Happy Birthday

My mind has wandered a lot, of late, to topics that are a bit more serious than "Who's gonna win this year's Oscar?" or "Why did she wear that outfit in public?" I'm sure part of the reason is the season ... I always get even more introspective than usual when the holidays are impending. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because that's how my Mom used to always be, and I've adopted her behavior. At any rate ... I've been thinking a lot lately about love. It's one of the most difficult words to define, because, ultimately, its definition means different things to different people. It's been driving me crazy today, and until about ten minutes ago when I checked my email, I wasn't sure why. A bit of backstory, first, though.

My best friend, Jill, has been going through some major turmoil in her life the last few months. She seems to have reached a decision regarding her future (or, rather, her husband reached the decision and Jill, as always, decided to go along with it, not giving her own feelings credence) and that's brought her some tentative peace. I still hear uncertainty in her voice when we chat ... and doubt is a terrible thing when it permeates the fabric of your life. She kept saying "I've only loved one person in my whole life," and that made me take a look at myself and my love affairs.

I think I've truly been "in love" with four men. I've dated many more than that, sure, but only four touched me enough to get my love. That might seem like a lot to some ... but I don't think it is. The first one was ... well, today isn't the day to talk about any of them except the second one. It would be his birthday today, if he were here. For some reason, I thought his birthday was November 25, but I received an email this morning from his partner that reminded me it was indeed the 15th. So ... Stephen, then.

Stephen was ... sigh ... he was a surprise to both of us. We started as friends, wisely, and were both taken in by the other's ways and means. He was my polar opposite in nearly every way ... and I was drawn to him like nobody's business. He just crackled with something ... and it was like mother's milk to me. Our affair was brief and chaotic and passionate and mystifying and frustrating and over way too soon. We kept in touch sporadically -- he'd call me when he was going to be in town and we'd go drinking, or I'd get a rambling email sent at some ungodly hour, or I'd throw caution to the wind and call him just to see what was up in his insane world. The last time I saw him, he promised me he was quitting drugs. He told me nothing was more important to him than getting back to school, making something out of the nothing he'd already made. And I believed him, I really did. Then again, I always believed him. I remember when we were leaving the restaurant that night, we stopped by his rental car and had a smoke. We laughed. I told him I was glad he'd found happiness with his new love, that he deserved it, and that he should run with it. He called me a "stupid git," flicked his cigarette at me, and drove away.

Stephen died last year, a victim of his own excesses. His fiery personality got the better of everything in his life, apparently. I don't think I really realized that I loved him until he passed. I used to think "oh that one, well, he was fun," and leave it at that. Silly me. He stitched himself into the fabric of my being with his typical tenacity, and I wasn't even aware of it until it was too late to thank him for it. Hopefully he's singing with Janis Joplin somewhere. He always talked about Janis.