Fifteen years ago, I started a path already five years in the making.
Fifteen years ago, I moved forward with the next great step in my life. Fifteen years ago, after having been home from my mission for less than half a year, I married. Gayle and I were sealed together in the Manti Temple on a brilliant October morning. The sky was essentially cloudless, the trees gilded with fall, the grass still green with its memories of summer. Family and friends had come from all over--some a great distance--to celebrate with us. We were twenty-one and confident we'd made the right choice in choosing each other. Now that a decade and a half have passed, I'm confident that I chose right. And, much to my relief, Gayle feels the same way. Seeing as how we've known each other for more of our lives than we had without, it's good to know that, with twenty years of being together, we aren't sick of one another yet. In fact, next month and eleven days will mark the twentieth anniversary of our first date. These numbers are both arbitrary and significant; we choose to focus on base-10 numbers because of the decimalization of our world, but making these landmarks important aren't done because there's a zero at the end of the number. It's always remarkable and worth celebrating the milestones that we reach, regardless of how easy it is to divide that milestone by five. I mean, our thirteenth anniversary was noteworthy (as we were married on the 13th of October) because it meant something special to us. As far as this one is concerned, I'm simply grateful to be here at all. Recent shifts in my extended family have reminded me that my marriage may be a gift, but it's one that requires maintenance and upkeep, one that requires work and sacrifice. This isn't a lesson that I've necessarily internalized. Caring for Gayle is instinctive and habitual, but in terms of thinking and talking about my marriage, that's something that requires deliberate action. There are things that make me uncomfortable discussing, even with Gayle--money is usually one of them, which is ironic in no small way, if you know my personal philosophy toward money--and so I have to make concerted, clear efforts to put into words what I'd rather not. Still, I think it's easy and fair to say that I'm still quite happily in love with her. She has been a pillar of support for me throughout the hardships that we've endured, from having a miscarriage to keeping our half-hearted baby alive to growing our family and dealing with my mental illness and the to-be-expected-but-never-foreseen problems that are part and parcel of living in this world of tears. She is the Tigger to my Eeyore, and I'm grateful that, on a whim of hyperactivity, I asked the red-head in my art class what she was doing for Thanksgiving Break in 1999. Because I did that and got her phone number written down, I ended up spending some time with her that I would not have been able to do otherwise. I wouldn't have learned about her, nor she me. I don't know where I would be (unsurprisingly) without Gayle in my life, but I am confident it wouldn't be where I am now. Does that distress me? I don't know. Choosing someone is, in many ways, less difficult than knowing that you have not chosen every other. Could I have found love and support and happiness with someone else? I believe so--I have to believe so. While I believe that Gayle is my soulmate, I don't for a second think that her happiness was predicated on going to the same high school as I. There were moments in my family's life that could have put us on a different path, including a brief time where we might have moved out to California. I would never have found Gayle in that case, though I'm certain I would have found somebody. So I don't think, necessarily, that I was guided to a single correct answer; I do, however, think that we've made that choice the right one as we've continued to fall in love with each other as often as necessary. When I talk to my students about love (which happens during our Pride and Prejudice unit, which we finish up just before Valentine's Day because I'm not good enough at planning my schedule to get it to sync perfectly), I always assert that it's a proactive thing, something that gains its value in the work that's put into it. One of the pieces of writing that I am most proud of is my 300,000 word behemoth, Writ in Blood. I haven't worked on it in years, but when I think about what I managed to create over the course of multiple years, Writ in Blood is my most valuable work. I care much more about it than the NaNoWriMo attempts, or even those things which I've cranked out in the course of a summer or a semester. Love, in my experience, has as much to do with the time that I've put into it--and Gayle, too--than it does with picking the right person or any other attendant concerns. So, yes, after fifteen years of marriage, and twenty years since being Gayle's (boy)friend, I think it's fair to say that I'm still very much in love. As my friend, Dustin Simmons, has said multiple times, "I'll take the worst day of being married over the best day of being single." I add a hearty amen to that, and assert that, despite however many mistakes, missteps, or misdeeds I've done over the past three and a half decades, marrying Gayle was not one of them. We're two parts to a single whole, and I think that's wonderful. Fifteen years ago, we started our journey together. I haven't regretted it once. Dear Gayle,
