You’ve got a bad case of being over there. The only cure is being over here.

I have a lot on my mind today. It's my last day of college classes. Next semester all i have left to do is student teach. its crazy, the reality of the rest of my life is seeping in every chance it gets.

The rest of my life.

I won't pretend I know where it is going. I wouldn't dare be that naive. However, if it goes where I want it to, I know I will find a way into your arms every night.

My life before you was hectic. I was young and naive and I thought I knew what I wanted. I thought I knew who I wanted to be and where I wanted to go. But I got my heart broken, I got chewed up and spit out. But I needed it. I needed a bit of tough love to toughen who I am.

It's like everything that has happened in my life has made me strong enough for this.

A White Sox Game.

When people ask how we met, they laugh. It only seems to perfect to be true. Me, with my passions and crazy emotions over this sport, would meet someone that would turn my world upside-down in a place that couldn't be more up my alley. I got so many "You are kidding me, right?", "Really?" and "Figures" it could last me a lifetime.

This love that is over 9,000 miles apart for God-Only-Knows-How-Long is more than amazing. Before I had the hard times in my life, I never would have been able to handle this. Starting a relationship based off of messages on Facebook? Pictures that keep me holding on? Talking for 3 hours a day via texting on a good day? Thinking about what you are doing and what we would do together every other second of the day. Living for myself and being able to be there for you. Sharing as much as I can think of while sharing every important thought with you in such a brief time.

You are the best person I have ever met. And I knew the second we (finally) got together (my bad babe ;) ) that I wanted to be with you as much as possible.

Distance is hard. Longer distance is harder. And the military can be downright disarming. But it can be soooo easy too. So many people say they couldn't handle it. So many tell me that they are not that strong. But what they don't realize is its not that hard. 90% of the time its easy because in the end it is so worth it. Just getting a silly text from you or smiling from the cute things you say makes it easy. They make me continuously fall in love with you.

I have learned a lot about who I am since I met you. I have learned a lot about love since I met you. And I want to remind you that I will put up with the distance, the hardships and the rocky roads if it means I can talk to you for just a minute a day.

I never knew love could be so strong. I never knew I could be so strong. And I owe most of that to you and that fateful White Sox Game.

I know my life is turning around. And the "real world" is as frightening as it is exciting half the time. I just wanted to say thanks for the 80 billionth time. Thanks for being such a handsome part of my life. Your love is better than anything I ever imagined. Thanks for this time together and I can't wait to see what is in store for us in the future.

All In

Baseball season is here: The season of love, heartbreak, passion, sorrow, confidence, ignorance, thrills, abandonment, and hope. It's the season of life.

I can feel more emotions in 9 innings then I can an entire week in winter.

I've never understood how someone can't be passionate about baseball. It's in our blood, in our society. To watch as the curve leaves the pitcher and the bat resonates. The flirtatious way the way the runners advance. The way you sit on the edge of your seat. The characters you see and the commitment you feel. It's a whole lot like love. Every. Single. Game.

I am a White Sox Fan. In Chicago, I got asked "Why?" on probably a weekly basis. It's simple really. My dad was. My friends weren't. The arguments you can spark going against the grain are enticing. It's a different mentality on the Southside. We don't stand for losers. We won't go because we know that that will change. We believe in teams not in individuals. We believe in personalities and spunk. We give 150% in a game that most only give 110. We don't diss the other teams by throwing the ball back into the park. We keep it as a momentum to a game that brought you so much passion that you couldn't help but want to hold onto a part of that memory forever. (We diss them by throwing stats at them.) I am a Sox Fan because I know what baseball means. Looking passed the dollars, passed the ignorance, passed the failures. I am a fan of a sport and a fan of a team that resembles the top qualities of that sport.

Your Imperfection

Dear Mom and Dad.” Why is he writing us? Maybe his meds are working again.

“I don’t know how to start this, but I realize that like everything else, it needs to be perfect. It needs to be as perfect as our kitchen looks every minute of every day, or as perfect as my bed has to look every morning before I go to school. It needs to be as perfect as you both are for each other or as perfect as you expect me to be.”

            He is perfect. This is bizarre. Maybe I should go get his father. Yes, that’s exactly what I will do.

            “Honey? Will you please come into the living room?”

            “Yes, Dear. I’ll be there in a minute.” That’s always his response. Maybe I should put it back where I found it. It looked so perfect there. Perfect. Did Alex mean to put it here? Did he mean to put it on this very table, sitting at the perfect angle in front of the perfect freshly cut flowers? Did he mean to place this in front of the fireplace, so that I would stay warm as I read? Did he mean to have the fireplace on so I could hear each and every tiny spark that pops and sounds like tiny little fairies hiccupping? Did he mean for everything to be so perfect?

            “What is it, Dear?” should I tell him that I have already started to read it? No. No, it was addressed to both of us and it should be read by both of us.

            “There is a note for us, Honey. I think that it is from Alex.”

