...as far as I can tell, I just don't miss you anymore.
A great line from a song called "I Keep A Diary" by a band called Braid. While a sentiment that seems somewhat harsh for why I've actually been moved from getting out of bed to write this, but the more I sit and listen to this song and actually think about how it applies to what I want to say, it oddly works.
I'm a week into testosterone replacement therapy and while the gel often leaves me feeling sick and incapacitated, I am slowly becoming the normal, functioning guy I was back in June. We're a long way off from perfect, and I still have three months of self-lubrication to go before I even hear what the next move in, but its refreshing to have a doctor provide me a solution that has tangible, noticeable improvements to my health.
This whole nightmare has unearthed something that probably really wasn't even much of a secret. I think it is obvious to anyone who is really close to me that I suffer from some sort of depression that has equal parts biochemical and behavioral elements. At times, especially throughout most of March, before getting the appointment at the endocrinologist, I was in a mire of a bleak, dark, hopeless existence. I'm sure it sounds a bit melodramatic, but fuck it, it was true. I'm not quite out of it yet to be entirely honest, but over the last twenty-four hours, I feel like my life is turning into some sort of John Cusack-esque romantic comedy movie, but in the best way possible.
Without divulging too much in the interest of not jinxing myself and protect the identities of all parties involved that aren't me, what seemed like a lifetime ago, but was really only twelve years ago, I went on a date with someone that, while this may hurt the feelings of some of you, was more or less the best date I ever went on ever. It was an impromptu Valentine's Day date. Nineteen year old me even did his best to dress up a little bit, which I'm sure looked as awkward as it felt, and then I braved a rainstorm in my Toyota pick up truck and drove from Santa Cruz to San Francisco to pick up a fellow college aged girl with a foul mouth and the same sort of ill-timed, tasteless sense of humor that I have. She dressed up, far better than I did, and I recently learned she bought a leather skirt which she wore for twenty hours straight while it was wet so that it would highlight her ass, which honestly, even though its been twelve years and running tab of intoxicants potential into six figures, did enough to make my pants smaller without the leather skirt. We went to Jay's for their award-winning seitan sandwiches and then to the Bottom of the Hill to see The Plus Ones and Bracket (I remembered offhand that we saw The Plus Ones, but she had saved the BOTH schedule that included the full line up, including Bracket), neither of whom we were incredibly huge fans of, but the company was far more important than the entertainment. I'm pretty sure that I bought her a fake rose from a Chevron station in Half Moon Bay, but there is only one way we will ever know for sure, and the way in which we will know for sure is what floored me and got me out of bed. I was at least one, potentially more, entries in someone's diary.
Could this have been the case in other situations with girls I've been with? Certainly, but none of them have ever told me, and alluded to me being even more than one entry. I've been in love. I've been there for the high times, the low times, and all the times in between. I've had profound, life-changing experiences good and bad with other relationships in my life, but something about this persons coming and going and the memories staying so vivid isn't something I can't ignore, and I'm just lucky enough to have it come at a time where I'm smart enough to make some sense of it, and at a time when I can use all the positive influence I can get.
So getting back to that obscure Braid quote this entire post is stemmed from, I keep a diary now, and I'm starting to leave this rough part of my life behind. Knowing someone found me special enough to forever commit me to paper via ink is enough to make the hormone therapy induced nausea and exhaustion a little easier to bare.
Who knows where life takes us, but I feel good about what it's showing me right now.
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