-Chapter 1: Routine-

You have to love yourself before you can love someone else. I'd heard that from different people plenty of times, but I'd never really understood it. Love is a complicated thing that can stretch into every facet of a person's life. What I had failed to account for was where I fell into that picture. I'd felt love for others, but I had never once known love for myself. I didn't even know how to love myself. I had been that way for years. And all those years of identificatory nihilism were undone in the span of just four short days. Four days that were, all at once, terrifying, unexpected, painful, and utterly transformative. Four days that were amazing, magical, liberating, and filled with hope that changed so much of my life. It was in that short span of time that I came to appreciate and understand something truly wonderful and beautiful. Something I had been too afraid to even really consider before then. I suppose the best way to explain what that means would be to paint a picture of who I was prior to the most important four days of my life.

I've always been a curious person. I love delving into life's many mysteries, and trying to understand those hidden and enigmatic forces that make the world move. A Plato, or Kant, or Jung, I am not; many, many things are beyond me, and I wouldn't be so presumptuous to claim that I possess some secret knowledge of the universe. But I love to ponder, and try to reach answers that satisfy me. And that's enough. Of course, I've also always been a bit too in my head for my own good. I tend to overthink simple things, and fret endlessly over trifles. But, while there are many things about myself that I like, and just as many that I dislike, I've always appreciated my ability to think for myself.

I mention this, because one of the things that caught my interest was the idea of identity. Not the name you write on a piece of paper, or even how you think of yourself, but as a philosophical concept. From Theseus' old ship, to Hume's frustrating idea of people as 'bundles,' and all that jazz. I spent a good deal of time researching it in high school, and after a lot of fumbling with ideas that were just a bit over my head, I eventually came to my own idea of what a person was. Naturally, I tried to look at myself through this lense I had fashioned, and, in my late adolescence, I thought I really understood myself. Plenty of people will say that teenagers think they've got everything figured out, and I was no exception to this. I thought I knew exactly who I was, and what being me meant. I was wrong.

Realizing that I was wrong about myself was a process. It took its share of challenges and failures, as well as a lot of learning and growing. Growing pains are never fun. If you're past puberty, I'm sure you remember those random aches that would occasionally crop up as your body matured. I remember noticing most of mine when I was trying to sleep. Point is, everyone understands physical growing pains, but I don't know if I've ever heard anyone talk about emotional growing pains. At least, I don't think I've ever heard anyone refer to them as such. They can come on at any point in our lives, really. They often last a lot longer, and unlike the aches of growing bones, they might not just go away with time. You have to do something about them.

I think my most intense emotional growing pains started around the time I was finishing my undergraduate studies. I'd experienced my fair share of challenges working my way through college. By the time I finished, that person I thought I had understood so well just a few years prior was a distant memory. I could only really claim to know a few things about myself. I was twenty-one. I was lonely. I was scared. I didn't have any idea what I wanted my life to look like. There was plenty more to who I was, obviously, but those were the dilapidated pillars my identity was built upon. And I was miserable. That misery would persist for another year, and it only intensified after graduation. I was falling apart, standing on shaky ground, and something was about to give.

It was a Thursday afternoon. I untied my apron, hanging it on the coat rack, lazily kicked off my shoes, and tossed my keys onto the dining room table. Having just finished my shift at work, I stepped through the living area of the big, empty space that was the Fuller household. It wouldn't have felt so big, or been so empty if my parents had been home. But they weren't. They rarely were, and it was even more rare for them to both be there at the same time. Dad worked as an investment negotiator, whatever that meant, for Chase Bank. Not important enough to have his name on the website, but enough that they shipped him all over the country. That week he was in New York. Next week, he'd be in Delaware. The week after, Los Angeles. After that, he'd be god knows where. Mom, meanwhile, would be interviewing families in Detroit about their feelings toward some of the grass-roots urban revitalization projects cropping up across the city, so she could put together a cultural piece for CBS. She was home more often, when she had a lot of writing to catch up on, but that was still a rarity. It seemed to me, then, that Tacoma Washington just wasn't big enough to contain their dreams.

