"A History of Choices: What We've Become"

It was a windy Monday morning in mid April when I walked through the door of the apartment with my mind made up. I knew what I needed to do, and I had finally gathered enough courage to do it. As I looked up from kicking my shoes off at the door, I could see him in the spare bedroom straight ahead, down the hall. He was moving things around and piling them by the door. My stomach dropped as my heart leaped into my throat and stopped simultaneously.

"He's already a step ahead of me," I thought. "He is packing my things up and is going to tell me we're over."

I walked down the hallway and stood in the doorway. He told me he was looking for something and asked if I had seen it. Honestly, I don't even know what he was looking for, because the sound of my heart pounding was the only noise that reached my ears.

"Can you come out here and talk to me, please?" I asked. He followed me down the hallway and into the living room.

I sat at the far end of the couch and insisted he sit down. Things hadn't been right for months, and I was going to get to the bottom of things-- I was going to fix us, or I was leaving. After all, just a few weeks prior, I came home and found a bobby pin that was too new and the wrong color to be mine... and he couldn't explain it, but he had been home all day.

"I am not happy," I said. "I haven't been for weeks, and I know you haven't been happy for a while either. What is happening to us? What do we need to do to be happy again? Because I honestly just can't keep doing this. I make efforts to spend time with you, and you make excuses. You play video games while I try to talk to you, and you ignore me. I sit on the couch with you and try to curl up next to you, and you move away. You won't let me kiss you without pretending like you're joking... and I have to tell you that I love you more than once before you finally tell me you love me too. I just can't keep doing this."

He immediately stood up and walked behind me into the kitchen and started slamming things around as he was getting ready for work. Finally, he spoke.

"What do you want me to say, sorry for playing video games? I'm not happy either. I work 6 days a week to give us a place to live, car insurance, utilities... and you work a few days a week and do nothing. Why was it that I had to do dishes this weekend just to be able to eat, while you went out of town?"

I was stunned. For our entire relationship-- nearly four years-- I had financially supported us. Our first winter together, he sat on unemployment while I worked a minimum wage job, just to make it by... and most recent to the conversation, I had paid for the $1,000 worth of repairs for his car and hadn't seen a penny of it back. I paid for more than half of our bed. More than half of the couch. Our cell phone bill in full each month. Purchased our groceries. Put gas in the car. Paid our utility bills. I also cleaned the apartment at least once a week without ever asking for help. The only responsibility he had was our $400 rent payment each month. Yet somehow, I didn't contribute anything to the relationship-- and specifically nothing financial.

My head reeling, I sat there silent. I bit my tongue to keep from lashing out in anger and escalating the situation.

"Anything else?" He asked.

I shook my head in stunned silence and he walked down the hall to the bathroom, where a few moments later the shower was running.

He left for work shortly after, and not another word was spoken between us. The last sound I heard from him was the door he slammed as he left. I didn't know what to do, so I cried. I let it all out for the first time. For almost four years, I gave my time, money, and whole self to our relationship, and I was learning it wasn't enough.

That's the moment I decided that I deserved better-- I deserved to be happy-- so I called my family and asked them to come get me. Four years of my things were packed and ready to go in under an hour and a half, and were loaded into a truck in fifteen minutes.

I left behind a two page letter with the keys, and he found it when he got home.

At this point, you're probably judging me pretty hardcore. You may think that there were better ways to end it, but you weren't a part of my relationship, so you can't fully understand. If you're still with me, keep reading. If you're not, keep reading anyway. Believe it or not, there is a lesson here. My intent is not to bash my ex; I want to share what I learned.

I expected a phone call, but I got an e-mail asking me to help him understand. He said that you don't just throw away an almost 4 year relationship because you hit a "rough spot," and he wanted to know if this is what I really wanted... he also said he was pissed that all he got was a letter and a "quick escape," and he accused me of just looking for a reason.

