets easier. Let me do some quick math. Sixteen birthdays. I think about how small the kids were sixteen years ago. He'd be a grandfather. He'd be both the best and worst grandfather ever. I think about the few strands of silver he had in his dark hair at 30 and what he'd look like now, nearing 50. I know he'd have laugh lines to beat anything you ever saw. 

I think I could write about him all day. I could tell story after story and laugh and cry. He'd only want me to laugh. He made it very clear that he wanted me to be happy. If anything ever happened to him, he wanted me to move on. Don't grieve forever and waste a chance to find happiness. I thank god he gave me that blessing. I make sure to do the same thing with anyone I love as well. I've only ever had one person who told me he'd rather I die lonely if anything ever happened to him. I never got over that. Turns out that was a pattern. The idea that you feeling good now about being possessive might ruin my life after you're dead and literally won't care. Moving on...

It was so rare to see him and him not be smiling. I guess that's ironic, but that's what they tell you about people who are that depressed. They are the ones smiling and making everyone else laugh. That face when he was goofing off is still immediate in my mind.

It's still surreal to think that I'm nearly nine years older than he was when he died. I've had nearly an extra decade. And it's been a pretty damn good decade, all things considered. I think about leaving Gabe. I couldn't do it. I never could. And my heart breaks for those three kids who are all now adults. I wonder how they'd be different if he'd decided to stick around. I'm sure they've all turned all of my questions over in their young minds a thousand times in a thousand different ways.

I tried to think of one specific memory that really sticks out. There were several really good ones. I think I'll go with the day that Mr. I'm Not into Monogamy told me that he'd prefer we see only each other. It was August. He called me outside and we sat on the edge of the concrete porch with our feet on the sidewalk, warm under my feet. Thank goodness for the shade of the house. He said he wanted to talk to me about something. Ah, hell, what's he mad about? He took both my hands and beat around the bush for a solid ten minutes before telling me that he wanted to be exclusive. It was a hard conversation for him. And I still can't tell you what changed his mind. Or if he stuck to his own request. I honestly can't process the idea of his being jealous or possessive. He was just never that sort.

I can absolutely process the idea of his falling madly in love with me. Because he acted madly in love with me. He always did. That is probably why nothing really ever works out for me. I won't settle for anything less than his madness. I'll be quite happy with less madness, but love like his, once you've had it, you don't forget how it feels. He always held my hand. He always told me I was beautiful. He publicly adored me. He loved me loud. He wrote me love poems and made it very clear to a rival that I was his priority. Oh, make no mistake, he messed up. A lot. He was occasionally unintentionally cruel. He often self-sabotaged. He obviously had some mental health issues. He'd occasionally drop off the radar for days at a time. He drank too much. He loved women. All of them. And he showed it. But I guess at my age, I loved him more than I hated some of his behaviors.

He almost always lit up when he saw me. Nothing I could do to alter my appearance ever made him think I was any less beautiful. That time I cut off my long, red hair into a crew cut and bleached it white blonde because I was mad at him, he loved it. It took me a long time to grow that back. And growing hair like mine is an ugly process. I never felt like I had to fake a thing for him. And that right there is what's most precious to me. I know he loved me because I was absolutely myself and he didn't strangle me one time.

In his eulogy, I wrote that he loved everyone he touched and his whole existence was touching. None of that ever changed for me. I try to live my life in the same way. Don't mistake that love for lack of healthy judgement. He rarely had anything bad to say about anyone. I like that in a person. He was hopelessly generous. In every way. With his time, his talents, with his love. He was funny and smart and passionate. I can't remember ever laughing with someone like I did with him. He made me so happy. He just burned so brightly. Some people manage to do that for ten decades and sometimes we feel lucky that the world got three.

I've managed so far not to cry. I'll save that for May. Birthdays are meant for celebrating and I refuse to draw too much attention to that other day. I want to remember how he lived and not be permanently lost in remembering how he died. There are whole relationships I'd Eternal Sunshine if I could. I rarely remember thinking I'd want to do that with him. I had never been in love until him. He showed me how and showed me how I like to be loved.

I guess it's only fitting that I found a man (honestly, he found me) who writes me songs and literally tells me I'm beautiful in his sleep. Who brings me little gifts and cups of coffee and holds my hand in the dark because he knows my night vision is trash. I got very lucky with this one and there's nothing more I could ask for. Maybe for him to love women just a little bit less, but again, that's my sort. Jay generally got me over being jealous, controlling, or possessive, but I've had a few moments lately that make me wonder if I'm as strong in that aspect as I always thought. But I'm happy. I'm so very happy.

All of this just to say that I've come to accept everything. It's the hardest thing I've ever had to learn, this "radical acceptance" that my therapist tells me I excel at. I've been doing it for a lot of years. Plenty of practice. I still have days when I'm sad. I still have days when I wonder what might have been. I still have days when I think too much and feel a crushing sense of survivor's guilt. I still have days when, while I'm working to prevent veteran suicide, that I relive those days. I still have days when I have to work back through it all. Folks think that trauma is a straight line. It come back. You have to maintain the hygiene of the terrible things that you've experienced or it will come back and crush you.

I wish he could meet the young, dark-eyed, dark-haired Marine I've adopted. Pretty sure I've saved that kid's life a time or two. Pretty sure he's saved mine too. All of them have. That helps the guilt a little. I wish he could meet all of these guys. He is them and they are him in cycles. And I've poured all of my love and acceptance into them. I love them because I can't love Jay in a corporeal sense anymore. So, for Jay's birthday, I'll go to the twice monthly meeting and do what I can to save some lives or further the mission. I will keep fighting for them. I may have to drag them kicking and screaming to success, but they'll make it. These are my friends. These are my brothers. I'm everyone's precocious kid sister or mama, or both sometimes and a thousand shades between. 

I think that if Jay had these guys, this place to go, things may have been different for us all. And if I can give that to one family, I'm happy. If I can keep one soul in a body for love, then I've succeeded. Honestly, it could be my own. I haven't really seen any of them for a month except that one who calls me "Ma" and checks on the cats when I'm out of town and calls me to ask for dating advice and to commiserate and for support. He's going to be okay, that one. If I have to drag him kicking and screaming to okay.

Today, I'll say "I love you" to someone who can't hear it or feel it. And I do. I always did. Damn you, Jay Tate.