A Moment of Insight

Rational thought has come to me, and as it doesn't happen often, I felt I should document the occurrence.

Today, I spent the day with my mom, Katie, my four-year-old cousin, and Janie, my 19 year-old friend that has Down Syndrome. It was a good day that involved lunch, the bookstore, and ended with birthday cake.

Funny side note, when I picked up Janie we were talking about birthdays and how today we were celebrating my birthday. Several times I emphasized that it was MY day, to which Janie replied it was "our day."

After I arrived back home and was settling down for the night, my friend called me. I returned on Wednesday from a vacation with this friend. We've been friends for almost 12 years, over a third of our lives. We go back-and-forth with having a romantic relationship, or rather I go back-and-forth as he's always made his intentions clear.

Prior to receiving his nightly phone call, I was thinking back to my recent vacation. It was an amazing time and my friend spared no expense to make sure I had a wonderful vacation and birthday. He thoughtfully planned an amazing time and made sure that it was centered around me. Dinner reservations were made with my tastes in mind. We even drove over half of the city looking for shoes I wanted. My birthday presents were phenomenal from him and I'd be lying if I said I didn't adore the way the diamond tennis bracelet sparkles on my wrist or the way the diamond necklace hits just where I like it on my chest. I loved the gifts, of course, but I also loved the time he took to arrange things and how he tried so hard to make me laugh and have a good time.

But, in the back of my head, there's a nagging voice that keeps saying "he doesn't really like you, you know." Suddenly doubt floods me. I start making a case, I go through the time we spent together and try to decipher if he really likes me. Well, there was that time when he didn't return my text message for a whole twenty-four hours, flu or no flu! And then he always seems distracted when I'm sitting across from him at dinner. And with his parents, he was strangely quiet, not saying a handful of words.

There's this doubt. And then I add to it my own uncertain feelings. I've known him for 12 years, 30 percent of my life. We met at university and we've stayed good friends, ebbing and flowing in closeness, but always at least on each others peripherals. I don't feel the same passionate, explosive, exhaustive love for him as I did for Ken. I feel fiercely protective of my friend and appreciate his kindness and his love for me. He sends me notes and says "i love you." He ends conversations with "Oh, Jessie, I love you so much." I can't bring my self to reciprocate with the same words. Instead I write "xoxo, jessie" on my cards and quickly change the subject when "I love you" is uttered.

I see a life with my friend, if I want it. Living an upper-middle class lifestyle. Traveling. Nice things. Security. Faithfulness. Laughter. But I don't know if there will be passion, or if mutual kindness and respect is enough to base a life on.

I know this much is true about myself: if I want something, I will do whatever it takes to get it. I just have to want it.