"You need to know that this wasn't an easy decision for me to make... In our conversation yesterday, you made it perfectly clear that you feel like I do more hurt than help. I tried to have a conversation with you about one thing, and it got turned back onto me for pretty much being a lazy freeloader. Why do you think I shut up after that? I was hurt. I have been hurt for a while. I was trying to tell you that yesterday and you completely blew past it and it became about me, not about us. I love you more than I think you ever realized, and each disappointment, each "hurt," I just pushed down and made excuses for you. So to hear yesterday how you really feel hurt me worse than any of those other hurts put together. If that's how you really feel about me and my position in the relationship, then is it really just a rough spot or is it something more? I wasn't just looking for a reason.

"I understand you're pissed; I expected you to be. But I need you to try and see where I am coming from. You of all people know that for most of my adult life I have been a burden to one person or another... the last person I wanted to hear that from is the person I love more than anything. How do you get past that? I have done everything, in my mind, to try and be a good girlfriend-- a good person-- to you, only to find out that you feel like I failed you. So while you may be pissed, you need to understand that I am seriously hurt... and that's where this all comes from."

He accused me of having planned my leaving, weeks in advance, for as quickly as I left. He also defended himself by telling me he never called me a freeloader.

I answered, "For me to move out as quickly as I did only required me to throw my things together quickly and call someone with a truck. The only planning that I did was deciding if I wanted to risk continuing to be hurt and make excuses, or if I had finally had enough sadness. Do you know how many times that you stayed up until I got up and then went to bed when I left for work, that I cried myself to sleep the next night? Do you know how many times in the past month I have wanted nothing more than to just cuddle up to you on the couch and you acted like it was an inconvenience? Or even how many times I have had to say "I love you" before I would even get a response? Each time, I made an excuse for why you may have reacted like that. That's why it's taken a month for me to bring it up. I finally got tired of making excuses and pushing the hurt down for another day, acting like nothing was wrong.

"For not thinking I am a freeloader, it certainly seemed that's the case-- you said that you work 6 days a week to support us, and I only work a few and do nothing. If that's not the definition of a freeloader, I don't know what is. Like I said yesterday, I have never once asked for help with cleaning the apartment... even with two sinks full and the entire counter covered in dirty dishes and all of the other work that goes into cleaning the rest. And even though I only work a few days a week, I still paid for the repairs on your car, more than half of the bed, more than half of the couch, I usually paid the cell phone bill in full, put gas in the car when I'd used it, bought groceries (not always, as you pointed out yesterday,) and still try to keep a clean home. I went out of town for a holiday and dishes didn't get done. Went out of town the following weekend to see an aunt I hadn't seen in a while, dishes didn't get done... does it suck to have to clean a dish or two to eat? Yes. Is it the end of the world? No. I was trying to open up to you yesterday and talk through things, and it became about me and what I don't do, not the root of the problem. It had become clear that trying to talk about it again wasn't going to work as long as I would continue to be the reason for your unhappiness."

I never heard from him after that, and I woke up the next morning to find he had finally removed our relationship from facebook. My whole family believed I made the right decision, and I truly believe I did, too. It had been killing me for weeks so much that I hadn't been able to eat or sleep-- I lost 15 pounds in a week and a half and weighed less than I did in high school.

Did I handle it the "best" way possible? Probably not... but if we had tried to talk it out again, it would have turned into something about ME again, just like every other time, and we would never get to the REAL problem.

it was time to get out. I deserve better. I deserved to be happy again.

Two years later brings us to the present. I have been single for half the amount of time that I was with him, and that's okay with me. While I admit that I do get lonely, I really am happy.

Don't ask me why I am single. After four years of a truly dysfunctional relationship, I am in no hurry to rush into another relationship unless I am sure I will be treated how I deserve. I am too old to waste my time with playing games. For me, dating should serve a purpose beyond staving off loneliness. I want to find someone who is man enough to commit to me through not just the easy times, but the difficult ones as well.

Because you see, being with me won't be easy for whoever chooses me. I am a mess of medical issues ranging from Epilepsy to the possibility of cancer. There's a 70% chance that I won't be able to have children, and if I try, I have to be weaned off of my anticonvulsant and stay off for the duration of my pregnancy. It's a lot to take in, for even myself, so it's not fair to expect anyone to willingly accept that. To ask someone else to give up his hopes and dreams for the sake of loving me... but I believe that someone, some day, won't mind. And if not, I will be just fine.

