When I met my husband, I was 19 and a junior in college. I had just sort of attempted to get my shit together and was failing miserably. Combined with the delirium inducing headspin one receives after pulling out of a nosedive with the emotionally dysfunctional home and school life, I was indeed in a very dark place.
There was a blissfully lucky moment where I happened upon him while hanging out with my best friend at the time. She was seeing the lead singer of a band, who was very intent on getting her to watch him play. She wouldn’t go alone to the practice, and I needed to type and submit my paper. The singer offered up his drummer’s printer, and thus was set forth a chain of events that lead to me meeting my future husband.
When we met, it was magic. It was like running into someone I’ve known all my life, only I was just meeting him that minute. He says that he felt the same way. We just clicked. That was 12 years ago. I still remember that day, after leaving his house to drop off my paper. The drive back to his house requires a few quick turns that we didn’t recall correctly. I was terrified that I’d never find my way back, that I’d lost him forever. We drove around the neighborhood trying to find our way, calling his name and her boyfriend’s name as if they could hear us. It was silly, but I think it was the only way I could cope with the anxiety I was feeling.
The heady days of infatuation were beset by a background din of divorce, 9/11, death, depression, relocation, job changes and losses, and estrangement, we have endured more than our share of messed up situations that have brought us closer together in the end. We somehow flourish in spite of it all.