Our Story - Mike's Version

The first time that I saw Katie was in passing at a coffee shop. I was there with some friends who knew her and they said hello as we went to our table. It was wintertime, so we were all sitting inside instead of at our usual tables out back. I was sitting where I could see her and I remember being aware of her while we were there, but no more than I was aware of anyone else there that night. Perhaps only in hindsight does the evening stand out as it was otherwise unremarkable.

I don’t remember when I actually met Katie. As bizarre as this sounds, it’s fairly common in the recovery community; people tend to begin conversations and even friendships without formal introductions. I have found myself knowing people (and even intimate details of their lives) for months before finally learning their names. It’s odd for sure, but we just roll with it.

Anyhow, there was a point where Katie was not hanging out with my group of friends and then there was a point where she had been hanging out with us for a while and I have no idea when that changed. Or maybe it was the other way around. Maybe I was the one that started hanging around with her friends. Possibly a bit of both; such is the way of things in that community. 

The big moment that I do remember is the one where Katie changed for me from “casual acquaintance” to “someone special”. Not in any sort of romantic way, but in that way when you occasionally meet someone that has a spark that you latch on to and decide, in that instant, that you want them to be your friend. It was a moment when I realized that this person, this one among many, was unique and special and that I wanted her to be a part of my life. It would take more than a year for me to realize just how true that thought was, but more on that later.

A group of 15 or so of us had descended on an all-night cafe after a late-night AA meeting to continue our fellowship and camaraderie over chips, salsa, coffee and pancakes. This was a regular thing for us and this was one of our regular haunts. I don’t recall having intentionally sat next to Katie, but memory sometimes gets a little fuzzy during the retelling, so it’s possible. Self-deprecating humor being an important quality of any good recovering alcoholic, I had been participating in a joke about my own tendency to pontificate. We had gotten to the point where, in the joke, I was standing atop a high horse, which was standing on another high horse (both clydesdales) and the two of them were balanced on a soapbox. I asked what was under the soapbox and without missing a beat, Katie replied “It’s turtles, all the way down.” Google it if you don’t know the reference as it’s kind of obscure and completely incongruous to the joke. It also happened to be the exact answer that I would have given had I been asked that question. To her reply, I probably exclaimed “Yes!” entirely too loudly and began laughing in a way that confused the rest of the group that didn’t get the reference. I recall Katie and I then explaining it to everyone afterwards and none of them found it as funny as we did. Seriously, Google it.

I had been going through a difficult time in life during this period and had been renting a room from a good friend while finalizing a divorce and the sale of my former home. As it happened, Katie had begun dating this same friend of mine so we had no shortage of opportunity to grow a friendship over coffee and cigarettes on his back patio during the following months. It was through these late-night chats on the patio, at cafes and many many nights at the tables outside that same coffee shop where I had first seen her that Katie and I became something more than just friends. We became best friends.

Memory has a funny way of playing with time and time has a funny way of playing with memory, so I likely have a lot of things wrong or out of order when I recall that year of my life, but there are a few moments that stand out. Katie and I had become each other’s go-to person for ideas, advice, commiseration and general solace from the craziness of our worlds. 

She was there as I saw friends wander away from recovery and we would hear stories of them taking up their old lifestyles (or worse) and she helped me remember that not everyone makes it and that we should celebrate the ones that do while learning from the ones that don’t. She was also there to share the joy of seeing people begin to recover and put their lives back in order and to laugh at the ludicrous drama that permeates any late-night recovery group. She was there when I began dating again, helping me select potential matches on a dating app and laughing at my tales of comically bad first dates. As an aside, there was one date where I stopped in the middle of it to take some pictures of turtles to send to Katie. Because turtles. Most of all, she was there to help me back up as I stumbled into becoming my own person again and engaged in a seemingly endless series of questionable decisions that seemed like good ideas at the time. No matter what was happening, she was there.

Rest assured, this was far from a one-way street, but this is my story. You can read Katie’s version if you want the other side of it. 

One night, after more than a year of helping each other through all of life’s joys, pains and general absurdities, we found ourselves at her apartment watching reruns of old crime dramas and just being comforted by each other’s presence and stability. We had been up all night and we were both exhausted so perhaps our guards were down, but we had a moment. Nothing juicy, don’t go there. We had a moment where we both realized that what we had was something much more than a friendship. 