My point is this: we are responsible for our own happiness. Single or in a relationship. Whatever you need to do to be happy, do it. This life is yours, and it's too short to live it settling. Find something that you love to do, and do it. Find someone who treats you like you're the most amazing person to grace the face of the planet, and hold onto them. But never become complacent. Love until you feel like there's nothing left in you to give, and that one thing or that one person will reignite your heart with a fire big enough to go on forever.

Never settle. YOU deserve better. YOU deserve to be happy.

...but, my dear friend, I'll try again.

Our bodies were designed to carry blood-- vessels, tissue, skin. Sometimes, we become damaged. A scrape; a cut; an open wound. And with each beat of the heart, the blood is forced out, escaping to the surface. With each push from within, it spills out. It begins a mess. In the same way, our bodies were designed to carry love-- a heart, a mind, a soul. And often, we become damaged. Words and actions grate against our weakest spots. A scrape; a cut; a wound. And with each beat of the heart, the love is forced out-- hate escaping to the surface. With each push from within, it spills out. It begins a mess.

But because real love always triumphs, we bandage ourselves up and go about the business of fixing whatever we can. Like the body heals itself and restores what it has lost, we heal ourselves... embarking on a journey of eventually restoring what we, too, have lost.

wake up, you're alive.

The day that my landlord told me he was putting my house on the market was the day the baby bird fell from its nest.
The day my house stopped feeling like home.

I woke up feeling good, even though I'd walked around for days with a cloud over my head. Alex, my landlord, was considering putting the house up for sale. He'd had a realtor walk through it already, but he hadn't decided what he wanted to do. I was optimistic he wouldn't choose to sell. After all, how could such a terrible thing happen to me? Life was good. Wasn't it?

I rolled over and checked my phone. "Hey Elaine, give me a call when you wake up," was the text waiting for me. Alex. I allowed myself a few more minutes to fully wake up before calling him. I wanted to completely comprehend the conversation we were about to have, though I was certain he wanted to tell me he had opted not to put the house on the market at this point in time. He answered after a few rings, and we engaged in small talk until he was able to work his way up to the reason for the call: he was putting the house on the market.

My heart rocketed into my throat. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. He began to tell me that if (and it was a big "if,) the house sold, he would make sure I had an additional thirty days to vacate, on top of the amount of time it would take to close. He didn't, after all, want to screw me over and leave me scrambling to find a new place to live. We covered a few more details, and ended the call. I sat in my bed, head reeling, until I was able to get up and get on with my day.

I had the day off, and I really didn't want to be home alone. I grabbed some laundry and went to load up my car to drive to my mom's for the afternoon.

I opened the back door, that leads to my patio, and saw it. At first, I wasn't sure what I was seeing... until I got closer. It was a baby bird. Its head was bigger than the rest of its body; its purple lids on its eyes not yet open. A pile of pink rubber with little tiny feathers where its wings would grow, struggling to flip itself back over. It had fallen from directly above, where a sparrow had been building an impressive nest for weeks in the gutter of the roof that covers my patio. Nearby, on a fence post, its mother sat eyeing me.

I couldn't touch it. Its mother wouldn't want anything to do with it. But I couldn't just leave it, either-- it's neck was twisted, and it was struggling to get turned over. Fighting to live. I looked around for something, anything, to help me flip it over without actually touching it. Finally, I found a stone. I used an untouched edge to turn the baby right side up. To straighten its neck. To hopefully save its life.

I left, praying its mother would take it back.

When I got home later that night, the baby was still on the patio. Still alive. Still struggling. Its breathing was getting more and more shallow, and I knew it wouldn't make it through the night. I stood there talking to it. The more I talked, the more it moved around. It liked the sound of my voice. I felt helpless. I couldn't take it in; it wouldn't last. But if I left it outside, a cat or another animal would likely make a meal of it. I talked to it until I couldn't take it anymore, apologizing over and over for not being able to save it.

I couldn't even save myself from possibly being ripped from my own home.

Painfully aware of how alike the baby bird and I were, I went inside and cried myself to sleep. I couldn't save the bird, and I couldn't save myself. I spent days lost. Not knowing what to do next. I couldn't even bring myself to remove the remains of the dead bird from my patio. It stayed there until my lawn was mowed the next time, and it was blown off of the concrete, with the grass clippings after the mowing.

