Long Relationship is Long (aka, Happy 3rd Anniversary!)

So, my three-year anniversary with Terrell (my boyfriend, for you slow readers out there) is September 3rd - today! Well, okay, technically it's tomorrow, but we didn't realize that until after celebrating our second anniversary on the 3rd. And besides, what really matters is that we're together at all, considering everything we went through beforehand (and everything that's happened after).

We met on August 24, 2006 - I know this because it was the day I moved into my dorm room as a freshman in college. We lived on the same floor, he in one wing and I in the other. Our college experience in general was rather different from the norm, being that a good majority of the people who lived on our floor that year became good friends (and remain so today). I developed a crush on Terrell a little bit after Thanksgiving, when both my mom and best friend from home pointed out that he was cute and I should go after him. That crush was harbored in secret until around February, when it became obvious to (at least) my roommate.

After discussing it with her at length, I did something rather uncharacteristic of me. I approached him one night in the floor lounge as he was reading and told him straight up that I liked him. This, of course, was something I had never done before. He said he already figured as much, we hugged, and that was the beginning of several long and torturous months of the most retarded game of cat and mouse in the history of ever. I continued to pursue him, he continued to evade me, we continued to annoy the living crap out of anyone who spent more than 5 minutes with us. You ever play "tickle fight" with someone just to get a chance to touch them? Yeah, that was us. Every. Day. I finally cornered him one night not long before spring break and asked him how he felt and he uttered the single most idiotic phrase in the history of stupid boy phrases:

"I like you, but not enough to date you." Upon reading this part, he protested "In my defense, I was trying to be nice. I was!" Cue me punching him.

So, that went about as well as you can imagine (read: me, in a stairwell crying my eyes out and babbling incoherently to my mother over the phone). I tried one more time to get him to admit his obvious feelings for me, and then gave up. Sort of. After moving back home for the summer, we began a daily ritual of talking online for hours. Because neither of us had anything better to do and I am a complete insomniac without a rigid schedule, we would often stay up all night talking to each other and "watch" the sun rise together (yeah, I am totally aware of how ridiculously cheesy that sounds). Around July, I realized that I was kind of in love with him. Considering he is the only person I have loved in my life, that's a rather presumptuous statement to make. But looking back, I know it's pretty much true. Something certainly changed between us during the course of that summer.

When we returned to school, once more living on the same floor (in case anyone's wondering, it was a themed living community that we all signed up for to be able to live together again). And it was so, so painfully obvious how much he liked me. Before, I had a small blip of doubt in the back of my mind. But he hung all over me like... something that hangs onto something else, and around Labor Day I was fed up with it. After spending two hours in the common room leaning as close together as possible and playing "handsy" during Back to the Future on September 3, I ranted to my roommate that I was going to confront him the next day and either force it out of him or tell him to back off and let me move on.

I was interrupted by the sound of an IM from my computer. It was from Terrell, and said, "Come hither."

(Yes, we are very special people.)

I walked down to his room, and listened as he finally confessed what I and everyone else in the tri-state area already knew: he had feelings for me. Cue a chorus of "awwwww". We talked for a while then hugged for a longer while, as his roommate, Allison, and her roommate listened through the door. Creepers. And that was pretty much that. Well, okay, it wasn't until two days later that he let me make it official on Facebook. And then it took another day for us to kiss for the first time (but hey, it was his first so it was probably worth the wait). The night we put it on Facebook, I am told no fewer than five different people exclaimed, "Finally!"

Finally, indeed. And now, here we are, three years later. There have been good times, there have been bad times, and there have been many strange and dorktastic times. Before Terrell, I never imagined myself being in a long-term relationship at this age. I never really imagined myself in any relationship at all, to be perfectly honest. But I am, and it really is quite wonderful. I never really thought I could be with someone and remain completely true to myself. I spend an awful lot of my time hiding the parts of my personality I think people won't want to see, and end up feeling rather compartmentalized. Only three people exist in this world who have seen every part of me, and miraculously they still love me for it. (Which should probably teach me a lesson about just being myself no matter what, but that's not what this post is for or about, so let's move on...) Terrell is the one person who always makes me feel 100% like myself. I can't even try to hide from him - somehow, he can always see me.