As you know, I like to give my students three pieces of marital advice. Along with the hope that they learn to hate hatred and love people by default, it is the only other part of their tenth grade education that I hope they retain with them. And though there are more ways to make a marriage, these are the three things that I've seen with us night and day for many weary years. The first: Don't sweat the money. Of course, we're doing well, financially, and it's entirely thanks to you. Of the two of us, you have been the larger-earner and harder-worker in our marriage. Even before we were married, you were taking the harder classes in college, working longer hours, and trying to accomplish more. H*ck, you were employed before you had even walked during commencement. You had to get a substitute so that you could attend your own college graduation. And though you're not a money whiz, you've shown complete competence with our finances. I know it's hard on you to be the one who does the taxes. I see that and I appreciate it. The size of the audit that our family would have on the regular if I were in charge of the money is shudder-inducing. Thank you for always keeping us going, giving us small pleasures (a night out, a fun activity, an enjoyable vacation) while also helping make sure that we have a home to live in and food to eat. That you and I share the understanding that money is to be used for our betterment has made our relationship a pleasure. Oh, and about the money you spend on costumes: I know you make jokes to people about how you don't want to say how much your wearable artwork costs, "Not in front of him, anyway," you say with a smile and teasing hands put over my ears…but I really don't care how much it costs for you to follow your passion. I know you know this, but it feels important to say. Back when we were first married, you found a way to finance your Liquid Lead artwork by teaching in the selfsame studio. But even if you hadn't been making money by teaching, I still would have been happy to use our meager budget to get you the supplies you needed so that you could paint. Now that your engineering/science/problem-solving background has fused with your artistic prowess, the only thing I get from seeing you work (and your work) is what, for me, passes as joy. I love to see your focus and drive, and though I don't have a lot to say about your process when you've found a solution for a current problem, I'm happy that you are making progress. It doesn't bother me to be a sounding board, even if I don't reply much. The second: Take irritants and make them endearments. This one always requires conscious thought for me. Everyone has their quirks. And though you leaving open the cupboards no longer irritates me--it's an endearment--I'm still trying to get past the washcloths left in the sink and the trip-ready shoes forgotten by the door. No, I'm not trying to passive-aggressively guilt you into changing. I'm not trying to change you: I'm trying to change me. One thing that was an irritant to me many years ago was when you would notice that I was diving deeper into my depression and you would pin me to the couch until I talked to you. At the time, it bothered me that you wouldn't let me be--and, what's more, that I couldn't keep my pain hidden well enough for you to miss. Now, however, it's something that I understand and appreciate. One of the hardest parts of having dysthymia is, for me at least, the one-two combo of religious-socio expectations of "being the man who provides" and then being incapable of providing a strong support for you. Days where you're frustrated and glum almost always land on the days when I struggle the most with my depression. You're rarely given the luxury of indulging in your own bad days because I monopolize them. I'm sorry that I do that to you. I appreciate that you have learned how to talk to me, especially when I least want to. I know it's hard. And though my depression is an "irritant" to you--and one that you've come to understand and accept, I think, without it becoming an "endearment"--you've handled our maturing understanding of who I am with grace and beauty. Indeed, today marks the first year since I visited a doctor to be diagnosed with dysthymia, a word I never would have learned had you not cared so much about me. To say that I feel unworthy of such devotion and concern is beyond a mild understatement. Thank you for that. The third: Marriage is all give, no take. Back in high school, we had a great health teacher named Cougar Hall. I was in tenth grade--we hadn't quite met yet, as that happy occasion wouldn't occur until our junior year--so my memory is probably fuzzy (who remembers anything of their tenth grade year, honestly?), but Mr. Hall gave this phrase as his (only?) piece of marriage advice: Marriage is all give, no get. I've thought about that a lot and realized that one of the verbs doesn't quite fit for me. So I modified it to the one above. When I tried to use Mr. Hall's advice as is, I found myself unhappy because I would get things from our marriage. I got love and attention and books and other things that mattered to me. Then I would feel guilty, as if I weren't reciprocating sufficiently. Well, I still may be reciprocating insufficiently, but that possibility was exacerbated by the well-meaning advice. So I changed it. It isn't about deprivation, it's about action. I don't disappear--often--without telling you where I want to go. I don't take a writing retreat without planning it out. I don't slip off for hours at a time, abandoning you to all of the roles of mother, caregiver, and housewife. Well, usually. I used to play quidditch, which was pretty much that. But, again, this is a way for both of us to utilize the advice. When we both give to each other, we both gain more than what we had alone. This is, for me, paradoxical advice, because