I began to panic. I took a mini-vacation, some time to clear my head. I gave myself an opportunity to be happy for the first time in months. I came back to a For Sale sign in my yard. I sat in my car in the driveway, crying, for a good five minutes before I forced myself to get out and unpack my car. To head into the house that no longer felt like home to me. To try to put my life back together, as best I knew how... but running away is what I know best.

I am still trying to hold my life together, while allowing myself a bit of happiness each week. Most people don't understand why I chose to work 12 hours on one of my days off each week, two hours away. But the truth is, it's who I am. I need to know-- to feel-- that I am still me. I am still capable of doing something, anything, to make me feel alive. I can still do things, and do them well. To know that I am valued. To have, and be, something I haven't in a very long time.

Simply put, I chose my happiness over the life that haunts me here. This life of merely existing isn't me. Who cares if the house I live in sells? It's not the end of the world. It's not the end of my life. There is so much more out there for me than this house.

The baby bird never had the opportunity to spread its wings and fly; never felt the freedom that comes with it. But that doesn't mean that I can't take the opportunity for myself.

The day my landlord told me he was putting my house on the market was the day the baby bird fell from its nest.
The day my house stopped feeling like home.

I have finally found my bravery.

I couldn't even count how many times I had been to the clinic so far this year, as I sat in front of my general practitioner for a general checkup. A month prior, I had suffered from a serious infection that put me on bed rest for three days. I was always tired, regardless of if I slept 8 hours or 13 hours. It never mattered. I woke up exhausted and went to bed exhausted.

"How has your mood been lately?" the doctor asked. "Has anyone told you that you have had an excessively bad mood?"

"I always have a bad mood," I explained. "It comes with my job. I can't let everything get to me... so I put up a wall so it doesn't."

After a few more questions, he got a serious look on his face. But what he said next caught me off guard. His words slapped me right across my face.

"I believe you have a touch of depression." I opened my mouth to protest, but he continued. "What you do-- your work-- is important. Lives literally depend on you. The health and well being of the people around here always comes before your own. You get sick, you work through it. While I believe that your job is important... you, your health, and your own well being is more important. You spend 40 hours or more each week helping other people and never do anything for yourself-- you said that earlier, when I asked you what you do for fun. I'm going to put you on something to help you with your bad mood... because depression doesn't always mean sadness. It can mean anger and bitterness."

I left with a prescription, questioning whether or not I would actually get it filled. While waiting in the lobby of the lab, where they were going to check my thyroid, I decided it couldn't hurt. After all, if it made me less angry every day, it had to be a good thing.

But I was embarrassed. How would my family take it? How would my friends deal with me? And most importantly, how would the people I work with see me? The last thing I wanted was to be seen as weak and incapable. I decided not to tell anyone who didn't need to know... as some of the few that I told didn't exactly overwhelm me with support.

I did some research. Depression and Epilepsy go hand in hand, and in a majority of those who suffer from a seizure disorder in the portion of the brain where mine affects, also suffer from depression. Depression is a chemical imbalance in the brain. It doesn't mean that we are weak. It doesn't mean that we are incapable.

It means that we are human beings, and just like the rest of the people out there... we need fixed. There's no shame in getting help for what we can't control.

After all... nobody is perfect.

I won't need it, give it meaning.

I was sitting at the desk in the middle of the office, working on a word search puzzle. The book I had purchased the night before, with intentions of starting that day, was a few inches away from me. I was going to start it, but wanted to finish the word search I was working on first. All of my arrivals for the day had checked in already, and I still had a majority of my shift left. I had time.

A few feet ahead of me was the main desk in our office-- it had our computer, a phone, our in-house box to keep track of which guests were staying in which rooms, and the machine we used to make guest keys. And a few feet behind me, behind a partial divider, was our General Manager's desk, with a computer and a phone. I was in the center of the room, where I had control of everything.

...until I didn't.

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The only thing I distinctly remember was the ground rising up to my face rather quickly, as my chin jerked towards my left shoulder, and I couldn't stop it.