So, Terrell: for all the weird times, the good times, the hugs, the kisses, the Mario Kart games, the amazing meals, the countless shoulders to cry on and rides to and from places, and especially the laughs over the past three years, I say thank you. Thanks for always being there for me, and thanks for helping me to be all the parts of me, good and bad. Happy anniversary -- let's try not to kill each other between now and next year so we can have another one.

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My relationship is doomed.

See? Can't even take a cute picture!

While he was visiting his family in Massachusetts last week, my boyfriend's aunt told him that we should probably break up. Her reasoning? We are each so clumsy that one of us is likely to inadvertently kill the other in the future. Sadly, she is probably correct.

I am a walking disaster. I have fallen down the stairs at least four times in the past four years. I routinely lose my balance while standing on perfectly flat surfaces, and regularly trip over nothing. I drop things, break things, run into things, step on things, slip on things, etc. Probably once a week or more, I roll over and almost fall out of bed. Terrell usually rescues me, grabbing hold of one of my desperately flailing arms to pull me back over the edge and into safety. But sometimes he's not there, and let me tell you: hardwood floor hurts when you fall on it. I don't dare roller skate, ice skate, or do pretty much anything that involves using balance because I have none. It's basically a miracle that I haven't broken every single one of my bones yet (or even one of them... *shifty eyes*).

Terrell isn't nearly as bad, but he has his moments. Clumsiness, mostly. He's good at the whole balance thing because of his martial arts training growing up. But he has this tendency to, well... injure me. It sounds horrible, but I promise you, it has never been intentional. He just seems to aim his mishaps in my direction.

I've been burned three times in my life. Two of those times were caused by Terrell lifting a hot pan off the stove while cooking and accidentally touching it to my arm. The first time was him being stupid, but the second happened in our new apartment while I was doing dishes and he was cooking. Tiny kitchen sink + tiny stove = disaster waiting to happen. Especially when you are us.

He also has a rather bad habit of smacking me in the face. This usually happens when we're in bed, he'll roll over or move his arm and my face will be in the way. Monday night, our first time seeing each other in two weeks, I leaned over to kiss him and his elbow connected with my jaw. Of course. The other time it frequently happens is during intimate times. I'll just let you use your imagination there. Fortunately, I don't bruise easily and I am finally off coumadin so his general lack of limb control won't cause my coworkers to peg me as a battered woman.

We do watch out for each other, though. He has to watch out for me a bit more, of course, because I am more than lacking in the motor functions department. But I worry slightly about the potential for one of us to cause great, accidental, stupid harm to the other if we continue down this path. And what if we have children? Hopefully they would inherit his motor skills vs. mine, or at least his ability to stand upright for more than a few minutes without falling over... but who knows. They could end up a bunch of wobbly freaks with spastic arms who can't be trusted in any room not lined with pillows.

I guess time (and genetics) will tell.

And also the whole "let's get married and/or have kids for serious this time" discussion.

And probably the whole managing to get pregnant thing. Because it's likely I am actually infertile after all, making the whole birth-control-almost-killing-me ordeal last year a worthless endeavor. Though I have no solid proof of this, it's one of those things that sits in the back of my mind, occasionally ringing the bell at the front desk and making that impatient clearing-the-throat noise. Because wouldn't it just figure that I'd spend so much time trying not to become with child only to find out when I want to that I can't.

I guess that's probably a fear many women have. Especially those of us who watched Sex and the City episodes where Charlotte discovers her infertility.

Anyway, I have veered way off track. I suppose as long as we continue to have conversations like this one from earlier tonight, we'll be okay:

Terrell: Just so you know, I'm putting the mandolin blade in the drying rack, so...

Me: So, don't go near the sink?

Terrell: I was gonna say 'be careful', but knowing you I think 'don't go near the sink' is the better choice.

And no, I haven't gone near the sink.

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"alone time" vs Alone Time

I used to think that I was this solitary creature, a girl who liked to be left alone with herself to do whatever she wished without anyone around to say otherwise. I was famous at family gatherings, especially those on my former stepfather's side, for disappearing into a room and only emerging for the necessities (read: food, bathroom, obligatory "My, how you've inexplicably grown and changed since this time last year" talk with the various pseudo relations). I loved when my mom worked nights and my brothers stayed at their dad's house because it made me queen of my own domain--temporarily.

