I hate Valentine’s Day. A lot of people do. But I don’t hate it for any of the conventional reasons. As a former Hallmark employee and lifelong midwesterner, I find chalky candy hearts, pink plush puppies, and other kitschy garbage hard to resist. I’ve never spent V-Day alone weeping into a pint of ice cream while You’ve Got Mail plays in the background. In the past decade, I’ve never even been single on February 14.
When I finally looked three hours later, I had dozens of missed calls and one life-changing voice mail. Unbeknownst to me, my dad had been missing from his job for several days. That afternoon police had gone to his home and discovered his body.
From then on, I swore off celebrating Valentine’s Day. I pretended to be vehemently against consumerism. I got into open relationships and claimed to loathe romance. I moved to Chicago alone and sat in a dark studio working on my master’s thesis. I slammed my head against the drywall, wailing, scared of how sad I was.
I spent the night sitting on the floor sniffling and eating chocolate armadillos (a Texas delicacy), glad not to be alone, afraid what would’ve happened if I was.
I found live literary events less threatening than therapy. For months I sat silently in crowded bars and cafes, glad not to be alone. A year passed and I was actively participating, reading and performing my own written words. I developed a voice, and stopped hearing my dad’s caught in my throat.
