Yesterday, I asked the question, “Why bother?” I wondered why people bother to love who they love and write what they write and do what they do. Because…wouldn’t it just be easier to stay home all alone and eat chocolate-mint cookies?
Well, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about why I bother.
And there are a lot of reasons why I bother. But the fundamental, primary reason came about when I was sixteen.
Growing up, I’d had friends. Good friends. I was even lucky enough to have a best girl friend who got me.
But at sixteen my best friend and I drifted apart. I was lost. I smoked cigarettes. I was unpopular, depressed, and I knew of no one who thought me even remotely interesting. Nobody liked me. I was “weird” and not worth bothering with. I went home at recess and lunch by myself. I was flunking out of school.
A teenager in small town Canada, I often joined up with a group of rag-tag no-gooders who, like me, were unpopular, depressed, and smoked du Maurier Extra Lights.
One night, as our group roved across a number of parking lots, we merged with another group of like-minded, disgruntled teenagers.
Our groups merged for the evening, and we explored the dark nooks and crannies of our small town together, intermingling amongst ourselves.
This new bunch of strangers were all male, and one of them looked out of place.
“Hello, what’s this?” I asked myself. “Who is the tall, dark-haired one who looks far too delightful to be hanging out with us?”
He was quiet and didn’t say too much. But when he laughed, it was genuine. He seemed wise, and I liked him immediately.
And from that night on, our two groups merged–as teenage cliques are wont to do–often meeting in one parking lot or the next.
And so I got to know the tall one. We didn’t talk too much, but I knew that I liked him.
One night, I wandered the parking lots alone, looking for one unruly teen or another to share a cigarette with.
By myself, I turned a corner, and there he was. And he was alone. (We’d never been alone before.)
And so we sat down on the curb and talked. And talked. And talked. And talked. And that was it; I stayed out far past my curfew, and he walked me all the way home.
After that night, the next ten years of my life were spent with him.
His name was Cameron. And we’re still together. Right now he’s applying mortar to a hearth in our living room. He is my love. He is why I bother.
At sixteen, when no one else cared, he thought I was fascinating. Beautiful. Funny. Intelligent. He encouraged me in every way. And he amazed me with his quiet enthusiasm and wise words. (And that beautiful face.)
With his confidence in me, I went from almost flunking out of high school to graduating with straight As (well, except for in math, of course).
And over the years we grew together. We went to University. We both found fine, upstanding jobs.
And then we realized that we were beginning to lose our connection. I left the house before he woke up. I worked long hours, and I came home irritable and exhausted. The weekends weren’t long enough, and we didn’t have the time to connect as much as we used to.
But we knew that what we had was still there and still so strong. We would look at each other with such love and say, “I’m sorry. I’m just so tired and there’s not enough time.”
So we bothered. We bothered to change our lives so that we wouldn’t grow too far apart. We gave up our condo, our car, our jobs, and everything we had built.
We chose to move thousands of kilometres away so that we could afford to spend our days together.
Over the past nine months we’ve spent almost every waking hour together. We work on the house together every day. Sometimes it’s in a good-natured silence, but more often than not it’s happy banter and as fun as anything I can imagine.
So, yes, we bother to love and be loved. To have someone know you and hold you and love you and support you is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Sometimes it hurts and sometimes it’s hard; but it’s always worth it.