Imagine having no concept of time. Not knowing what happened. Not knowing how long you have been somewhere, or how you got there. Imagine being like that for more than an hour and a half.

The next thing I vaguely remember, I was sitting at the main desk up front. I was leaned back in the chair, and something woke me. I sat up and apologized to the man standing in front of me, a man I recognized as being a long term guest.

"How long was I like that," I asked.

I could have sworn he said, "Twenty minutes," before telling me he was waiting to have his key remade. I apologized again, and he left. What I know after that, was filled in by my family.

I went for my cell phone, in the back room, and called the last-dialed number in my phone. My dad answered, and I told him I needed to talk to my step mom, Marty, because I didn't have his number in my phone. He put her on the phone.

"I don't have Dad's number in my phone, and I need to talk to him," I told her. She told me I had just spoken with my father, and then I asked, "Do you know the password to the front computer at work? Because I need to log on so that I can get my manager's number to tell him that I fell asleep at work."

"...You want to call your manager... to tell him you fell asleep at work?" she asked, and I insisted. When she told me she didn't know the password, I made her return the phone to my dad.

"Do you know the password to the front computer at work? Because I need to log on so that I can get my manager's number to tell him that I fell asleep at work," I repeated. Just like my step mom, he told me he didn't know it, but that he would get a hold of my manager for me.

The next thing I remember, other than a brief moment of incessant vomiting, was sitting in the emergency room of Saint Vincent's in Toledo. Around my bed were my dad, my step mom, and the man I was dating. They were all staring at me, and in a moment of incredible clarity, I said, "I had a seizure."

"How do you know?" my step mom asked, "You haven't seen a doctor and no tests have been done yet."

That's when I recalled the last thing that I remember: the green of the carpet-- the pattern-- suddenly becoming closer than I could keep it.

"I bit through my tongue," I said, as I stuck it out to show a tender, purple, swollen mess on the left side of my tongue. I began explaining what I knew.

Once I saw a doctor, they confirmed that they believed I'd had a seizure and decided it was best to monitor me overnight in a private room in the ICU. The next day, I had a series of tests that confirmed the diagnosis I had been thinking about: epilepsy.

When I was a little girl, there were three boys that lived in the house directly across the alley from mine. One of them, the middle one, had epilepsy. I grew up learning about it, and when I was 13, I learned that it has the ability to take those we love away from us, without warning. I spent all night in the hospital thinking about Nathan and the hell his family went through. I'd had two previous seizures over the course of the prior three years, and never went to a doctor. I was sure this was it.

The next morning, I saw a neurologist who sat me down and told me that I was being diagnosed with epilepsy, and explained to me all that it meant. I was given a prescription for medication, and sent home that afternoon.

The diagnosis came with its own stress. The way certain people handled it, being the biggest one for me. Some of my family knew the stigmas that come with the disorder, and insisted my diagnosis be called something else and treated with the same medication-- medication that I have to take for the rest of my life. It crushed me that people, starting with my own family, would have a hard time dealing with me being labeled an epileptic. I was able to love my best friend growing up, epilepsy and all, and it only made sense that my loved ones should do the same for me.

After all, the only thing different about me after the seizure and before... was an official title... and a treatment to prevent it from happening again.

That's when I decided that I wasn't going to be afraid of my diagnosis. Epilepsy isn't something to be ashamed or afraid of. Believe it or not, someone you know (other than me) probably has epilepsy-- it affects 1 in 26 people, kills 500,000 people a year, and has no cure... but people don't talk about it. I encourage others, whatever it is they suffer from in silence, to speak up. Change minds.

It's time we, as a society, stop acting like those of us who are a little bit "different" than the rest of the people have something undesirable about us. "Normal" is relative, and at the end of the day... we all have what makes us human-- a soul. So who really cares if the body we carry it in has glitches?

It's what makes us unique.
It's what separates us from the others.
It's what makes us beautiful.

To Love a Hero

It takes a special person to be a police officer. To put on a uniform and go to work day after day, knowing that there is a chance you may not even make it home-- but to still serve proudly-- is incredible. What's even more incredible is that the men and women who do this for us every day, without even thinking about it, continue to do so, even after their brothers and sisters in law enforcement get injured, and even killed, in the line of duty.