This moment came as a surprise to both of us. Publicly, we had become almost inseparable in the minds of our peers, so much that we were often asked if we were a couple. Of course, we both found the idea to be preposterous and replied as much, but apparently everyone else saw what we couldn’t (or wouldn’t).

What followed is even more of a blur than the year leading up to it and my memories are mostly of emotions felt during this time. I recall a constant state of wondering if I was dreaming, exultation at realizing that I wasn’t, fear that we were wrong or that I would mess things up, recognition that it would be ok if I did, trust that she would understand my missteps, realization that this trust was part of why she was perfect and then back to wondering if it was a dream again. It was beautifully exhausting.

I remember the experience of breaking the news to our friends. Almost universally, the response was along the lines of “It’s about time.” To this day, I’m still not sure how I feel about everyone else being right except me, but I can’t possibly express how happy I am that they were.

In the years since, Katie and I have been able to build a life that we can both be proud of. We have started new careers and hobbies together. We’ve helped each other grow and learn and become better. We’ve developed an ever-evolving language based on love, trust and respect for each other that is beyond my ability to describe. 

And now I’m about to take the next step in this life with a partner that surpasses my loftiest notions of perfect. Through a confluence of luck, faith, stubbornness and willingness to take a chance, I have found my person. Or she has found me. Or both.

None of us can predict the future and as much as we plan and dream, life always has a way of tossing unexpected curveballs our way. What I do know for certain is that I have a teammate that will be there for me as I will be there for her, to stand side by side as we face tomorrow, and know that we can handle it together.

And I know now that I have loved her since the turtles.

Our Story - Katie's Version

Love stories are a funny thing. I don't remember the moment I first saw Mike, or the first conversation we had. Yet somehow, it's like my life is divided into two eras: the time between being born and meeting him, and everything after that, forever and always. The dividing line is a little blurry, some of the details have faded, the interaction of time with memory creates subtle subconscious edits to the narrative. But here's my version of the story I've been lucky enough to live as it unfolds --

One night, in December of 2013, a girl I knew from recovery asked me if I wanted to go to a 10 pm meeting in South Austin with her. It was a meeting I'd never been to before--I lived north of the river at the time, I usually didn't go to late meetings, and, as a creature of rigid routine, I'm really not sure what compelled me to go to that meeting on that night. But I did. And, as it turned out, I kept going back, nearly every night, for the next two years or so. I quickly felt at home there, and I began to join people for coffee before the meeting, and even stick around after and go out for dinner.

Mike was an integral part of that group of friends--he always seemed to be around, sometimes at the periphery, often sitting quietly, looking at his phone; other times the center of attention, sharing stories or bad jokes. It didn't take long for me to pick up on the fact that he was someone who had gained a wealth of wisdom through his experiences, someone who was proud of his accomplishments but honest about his shortcomings, someone who would do anything for those he cared about.

In those first months, we'd frequently hang out in a group setting, only rarely spending time without others around, though some time later we acknowledged that we'd both, consciously or not, begun to seek out each other's company, whether it was trying to sit next to each other at dinner, or getting to coffee early in hopes that the other would be there.

Once, we were out at dinner with a big group of friends and ended up sitting next to each other. Because Mike would sometimes pontificate on various topics on which he had strong opinions, and he occasionally needed to be told to leave his high horse at the door, we were joking about his spirit animal (or imaginary companion animal?) being a Clydesdale. More specifically, a Clydesdale on top of a soapbox. He asked me what was under the soapbox, and without hesitating, I said "It's turtles, all the way down". In retrospect, of course he got the reference, and of course that is exactly the answer he'd been looking for, but at the time, it was a delightful shock to both of us that it played out that way. Another time, we were standing around with a bunch of people who were talking about how the full moon makes people a little crazy. Mike said "That's lunacy!" No one else batted an eye, but I laughed hysterically. It was little moments like that when we realized we connected with each other in a way we didn't with most other people.

As the months wore on, we began talking more frequently, calling each other, occasionally meeting up for coffee just the two of us. Our trust in each other as friends and confidants grew deeper. We'd often go to each other for relationship advice--he'd show me pictures of women he'd met on Tinder and ask my opinion; I'd recount stories of interactions I'd had with guys and ask for his perspective.