            “But it fits so perfectly there, Elizabeth. Maybe it is just decoration?”

            “No, Brian. I am sure that he wanted us to read it and read it together.”

            “Okay, okay, darling. Let’s see it. Give it here.” And so it started again.

            “Dear Mom and Dad.” Why didn’t he just talk to us? Why write?

“I don’t know how to start this, but I realize that like everything else, it needs to be perfect. It needs to be as perfect as our kitchen looks every minute of every day, or as perfect as my bed has to look every morning before I go to school. It needs to be as perfect as you both are for each other or as perfect as you expect me to be.” Those words cut into me and started echoing through my soul. Alex is so perfect. Maybe he is apologizing for forgetting to feed the dogs the other day. Brian looked at me and seemed as confused as I was.

“But Mom and Dad, I’m sure that by now you have realized that I am not perfect.” Of course my little baby boy, my little Alex is perfect. This must be about the dogs.

“Mom, you thought that I was acting ‘peculiar’ ever since I turned 16. That was over two months ago. So, you thought that I should go to a shrink and get on every type of medicine to help make me perfect again. What you didn’t know was that NO medication in the world can ever cure my imperfections.” The doctor said that the medicine was working. What is going on? This is as crazy as me forgetting to do the dishes on Christmas! Of course the medication can help him. It has in the past. What is wrong with my Alex?

“And, Dad? You thought that not only was I imperfect but that Mom was making me worse. You thought the shrink was hurting me much, much more than helping. You’ve always known, haven’t you Dad? But you would never tell her.”

“Brian? Brian, what is wrong with my baby boy? Is he going to be okay?” And Brian just looked at me. He was more scared than a fish at the nose of a shark.

“Let’s just finish reading, Liz. I have no clue what he is talking about.” Brian was never any good at lying to me.

“You both thought that I was crazy, but I'm not. Mom and Dad, I’m just imperfect. I'm not normal. I don’t play baseball or sip lemonade. I love fire, Dad. That’s why you put that fireplace in my room, remember? What you don’t know is that Maid Margaret was right. She was never lying. She NEVER lit my fireplace. She was NEVER lying and you still fired her. You didn’t believe her because that would make me the cause of every imperfection in your picture perfect, television placed family. But that’s what I am, Mom. I'm your EVERY IMPERFECTION.” Oh, no! This can not be true! It must be a joke. Maybe April Fools'… too bad its January 20^th.

“Brian?” I said so close to silence that I am surprised that he even heard me. He looked so hurt and upset.

“Be quiet darling, there is still more to read. ‘My fireplace was always lit because I could light it. But not with a match or a lighter. Nope, not me, those would start houses on fire. That’s what my police visitors at school would always say.

‘And I didn’t use candles or fireworks. Even those would be too perfect for me. But I'm not perfect, Dad. No shrink can change that, Mom. Its so much different than everything else. When my hair was too dark, I could bleach it to make it perfect. When my pitch was too slow, I would practice and practice until I could make it hit the mitt just like the White Sox do, Dad. I would make it perfect because those things I could fix.”

My boy, my little-

“I can control fire if you haven’t guessed it yet. I can make my fireplace light just by thinking about it. And I can’t play baseball, Dad. My mitt gets too hot and the sun cooks those poor little ants in the sand. And, Mom? I can’t sip lemonade. Those tiny, poor ice cubes disappear as my nails touch the glass. I'm your imperfection. Just like this paper is mine.

“So I decided I would leave. Run away. And let you live the perfect lives that you think you’ve made for yourselves. Perfect. Unlike this letter, its not perfect.

“This morning didn’t go to protocol, Mom. I know you noticed. You assumed that that meant that my medications and more medications were starting to work. Mom, you were wrong. And Dad, you said that I didn’t seem like my normal self, that I was distant. But you didn’t care.

“Today I made sure to leave the milk out and even spill a little before I went to school. That way our kitchen wasn’t perfect anymore. And I didn’t make my bed for the first time in 16 years, Mom. If you go in my room you will see the mitts and hats and baseballs scattered all over my sheets. That way my bed isn't perfect anymore, either. Did you notice you guys fought this morning? You fought this morning because I purposefully turned the coffee machine off. It ruined just how perfect you thought you were for each other. And I am far from being perfect too. So this paper shows all my imperfections. This is my greatest imperfection. Just like I am yours.

“So, goodbye Mom and Dad. This paper is out of my hands, just like I am out of yours.

                                                                        “Your imperfect son,

                                                                                                “Alex

“p.s. I’m sorry.”

            “Brian? I think I'm going to go clean up the milk and make his bed. Oh, and I'm sorry for yelling at you today.”

            “It’s okay, Liz. I’ll help with the milk. Maybe his paper was perfect just how it is.”

            “Maybe. But he will never know, huh Brian?”

            “I don’t believe so Liz. Or maybe he already does.”

            “I'm going to miss him.”

            “Me too, darling. Me too.”