Walmart People

“Steady now. Steady now. Don’t fear what you can’t see.” Grace Potter & the Nocturnals

Let it out, don’t push it down, don’t be afraid, just trust yourself and be brave. Be brave. It’s gonna be okay. You’ve gone through hell before, right? And you’re still alive, aren’t you? So just let it out.

What’s happening here? I’m not sure I understand, but for some reason my heart is heavy. Turtle wants me to be happy, he says please be happy, he feels the urge to look after me. He says I’m awesome, I’m beautiful, he’s a fan. He likes me, in this way that has snuck up on him quietly over the years, and I’m stunned, stunned, because it’s just the same for me. Every time we’ve lost touch I’ve felt a little sad and every time we reconnect, I need to make sure he’s okay. It’s just... I know that he’s this incredibly kind person, and he makes me laugh like no one else. And I’m almost entirely sure that he’s real.

* * *

I guess my biggest fear in life is love. I mean, if you give your heart to somebody, you expect them to love you too, right? But it doesn’t always work that way.

Love. What is the point? I really would like to know this. It drives you crazy, makes you mad, makes ya nervous, makes ya sad. What is it all about? To have something to do? To destroy humankind? Or to make us all closer?

Love makes you feel a lot of things, and you often get hurt. But once you have found true love, it will last forever.

(from the diary of a thirteen year old Erin, December 1995)

* * *

Pick it up, pick it up, don’t

Don’t do it, don’t

Succumb to it

I don’t want to be sad. I want to be happy, very happy, very merry merry happy. Why do I have to be one of the people who actually feels every emotion to the fullest? Even the smallest loss can be devastating.

So much lost, so much that I don’t say

But I carry it with me every day

I hide inside myself and close my eyes

Don’t notice me, no please, don’t look at me

Cuz if you look maybe then you’ll see

What weighs me down so heavily

Do you think he knows just what it’s done to me?

He’d probably say to me- oh you know he’d say to me

Move on

Just move on

But I don’t know

If I can do that again

(Lyrics from “Move On” written 09/12/09)

* * *

July  2013

He pulls up beside my car, in the giant parking lot outside of the Walmart in Medina, and parks his bright, shiny red Blazer. His windows are down and I hear Kelly Clarkson pouring out of them, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger!!” and I glance over to see a man with mirrors for eyes in the driver’s seat. I pass my judgment quickly: that’s a strange song for a man to be listening to by himself. And then I think, I bet he’s a cool guy. The real kind of cool, the not-afraid-to-look-stupid cool, not the kind of ‘cool’ that keeps people living in fear of being true to themselves.

Meanwhile, I open the trunk of my car and try to determine if the giant black garbage can on wheels is going to fit.

“I don’t think it’s going to fit,” I say to my son. He looks at me, then at the can, then back at me.

“I think it will fit!” says the man with sunglasses on. He’s out of his car now, and standing right behind me, almost towering over me, and I think how long it’s been since I’ve stood so close to a tall man. That’s when I notice the little girl. She’s standing a little ways behind her dad, with dark hair that could use brushing and bangs dripping into her eyes. She looks about the same age as my son. It hits me that she must be the reason for the music.

I laugh at my mistake and I laugh that this stranger is talking to me and I don’t know what to say.

“Do you need some help?” he asks me.

“I don’t know. I’m sure I can handle it.” I’m not sure I can handle it. I’m not sure I can handle anything, including life. I try to shove the can into the trunk. It’s not going to fit.

“Do your back seats go down? I used to have a car just like this, I bet you can make it fit.” This man is still talking to me. What is he doing? Why is he talking to me? I’m flustered and I’m trying to shove the can into the trunk although I’ve already discovered very concretely that it’s not going to happen and I can feel this man standing there watching me and I don’t know what to say.

Instead of responding to him, I tell my son that I might have to put the can in the backseat. The man must have thought I was talking to him because he says, “Yeah, just slide it in there, that’s what I did,” and all I can think is, “That’s what she said,” and I laugh hysterically to myself and wonder how insane I must sound.

I tell my son once more that I might have to put the can in the backseat, and he says to me, “I’ll ride in the trunk!” and I laugh and he laughs, and then I tell him that he’s going to get to ride in the front seat with Mom for the first time. I know he’s done this with his Dad already, all the time, but this isn’t something that I allow. He still rides in a booster seat because although he’s eight, he’s still only in the twenty-fifth percentile for height and I’m a very protective mama bear.

The man with the mirrors for eyes is still standing there when I pull the can from the trunk and open the back door. I still don’t know what to say to this man, but he’s standing there, and so I say, “Thanks,” even though he didn’t do anything at all, and he says, “Well, if you’re still here in fifteen minutes, I’ll be back if you need some help,” and then he takes his daughter’s hand and walks toward the entrance to the store.