One night, we were sitting outside at our coffee shop, and I was expressing my frustrations about being in my late 20s and not being in a serious relationship. I was afraid my standards were too high, that I'd never meet someone who had all the qualities I considered "must haves" in a partner. It's not too hard to find someone who is intelligent, or who has the right balance of seriousness and sarcasm, or who has an intimate understanding of recovery, or a deep appreciation of language and words--it's much more difficult to find one person who checks all those boxes. Mike told me not to lower my standards, and that it was okay to keep "must love words" in my metaphorical personal ad. Little did I know at the time that he'd turn out to be my "must love words".

Throughout this time, I'd had several friends ask me if I'd ever consider dating Mike, and we even mutual acquaintances who assumed we were together. I always laughed it off --what an absurd idea, I'd never date Mike. We were too good of friends, plus it would never work. Our lifestyles were too different, we didn't have enough common interests. Or whatever. Anyway, others saw something between us that we didn't see.

On February 7, 2015, after over a year of friendship with this person I felt I'd known for a lifetime, the universe decided it was time for us to see what our friends had seen all along. We'd both recently gotten out of relationships and were feeling pretty lousy. We had already established the habit of turning to each other for comfort and conversation on the friendship level, so it was only natural that we would be there for each other that night. I think he asked if I wanted him to come over, or maybe I asked if he would, I can't remember. I do remember sitting on my couch next to him, watching episodes of "Law and Order" and talking. Maybe he put his arm around me, or maybe I rested my head on his shoulder, I don't know, but at some point it was clear that we had to acknowledge the depth of the connection we felt with one another and evaluate the direction our friendship was heading. I remember being terrified and thinking "this cannot happen"--our friendship had become so important to me, and I didn't have a great track record with relationships. I was terrified that if we started a relationship, I'd somehow screw it up, and I'd lose the friendship. But I knew I couldn't imagine my life without him in it.

The next day (or maybe it was a few days later), I met up with a close friend to tell her what was happening. I made a big production out of it, saying I was going to buy her coffee because it was the least I could do given the shocking news I was about to bombard her with. After I finished my fearful, excited rambling, she looked at me, unfazed, and said "Well that's obvious". When I asked her why she didn't tell me before, she said "We thought you knew!!!" The universe had given us the blind spot exactly where we needed it, for exactly as long as we needed it. When we were ready, we were able to see.

One night that first week, we went on what you might say was our "first date" - to 888, a Pan-Asian restaurant where we'd previously shared many laughs and good conversations over late night green curry with friends. Seriously, their green curry is so good there. I don't remember much of what we talked about, but I'll never forget the words he said as we were discussing how to approach the relationship going forward: "All I ask is your complete willingness to try".

The first few weeks, maybe months, of dating were a whirlwind of emotions as we adjusted to the new role we had in each other's lives. Due to logistical factors about our individual circumstances, we ended up moving in together earlier in our relationship than was probably reasonable, objectively speaking, if it's even reasonable to speak objectively about such things. But we maintained our "complete willingness to try," and we adapted fairly easily to sharing a living space.

Fast forward almost two years, a couple apartments, two new cars, several promotions at work for each of us, and a whole lot of growing together and strengthening our partnership. We started to talk about committing our lives to each other. Eventually he told me he had a plan to propose, and he gave me a one-word hint: "Oink". I puzzled over that for months, trying to get him to give me more clues, asking coworkers what they thought it meant.

Then, on December 30, 2016, we were getting ready to go out to dinner at Odd Duck. He'd made me believe it was my idea to go out to dinner to celebrate the New Year a day early, because I don't like to be out with all the crowds, and being on the roads late at night on drinking holidays makes me nervous. I remember I had mentioned to my boss as I was leaving work that day that Mike and I were going to dinner, and he asked if I expected a proposal. I think I said "No, I guarantee he won't ask me tonight!" Anyway, we got dressed and ready to go, and as I came downstairs, I might have made a comment on the dress I was wearing, or my coat, which I didn't think looked right with the dress. Mike said something like "I have just the thing to go with that" and went back upstairs to grab something. That's the moment I suspected what was about to happen. I remember looking at my reflection in the sliding door to our balcony and taking a deep breath. He came back downstairs, got down on one knee, and said "Katie, I have loved you since the turtles". I don't remember what was said after that, other than there was some squealing and some repeated questioning along the lines of "Is this really happening?!" When I got over the shock of the moment, he explained the hint - apparently December 30 is National Bacon Day!

