A trail of her

I miss Nicole.

I’ve been listening to the Spotify playlist we made together and sobbing over the old Brand New songs that remind me of

Justin and Bridget and hiking at night, high in the woods beside campus, searching for the monster hill we’d have to climb with our arms clinging one another to keep from falling of the face of the

side of Melanie’s drunk face next to mine, our clothes stripped on the floor next to the bed, next to the first girl I ever slept beside where I thought; “maybe I wish we were more than best friends,” maybe

I wish I didn’t love the color sea-green so much, so my lungs wouldn’t catch when I thought of Haley’s hand in mine on warm, midnights in high school, escaping our parents houses to draw our names in spray paint under park bridges, to watch each other undress only to trace her jawline

but leave no trace, no trace that I slept in your bed and for the rest of my life searched for your same blueish gray corduroy skinny jeans and Mary Jane’s from Urban Outfitters so I could be you in every step I took, be you or be the girl you told me to be when you tilted my chin to the clouds and, “keep your chin up, love,” and loved me without making it about labels

though I almost wish you would’ve, demanded I face that crater of fear I felt the day we were separated, when the bolt was nailed on my basement door and the only way I could escape was to sit on the roof with my somehow straight best friend and talk about boys

pretend to talk about boys or really talk about them and think of you and which love you were with now; the tall, skinny boy in the band that you dated for a year…I heard about the day you lost it to him, and the day you cut your hair and tattooed your knees and finally moved out of your mother’s house and stopped partying with the boys in the band and came out.

And I came out, too. And you told me if those feelings of emptiness ever came back, to come find you and you’d be with me then because somehow you’ve always been there in those moments when the thing that defines me is the thing I can’t talk about so I feel lost until I hear your voice and feel your fingertips tilt my chin up,

trace the line of my jaw

and whisper, love.

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The parting gift of pink eye

So I have no idea what my plan is with this blog, it just feels so, so nice to write again.

I got the job in Bloomington, and my letter of resignation at this school went in on Thursday. Liz and I found an apartment that is gorgeous and is a little less than what I’m paying now. Almost all of my IEP meetings are either done or scheduled and started, so the paperwork side of this job is almost over. Life smoothed out evenly. Minus this week when I got pink eye from a student so badly that I was out of work for 2 days and came back on 4/20 with the reddest, droopiest, cracked eyes. My eyes are so dry around the corners that if I smile too big, the corners of my eyes start to bleed. That is something from the creepiest of horror movies. Even with all of this, the kids said they were happy to have me back and I was so beyond happy to be back with them. I love them.

So all is well, especially with meds. I’ve begun to slowly start going vegan. The original intention was to completely get off medication and live a vegan/yoga/natural lifestyle because we all know I’m high functioning and have only been on psychiatric meds for about 1 year now so it wouldn’t be the worst if I got off them…until I actually had to go through withdrawal over spring break because I forgot to bring my full container of Lexapro with me (I had just picked up the new refill and grabbed the wrong bottle when packing) and only had 2 pills for 7 days. So I walked myself off Lexapro and lessened my Seroquel dosage to match the Lexapro and hated myself for 5 days. I felt high from the Lexapro withdrawal and irritable/angry/depressed/in despair from the Seroquel withdrawal and vowed not to officially go off my meds any time soon without consulting a dietician/nutritionist/holistic doctor who could confirm that going vegan would help stabilize my bipolar to the point where I wouldn’t need meds. I want that answer whether it’s a “hell no, you’ll always have to be on some sort of med to function” or “yeah, with a lot of discipline and a vegan diet you could go med free.” I just want those answers. It’s been on my mind since the day I was diagnosed.

Finally, I’m crying

It’s taken almost 2 months since we broke up and I’m finally crying over her. She sobbed and yelled the night I left and all I felt was empty, and terrified, like I was making a mistake but there was no other choice.

So much of me still hates myself for being gay.

It’s almost spring outside, though the clouds are still gray today. Just a second ago I felt tears come down onto my chest, slightly consuming sadness.

When I first came out to my mother, she got angry. She demanded to know my five-year plan, though she’s never asked that of me before. She demanded to know what type of wedding she’d be attending. I walked away before answering her.

Can I let myself marry a girl? More importantly, can I figure out a way to love myself enough to be that honest?