the wanderings of a wild child

Dear internet:

I’d like to tell you about love. In particular, my love. It’s not going to be original and it’s not going to be well-written, but it will be true. 

I’ve only been around for a little over a couple decades, but after a few long and intense relationships and a handful of potential romantic interests that ended up going nowhere, I began to realize or believe that I am one weird little lady. I am, as most people would claim to be, a mass of rather glaring contradictions. I am both loud and delicate, confident and easily flustered, laid back and emotionally sensitive. I’ve abandoned religion, but still find myself drawn to the spiritual and mystical. I am endlessly fascinated by the world and seek to learn everything about everything, but am often quite simple-minded. I think I’m talented and unique and funny, but also struggle with never feeling ____ enough. I’m the artsy chick, the girl walking in the rain, the girl blowing shit up in video games, the girl deeply moved by human suffering, the girl laughing at horribly inappropriate things (often involving human suffering). I love to dance and feel graceful but still have residual chunks of tomboy left that cry out “KARATE CHOP! GET DIRTY! YELL REALLY LOUD!” These may all sound like superficial elements, but they give you an idea. I’m a Rubik’s cube of characteristics.

In any case, I came to recognize over time that most people with whom I interacted- even on a platonic level- only saw, interacted with, or appreciated one or two of my “sides.” They would complement me perfectly well in a few ways, but in other ways be entirely disparate, leaving me feeling like parts of me were being suffocated to give life to the others. I began to gather the assumption that nobody would ever get all of me.  Time and time again, friendships and relationships enforced the notion that no one could possibly have such a strangely multifaceted heart, or understand mine.

And then came Patrick. You’ve all come to know him as Canadude. This wild, unabashedly weird, charming Canadian with a heart so intricate and wonderful that I can hardly believe that he’s real sometimes, this man who belts out Celine Dion and does crazy intense dance moves at karaoke, who always speaks with both profound intelligence and humility, who goes out of his way to make sure I always feel loved, and special, and good, who is strong in so many ways (including, when the occasion calls for it, carrying me up the stairs)- he wandered into my life in the most chaotic way, and stayed. And now he’s mine.

And I’m me. All of me. All the time. In whatever crazy, weird, quirky, contradictory form that may entail. It is the most delightful thing when I do or say something ridiculously “me,” something to which only my family would normally be privy, and see that heart-stopping grin of his spread across his face, and hear him tell me he loves me in response. I am loved. So loved. And it feels incredible.

His heart means the world to me. He loves fully and vulnerably and with so much fervor,  and I am so lucky to be the object of all of it. I feel constantly enfolded in care, and hope, and encouragement, and JOY! He makes me feel precious, but never hesitates to help me grow as an individual. I can only hope that I do the same. I know I fail (a lot), but I try. It’s so hard for me to see him hurt or less than happy- whether it be by my foolish carelessness, by stress, or by a family tragedy. I want to wrap him in love, thank him a million times for being the most remarkable individual I’ve ever met, and assure him that my heart is his in ways I can hardly believe myself.

Sometimes love is scary like that. Scary to bare your soul to someone, and be willing to give them everything you’ve got, hoping that what you have, what you are, is enough. It’s scary to know what you want when what you want is all of them, for as long as humanly possible. It’s a little scary to not know what the future will bring- if they’ll get sick of you, grow impatient with your problems, be unable to tolerate your past mistakes. But somehow, with him, I find peace.

I realize that this is all rather uncalculated rambling, but I have to write it. Somehow saying I love you isn’t enough. It doesn’t provide the full force of my ardor. What I mean is this: my life has changed considerably the past few months, but none of those changes can compare in importance or grandeur to the awesome, exciting, beautiful, wondrous things that have transpired between he and I. Nothing. And I don’t know what the future will bring in this crazy, unpredictable life, but I hope that whatever it is, I get to experience it with him. Because there’s no one I admire or adore more. He is my hero in every sense of the word, and I hope he never forgets it.

And now, dear internet, I will sleep.