I move JT’s booster seat and slide the can in and it goes in without a hitch. We both get into the front seats, and for a minute I just sit there. Did he want me to wait? Was he just being polite, or was he flirting? I honestly have no clue, and I have no real reason to wait since I got the can into the car, so I buckle my seatbelt and pull out of my parking space and onto the road.

I’m not sure why, but I smile the whole half hour drive back home.

* * *

Chicken had big dreams. He said he wanted to be an artist. He said he wanted to tattoo. He said he wanted to be a writer. He had this huge fantastical story in his head that he’d been working on since he was a teenager. Working on it was really more or less planning it. He had some of the story planned out, but he never actually wrote it. He had big plans. He said the story was based on a dream that he had when he was younger. He used to have a million crazy dreams, and he’d twitch and jump in his sleep, sometimes calling out names and muffled phrases. Once, I woke  sleep. I didn’t know why, but I knew I needed to. I shook him.

“Chicken!” I whispered. “Hey, are you having a bad dream?” Chicken rolled over and ran his hand over his face and blinked several times. “Huh?”

I told him how I felt like something was wrong and that something told me to wake him up. He gave me a funny look and then told me he was having a dream and that it wasn’t bad, but he was starting to have an ominous feeling and knew that something awful had been about to happen.

I tried explaining to Chicken once about my sixth sense. I guess people call it intuition. I told him how I get these feelings, these unexplainable hunches, and I just know something without a shadow of a doubt, and there’s no real reason for it. Like the time I was at home with JT while everyone else was at The Grant partying. Nick and I had only been dating for a few months; four at the most. Over the course of the evening, I began having a strange, foreboding feeling. At first, I didn’t pay much attention to it, but as the night wore on, it became stronger and more definite, and I knew that something was wrong. More than that, I knew it involved Nick. Something was happening at The Grant, and it wasn’t good, it wasn’t good for me. I tried calling him at that point, but he wouldn’t answer his phone. Later, when Catrina came home, I asked her if anything weird had happened at The Grant that night. I think she was surprised that I knew, and she told me that she saw Nick kiss another girl.

All I could see in my mind was the first time Nick had kissed me, replaying over and over, only it was no longer me he was kissing. Catrina told me that she let the girl know that Nick was my boyfriend, and that the girl acted apologetic, yet later spent hours locked up in Nick’s bedroom with him. My heart plummeted to my feet upon hearing this. I still don’t know why I spent five more years with him. I always knew something happened that night, something more than a drunken kiss, but he denied it. I couldn’t trust him after that, and over the years I caught him in lie after lie. Why, why did I stay? Why did I keep going back? Only recently did he admit that yes, he had fooled around with her in his bedroom. No, they didn’t just lay on his bed together and talk.

Chicken told me that just because my intuition was proven right every once in awhile didn’t mean that it was always right. He would say the odds of it being true had to fall in my favor sometimes. He’d say that no matter how many times I was wrong, I would cling to the times I was right and believe that my gut feeling was always right because of those few times. He told me I shouldn’t trust that, I shouldn’t trust my gut, I shouldn’t trust myself.

“Trust me,” he would say. “Just trust me.”

* * *

Turtle has one piece of advice for me, and one only: “Trust yourself.” Instantly, I feel comfortable with him. Turtle is a writer. He doesn’t dream about it, he doesn’t plan to do it once everything in his life is perfect. He just does it, right now, through the pain, through the chaos, he pushes himself to put into words everything that matters, the deep down gut wrenching heartbreaking truth of life and what’s important. He’s a sea of hope and inspiration and goodness, and I want to swim in his waters and bathe on his shores.

* * *

August 2013

I’m feeling so inspired that I find myself walking into Walmart with the intention of buying myself a new notebook. Something fresh, unused, without the little notes and scribbles from a previous life, the lists of all the things I need to do that end with “love me forever.” Back to school supplies are stacked and displayed at every turn, and so many students and parents of students mill about, looking at their supply lists, at the shelves of supplies. I barely notice them, and stop short of running into a young boy who darts out into the aisle ahead of me to grab a specific item in a specific color, then hesitates, unsure of his choice, his hand darting quickly back and forth, holding the item, as he is clearly unable to decide if he is making the right choice. I wait patiently, looking off down another aisle to see if there are notebooks there. The aisle is full of overflowing carts and overflowing people and overflowing impatience. I turn back and the boy is gone. I continue on my way.

I’m walking through a maze of hurried bodies, and I can’t seem to find what I’m looking for. There are bins of small boxes of crayons, glue sticks, post-it notes. Scissors, pencils, lunchboxes. I’m all but completely unaware of the people around me as I continue searching for my treasure. I turn down a main aisle and suddenly the frenzy of school supply shoppers disappears and I’m alone. I walk.

