life: a noun.

This evening I read through a letter written by someone on one fateful night 11 months ago. I was looking for my resume saved in my email somewhere (which I never found). I've only read said letter maybe 3 times. Today being probably the 4th. It breaks my heart on a different level and in a different way every time, but tonight, I was able to process my feelings about it a little more. Maybe because it's Thanksgiving and I have a whole new perspective. Who knows?

Whenever I think about that night, I feel sick. Physically sick. Feelings of dread, of panic, of anger, and of guilt collide within my heart and my stomach. Not because I feel them now, but remembering how I felt then, and how real it was. At times I can make a stone of myself and not show emotion about it, but almost always, the lump is sitting in the back of my throat and the tears are just barely remaining underneath the surface.

Fact is, I've been in that same place myself on more than one occasion. Having that feeling of complete hopelessness and seeing only one way to fix it - for good. Feeling like nothing I do will ever change the past and nothing will ever make now feel any better. Knowing how that feels helped me to get over the anger. I know that I'll never feel the hurt she felt in that head space she was in, but I'll always know how it's felt for me, and that equates well enough. As for the rest of the emotions - well - only time will heal those. Time, and my "happy birthday" meditation.

So it made me think about life in general. It is true what they say - life is short, it's fragile, and it's oh so precious. For all the people out there who take their own lives for whatever reason, there are so many, many more who sit and wish for another few years, another few months, or even just another day. Truth is, we will all die one day. The thought of it scares me to the core, and I am not ashamed to admit that. I don't have faith in the existence of heaven or an afterlife (read back 2 journal entries for further clarification). I don't have any comforting vision of where I will go or what will happen to me when I do. I am very comfortable where I'm at.

Perspective changes as cicumstance changes, though. I am more thankful for my life today than I was a few months ago. Being given a terminal diagnosis does that to a person, I suppose. I am not invincible. I cannot take the same things for granted that I did a year ago, or even a couple of months ago. I'm learning to be thankful of small things. I am otherwise healthy. I can still wake up each day next to someone I adore with all my heart. I can still wake up each day, and experience each day, period. Truth is, when all is said and done, I just always want the ability to wake up and have a day. It may not always be good. It may suck complete ass some days. But I want it.

11 months ago. It seems like a lifetime ago with all that has happened in the meantime, and when I really think about it, I realize that I am thankful for that night. I wish we were all born being completely thankful for our lives and living every moment to the fullest. Unfortunately, I don't think it happens like that. That night forced me to look at my own life, take notice of my own unhappiness, and start correcting it. I saw, lying on that stretcher, someone I couldn't fathom not having in my life. In spite of the difficult road she's taken, I take comfort in knowing she's finding her purpose here and comfort in her own skin, as I've slowly been finding it in myself.

Without the events of 11 months ago, she wouldn't have been sitting in that doctor's office with me 2 months ago, helping me through what has so far felt like my hardest life test yet. So I'm thankful. For all the good times and all the bad times, and not because one makes the other easier to deal with, but because without one, the other may not ever happen. It is the make-up of life.

You, my love, have managed to be present in my life, and I am forever thankful.

Main Entry: life
Pronunciation: 'lIf
Function: noun
Inflected Form: plural lives /'lIvz/
1 a : the quality thatdistinguishes a vital and functional plant or animal from a dead body b : a state of living characterized by capacity for metabolism, growth, reaction to stimuli, and reproduction
2 a : the sequence of physical and mental experiences that make up the existence of an individual b : a specific part or aspect of the process of living life> life> —life·less /'lIf-l&s/ adjective

tolerance. or a lack thereof.

I've never thought of myself as being gay. I dislike labels, and the thought of calling myself a lesbian makes me giggle just a little. But I did marry a woman. A woman who I fell madly in love with, completely unexpectedly. It's always been my thought that I am attracted to a person. Not a gender, not a race, but more a personality, an appearance, a connection. I'm sticking with that. So maybe I guess it could have been expected?

My mom is a lesbian. I've known since I was old enough to understand what it was, even before she actually came out to me. Come on Mom, no boyfriends? Hardly even have male friends? Oh, except for Harry, who barely qualified as one, and some professors who curiously are single dads living with another male! And why do all of these women have short hair, and none wear dresses, and they don't look or act a thing like my friends' moms. And where are their husbands or boyfriends? I learned the meaning of acronyms such as GLB(+TQ after a while), PFLAG, NOW, and GLAAD before I reached middle school. I attended protests of Focus on the Family and other discriminatory entities and marched in my first large-scale pride parade when I was 11. From the time I can remember, it's been a part of my life. A part of me.

I refuse to think that homosexuality could in any way be genetic, or that I became gay because my mom was. But I think what I came to believe from a very early age was that gender didn't matter. I could love anyone I wanted and there was nothing wrong with that. I also learned how hurtful people could be over the issue of love. I remember being chased in the car with my mom by a group of young men yelling obscenities. She had picked me up from school and we were on our way home. I remember being almost in tears, scared, and begging her not to drive anywhere near home until they went away. After a while I blocked out all the cruel things people yelled and did in opposition at parades. I just didn't understand. As a child in that situation, each attack felt as personal as if it had been directed actually at me.