It was, however, containing me just fine. Good grades and a solid enough work ethic got me into a local university, but the BA in philosophy I earned there didn't exactly make me a hot commodity on the job market. You know how they say, 'if you do what you love, you never work a day in your life?' Well, I wouldn't exactly say I loved anything. Not really. I didn't have any real passions in life. No interests or hobbies to speak outside of reading, sleeping, and playing video games. So I just worked. I got a job as a barista at a local coffee shop, the Double Tap Cafe. Supposedly, it had been started in the 70s by a Vietnam vet who, against all advice, took out a massive loan to start his own business. And since then, it's turned into a thriving little shop. At least, that's what the story painted onto one of the walls said. So, I spent many an eight hour morning shift brewing coffee and mixing drinks for starry eyed college kids and jaded hipsters. It wasn't as bad as I probably just made it sound. It was just… unfulfilling. But my boss was nice, and the customers were usually tolerable, so I couldn't complain too much.

It was, however, quite boring. And, today had been no different, as I settled back into my usual boring routine. It was about 1:30 in the afternoon by now, so I set about making myself lunch. This process consisted of opening the pantry, grabbing some cup noodles, filling the container with water, and sticking it in the microwave. I could mix a macchiato, but a chef I was not, and meager meals such as this were enough to satisfy my hunger, if not stimulate my palette. So, after the microwave had done its thing, I grabbed a glass of water, and sat myself in front of the computer to watch something innocuous on YouTube while I downed my noodles. This process was followed by a quick wash of my utensils, before heading to my bedroom to play some mindless video game for a few hours. It was, as always, just another day in paradise.

I understand that the lifestyle I've just described may sound appealing to some, and I get that. I also don't want to seem like I took it for granted; on some level, I did enjoy the ease and comfort my routine had afforded me. But, in the months, and eventual year after college, I had come to learn that you can, in fact, have too much of a good thing. At first, it was just fun escapism, being able to relax and take it easy all the time. Then, it became something else. It was a distraction. A distraction from the things that were eating at me. I was lonely. I was desperately, painfully lonely. I had always been an introvert, and I definitely needed and enjoyed my alone time. But moderation is key in all things. In the years since high school, my friends had all gone their separate ways. Plenty moved across the country, some across the world, and over time, those once seemingly unbreakable bonds began to weaken. I didn't blame anyone, even myself. That's just how things go sometimes. But I was awful at establishing relationships, and I hadn't really made any friends during college. So, as much as I enjoyed my time alone, I was lonely. Unbearably so, at times.

There was more I needed to keep myself from thinking about. Hating yourself is an awful feeling. I made a point of trying not to hate anyone. Sure, there were plenty of people I disliked, but hatred, in the end, only eats at you. And, more often than not, it just hurts the hater much more than the hated. But while I avoided hating others, I genuinely couldn't stop hating myself. I hated how unambitious I was. I hated how timid I was. I hated how shy I was. I hated how lazy I was. I hated that I couldn't make friends, or work up the nerve to ask anyone on a date. I hated my body. I hated my face. And I hated how much I hated myself. And because I hated myself, I thought I deserved to suffer. I didn't deserve to be happy. I didn't deserve to be loved. I didn't deserve to be healthy. So, even though I wanted a better, more well rounded, meaningful life, I didn't deserve one. Even though I wanted to make a change, I was too scared to take any risks.

So I distracted myself. I made a point of doing everything I could to keep myself from thinking. About how I felt like a failure. About how I couldn't change. About how much I wanted to connect with other people. Every day became a bizarre struggle of keeping my thoughts in control. Keeping my self loathing from tearing apart my mind, and my loneliness from consuming my heart. And whenever I lost that battle, I'd find myself breaking down, like on those sleepless nights where I would work myself into a panic attack for no good reason. That was what my life had become. A life that, on the surface, I would have wanted some years prior. And I was miserable.