Up ahead, something is moving toward me too smoothly, gliding, and I open my awareness to see that it’s a wheelchair with a young man pushing himself along the aisle, staring straight ahead at no one. He looks as though he wants nothing more than to get out of this place, away from the crowd of uncaring people who are in too much of a hurry to notice his presence as he tries to maneuver around them. We move ever closer to each other, and I’m looking at his face now, his dark hair, he’s really very handsome, and then his eyes turn upward and meet mine. I see in them the expectation that has built up inside for years, to be ignored, passed over, unnoticed. I see the disdain and the anger and the pain. But he meets my eyes, fiercely, daring me to look away, and yet I don’t. Instead, my face breaks into a huge, warm smile because he’s the only person who has looked me in the eyes since I entered the store, and will probably be the last, and I also know what it feels like to be passed over. His challenging eyes soften and then he smiles back, his whole face lighting up, and then he’s past me and the moment is gone. Something warm is trickling down inside my belly; something is melting.

(completed August 9, 2013)

First Love

It was one of those autumn nights where you smell the winter coming but it’s still a ways off yet. The leaves are turning and falling, crunching under your shoes, and the excitement of social activity is enough to keep the chill from taking hold and seeping into your bones. This particular night was a Friday, which meant I was with my best friend at our high school’s football game. We were still in junior high, and I was never into the football.  I went to games to see friends, to check out guys, to get away from home, to be part of something, anything. I was standing amongst a circle of friends and acquaintances when I glanced over at a group of boys nearby. It was as though my eyes were instinctively drawn to this group, and a particular set of dark eyes that were watching me. I had no idea who he was, but every single time I would glance back in his direction, his eyes were on mine. I think I knew from that moment that he was someone special. That is the only thing I remember about that night: the boy with the dark eyes. Those mysteriously intense deep dark eyes, always on mine.

I’m not sure how long it was after that night before I received a note from this boy, passed from him to my best friend and finally to me. I found out his name, and that he had a crush on me. I was flattered and excited and scared. I didn’t even know him. We began chatting with each other on AOL and talking on the telephone. I would have the phone cord stretched as far as it would go into the closet downstairs, so I could speak privately. We talked about so many different things: music, life, love, dreams, hopes, goals. We connected, so deeply, on so many levels. And when he finally told me he loved me, I was the happiest girl alive. There was nothing I wanted more than his love.

We went to this old rundown theater in the closest town for our first date, and we sat in the very back row. I was so terribly nervous. We saw Titanic and it was such a beautiful love story. We sat through the entire end credits, listening to that song, just being close to each other, not wanting the moment to end. Afterward, we walked out of the theater and across some broken pavement to the car where his dad was waiting to drive us home. We sat in the backseat together, so innocent and so pure, and then when we got back to my house, he asked me to be his girlfriend, and I said yes, of course I said yes, I was head over heels. And then he kissed me on the back porch of my childhood home, a porch that is no longer there but is filled with so many memories. It was so beautiful. I hope I always remember these things, these moments that I have stored in my mind, I hope I always have them to remember, to smile. To cry.

We were so beautiful together, always so happy. In school, it was hard, I was so shy, I was so afraid, I couldn’t muster the courage to hardly even talk to him. I regret that and wish I would have been braver, but I just wasn’t. I didn’t know how to handle all of those feelings in a public setting. But when we were together, alone, nothing else mattered. Just me and him. He would look at me, he would just stare, like he still couldn’t take his eyes off of me. He would tell me how beautiful I was; my face, my nose; he said I was so pretty. And he would hold me for what seemed like hours.

We had a scare after a few months, an accident, and we sat on the couch in his basement, me on his lap, and I cried and cried, and he held me and told me everything would be okay, that he would never leave me, he would be right there with me every step. I loved him in that moment more than I have ever loved anyone.

It’s these brief moments, these memories that I’ve folded up and put in my back pocket for safekeeping, that I find myself going back to time and time again, in the hope of finding comfort, in the hope of finding joy, in the hope of finding hope.

I remember his uncle driving us over to my house to drop me off.  He would take each turn sharp and quick, trying to jostle me into his nephew’s lap. He was a good uncle.

I remember going to see fireworks with his family that summer. We drove into town and parked on a side street and walked over to the high school where everyone gathered to watch the show. His parents settled down with their lawn chairs to wait for dusk, while he and I milled about, checking out the scenery of people. We passed many kids our age and he seemed to know so many and I felt so awkward, so out of place, so shy next to this giant boy with his baggy jeans and his cool attitude. Later on I learned that attitude was really just a facade; he was as nervous and awkward as I was, but he hid it underneath the identity he was creating for himself. I don’t know if he’s ever shown another person what’s behind that mask. And then the fireworks were starting, and we made our way back to where his parents had camped out, and we sat together on the grass, so close I could feel him breathing. I felt every brush of his hand against my knee, and I wonder if he could feel my breath catch. And then music started playing, and suddenly his Mom was on her knees, her hands waving in the air, tears streaming down her face as she sang along to God Bless the USA. I don’t know why she was crying then, or what she felt in that moment, but she was feeling, and she was beautiful.