Two years ago, in the early morning hours of April 19th, my boyfriend's phone rang. It was a friend of his who is a Deputy in Erie County. The call was to let him know that his friend Andy, a Sandusky Police Officer, had been shot while on duty and his odds of making it weren't looking good. Just a short hour or so later, we received the call that he was gone.

As he listened to the news, my boyfriend reached over and squeezed my hand. My heart shattered into a million pieces. This officer was a police officer for the city of Sandusky because that's what he wanted to do... but he wasn't only an officer. He was a friend, husband, a brother, a son, and a father, among other things. And just eight short days prior, he turned 30.

These people who put their lives on the line for our safety and security do so without a second thought. They leave behind families and friends to go off and do what they love. To do what they believe in. I always used to hear about officer shootings in other areas of the country, and feel for the families and say some prayers... but having one hit so close to home was a huge wake up call.

This man was 30 years old; the age of my boyfriend. In fact, they went through the academy together. A part of me felt terrible for secretly being glad it wasn't my boyfriend... I don't know what I would have done if it had happened to him. It put into perspective the things Andy's family went through.

And then it hit me that not only does it take a special person to be a police officer, but it takes a special person to love a police officer. The families of these men and women know the risks of the job, and they love and support them anyway. I have never seen such an overwhelming support system than the law enforcement community. I am so thankful for the law enforcement spouses and families who let us have their loved ones for hours of a day, knowing that they may not make it back, and praying that they do. It takes a special person to love, and to be what is a true hero.

I am no longer with the boyfriend I stood beside during all of this. I always thought that afterward, I would be more on the "outside" of everything than I ended up being. Two years ago, I was a little less of a stranger than those who had never met Andy, but more of an outsider than those who knew him better than I did, those who worked with him... those who loved him. Today, I have been a dispatcher for over a year, and my officers fill the place in my heart where I truly don't know what I would do if this were to happen to any of them. Those men are my heroes, and I am truly fortunate to get to work with them day in and day out, supporting them in all types of situations.

I thank God for the men and women who serve and protect, and put their lives in danger, so that yours and mine may be safe. So the next time you get pulled over for any reason, please don't see just an officer. See someone with a family and friends who love them. And instead of cursing the officer for giving you a ticket, why not thank them, or pray for them? After all, they are out there to make sure you are safe, while it's ultimately their safety on the line. It's time our society turn its thinking around when it comes to our police. Most of us choose not to see it, but those heroes are our angels on earth.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to all of the men and women who protect our communities day in and day out. What you do does not go unnoticed or unappreciated. Every day, I wake up and pray for our officers all over the country, and thank God for letting us have them. And every night, I pray for them again, and thank Him for letting them (especially those I care about) make it home safely. But sometimes, the angels He's let us borrow are needed with Him and they get called home earlier than we'd hoped. Rest in peace, Andy. Every day, I pray for your family and the others you left behind. You're always in our hearts, never to be forgotten.

hold on, until you're out of breath

I laid in bed with my back to the open bedroom door. The other side of the bed had remained empty as I slept, for weeks. Our schedules were opposite each other, or that's what I told myself. Even though I knew it wasn't entirely the truth. Sure, I had class twice a week in the morning, but I got to set my own hours at work-- hours that I specifically chose to be overnight-- when he would be working, as well. Yet somehow, we never had time together.

It shouldn't have surprised me that this day would be any different than the others: he came home with his phone blowing up with texts, poured himself some cereal, sat down on the couch, and fired up Grand Theft Auto. I could hear the staccato gunshots in the video game pepper the people on the sidewalks, tires squealing, people screaming... interrupted by his text notification every few seconds. It had been weeks since I had slept next to my boyfriend, my best friend, as this had become his daily post-work routine. This is how he would stay until I would get up for the day. Then he would go to bed.

I laid there for a while, listening to the maddening symphony coming from the living room. I fought back tears until I couldn't fight any more. I cried, because I missed the man that I loved. I cried because I felt like I was losing him. I cried because I was selfish. I cried because I knew the answer to the question I was ready to get up and ask. I dried my eyes and threw back the blankets.

