I have decided if your story matters, in the form of a love letter, then mine must too. Our stories matter. Our rides in your car with the Indigo Girls playing, our hikes up to the rock, our conversations interspersed with longing, all of it matters. The peacefulness that I felt in every fiber of my being just sitting next to you, that matters. I’d never felt that way before.

I don’t know what to do with hypomanic thoughts. About the peacefulness, the softness, the warmth, the longing, the loving. One way is not to think about her, not to talk about her, and not to talk to her. That is the right thing to do. That is what I choose to do.

I don’t even know how to unpack that trunk with the broken latches, most of the time I don’t even realize I am carrying it around with me. But then I see someone across the gate, and I am reminded. I know they are talking, but I don’t hear the words, because I am thinking about the way her hair is blowing in the wind, or the softness of her skin, or the smile on her face. So I nod and smile back as if I understood, but I was not even present.

And that’s a worthy goal now, to be present. To stay in the moment and accept it. Maybe that’s all that is required. No big revelations, no marches or bull horns, just to sit and breathe in those moments and listen to the words inside my mind. Give them space and honor instead of pushing them away. Enjoy the happiness with my beloved, my husband, enjoy the here and now, the love of a lifetime.