I remember going with his Mom and his brother to watch his baseball team play. I would sit there behind the fence with them while he played, chatting with his Mom, watching his brother run around talking to other people. He was at that age where he wanted to talk constantly to people, tell them all about every little thing that was so important to him at that moment, and I could see the exasperation on their mother’s face. “Hey Mom,” he’d call out, trotting over to ask another question or tell another joke, trying desperately to fit in somewhere, to be “cool” like his big brother. Then Mom looked at me candidly and said that he wanted to bring a girl to the games, too, he didn’t think it was fair that big brother was allowed to bring me. Now I know that he was feeling left out, that his best friend had found a new best friend, and this one had breasts and he couldn’t compete with that. Her response to his inquiry was “if he can find someone who will put up with him for more than a couple days” he could bring her. It was funny then. I remember laughing at the absurdity of him finding someone who could “put up with him.” He was eleven. Looking back, it just makes me sad.

Dear brother,

You were just a kid when I knew you. So young and even then, so much weighing on you everyday. I remember when my Mom told me that she knew you from chatting on AOL, and how I was so stunned that out of all the people in the world, she had somehow found and befriended my first love's little brother. I think at the time I thought it was a little bit strange, that my Mom was talking to you when you were just a kid, and I wondered why you even wanted to talk to her. Looking back, I think maybe you just needed someone to talk to, and I think you have always had an underlying idea that no one cared about you. Every time I would come to your house to see your brother, you would always be hanging around, sometimes you would actually kick it with us, and other times you would just be there, in the background, and I always got the sense that you wanted to be right there with us. I know now that it was your tremendous love for your brother, your admiration and respect, that drew you to his side day after day. I would notice you then, watching us, and even then I could feel that you needed to be close to him, and I always wanted to invite you to join us because for whatever reason, I sensed that need in you. I wish I had, I wish had reached out to you then, I wish I would have known how to do that, but I didn't. I was a scared little girl and the things going on in my life at that time were too difficult, it was all I could do to maintain any kind of composure at all. I was too busy holding in all of the shit storm that was my life, even that one small opening up of my heart for another person, no matter how much I wanted to be able to do it, was too much, too risky, and everything I was holding in would have poured out from that hole, and I was too young, too young and too afraid of anyone seeing my scars. If I could go back, brother, I would talk to that young boy and try to share in that needing to belong and needing to be loved, because we have all been there and have needed that love, longed for it, and when there's no one there to reach out and hold on to, it gets so damn lonely and I guess what I am trying to say is that whatever you were going through, I wish I would have listened to my gut and just said, hey, come on in and talk, or don't talk, whatever, just don't be alone, you don't have to feel like you're alone.  And even though I didn't know how to reach out to you, I still cared about you, and always have kind of seen you as a little brother, and even though we were never very close, I have always thought of you as a friend; you've always had a place in my heart. And every time I'd talk to your brother, I would ask about you, and your Mom, and if things were going bad for you, my heart would weep and I always wanted to help you somehow and you are part of the reason I went back to school to pursue a degree in therapy/human services/social work because I thought maybe someday I could help you, but I was too damn late and now you're gone and I don't think I ever told you how much I cared and how much you meant, and I can't even imagine-- I look through all of the pictures and the posts on your wall from your friends and family and how much love there is for you, and I just cry and cry, and I didn't even know you that well, I just can't imagine how it must feel for your family, for everyone who loves you so much and I feel almost guilty for being so sad, like it's their tragedy, your family's loss, and how dare I even cry for you when all these other people were so much closer and sometimes I wish I didn't care so much, I wish I didn't have all of this overwhelming empathy, because it brings so much pain. I see the words from your daughter's Mom, who I've never even met, and your beautiful daughter, and your Mom, and I'm so sorry, I'm so so sorry, I don't even have the words. I can feel all the love emanating from those photos of you with your girls, and it breaks my heart to think of them without you, I know you loved them both so much. I just start thinking about my son, and his Dad, and what the hell would we even do if we lost him? I can't even imagine how immense the pain must be, and I can't think of you without thinking of them, and when I cry for you, I am crying for them, from one mother to another, I am so truly and deeply sorry. I think your Mom and your daughter's Mom both must be two of the strongest women because it takes strength to face each day, and even more to face the pain. And your brother is one of the strongest men I know, he has overcome so many hurdles, so many losses, and I have so much admiration, respect, and love for him, I wonder if he knows. But I have gotten off track here a little, brother... it's so easy to get off track in life...

Brother, I came here today to tell you how much I care. I hope you can see now how very many people there are who love and care for you, I hope you can feel all of this love. I can feel it each time I visit your memorial page(s), it's huge, it's alive, and it's in all of us who are waiting to see you once again. I hope that you felt at least a fraction of this love while you were here.