In the year and a half since I said "Yes," Mike has continued to make me a better version of myself, one day at a time. We've been through a lot of life's ups and downs in the past few years, and through all the changes, the joyful parts and the challenges, we've begun to build a life together on the unshakeable foundation of a solid friendship. As Antoine de Saint-Exupery wrote, "Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction".  In that sense, Mike is my perfect teammate in this life.

 I look forward to a lifetime of learning and endless adventures with you, babe! 

hope is a placebo

From time to time, my mother will remind me out of the blue that I should write, that she thinks I'm good at it. It's usually a good idea for me to do what she says. But how can I write when I have nothing to say? She suggested that I write about bicycling (I got a bike; it changed my life), weaving (that's a cool thing that I do sometimes), or wedding planning (ummm... no). Of those options, I figured bicycling would be easiest to write about, so I sat down to try to do that. I wrote three sentences, and they were all ridiculous.

Let's start over.

Four years ago, I was struggling with letting go of a relationship I thought I really wanted but deep down knew I couldn't have right then because there was a good chance it would be harmful to the other person, and possibly to myself, in turn. I had come to terms with the fact that it wasn't the right time then, but was clinging to the hope that maybe there would be a time in the future when the relationship would be possible. A very good friend of mine told me at the time that in order to really be free, I had to give up hope of ever getting what I wanted. I fought it, trying to bargain by saying I'd be willing to give up the expectation if I could keep the hope. He told me "Hope is a placebo for action." I don't think I understood that at the time - either I was too upset about being told things I didn't want to hear, or I still had some growth to do before I'd really be ready to internalize what he meant. Plus I just felt like that was kind of a dick thing to say, or at least a dick way to say it. I mean, come on. (He's actually not a dick; he's actually very wise and clever, has always had my best interest at heart, and would do anything for the people he cares about, even if it means telling them what they need to hear but can't stand to listen to. Those are just some of the reasons I'm marrying him in 110 days! Love you, Mike!)

Anyway, yesterday afternoon, a friend and I were chatting about hope and expectations. Our conversation reminded me of what Mike told me four years ago, which had worked its way into a box on a dusty shelf somewhere in the warehouse of my brain, and stayed there, untouched, until the universe decided, yesterday, that I was ready to open it again. When I opened the box, the contents looked different than when I'd packed it up four years ago. It was an odd feeling, looking at the words and seeing them differently, knowing they hadn't changed a bit. That disconnect made me realize that the many edits and revisions, some minor, some major, to my perspective on life over the past few years have added up to the point where I'm legitimately a different version of myself now. Ship of Theseus and all that. Hmm.

I brought the box out onto the balcony of our apartment, where Mike and I like to sit in the evenings and relax when it's not too hot out. He helped me unpack it. We had a wonderful, soul-nourishing conversation about hope, expectations, worry, and acceptance. The kinds of hope it's fair to have, and why. The kinds of hope we can't afford to hang onto, and what the consequences are if we don't let go. The fact that some statements of hope are actually excuses for inaction. The different meanings "hope" can have depending on part of speech.

Sitting down by myself now, to write, it feels like a tangled mess of ideas, there are so many things I want to try to say, and I don't know where to start. So I'll start with nouns. Because... grammar.

One sense of the word "hope" as a noun is something like optimism, confidence, or even faith. If I'm being Biblical about it, I might say that "hope" entails a sure confidence that the will of God will come to pass; a firm assurance in an unclear future. But since I'm not, I might say that "hope" in this sense is the certain knowledge of the fact that, no matter how things turn out, even if (especially if?) they don't go my way, everything is ultimately as it should be (this holds true at all times, for all time), and I am taken care of, no matter what. This is the kind of hope that is always okay to have. I have this hope now, and it's the opposite of the hopelessness I used to live in, and try to die in.

Using hope as a verb, I say things like "I hope the weather is nice next weekend". When I say that, I'm expressing a preference for a particular future outcome over which I have no control. There's no action I can take that will change the weather. Maybe there's a way in which my hoping for sunshine gives me the illusion of agency; the false idea that I have any say in the matter. But I don't, and yet I've tied my feelings to the outcome - if it rains next weekend, I'll be disappointed, I might have to change my plans, I'll probably be grouchy and not so fun to be around, I might take it out on someone I care about and say something I'll have to apologize for later.

