So, this is what it’s like to be normal.

By normal, I mean, healthy.

It creeped up on me, somehow. One day, I was a suicidal freak, and the next, I was normal. I have friends who are happy and well-adjusted. They like me and I like them. There’s no resentment, nor competition.

I owe a large part of my normalcy to Adam. He’s normal. He harbors no anger nor fear. He likes people, he likes himself, he likes his life.

I don’t have to try and maintain a peaceful existence in the world while simultaneously trying to maintain a volatile relationship with a fundamentally dissatisfied person. We easily maintain our happiness while supporting it with a happy relationship.

When I lose my balance, I still expect that the person closest to me will run over and move the net, just to make sure I smack into the ground. Instead, he runs over and catches me.

It’s great. I regain my balance and everything continues as it should.

It’s hard to define and hard to accept. And, since things are going so well, why would I bother trying to define every aspect?

I have to wonder how long it’s humanly possible to maintain constant gratitude and appreciation. We’re still in that stage where we marvel at how lucky we are, but now we’ve grown enough comfort and familiarity that it feels well-established.

This was so evident during our hike. I made two peanut butter sandwiches. The first day, I ate one and kept trying to give the second one to him. He insisted that I keep it for myself, in case I get hungry later.

Sunday morning, during breakfast, I finally decided I would eat it. I took it out of my pack and at that very moment, he called me over and said, “Can I have that peanut butter sandwich?”

It was already in my hand. I said, “Sure,” and gave it to him. He said, “You had it in your hand! You were about to eat this! Take it back! Take it back!”

I told him that we’d share it, and we ate it together like two people who’ve been sharing food since birth.

He asked me, “Are you sure this is going to be enough food for you, today?” I had already eaten two packets of oatmeal and there were four bags of home-made trail mix in my bag.

I said, “Well, I’m assuming that we’re going to leave the woods today.” The rest of the group chuckled. Adam was leading this hike and the only person familiar with the trail. We were dependent on him to get us out of the woods.

It’s been more than four months of official relationship, and more than six months of casual relationship, and we’ve never had a fight (I know, saying this out-loud is like an invitation to the gods to curse us with a screaming match tonight, but whatever).

He mentioned that to me, and I asked him what would happen if we never have a fight. He reassured me that we will have a fight sometime. “I’m sure I’ll do something to piss you off eventually,” he said.

I told him that it was probably true, but I couldn’t imagine it.

My real thoughts were, “But that’s not how my relationships work. People don’t piss me off, I piss other people off.”

My fights start when I’m trying to live my life like usual and I get attacked, stepped on or resented, and then I spend the rest of the day wondering how I managed to become so distasteful, when my ultimate goal has always been to be tasteful.

So far, he’s only been forgiving and understanding and loving. As long as I don’t piss him off, there will be no fight. Maybe that’s how he thinks, too. We’re like one brain with two bodies and two past histories, sometimes.

We have had disagreements (anything else would be spooky, right?), but they usually go like:

“I don’t agree with what you said about [blah].”

“Ok, which part?”

For the first time in my life, I’m starting to feel like there’s someone I can trust.

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Wednesday, Jan. 23, 2008 at 4:16 PM