   

I remember when he took me to Lonestar steakhouse with his Dad and his brother. I had never ordered a steak before, and quite possibly never even eaten a steak before. My family didn’t go out to eat, and we didn’t eat steak at home. So I was clueless, and I had no idea what I liked or what to order, and I just remember thinking I should order the cheapest thing on the menu, so I ordered a chopped steak, well done. All of these men I was with looked at me like I was out of my mind, but I truly hadn’t a clue. So then it came out, and this “steak,” this sorry excuse for a piece of meat, was like a hamburger patty without the bun. Gross. I have since learned that my favorite steak is a filet mignon, medium. I wish I had been schooled on steak etiquette prior to that meal, so I wouldn’t have alienated everyone... but... we live and we learn.

That is such a bittersweet memory for me,  but I am so thankful that I have it. I am so thankful that I was able to know his Dad and brother, even if only a little bit, just a short time. They are part him, his family, and it means so much to me to have those memories.

I remember he took me to his Mom’s family get together and they had a pool and we went swimming and I thought I was so fat and ugly, but he made me feel beautiful. I know there are pictures of that day floating around somewhere, but I have no idea where they are. I wish I did.

I remember sitting out on his back deck and his Dad grilled cheeseburgers for us. And it was so simple, just sitting there, quietly eating our cheeseburgers together, but it was so wonderful, I was so happy just to be there. I felt loved and taken care of and content.

I remember visiting him at his Mom’s when his Grandma lived there, and she too made us cheeseburgers, and I took a bite of mine and it started gushing blood. I was so grossed out, and he was frantically whispering “don’t say anything, don’t tell her, no, no” so I wasn’t going to but then she came and asked what was wrong, and me being me, I had to tell her the truth. So, she put it back in the frying pan to cook longer, and he said she was practically blind in her  old age. His Mom’s boyfriend was there, and he kept telling me not to worry about his fantasy crush on the Spice Girls, because that’s all it was: a fantasy. And then we were laying on his Mom’s bed, me rubbing his back, and I can remember exactly what his shoulders looked like and how much I loved them, and he was telling me that his Mom had this body wash I would like, it was Dove body wash and it would make my skin so soft, so soft.

I don’t know why I remember these things, but I do. It feels so good to remember. I had true love once, out in front of his Dad’s old house in Lafayette, he swept me up into his arms, and I was scared, and happy, and safe. These are the moments I hold on to, clutching them tight against my beating heart, to remind me what it is to be alive.

Blurred

Sunday, September 30, 2012; 11:52 pm.

I hope you know:

When I look in your eyes, I see myself. There is so much of you that is me. I don't have to ask because I know the answer. Yet, I can ask, and you will answer. The answer is always the same as the answer I knew you'd give. We both understand that we are only human, and to err is human, and to be human is to err. So we constantly forget who we are dealing with because it is so rare to find the true other half of yourself. To find someone who can see into my heart and know what is there without question. And when in doubt will question without assumption, who will listen without judgment.

Every day I love you more, every day I am more comfortable with you, every day you show me that you will always be here for me. Your arms feel like home- everything about you feels like home. I am so thankful to finally have you in my life. I have been waiting for you for so long.

~ ~ ~ ~

Monday, October 1, 2012; 2:45 pm.

“Aww, thanks honey, you know I feel the same. I do also feel like I am home. I truly, for the first time in my life, feel like everything is all right. I feel that there is nothing outside of uncontrollable catastrophe that can prevent me from becoming the man that I have always wanted to be. I have you to thank for that. Your love and acceptance has been the greatest gift I've been given since my daughter's birth. You've given me the hope and desire I need to achieve my life's ambitions. Because of you, the depression I have struggled with for so long has evaporated into a foggy memory; that feeling which had become so all encompassing and seemingly endless. I can't adequately describe in words, or even begin to thank you enough for the way that you've cured me of that terrible disease. So long as you are with me, that feeling will never return. I am so thoroughly convinced of this that I cannot even entertain the idea of ever feeling that way again. In all sincerity life is good. I love you :)”

~ ~ ~ ~

He never wanted me to kiss him. I can see that now. He wanted me to believe in his undying love and then he told me not to trust myself. He showed up at my door with seventeen beat-up, overstuffed suitcases full of his misery and regrets and unfulfilled ambitions. He convinced me of his hopes and dreams and that if only he was given the chance, he would pursue them. He read me like the open book that I am, and he knew that I would take on the fix up project that he calls his life. He pulled away from my kiss that night and then said, “Wait, I like it,” just as he would pull away from my future affections all the while saying how much he loved me.

~ ~ ~ ~

“On a side note, and please hear me out and don’t be mad. I’m so afraid to ask you. And the previously attached note is not a preamble to this or some sick scheme to get in your favor. I would really feel better if I had another half. It’s not overdoing it I don’t think and will not detract from my original plan. I know there will be other times, but at least I will have a week of being on 4mg to level me out. I don’t want you to think this is some kind of plea from a mad junkie. It’s truly not like that. I just know it will cessate this fucking anxiety. I can probably get another half from my sister or my mom so that I don’t come up short by Monday. Another day of building it up in my system will do more good than harm. :( I feel like the world’s biggest loser asking. So shameful what I have done to myself and I know you may not trust me anymore. If you do give me another half then this will be the last time. I swear on my life and hope for an afterlife. Is this something all junkies say? God, I hope not. :( I’m scared of you being disappointed in me and hearing the shame in your voice and seeing it in your eyes.”