it is both easy and difficult, intuitive and unnatural all in one. This is how I help reduce my own selfishness. And I love that you let me find my own center. You gave me my Fortress of Solitude that looks like a Tudor cottage, lined with my books, in the room with the best view in the house. You made this office for me first thing upon moving into New Place--a pragmatic choice, but also one that made me feel seen and appreciated. You care for our children--no easy task--and, like me, recognize that there are lots of areas where we can improve. We both want our parenting to be the best possible, and we both strive to make it happen that way. And, when we work together, we really do get so much more. So. We have been married for fourteen years today. That October day of 2004 was temperate, a slight breeze stirring the autumnal leaves of Manti. The sky was teeth-aching blue; only smudges of clouds streaked the sky. Our family was around us, having sacrificed a lot of time and energy to make to central Utah so that we could get married in a castle-temple. We were twenty-one. We'd known each other for about five years--definitely longer than the average Utah relationship--and we didn't really know how we were going to make our way through this new phase of life, but we were committed to do it together. At age thirty-five, we have now known each other for longer than we haven't, since we met when we were sixteen. And though we don't have quite as many years married as we did not married, these past fourteen years have been more rewarding (and difficult, let's be honest) than I had the capacity to imagine. Loving you has been the easiest part of my life, an area of inflexible reliance. Your kindness, your temper, your enthusiasm, your joy--the essence of you, Gayle, is something that I feel unqualified to receive. Yet, here we are: Almost a decade and a half has transpired and I have learned the truth in Juliet's words, thanks to you. "My bounty is as boundless as the sea,/ My love as deep; the more I give to thee,/ The more I have, for both are infinite." I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange? Thank you, my dearest heart of hearts, for being my friend and companion throughout the vicissitudes and vagaries of our little time here on Earth. I can imagine no better person with whom I'd want to travel into eternity than you. You are my inspiration, my protection, and my only true love. There has been no other, nor never will be. I love you. Happy anniversary. Steve I'm going to take a few minutes and brag about my wife, Lady Gayle. A few years ago, a comic convention arrived in Salt Lake. I had heard about ComiCon in San Diego. I didn't know much about it, save it looked like fun and kind of overwhelming. When information about the FantasyCon (I think that's what it was called) percolated out and news about Sean Astin (the actor who played Samwise Gamgee in The Lord of the Rings) was released, Gayle--a major LotR fan--was insistent that we go. In order to prepare for this opportunity to meet an actor from her favorite film franchise, Gayle decided to make a version of Arwen's green dress from the end of The Return of the King. She put it together over the course of a week or so, sewing the dress from a pattern on her mother's sewing machine. Eventually, the day arrived and we waited in line for our photo op with Sean. I was wearing some Ravenclaw robes, since I had had to teach school that day and I didn't want to go to class in costume. (Harry Potter robes are a quick way for a teacher like me to go from profession to hobby with minimal fuss.) As we entered the booth, Sean gave us a fixed, professional smile, said, "Nice dress!" to Gayle, and grinned at the camera. Click. Then we were on the other side of the partition, our five seconds with one of the actors that fundamentally changed my wife's life over, and we stood next to the printer, waiting for our photograph to be printed and put into a plastic bag. That was it. Gayle was all smiles, and though we saw a lot of other cool things at the con, that was basically the highlight. That year, for Halloween, Gayle wanted to make me a Shakespeare costume, something that I could wear when I taught Hamlet or just as a go-to Halloween costume. She had so much fun making it that she decided to make an elaborate version of Queen Elizabeth I that she could wear with me--that way, we were thematic. She spent hundreds of hours sewing the thing, adding beads and decorations all over the place. Even though Queen Elizabeth isn't really in line with the comic books/videogames/geek culture that FanX and ComiCons are all about, people with exciting and unique costumes is a part of the DNA of these conventions. So, the next year, when FanX (that's its official name now) began its annual resurgence, Gayle wanted to wear her Queen Elizabeth costume--after all, having put that much time into it, she wanted to share it as often as possible with the greatest number of people. As we prowled around the con that Saturday, we found ourselves close to where they did the cosplay competition. Curious, we decided to go in and ask them what we had to do so that Gayle could enter the competition the next year. Chatting with the person at the desk, we were about to leave when the guy who runs the cosplay contest, Ro Malaga, wandered past. He spotted our costumes and immediately began to gush and exult (the guy has enough energy to power a city, I have to say) at the quality of her work. "The contest is technically over this year," he said as he eyed the beadwork on Gayle's dress. "Oh, we were only wondering what to do for next year," Gayle said, doing the