167/365 I know, it's all rehashed, but sometimes worth repeating because I write a lot of blogs and nobody reads all of them

I don't even remember why I was crying. It was high school. It wasn't a boy, I know that for sure. Maybe my parents. In sophomore hall, the math and science wing, hoping he'd be in his office. He was, the campus minister, one of the two teachers who always let me do what I wanted. One had ulterior motives, but Patrick never did. I think I must have walked out of Trig and found him there two doors down. I remember his rough thumbs on my cheeks, brushing tears away. No, Bridge, it's ok. He let me into his office. Collect yourself. Take as long as you need. I remember that. I remember the beige couches, the window out onto the courtyard. I sunk into that beige couch and closed my eyes.

He found me there after the next class. Sat down next to me, put his arm around me. Didn't say a word. It was the first time I realized that my very existence was a good thing for someone else. Someone who didn't want me for something, who didn't have a plan or a goal or a project. Didn't want to score with me on my parents' living room couch, didn't want me to pass the ball to score a goal, didn't want me to score a 1500 on the SAT. There was something intrinsic here that had nothing to do with my IQ or tits or my leg of the two mile relay. It was me and Patrick staring up at his portrayal of the resurrection on the wall. I don't remember why I was there, but I know what I left that office with.