This sort of hope can be problematic. When I choose to attach myself to an outcome I have no control over (it's always a choice, but I usually forget that), I close myself off to all other possible outcomes. If the outcome I'm hoping for is overwhelmingly more probable than the other possible outcomes, and I have some idea of what the probability distribution looks like, it's probably not a problem. It can be fair to have hope when we can reasonably foresee the outcome. But if there's a 50% chance of rain in the forecast on my wedding day and "I hope it doesn't rain", I am setting myself up for possible disappointment, resentment, and anger. If it rains when I was hoping it wouldn't, my expectation has tethered me to one place, and reality is 500 miles away. In order to be truly happy, I have to fully accept whatever reality is. Which, if it's raining, means traveling 500 miles (in the rain, no less) before I can even get to acceptance of reality. Traveling 500 miles takes time and energy. Time I could have spent enjoying the moment; energy I could have spent in useful, constructive ways. Then there's also the risk of getting into a car accident on the long drive, causing damage that I have to repair before I can get where I'm going. (Sick of this metaphor yet?) These are the kinds of consequences I can have if I hang onto this sort of hope. Not that I need to be thrilled if it rains at my wedding, but I can go into it with the attitude of "No matter what the weather is like, I can enjoy this day." I'll actually enjoy more of it if I don't go into it hoping for sunshine!

Then there's "hope" in circumstances where we do have some agency, some impact on the outcome. Like "I hope my job interview goes well." There are some actions that I can take in order to increase the probability of my job interview being successful. I can do research and educate myself about the company and its core values. I can make sure that I get a good night's sleep before and eat a healthy breakfast that morning. I can "dress for success", etc, etc. Then there are parts that are out of my control. I don't know what questions I'll be asked, I don't know what the qualifications of the other candidates are, I don't know what kind of mood the interviewer will be in on that particular day. But if I've taken all the actions I can take in order to maximize the likelihood of having a successful interview, what is the use of "hoping" that it goes well? All that does is make me nervous and put me at risk of having to drive 500 miles back to reality in a rainstorm. However, if I don't take the actions to set myself up for success, and I sit around idly hoping it goes well, then I'm using hope as a placebo for action. Being in the state of hoping for success makes me "feel" like I'm doing something to increase the chances of obtaining my desired outcome, when it's really doing me no good, and possibly indirectly causing harm (cf. the part about acceptance). (Random tangential thing - there is something to be said for visualizing success, but I think that's a different thing.) The flip side of this is worry. "I'm worried that the interview will go poorly". Same story - if I've done everything I can to prepare, why worry?

Sometimes expressions of hope can serve a social purpose, which gives them meaning over and above their content. I might tell a friend "I hope your grandmother's surgery goes smoothly". I suppose I'm still expressing that my preferred outcome is for my friend's grandmother to avoid complications and regain health, but, assuming I don't know the grandmother, my personal preference isn't what matters here--what matters is that the reason I'm making the statement is to communicate to my friend that I care about her happiness, that I empathize with her pain, that she matters to me. Expressions of hope of this kind are, I think, valuable parts of human relationships. Because you just don't casually tell someone "Your grandma might die on the operating table. Just so you know. You probably shouldn't hold onto hope that she'll survive." Unless you're an asshole, or a really good friend. Or maybe a doctor with shitty bedside manner.

Even when I hope for outcomes that seem somehow good or noble or right (grandmas surviving surgeries, criminals being brought to justice, world peace, or whatever else), that still implies that I think I know how things ought to turn out. The whole point is that I don't know what's supposed to happen, I don't know what's best for anyone (even myself), but I do know that whatever is going to happen will happen, and if I roll with the punches, I can be peaceful and serene no matter what. Because I know everything is going to be okay, no matter what. Because I have the kind of hope that it's okay to have, no matter what.

Since I started out by structuring this mess using parts of speech, I should probably include the part about my intuitions on "hopeful" as a predicate adjective. But I'm too tired of writing to think more about that right now. Maybe another day, and maybe not.

What I'm taking from all this for now is: When I catch myself using "hope" as a verb, I can take that as a cue to ask myself "Is there any action I can take to influence the outcome of this situation?" If so, maybe do it. If not, give up hoping--it's not serving me. And I hate driving in the rain! 

But no matter what, don't give up hope.

Thanks for listening, y'all :)