I had played games for a couple hours when the fatigue started to catch up with me. I didn't typically sleep very well at night, and I'd gotten up at 4:30 in the morning to get ready for work, so I was plenty tired. It would be a few hours before I'd have to eat dinner, so I figured a brief nap would do me some good. Getting up, I tossed my button down into the hamper, and threw off my jeans, changing into a plain t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants before flopping rather dramatically onto my bed with a heavy sigh. Pulling the sheets over myself, I set an alarm on my phone for three hours from then, before staring blankly at the screen, as if expecting something to happen. Then, for some reason, against my better judgment, I felt compelled to take a quick trip down memory lane.

Delving into the photos on my phone, I scrolled down to the pictures from back during high school. There were plenty to go through. Pet pictures, vacation photos, a handful of awkward selfies, and so on. There were pictures of friends making silly faces. A picture of myself with my senior year English teacher, from when I won a creative writing contest put on by the local library. There was one of Hannah Jefferson and Matthew Williams in their costume from the stage show of MacBeth. I wondered if they were still together. I remembered him asking her out a week after that show. There was a picture of me with Sasha Becker, who'd placed first in the state's competitive half mile race. There was one of Mike Torrez with a cast on his arm, which he'd earned trying to impress everyone by jumping over two dumpsters on his skateboard. There was one of Kelly Smith and Emiko Ito, the student council class president and secretary, respectively, in spirit wear during one of the pep assemblies. I think they ended up dating, too.

They were all people I could call my friends. Or rather, they were her friends, and so I came to know them by association. I would say I still thought of them as friends, but I hadn't spoken to any of them in at least a year. In my browsing, there was one picture I stopped on. It was from the summer between our junior and senior year. A bunch of us had pooled together some money to rent a cabin out near Mt. Rainier for a few days. We were all huddled around a campfire in the backyard. I idly remembered that we had used Amy Kowalski's camera to take the picture, since she was so into photography and all. I smiled as I scanned the crowd, fondly remembering stories associated with each one of the faces. There was Sasha, Matt, and Amy. There was Jacob Lewis, who was elbowing Mike in the ribs. There was Em, and Joseph Clark, and myself on the far right. And, in the center, was Anna. Smiling that genuine, unbelievably sweet smile she always wore. At least, she'd always worn it before March of our senior year. She was the one who came up with the idea. She was the one who found the cabin, and the one who planned out what we were gonna do while we were up there. She was the reason I became friends with all those people.

We met during freshman orientation. We had, just by chance, ended up sitting next to one another. Immediately, without any hesitation, she started talking to me. She chatted my ear off and bombarded me with questions. Now, I hadn't really had many friends during middle school. I was picked on almost constantly, and, well, the less said about those three years of my life, the better. So, as you might imagine, I was thrilled to have someone actually being friendly with me, and her enthusiasm was infectious. I was usually very hesitant and distrustful of others, but she clearly either didn't get the hint, or didn't care. I couldn't remember the last time anyone had made me feel that happy. She'd come from a different school than most of the rest of us, and didn't know anyone. Of course, by the end of our first year, she'd gotten to know almost everyone, but I was the first person she'd talked to. By the end of the day, she'd asked for my phone number, and promptly spent the rest of the night texting me.

When school started, we'd wound up in a few classes together. By the end of the first week, she invited me to hang out at the mall that Saturday. Honestly, I don't think I'd ever become friends with someone so easily. Maybe when I was really little, but it had been a very long time. She had, knowingly or not, effortlessly pushed past all my barriers. As the months went by, she branched out, seamlessly integrating into other friend groups and cliques. But, she never left me behind. She always brought me along, constantly introducing me to new people. That's how I got to make all the friends I did, by being Anna's plus one. Of course, it never felt like that. I was always her equal, and even when I felt like shying away, she'd push me to get involved. Whenever I'd quiet down too much, she'd always ask questions, or tell stories that'd rope me back into the conversation. So, for the first time in a long time, I really felt like I mattered. Thanks to Anna, I truly did.