hand wave she does when she's kind of nervous. "Hold on a sec," said Ro. He slipped behind a curtain, then came back a moment later. "They want to see you. We'll put you in." "Wait, what?" Gayle looked shocked and somewhat terrified. "Now?" "Yeah, the judges are done with everyone else, but they'll check your costume out now." "Uh…okay." Gayle gave me a nervous smile. I just grinned. Together, we went to the judging panel, who immediately started to gush and exult (the standard responses to Gayle's work) about what they saw. They came around the judging table and looked closely at everything, asking all sorts of questions. They decided to place her in the "Master Category", which is the highest level of the competition. This made Gayle more than a touch anxious, since she'd never been in a costume contest before. Anyway, the end result was that Gayle and I ended up on the stage in front of a couple thousand people, showing off her costumes. We didn't win anything (which isn't a surprise, considering what we were up against and our overall lack of preparation), but Gayle's fire for competing in the costume contest had been lit. The next year, Gayle approached it with all of the correct steps this time, putting in online applications and photographing the entire process. She entered two categories: Group (which is two or more participants) and Intermediate (done because the way the categories shook out fit in with Gayle's level of experience better than the Master Category). That night, she and I took the stage together in Group, then she went solo in Intermediate. Because of the quality of her work--this time, Elizabethan-era style vampires--she won first place in Intermediate and second place in Group with me. She was a very happy lady. This year, she decided to try something even further out of her comfort zone by making a steampunk (though, admittedly, it's more crystalpunk, but that's neither here nor there) Batgirl costume. (You can check it out on her Facebook page.) She spent a good ten months on it whilst working on a steampunk Spider-Man for me and a half dozen other projects. The overall process was laborious but enjoyable for her--though, admittedly, the past couple of weeks were really stressful. Yesterday was the cosplay competition. Gayle was nervous. We spent a good forty minutes or so rehearsing her action on stage--she has a minute in which to showcase the costume--before she felt ready to step into the spotlight. My friend, Chris, was there to film us in our costumes, so we had some extra emotional support, too. The biggest concern I had was Gayle's wings. Throughout the day, she'd been occasionally popping them open for photographs and to show more of the details she'd put into her costume. I noticed one of the wires was looking frayed, so I encouraged her not to open the wings anymore, to save them for the performance. When she got on stage and the big moment arrived, she popped open the wings--which worked perfectly. I felt a huge amount of relief, as that had been one of the trickiest parts of the entire sequence. Not only that, but the crowd erupted into massive cheers upon seeing the wings extend. The judges' scores were tallied and, at the end of the night, Gayle came in second place in the Master Category. I was thrilled for her and all of the success that had come because of her hard work. As a husband, there's an implicit expectation that I approve of what she does and I think it's quality work. As far as an unbiased source, I'm pretty far from that. Nevertheless, I have just enough self-awareness that I can take that bias into account and look at something as a piece of work, separate from the artist. In the case of Gayle, I know she does incredible work. It's a given--so much so that I almost take it for granted. The cool and impressive stuff she does is, for me, familiar and common. I see it all of the time as I watch her creates these things that make her happy. So I often don't have a million superlatives to throw at Gayle, despite being impressed at her work. Because of course it's amazing: Gayle made it. So I thought I would take some 1,300 words and write up a brief history of Gayle's cosplaying victories. She's a remarkable woman whose contributions to the happiness of other people's lives is only one of a bevy of incredible attributes of which she is a master. ====
Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! I'm trying to figure out what I want out of this blog/website. I'm obviously interested in writing--that should be pretty clear to anyone who has read a few of my essays--but I also have a tendency to check the stats of views on my previous day's work, too, as if the process of writing itself isn't enough for me to do for its own merits. Maybe it's because NaNoWriMo is right around the corner, but I'm feeling a little more self-conscious and desirous that more people read my essays. This is an interesting place to be in, since it's contradictory and paradoxical and yet it exists. I think that this kind of feeling comes from the fact that I both want approval of other people, yet I'm unable to process what that approval means. I've spoken about this before, but I struggle with understanding humility, which means that I tend to discount what others say about me that's positive. It isn't as though it's an allergy that I developed by not having a lot of positivity in my early life, either. I'm not now overreacting to praise because I was deprived it--or over-indulged with it either, if I'm being honest--and yet, despite my ability to understand the way I feel, I still don't know what to do with people's comments. I guess that a part of me is operating under the "They must be saying that because they are nice people, and nice people say nice things to others." Nowhere do I think this more often than when I'm with my wife. Many of you know that she's an incredible seamstress who loves to put in a lot of detailed work in all the stuff that she makes. I mean, she'll spend hundreds of hours on a costume that we'll wear four or five times. (Admittedly, we try to find excuses to wear the costumes more often than that, since she's put in so much work.) When we're out in public, it's kind of hard to miss us, actually. This year's costumes are based on the mythos of the vampire, but rather than it being a Dracula-era (that is, Victorian Era) inspired kind of vampires, we pushed the backstory to the reign of Henry VIII.