I hate chance.
I’m on a routine walk, just doing some thinking. I’m trying to clear my head and continue to convince myself that you and I are just friends. I’m looking out over the Puget, telling myself you don’t like me anymore, you aren’t interested. I believe it. I cause you stress, I misunderstand you. I try to help and only hurt.
I’m on the pier and it just so happens I am standing outside Anthony’s. Now you are all I can think about. I’m cliché inside my head. I make a giant leap. With the seafood restaurant next to me and the ocean all around me, all I can think is, “…of all the fish in the sea.”
I love chance.
I’m back in the ballroom. I got to hold your hands and you smiled me at me and nearly dropped me dead with your name, “I’m …” That’s all it took.
Over a year later I’m having a silly conversation with you on a couch. We are talking about the end of the world. You tell me if it is all going to be over this year then the last thing you want is to be happy. You smile at me. All I want is to read your mind and for you to be saying that I can make you happy. Would you be happy with me?
I would be happy with you. I know I would.
I look out over the water and all I can think about is choice, not chance. The possibilities are endless. You could sail anywhere you want. We could. We could sink or swim. But our world is huge. Floating in the ocean is not our only choice. We are not fish. You’re a person. I look up at the sky and I think, “we could fly” at a tree, “we could climb” at a mountain, “we could trek” at the roads, “we could travel” at a painting, “we could create” at anything—“you can choose.”
I’m writing this to tell you that you can choose. You can do anything. You can choose to believe that I am not Michael, or Lane, or Ross, or Nick, or Pear, or even Dylan, but that I’m me. You can choose to believe that I’m not your father and I can make you happy. You can choose to never punish me. You can choose to believe that I am a different man today then I was yesterday, and that I can be a changed man tomorrow.
This is what I choose to believe. I choose to believe that you are perfect. Every day. I never judge or hold anything against you. I choose to believe that you can overcome your fears, conquer your anxiety, drop your past, and be released from your dad.
I believe you can choose to love.
You can choose to love—like you did before, but better. You can choose to be loved. It will be gutsy and there is that possibility you could get cut, but the scar left over will be proof that you have healed. Try and remember how beautiful it was to believe in something so hopeful—and then choose.
I remember your butterfly metaphor from a paper you wrote once. The effect of one flap of its wings, you said, would cause a hurricane wind. What if you let all the anxiety bubbling in your stomach give way to butterflies, like the ones you got as kid when you were around the person who made you feel vulnerable and valuable? What if you let the butterfly in your tummy flap its wings. Who knows what could happen. As long as you resist it, nothing will ever change. But let its wing beat one time, in unison with your heart and who knows, maybe a hurricane will turn your life upside down for good—for good.
You may not believe this. But I am not just writing these things to convince you to be with me. Although, I do want to be with you, I just want you to be happy. If you believe you could be happy with me, then I hope, whenever you are ready, you will choose me. But if not me, then someone else, or something else. The point is you can choose. The possibilities are endless. But as long as you resist it, nothing will ever change.