~ ~ ~ ~

He never loved me. He loved his drug and he would say anything and he would do anything to play on my emotions, and keep me in the role of enabler. That’s all I ever was to him, someone to aid in his addiction, someone to make his life look normal for him while he coasted along, sometimes sinking, but never really swimming. It was all too easy: he was too smart for his own good, and he used it to manipulate me and everyone else and he knew exactly what to say to keep me right where he wanted me. He gave me just enough of his attention and false affection. The bones that he would throw would keep me chewing for weeks and just when they were worn down to nearly nothing and I was desperate for his love and questioning its validity to the point of madness, he’d say, “Just trust me,” and kiss my forehead and tell me again how he’d always love me and we would get through anything as long as we stuck together.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Babe,

I just wanted to say that I love you. Each week that passes I come to love you all the more. So when you ask if I still love you or if I’m beginning to love you less -- just know that my affection for you grows. You are the best partner I’ve ever had, or ever will. I need you because you make life, and all of its hardships, more bearable. I want to share the years with you and overcome each adversity so that you might come to believe that this bond we share is true and unwavering.

On an aside, I will probably ask for a couple more mg’s. 2 more should be good. I can take 4 mon and 4 tues, or 3,3,3. Regardless I’m gonna have to tough it out on less than 4 for a couple days. I might as well have an OK day than 3 rough ones.”

~ ~ ~ ~

He would claw out my darkest fears from the depths of my soul with his actions, then quell them with with his soothing words, over and over, endlessly, knowing that if he could keep me in this perpetual state of fear and uncertainty,  I would continue to seek his comfort, and all of his pretty words would keep me hanging on, keep me believing, leaving only just the smallest shred of doubt: if I lost him, so would I lose my own peace of mind, because who then would calm my anxious heart?

~ ~ ~ ~

Letters I Never Sent Part One

You're in withdrawal and I know I can't take it personally, but it still hurts. I asked if there was anything you need or want, and you just say "nothing that you have". Like I have nothing to offer you. It makes me feel so worthless. I know it's the withdrawal talking and you're not yourself, but these are still the things you say and do, regardless.

The other day you told me that there is no possible way to have understanding between two people. No two experiences are the same, I get that. But empathy and finding understanding are vital. It’s such a basic human need, to be understood by another. You seem determined to be closed off, and you are ruining the possibility of bonding over common experiences by viewing it that way. It just creates more unnecessary distance.

I know that there is a good, strong man inside there somewhere, and he wants out. No one wants this kind of life that you have right now. There is a better future waiting for you, if you choose to follow the right path. You know this isn't the right path. That's why you have this incredible sense of guilt and shame about all of it, because you know the truth, way deep down inside. But the need to use still outweighs that guilt, the fear outweighs the shame. But the only thing to fear is remaining an addict and losing control of your life, your relationships and family. Getting clean is the first step toward achieving true happiness. You won't find it where you're at now. You know all this, you are extremely intelligent, but drugs turn off your brain and all you know is need. But you don't need it. You don't need it. You don't need it. No one needs it. Not you. Not me. Not our children. We all need you, healthy and functioning, every single day. Not maybe half the time, if that. Maybe a quarter of the time. You have slept at least sixteen hours each day this week, since Tuesday. I'm sure you will sleep until your sister arrives after her appointment. You've been asleep all day long, and you've been in bed all week. You have only gotten up a handful of times to get food and come right back up to bed. You are merely existing. I want more for you, and I want more for me.

~ ~ ~ ~

I was so blinded by his fabricated declaration of unending, unconditional love that I couldn’t see that it was his chaotic black hole sucking me in and creating the perpetual anxiety that I believed only he could calm. He brought his storm pouring down, handed me a beautiful broken umbrella, and ran away when I couldn't keep him dry.

~ ~ ~ ~

Letters I Never Sent Part Two

I’m feeling so very vulnerable. I wanted nothing more than to be strong for you and all that you are going through, and everything that you have to deal with. I wanted to be the one you could rely on and feel safe with. I’m not perfect. I have these flaws, and a very deep shame about them. I have been abandoned by many people. I have not had one single person yet prove to me that I could trust them implicitly. I have had no one lay a gentle hand on me and stand beside me and believe in me and love me. No one has made me believe that I am lovable, that I deserve love, that I am not in fact completely insane. I truly believe you love me. But the people I have trusted in the past have abandoned me. They've hurt me and betrayed me and abused me and traumatized me. I am still so afraid. I’m feeling very exposed and it scares the shit out of me. But I do trust you. I don’t think you are the kind of person who is going to hurt me. Please, I am begging you. Please be gentle with me. Please be sensitive and understanding to my needs. Please just be the one to show me that not everyone is going to hurt me. I need someone to prove that it is okay to trust. Just please love me, please don't give up on me. I can't stand the thought of losing you and this family that we have only just begun creating.