And unsurprisingly, against my conscience, I did develop a bit of a crush. I mean, I'd never really felt closer to anyone, and… I did think she was cute. She was the quintessential tomboy. She had dark brown hair, which she always wore short. She had pretty slight facial features, and big, deep blue eyes, typically accentuated with light makeup. She was taller than a lot of the other girls, about 5'9''. She had a pretty average build, and usually dressed casually; a lot of t-shirts and shorts, sneakers, and the occasional skirt. So, of course my pubescent self was interested. But, I never made a move. Part of it was my usual shyness. Part of it was me not wanting to mess up our friendship. And part of it was because I didn't think she'd ever wanted a relationship. Whenever other people would talk about dating, or people they found cute, she'd participate in the conversation, but she never put anything out there herself. She'd been asked out a couple of times by different guys, but she'd always turned them down. Whenever people would ask her about her love life, she'd usually say something like, 'I just haven't found the right person, I guess,' or 'I'll know when I know.' So, difficult though it was at times, I stifled those feelings, and I valued her as a friend above all else.

I always hesitated to use the term 'best friend.' I mean, if someone's your best friend, does that mean you aren't allowed to be closer to anyone else? I know that's not how it works, but sometimes it felt that way to me. I'd had a best friend when I was a kid, but after he moved away in elementary school, I'd hesitated to apply the term to anyone else. But, Anna was special. If anyone was my best friend, it was her. That's why I worried for her. Near the end of our last year of high school… something happened to her. That overwhelming energy that had defined her was suddenly just… gone. She still stayed friends with everyone, but she spoke a lot less than she had before. She still laughed and smiled, but whenever I looked at her, it seemed forced. Plastic and empty. She had never looked that way before. It had happened all of a sudden. That Friday, she was her usual self, and the next Monday she seemed… broken. No one seemed to notice. I never heard anyone say anything to her about it. I never even heard anyone gossip about it. But I could tell immediately; something happened.

When I asked her about it, she'd always deny or deflect. She said nothing happened, and asked what I was talking about. Like it was all in my head. For a time, I wondered if it was. If I was just being paranoid, or overprotective, or if I was projecting some unidentified issue from my own life onto her. But, whenever I heard her voice, or saw her face, I could barely recognize her. I could tell she was in pain. And then I started worrying about something else. Did she not trust me? Did I not mean as much to her as I thought I did? Was she not the best friend I had hoped she was? Of course, that made me feel guilty. Why was I blaming her for a lack of feeling for me? She was struggling, and I was growing weary of her, as if it was somehow her fault. She had always been my rock. If something was bothering me, she was always, always, there to listen to me. To offer me a shoulder to cry on. But I couldn't say anything to her about these worries. None of it was her fault, and it may have all just been in my head. It wouldn't be right to voice these concerns. She was clearly suffering. But I didn't know why, and I couldn't do anything to help. And, then, I hated myself for it.

My fears about our relationship had proven mostly unfounded. We'd remained in touch after high school, even up till now. She'd gone out of state for college, down to a school in Oregon. We still messaged from time to time, and, on rare occasions, she would come home, or I would go down to visit her. After graduation, she took a job as a librarian at an elementary school there, so our visits remained seldom. I'd found out from our conversations that I was the only person from high school that she'd remained in touch with. So, somewhat selfishly, I'd been glad to know I was special to her. Special enough to go out of her way to talk to even now. That, of our friend group, I might have been her best friend. 