And therein lies the source of my recent revelation that I am actually not solitary. Not one stinkin' bit. I do like the occasional afternoon or day to myself, when the roommates/boyfriend are elsewhere and I can be my natural self without worrying about wearing pants or doing the dishes instead of watching a four-hour Degrassi marathon. It's nice, it's fun. But there is a mighty big difference between "alone time" and Alone Time. I like to have someone to come home to (or to come home to *me*) and share things with. I like talking and laughing and feeling safe from impending zombie attacks.

Because, let's face it: in the event of a major zombie outbreak, I'd be one of the first to go. I'm slow, easily disoriented, and have zero reflexes. And I bet my brains are super tasty.

But the people I've chosen to surround myself with over the past four years are the ones I can imagine would not only survive, but wage an all-out bloodbath of a war on the brain munchers. And I might stand a chance if those people were on my side, protecting me by forcing me to hide silently in a locked room under some blankets while they got things done. I just don't see me standing a chance by myself.

And I don't think there is anything wrong with admitting my weaknesses. I think the smartest thing I could do is be honest with myself about, well, myself. I'm not strong, I'm often prone to falling over randomly when standing completely still and upright, and if last week's failure at shooting arrows into hay bales at the Renaissance Festival is any clue as to how I'd be up against a real foe... let's just say, we shouldn't be giving me any weapons anytime soon. I would probably shoot one of my fellow zombie survival warriors in the kneecap. Or somewhere less bad ass, yet more painful and useless.

So, where was I going with this, exactly? Oh, right.

I don't like being alone.

And yet, a few hours ago I kissed Terrell goodbye and watched him pull out of our building's driveway to head north into New England for a two-week (or longer) visit home with his family. The last time I was here by myself for longer than eight hours was back in May, also a visit home for him. But that time I was jobless and could get away with staying up until 4-6:00AM and my eyes wouldn't stay open any longer every night. Also, he was gone like 4 days.

I should be happy at the prospect of getting to live independently, but I'm just not. I don't exactly worry about my ability to do things for myself (though it'll take some serious effort and coaxing to clean the bathroom like I need to... eugh) or get to work by bus or whatever. But I do worry about my sanity without someone here to talk to and laugh with. I've never been truly Alone, and the thought rather terrifies me. Having only one's self for company brings to immediate and sickeningly clear attention all the faults and fears and worries that can be buried (or eased) with the presence of another person.

Despite the general aimlessness and lack of purpose that I've experienced in the past few months, they've also been some of the happiest and most relaxed in my life. I have truly cried maybe two times all summer. That, for me, is an absolute miracle because I usually cry a LOT. Although I am happy, and I feel happy, I know that deep down inside of me some of that old darkness is still there, lurking, ready to jump out and fuck things up when I least expect it. Maybe I've just been a Joss Whedon fan for too long, but I can't help but feel that every time life gets too good and too happy, something is bound to come along and unsettle things. Like a two-year-old with a snowglobe.

And it isn't as if I have no real basis for this fear. Junior year of college was arguably the best and the happiest, and then in one fell swoop I experienced death, severe health issues, and some serious relationship turmoil. It has been difficult to heal and recover from everything that happened in 2009, but I finally feel like I have--like we have. 2009 was as much my nightmare as Terrell's, and dealing with it all together has made us closer than ever. Our relationship could have broken, maybe even should have by most people's standards, but it didn't. He's the best thing I have going for me right now.

I think, in the end, that's why I am so freaked out by the idea of spending all this time alone and without him. Because I sometimes wonder: when you subtract him, is there anything left that makes me worthwhile? Probably a dangerous sentiment, and probably the exact kind of thing I should not be sharing with the world, but it's something I find myself wondering quite often.

Well, this post turned out to be far more depressing than I had hoped. I should've probably left it at zombies, but oh well. And hopefully by posting this, I haven't alerted the zombie forces that there's a prime target with an extra-tasty brain just ripe for the picking up here in Syracuse... o_o

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Now playing: Lady GaGa - Speechless
via FoxyTunes

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