~ ~ ~ ~

No sooner than I had allowed myself to believe that he would love me forever, that he would stay with me always- just as he’d been trying to convince me since the moment he came- I finally believed it and then he took it all away. Did he really take it away though? Can you take something away that you had never given in the first place?

~ ~ ~ ~

In His Words

“It sounds like you love all the way. You are extremely loyal and love is more important to you than it is most people. You gave him plenty of chances but he simply wouldn't follow through. Whether he didn't love himself enough, or you, I don't know. It was a lesson, that you cannot help someone who does not want it. This is just my opinion, but when you are dealing with true, actual love, you do whatever it takes. His mental health was never in a place for you guys to go anywhere. If he knew what was wrong with him, but persisted in the exact same behaviors that not only brought you down, but himself, that just doesn't sound like love to me.”

(completed August 4, 2013)

Hope

The other day I met up with an old friend whom I hadn’t seen in several years. What struck me most was how present he was in the conversation. He didn’t drift off amongst his own personal thoughts, but kept his eyes on mine. It was almost disconcerting, and I found myself averting my eyes at times, a habit I’d picked up over the last year to disconnect from people who might see too much in them. I’ve been hiding away for so long, and I’ve done this throughout a few different periods of my life, protecting other people’s secrets, but never protecting myself. I always thought that by protecting them I was somehow doing the same for myself, but really I was only getting myself hurt. I’m slowly regaining the ability to let people see me for who I am, and he saw me, he SAW me, he saw ME; and then suddenly there it was: a spark of hope.

I told him of terrible things I’ve done, and worse things that have been done to me, and of my year-long illness and then he said to me, “You’re telling me about the most awful things that have happened to you, and that’s when you laugh the most,” and I feel like I need to explain this to him somehow, as though it can’t possibly have been that bad if I think it’s so funny. And I know that I don’t think all of these things are funny; they’re tragic, horrible, they’ve wrenched my heart from my chest and smashed it into a thousand tiny little pieces, but if I wallow in those feelings, I will become them, and what is life worth if we’re not laughing, and loving, and living? And then I realized he had just said one of the nicest things anyone’s said in a long time.

The next afternoon I was driving over to my Grandma’s house and I thought of everything I’ve been through this past year. After seven years apart, my son’s dad professed his love for me and we tried to get back together, but we just aren’t compatible. Shortly after he decided to take me to court on false claims that I had retaliated by restricting his visitation. I then found someone who convinced me he would love me and stay with me forever, and we created a family from two broken ones, only to be torn apart by something so far out of my league that we had no chance of survival, let alone that everlasting love that I thought we had found. I’m not sure I’ll ever know what was true and what wasn’t, but I do know that I have no idea who he really is. And the loss of his daughter... I don’t have words for that heartache. I found out some of the people I thought were my closest friends weren’t friends at all. I had both my electric and gas shut off because I wasn’t able to keep up on the payments while supporting my ex’s ... lifestyle. Riding this rollercoaster for so long has left me feeling like I have nothing left to give, not really believing that anyone will ever give me anything back. My entire life has been one hurt after another, but I’ve always been able to pick up the pieces and move on with an open heart and a never ending hope for something better. This time, that hope inside of me died. I felt completely empty, like every last drop of goodness in me had bled out when he left and I saw the situation for what it truly was.

I flipped on the radio, cursing myself once again for forgetting to make mix tapes. Maybe I could still find an upbeat song that I could belt out and lose myself in, or at least something that could lift my spirits. What I got was even better.

“This is not the end, this is not the beginning...”

There’s no mistaking Linkin Park, if you’ve ever heard them. I was only picking up a few words here and there at first, my mind slipping back to thoughts of all of those difficulties, but as the lyrics flowed on, I really began to listen.

“I know what it takes to move on...”

I’ve found a new room mate and I’m really excited for her to move in next weekend. I’m slowly starting to get my bills back under control, but without a room mate, I won’t be able to keep my home for very long. I need help. I can’t do it alone. And I didn’t really think I’d find someone, again, but things have a way of working out when you least expect it, and I have a feeling this is going to be really good for me, and a lot of fun besides.

A few weeks ago, I packed up all of their things nice and neat into cardboard boxes, and it was heartbreaking. Taking all of her pictures off the walls, his books off the shelves, and putting them into boxes made it all so very final, yet it was closure that I needed. I didn’t cry until the next day when I went into her old room and saw all of the boxes stacked up like no one lived there anymore, and it hit me that no one did.

“All I want to do is trade this life for something new, holding on to what I haven't got...”