* Using Tudor fashion as the inspiration, we have incredibly detailed costumes, filled with sparkling beads and what feels like miles of lace. (It's easily the best work that Gayle's done, and the only complaint I have is that the costume doesn't work unless I have makeup and colored contacts, neither of which are particularly enjoyable.) The point of this is less to extol the wonders of my wife's work--though it is doing that--and more trying to get to the way that she interacts with people. When we're in public, we really draw attention. While passing through the drive-through at Taco Bell tonight (while in costume, obviously), the worker who took our money geeked out a little and gushed about how much he liked our costumes. That sort of thing happens all of the time. We got stopped every few feet whilst at Comic Con this last September with people politely asking for pictures with (or of) us. For Gayle, that sort of attention--hitting its apex with the winning of the Comic Con cosplay contest in two different categories--really helps her feel better about the amount of effort she's put into the projects. And she appreciates the comments and photos and attention that her costumes get. That makes sense, and I'm glad that she gets the reinforcement that she hears from me and her family/friends, as that kind of encouragement is beneficial. But I was thinking about this today: What would I do if my "talent" were more visible? What am I trying to accomplish with these pitiful letters that I push around for sometimes hours at a time. I spend at least two hours writing the music video essays, but if I write something about being sad a lot, I'll get upwards of three times as many views. This isn't to say that I expect to go viral, or that I'm writing for anyone but myself, but there is always a little piece, floating in the back of my mind, telling me that I should write something more popular, more exciting. Few people read my essays about writing, but a lot will read about my politics. Should I change that? I don't think so, ultimately. I feel like I really do write these just for myself, and the process of publishing and sharing them is more to become comfortable with my "art" being out in the public and not just hidden on hard drives that makes it so worthwhile. Who's my audience? Just me, I guess. And that's okay. --- * I was thinking of writing the story of the Duke and Duchess of Blood (our character names) as a historical fantasy for this year's NaNoWriMo--almost like her costumes inspire my fiction on an annual basis. In the end, I decided to go with a different story--one that I've really thought about, rather than have occur to me a couple days before starting the writing, as I did with NaNoWriMo 2016. Prescriptions don't come my way often. This isn't bragging, I simply haven't had to use a lot of prescription drugs in my life. I've had a couple of outpatient surgeries for wisdom teeth or what have you, and occasionally I get sick enough to need some antibiotics. I get a flu shot. But on the whole, I'm pretty whole, physically speaking. About a week ago, I was officially diagnosed with dysthymia, a persistent form of depression. The prognosis wasn't a surprise, but it was helpful to have a hard-to-pronounce-and-remember name for something I've had for such a long time. Reading over the diagnosis from my doctor, I felt a bit more understood and connected, that what I was suffering from wasn't unknown, nor was it filed under the broad mental-malaise category of "depression". The doctor discussed--for a good forty-five minutes or so--the different ways of coping with the problem, listening to my manifold concerns, and offering a bunch of separate options for how to move forward. She shared personal stories, too, helping me feel more comfortable with the pharmaceutical option. We didn't ask for the prescription to be filled, as I wanted some time to think it over before making my final choice. The doctor was understanding and told us to call for the prescription whenever I'm ready. So, nearly a week after having the appointment, I'm finally really "thinking it over". My wife has been gracefully following up with me, letting me know that she hasn't forgotten and still cares, and I know she would like me to try the medication (a pill called "Wellbutrin", which also has a generic counterpart) if only because she's a scientist and knows that experimentation is one way of coming to an understanding of what's causing what. When I think that Gayle wants me to take the medication, I immediately agree to it--I want to make my wife happy and I think that will do so. But Gayle is opposed to me doing it "for her", feeling like I should make this choice because I think it's the right one, which is a good thing for a wife to do and frustrating for me because it means I will have to make the decision. But I have hangups. Of course I do; I