Wrapped up in my soft bathrobe, I walked into the living room. He didn't glance up. I stood behind the couch for what felt like an eternity before he noticed me standing there and handed me a card, before focusing his attention back to his game. I read it, and just as easily afterward... he read the disappointment on my face. When he asked what was wrong, I lied and told him nothing. I said it was great, and walked it to the bedroom where I placed it on my dresser before sitting on the bed and crying once more.

I wiped my face and got dressed before walking back to the living room. I put my hand on his shoulder, and he subtly pulled away. I winced and pulled my arm back to my side. Back where it seemed to belong anymore.

"Are you coming with me today?" I asked.

Silence. Unless you count the noises coming from the television as his character was in the midst of a gang war. I didn't need an answer. His lack of one was answer enough. I walked to the bathroom and did my makeup. When I was finished, I asked again. This time, he answered. This time, he gave the response I expected, but wished he wouldn't give.

"I don't know... I worked all night, and you have to be at your mom's by noon. It's already after 8 and I need to sleep--"

"--you can sleep on the drive to my mom's. You can sleep on the way to Fort Wayne. You're not doing any of the driving. Sure, sleeping in a vehicle may not be ideal, but once we get back, you can sleep in a bed at my dad's while we visit him. I just want to spend time with you today-- it's my birthday," I interrupted.

"I think I am just going to stay home and sleep," he finally said.

I grabbed my scarf, my coat, and purse and walked out of the apartment. I made it to the edge of town before I realized that I forgot my brother's birthday card on the chair by the door and had to turn around. Cursing myself, I pounded on the steering wheel and hit the brakes before turning around and heading back.

When I walked in the door, he was still playing Grand Theft Auto. "So much for sleep," I thought, and walked out again. I cried the entire drive to my mom's.

I spent the day with my mom and my brother, whose birthday was two days before. We went to dinner, watched my brother sing, and had cake at his apartment before heading back to my mom's. It was late, and I had spent my day with people who mattered most, but I was ready to get home and relax and I still had a forty minute drive ahead of me.

When I got home, he was sitting on the couch. This time, he was playing a Madden game and he, again, didn't even look up. I slipped out of my coat and shoes and headed for the bedroom. I wanted nothing more than to just shower and go to bed at that point. I grabbed my bathrobe and went into the bathroom.

I stood in water that was almost too hot to tolerate. I cried. finally, I finished my shower and got out. I dried off and wrapped up in my robe. I went into the living room to tell him goodnight, which was more than I thought he deserved, and was confronted.

"I'm pissed," he told me, "that you're so mad that I didn't go with you today. You don't get to be mad, because I actually wanted to spend time with you today, but you chose to spend the whole day elsewhere."

I was stunned. I couldn't believe he actually just said those words. "You were given a choice this morning. You chose to stay home and 'sleep' which seemed a whole lot more like playing video games, instead of spending the day with me. It was MY birthday. If anyone here gets to be mad, it should be ME, for not getting to spend time with the man that I love on my birthday. Family is important to me, so I spent time with my family, but you know what? YOU are my family, too. And you chose not to spend time with me when I asked."

"I did sleep," he argued. "I went to bed right after you came back for your brother's card."

"The point is," I said, "you don't get to pick and choose when spending time with someone is important. If you love someone, that should be enough. You make sacrifices. Today, you didn't. That says it all."

We spend the rest of the evening on opposite ends of the couch. I went to bed without him. And much like the day started, I cried myself to sleep.

                                       *               *               *               *               *

The day that I was born was six weeks too soon. My mother had come down with e-coli a month prior, almost killing both of us, and it was time for me to get out. When the placenta came out, it was black. Full of holes. Dead. The doctors told my parents there was no way it should have been able to sustain life. The illness had destroyed it. I shouldn't have lived. I spent the first two weeks of my life in the NICU with an IV in my head. Despite the complications, I was a healthy baby. A miracle.

Today, I turn another year older. Already, in the almost two hours that have passed of my birthday so far, it has been infinitely better than last year's. I am so blessed with amazing friends and family who have called and texted and reminded me that I am loved. Life is too short to live unhappy. To those of you who have helped light the way in my struggles over the past year, I can't tell you how much you mean to me. I thank each and every one of you for bringing happiness to me every day.