Almost 20 years later, it's disheartening to see that times haven't changed much in so many peoples' eyes. What's worse is to feel that intolerance from family members. I've known for a while that my mom's lifestyle has been the reason for us not having contact with some extended family. I've been fine with that. I never had time to attach with them, so it was no skin off my back, and again, if you don't love my mom then I don't really wish to be around you. As such, my family is small, but supportive. When they learned of my divorce and the start of a new relationship, no one seemed to skip a beat. So ok, what's the next step from falling in love and finding the person you want to spend your life with? Marriage. Yes? Apparently no.

So my grandfather came out of left field last week and said what I did was sick, and not to dare bring Georgi to ever visit. He who has never shown any issues with my mom or issues with me when he learned of Georgi and I.

Obviously it's not just babies. Apparently marriage changes everything, as well.

I hate this feeling. It takes me back to being 11, having a great day meeting other kids of queers, getting invited to march in the parade, feeling like I belonged in a way I couldn't feel anywhere else - being immensely happy - then out of nowhere hearing someone yell
"BURN IN HELL YOU FUCKING FAGS!"

Happiness turned to small, helpless, and hated in an instant.

What I don't understand is why someone can be fine with me loving a woman, but not with marrying her.

Georgi and I were on the local news recently talking about our marriage in California and our feelings after the passing of Prop 8. I didn't really tell anyone at work about it, or the marriage. I've learned that while I don't need to be private, advertising isn't necessary either. I get confused by responses from those who did happen to see it. The only response I get is "you looked so good." Yeah? I guess a "congratulations on your marriage," was too much to hope for.

So I don't really know what ultimate point I'm trying to make with this today. I've just had frustration over this lack of acceptance and apparent discomfort people feel. Society has come so far, but seems so stalled on this issue that shouldn't and doesn't affect anyone but the two individuals involved.

The simple truth is that in Georgi, I found the same degree of comfort I had with the women my mom had around growing up who I was generally enamored by. Strong, opinionated, independent, beautiful, vibrant women. I found that comfort which initially drew me to her, and being near her I found so many more reasons why with her was where I was meant to be. It's made me happier than I could have imagined and filled an emptiness that I didn't even know existed until she came into my life.

I'm in love. I've found and married my soul mate. I want to wake up to this same face everyday for the rest of my life. Where's the problem in that? None. Except the word "lesbian" still makes me giggle a little on the inside.

faith

In the illustrious words of George Michael, one has "gotta have faith-a-faith-a-faith." But mine is in short supply these days. In 2003, a Harris Poll of over 2,000 Americans found that 90% believe in God. I've tried since I was a child to understand this concept of "God," an all-knowing, all-powerful being, always watching us, guiding us to right and wrong. Something along those lines, right? But what makes one person believe and another not? How can one person have horrible things happen to them and believe more in a God because of it, and another have the same things happen and believe less?

Faith.

I never knew how to have it growing up. Never understood it. Couldn't comprehend the idea of putting my life in the hands of an entity that I didn't feel had ever touched my life. Not out of some spite for the horrible things I went through, but simply because I never felt it - it being whatever people who do believe have felt. My mom did take me to church for a time, and I did try to feign belief there and in front of friends. But it just wasn't there. To me, saying I believed in God was about equal to saying I believed in Santa Claus.

Since late last year, I've been trying to figure out why things happen the way they happen. Feeling that it's just meant to be has helped a little. But lately I'm grasping at straws for anything that will give me comfort right now in my own skin. Something is missing. There has to be some ultimate reason why life just sucks some days. It sucks some days to make us cherish the good days just that much more. Well, that's nice to think when it's little things.

I experienced over 5 years of abuse that no little girl ever should growing up, before I could even understand what exactly was being done and why it was so horribly wrong. I didn't even comprehend in the years following how drastically it would affect my life. Add on a mountain of other shit through the years, and I still felt like I was coming out on top. I'd found my place in the world, a wonderful, supportive, loving parter, and was reaching my goals. In spite of all that had happened, I was surviving.

Then a pinched nerve turns into a terminal illness.

Seriously? Why? [Enter the anger stage] After a while enough is enough. If I had a staunch hatred of religion or disbelief in God, I would say this is fair enough proof that God doesn't exist. If he did, these things wouldn't happen to people. He would say, at some point, enough is enough. This woman has been through the ringer, let's give her a break. On the flip side, if I was a believer, I could say it is all happening for some greater purpose. That somewhere, through all of this, I will come out on top. If I am good, good things will ultimately happen. It's God's will and I will be protected. I will only be given what I can handle. I could pray and feel better knowing that I'll never be alone in this journey.

At this point, I'd gladly take either of those options. They say to just look into your heart and you'll know what you believe. I believe in sheer avoidance. So how has that worked for you, Michelle? Great. Absolutely great. See the sarcasm? Something is missing. I have all that I need right now, and yet something is missing inside. Something to make it all come together, something to make it possible to find a purpose. Something to say that there is a reason for everything that has happened and will happen. Maybe then I could take whatever the next blow will be, and find a way to accept all the previous ones.

I try to believe that this is happening for a reason, that everything has. It's so impossible some days. But it's also impossible not to believe it. I don't know what to think, to believe. And the sad fact is, even if I knew, I can't just make it be.

God is still Santa Claus, and I'm the girl who stopped believing when I was 7.