overthink things and that usually leads to a feeling of intellectual paralysis. (Which isn't to say I don't have strong opinions on things, or definitive answers, but the more I learn, the more I realize there's no perfect answer.) Some of the things that bother me are probably sublimation and don't really matter, and others are things that matter immensely but over which I have no control. To example the second one first: I have very little confidence in the current administration's ability to do anything. President Trump recently rescinded a part of the Affordable Care Act, declaring it completely dead, only to have, by the end of the week, a replacement proposed by Congress that he's indicating he might be interested in. Aside from my political impulses that push the conversation into rants about the deep fault lines the Trump Administration is creating in its inconsiderate approach to governing, I realize that looking for solutions within the health care system could very well provide a solution for me that will evaporate when the dust settles on Obamacare. In other words, last November's disaster makes me reluctant to rely on prescription help, as there are no guarantees that we'll be able to afford our current insurance through Gayle's work if premiums continue to increase--as they likely will until we stop privatizing wellness. As I mentioned above, there's nothing that I can do to change this, aside from write to Mia Love and Mike Lee and Orrin Hatch--three people well established as toeing the Republican line, regardless of the damage it'll cause--and pretend that they care at all about a liberal depressive living in Utah County. So the idea that I ought to let Washington dictate if I seek out help, on one hand, is preposterous: I can't let politicians hold my pursuit of happiness hostage. On the other hand, I'm coping with what I have now. If I don't start taking the pills, then I won't have to worry about them being taken away by bureaucratic meddling. The sublimated example? I worry that the pills will take away whatever poor ability to write that I currently enjoy. Over the last year, as I've become more focused on writing my daily essays, I've derived a lot of pleasure from this experience. Not only does my writing output feel larger--because it is larger--but I feel as though I'm refining some thoughts that were otherwise incoherent. Admittedly, a lot of you have suffered through what were, essentially, stream-of-consciousness posts, but I like to feel that I'm writing at least a bit better now than I did before. The idea of halting that progress so that I'm not sad all the time is, frankly, terrifying. And though a lot of people might be surprised by that sentiment--Why would you want to stay sad?--it's likely they forget that these moods are the air I breathe; this is existence. I'm used to it. I can cope. Like desiring to write, it's part of who I am. And that's the real issue, here: What defines me as a person? This is a question that I've been struggling to define as I've become more and more aware of the way our capitalistic society pre-packages and determines identity as commodity. This is a can of worms, but the short version of this is that I'm much more suspicious of how I choose to identify what and who I am than I've been, as I don't know what's me and what's an external trapping that I've decorated my selfhood with. This is apparent when I think back to the way I let third-wave ska be my "identifier" in my high school days, or how I didn't realize how much I relied on the small black badge as an LDS missionary--until it was gone...a loss that I think I'm still reeling from, thirteen years on. And since so much of my identity is externally crafted and cultivated, I cling to what is inherently in me. This may be where some of my frustration comes in with certain aspects of LDS culture, as it feels artificial and anathema to what the Church's doctrines are. And even the fact that, to assert my spirituality, I use a label of "Mormon" to describe myself worries me. What, I am so internally bereft of identity that I have to take an off-the-shelf concept and attach it? From that point of view, I don't want to lose anything that is deeply mine own, even if it is dark, sad, and painful. On a more philosophical level, I worry that my selfhood is an intellectual version of Thesus' ship, that I can erode who I am. Understanding the core sense of oneself is, I think, part of the reason to exist. And part of who I am is tied up in how I feel. Extricating that is genuinely terrifying. Then again, maybe it's just my depression that's sending all sorts of panicky impulses to my brain so that I don't eradicate it--a sort of defense mechanism inside my brain. As I said...sublimated. Or maybe part of my true self is the one that's hidden beneath the depression, inaccessible without the help of group therapy, stalwart support from my wife and family, and some drops of chemicals. Of course, when I put it that way, it reminds me of this quote from The Disappearing Spoon by Sam Kean. In it, Kean talks about a poet named Robert Lowell, who had a lithium deficiency, which allowed his manic-depressive episodes to occur. Once he took the lithium, he immediately saw changes--and not all of them good. His poetry suffered, and though he still had success, his career was definitely changed by the medication. It's terrible, Bob," he said, "to think that all I've suffered, and all the suffering I've caused, might have arisen from the lack of a little salt in my brain." (253) It raises the specter of a type of death--RxIP--that something intrinsically me might have to perish for me to be happy.