For the first month after they left, I was living as though they were still here. I would wash the laundry and fold the clothes and put them away in their drawers. I cleaned all of her toys up off her floor and put them away where they belonged. When I went into the gas station on the corner,  the cashier would see me and immediately grab a pack of Camel Menthols and I would buy them so I didn’t have to explain that they weren’t for me, and that he was gone.

“What was left when that fire was gone

I thought it felt right but that right was wrong

All caught up in the eye of the storm

And trying to figure out what it's like moving on”

I drove over to his house one day. It had been nearly a month since I’d seen him, and I was terrified. I parked a few houses down the street and tried to calm my nerves. I smoked half a cigarette from the pack I didn’t ask for, then reclined the seat and closed my eyes, taking deep, slow breaths in and out. My stomach was in knots. Finally I worked up enough courage to get out of the car. I crossed the street and walked up the sidewalk to their porch. I took a deep breath and climbed the stairs to the front door. I knocked, waited, knocked again. His nephew came to the door, and I asked if he was around. He disappeared toward the back of the house and I could hear him calling his name.

I step away from the door and wonder if I’ve gone completely mad. Just as I make up my mind to turn around and run, he’s standing on the other side of the screen door.

“What are you doing here?”

My mind goes blank. What am I doing here?! All of the things I wanted to say were suddenly gone and I fumble for a response. “I... I w-wanted to see you... I couldn’t stay away any longer.” My voice sounds like it’s coming from some far off place, and my hands are shaking. He steps outside, and his cousin is there behind him, following him out. I’ve come at a bad time.

“You’ve come at a bad time.”

He sits down and lights a cigarette. Not a Camel Menthol now, but a Winston. I remember the pack I have in the car. I want to offer him one; my mouth won’t work. I sit down in the chair next to his. I watch him as he blows smoke out of his mouth and nose, notice his beard is much longer, and he’s wearing a green bandana I’ve never seen before. His eyes have pinprick pupils that won’t quite meet my own. My eyes are wide and taking everything in. He’s wearing a dirty wifebeater and basketball shorts and I notice how narrow his shoulders are, how pale his skin is, the dark circles under his eyes.

“You look... dirty,” I say, and then regret it. He tells me they’ve been cleaning out the basement after the flooding. I ask if he’s been sleeping down there, and he tells me that he has his nephew’s old room. I breathe a sigh of relief. His cousin is sitting on the porch, and I don’t know what to say. Everything I had planned seems like much too much to bare in front of anyone else. I feel completely exposed in my black hoodie and jeans. I want to reach out and take his hands, turn his face toward mine. I want him to see what’s inside me, all of the love that I have for him that’s aching to be known. Instead I shove my hands into my pockets and look down at my lap.

“Is there any chance for us?” I ask. I already know the answer. His apathetic silence is coming across loud and clear. I wait.

“Is that what you came to talk about? This isn’t a good time.”

I’m desperate, searching for the words that will make him understand, that will connect us once again. I’m losing and I don’t know what to say and I don’t know what to do and then his aunt comes out the door. She sees me and stops in her tracks, just briefly. She’s uncomfortable, and she goes back into the house. I don’t blame her. I want to disappear myself, and yet I sit there, waiting, for something I already know won’t come.

I ask the question I didn’t want to ask. “Do you still love me?” He hesitates. He looks at his hands, the ground, the houses across the street, anywhere but at me. I wait.

“I... I don’t know... I care about you... I try not to think about it.”

I can’t stop thinking about it, and I tell him so. He says I should try to get on Paxil. I apologize for showing up unannounced. We stand and start moving toward the stairs. I turn and look back at him, and we awkwardly hug one another. He gives me the casual pat-pat-pat on the back, and then I go. As I walk away from the house toward my car, tears begin to form and spill down my cheeks. I try to hold onto what little composure I have left, but as soon as I am behind the wheel, I am wracked with uncontrollable sobs. I sit like this with my head in my hands for what seems an eternity but was probably only five minutes, before I scrub my face and tell myself to get a grip. I hadn’t expected it to go any better than it had. I start the ignition. As I pull away from the curb, I instinctively know this will be the last time I see him, but I had seen what I needed to see. The tears begin once more.

“And I don't even know what kind of things I said

My mouth kept moving and my mind went dead

So I'm picking up the pieces, now where to begin

The hardest part of ending is starting again”

As the music continued to pour out of the speakers that afternoon as I drove to my Grandma’s house, I realized that tears were streaming down my face again, but these weren’t the painful tears of loss. I began laughing as I cried, because I felt it deep inside myself; I was finally moving on. I know what it takes to move on, and I’m not holding on to what I haven’t got anymore. Life had dealt a hand stacked high against me, but somehow I managed not to fold. I made it out of the storm, and I’m still breathing and my heart’s still beating, and then all at once that spark that I had glimpsed the night before caught fire and I was finally, joyfully, exuberantly filled with hope.

This is not the end, this is not the beginning, and hope IS alive... it was right there all along, waiting for me to find it.

(completed July 29, 2013)