But, the old Anna had never come back. Whenever we met up, or talked over the phone, I could tell she was just as genuinely glad to see me as I was to see her. But I could also tell that whatever hurt her was still there. At times, it wasn't as obvious as it had been back in school, but that light she'd once had never returned. And so, still I wondered if she didn't trust me. And I still couldn't help her. Even now, those old thoughts still plague me.

And now that I had seen her in that old picture, those thoughts were once again circling in my head.

"Damn it, why did I decide to look at those?!" I sighed, crossing my arm over my eyes in frustration.

I closed the gallery app on my phone, and, in my anger, almost slammed it onto my nightstand before I stopped myself and set it down more gently. I rolled over, pulling the sheets over my head and trying desperately to think about anything else. Fortunately, my fatigue won the day, and I found myself fading rather quickly. It had been about five minutes after I laid down, just as I was entering the twilight of consciousness that occurs before you pass out, when my phone rang.

It's just spam…

And so, I thought to ignore it.

It buzzed two more times.

But what if it's important…?

I began to reconsider.

Another buzz.

Damn it, I should check…

Angry at being distrubed when I was on the doorstep of rest, I grabbed the phone and brought the glowing screen in front of my face. It was there I saw a familiar face, and read a pertinent name. Anna Foster. They say that if you speak of the devil he appears, but I wondered about thoughts and phone calls. I pressed the green pick-up button and brought the phone to my ear.

"Hhh-Hello…?" I slurred, my mouth clearly not quite awake.

"Hey James! I'm so glad I got ahold of you! Did, uh, I just wake you up or something?" she asked.

"Yea-no! Uh, actually yes, sorta- look, it's fine," I stammered, "It's so good to hear from you! How've you been?"

"I've been doing really well! I was wondering, do you have any plans tomorrow?" she asked, with a hint of whimsy to her voice.

"Just work until 1:00. Why do you ask?"

"Well! It just so happens that I got back to Tacoma earlier today. I'm gonna be busy unpacking for the rest of the night, but I was wondering; how would you feel about getting dinner tomorrow? I'd love to get a chance to catch up with you!"

"Yeah, that'd be great! You didn't tell me you were visiting!"

"Well, I wanted it to be a little surprise! So, are you surprised?"

"Well, yeah, of course! This is, like, the best news I've gotten in-" I cut myself off.

Don't say that, idiot.

"I mean, I'm really glad you're here!"

I heard a playful giggle on the other end of the line. I interjected to stifle my embarrassment;

"So, was there anywhere in particular you wanted to go?"

"Well, it's been forever since I've had any good Spanish food, so how about La Cuchara de Plata?"

"Yeah, their food's always good," I answered, "and I haven't been there in a while, myself."

"Great! How's 6:00 sound?"

"I'll be there!"

"Then so will I! Aaaaand…" 

She paused for dramatic effect.

"Yeah?"

"I've got some good news to share! Well, probably good… no-definitely good news!"

"And what's that?" I asked curiously.

"It's a surprise! I'll tell you tomorrow~"

Now my interest was piqued;

"Well now I want to know. Can't you just tell me?"

"But then it wouldn't be a surprise…" she whimpered, pretending to sound hurt.

"You're just gonna leave me hangin' like this?"

With a somewhat characteristic degree of theatricality, she replied by spouting,

"Ohno,I'mgoingintoatunnel,You'rebreaking-up,Gottago,Byeeeeee-"

And she hung up.

I looked at the screen of my phone to see that the call had, in fact, ended, and I couldn't help but chuckle at her. She was still the same Anna. And… well, it was hard to tell just talking over the phone, but she sounded… better. Perhaps not the ray of dazzling sunshine she'd been back in high school, but she sounded more… alive. More than she had in years. I supposed I'd find out for certain tomorrow, but even just that impression, aside from simply getting to hear from her, made me feel happy. Suddenly, that fatigue that'd pushed me into bed didn't feel so overwhelming. Now I wanted to get up and do something constructive. I hadn't written anything in quite some time, despite enjoying it, and so, that was how I spent the rest of my evening.