Thirteen years ago, I married my wife. This was, hands down, one of the easiest decisions I've made, and--despite running wholeheartedly into the cliche--one of the best. Gayle and I met in high school, during junior year, and we've been an almost perfect fit ever since. However, since we're both human, we have had some difficulties. I didn't know how much I wanted a girlfriend while I was on a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and we've disagreed on a host of subjects throughout our marriage. Still, our affection and care for one another is always felt and I've never regretted marrying her. That isn't to say that I haven't wondered how things could have been different. Part of that is my writer's mind, probing the narrative of my life for alternatives. I can't really see how I could have chosen differently, considering the way we feel (and felt) about each other, so most of the alternatives involve not having met her, never having dated, or somehow else the relationship expired. Those can be sad, so I try not to dwell on them. These thought experiments aren't particularly fruitful, but since I only know one thing better than my own life (Shakespeare), it makes sense that I would try to play with the counterfactuals of my maybe life. In some ways, it's an attempt to plumb the depths of multiverse hypothesis with a personal flair. Would I be in my writing career--single, writing, touring, and feeling lonely? Would I still be in the LDS Church? Would I have found and married someone else? (That one's hard to picture, since I never found options that interested me outside of Gayle, so I don't know what a "second choice" would have looked like.) One thing is almost guaranteed: I wouldn't work where I do. Without my oldest son and his heart problem, I couldn't have met the person who took me to meet the principal at the school where I now teach. That friend-of-a-friend connection only initiated because of where we lived at that time (my in-law's basement) and, unless there was a person in that same neighborhood who had a daughter Gayle's age that I would have married and then moved into their basement, well...I don't know how I would have figured out how to get to the charter school* I teach at now. In terms of my feelings for Gayle, they haven't really diminished since the colorful day in 2004 when we married. We selected the temple in Manti, Utah as where we would have our marriage validated and sealed. The day was bright--shockingly blue skies with Central Utah bedecked with its fall colors amid the still-green lawns--and we were surrounded by friends, family, and well-wishers. It was a bit of a drive from where we lived in Utah County--and even farther for those who lived more northward--but we still enjoyed all of the people who came to see us take such an important step. I remember being quite happy, with Gayle dressed in her elvish-style dress, grinning constantly, a sparkling tiara glinting through the curls of her red hair. Much of the proceedings have since been forgotten--I don't know how much I was paying attention, anyway--and I remember a lot of gentle sniffles as the ceremony went on. I remember the after-marriage luncheon at a nearby reception center, as well as saying goodbye to friends and family who left us in Manti for the beginning of our honeymoon. I was very happy...content, perhaps is the right word, as it was one of the few times that I didn't have any second-guesses or doubts. I don't know how many times that has happened to me: That my skepticism couldn't find any purchase on the walls of my mind. It's never felt like it should be any other way. I know that, statistically, I'm running some pretty amazing odds. I found my soulmate (and I don't use that term ironically) in my high school class. She moved, a few months after I met her, two blocks from my house. It's about as close to the "fell in love with the girl next door" as you can get without that phrase being literally the case. I don't doubt divine intervention on that front, and I recognize that not everyone has as happy, stable, and exciting a marriage as I have. I am immensely grateful for Gayle and everything that she has accomplished in her life--the art she's generated, the people she's helped, the students she's taught, the joys she's created--as I feel like I've become a better person for having known her. She is the "god[dess] of my idolatry" and the motive for my movements. "She's so conjunctive to my life and soul,/That, as the star moves not but in his sphere,/I could not but by her."
I love you, Gayle. Happy anniversary. --- * At the time of my training as a teacher, charter schools were more controversial than they were now, as well as less well-known. I remember hearing a thing said in one of my classes--once--that disparaged charter schools, and I chuckled knowingly along with the class without any real understanding of what was being discussed. The other time charter schools were mentioned was when they were interviewing potential teaching candidates. They asked us to discuss the pros and cons of charter schools--which, since none of us in the group interview knew anything about them, was a difficult question--and I remember pointing out that, all other things being equal, they were another place for us, as future teachers, to find a job. In short, I wouldn't have found my school because I never would have thought to look in that direction for employment. |
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