Paper Chase (part 4)

Michael and I kept in contact, still talking on the phone trying to figure out how to keep our friendship without a romantic link. The problem was we were like magnets that gravitated towards each other every time we were in a close proximity. While we kept our personal distance he was consistently the one who talked with first thing in the morning and the last one I talked to at night before I slept. With my heart broken, but not shattered, I tried to remember that this was no ordinary break up, he was still my very best friend, and I wanted him happy. That was until one night while we were on phone talking about how we would continue on being each other’s support system, while he and I figured out our next step. I hadn’t realized it until later, I was in the mindset that we were on a break, while he was in the mindset that we were in the midst of break up. Our communication didn’t answer the detailed questions that each of us had, but rather dealt with day to day events, that didn’t really affect the other. We were talking about whom we had seen, what had been funny and our plans for the weekend, when I said, “It’s going to be weird when we actually go out with another person. I am not sure I will be able to look at another man and not think of you. It seems so odd, don’t you think?” There was silence on the other end of the phone. “Michael?” I asked waiting for him to reply. Still there was no answer on his end of the line. “I know it’s weird to think about, but I am sure we will figure it out.” The next time Michael spoke he did so in almost a whisper, “Kel, I am seeing someone. I met her at a party last weekend.” I stood, stunned at how soon he had met someone, feeling like a complete fool that I had thought it would take more time. It had only been a couple of weeks since we had split up. “Wh-wh-what?” I stammered. “I’m sorry. I thought you should know. I didn’t want to tell you over the phone, but I wasn’t sure how I would tell you,” Michael said quietly, with a nervous shaking to his voice. My anger that I thought was merely grief took hold and ran my out of control mouth. “You are already seeing someone? It’s only been two weeks since we went skiing!” I started getting louder. “How is that even possible? You told me you needed time to figure things out. You said you were confused, that you weren’t sure what to do for the future and you were going to spend time alone and you are already with someone?” I was shouting now, my voice audibly shaking along with the rest of my body. “You are certifiable, do you know that? A team of psychiatrists couldn’t fix you and your ridiculous selfishness! How can you just jump from one person to another without a second thought? How is it possible that I didn’t see this coming, you and your narcissistic, completely self absorbed need to use people for your own benefit? Who the hell are you? “ I felt like I had run directly into a brick wall. Michael stunned by my outburst remained silent on the phone. I was stunned myself at how I had behaved, the words that had shot out of my mouth as if propelled by an air gun. In that moment I did what had become a habit and blamed myself for what I was sure, absolutely certain anyone else in the world would have seen from a mile away. I just stood holding the phone, God smacked, with a look of utter surprise, not knowing what else to do. “Kel,” Michael pleaded, “I never meant to hurt you.” And there it was the unknown ending of us come to light. He had delivered the clichéd line used by men the world over, but now it was directed at me like a laser beam. His voice, the sadness, the despair of the situation continued to ring in my ears as I hung up, continuing to be glued to one spot. Once again, my radar for men had been proven to only spotlight those who would ultimately hurt me. Mean to or not, he had taken my very tenuous self esteem and stomped out what little life it held. I had been talking to him in my basement, pacing until the bitter end, and it was a bitter end as I clung to the dead phone wondering what I was going to do now that he was gone. I realized, fearfully late, that I no longer had Michael in my life. He had moved on, leaving me alone. I walked up the stairs to the main floor, hung up the phone and laid on my bed. I was so shocked by the turn of events I couldn’t even cry, I just laid there looking at the ceiling that needed paint. The person I had counted on as my emotional touchstone had left the building. That moment of lying on my bed, just staring at nothing was a turning point, a moment of abject confusion and clarity, a time when I knew if I didn’t take control of myself, I would be in jeopardy of turning hardened, bitter with no hope of reprieve from the cynicism that would encase my soul. I was scared, but not of being alone, but of being a victim of my own anger, my own mind numbing trap of spending years, wasting precious time, rattling around in my own head about how I had gotten hurt again. I got up, got some paper and my favorite pen and sat down in the dining room. I gently place the tip of the pen on the pure white paper and began to write. Words poured out of me like a water faucet left on unattended. Great gushing thoughts and emotions ran down my body through my pen to the empty pages below. Page after page I wrote, hand cramping, I couldn’t get it all out fast enough. Pages scribbled from top to bottom began to fill the table. I stabbed the last period at the end of the last sentence of the last paragraph and finally looked up. Hours had past and I had to get ready for work. Morning had sprung while I was busy excising the hurt that had inhabited my heart. I surveyed all the writing that covered every inch of the table and floor space around where I had sat. I shook my ink stained, aching hand as it tingled from overuse to awaken it for the day. The children would be waking up, so I had to put on my game face. I was still hurt, still reeling from the night before, but I felt as if somehow I would figure out what was next for me, without Michael in my life. I didn’t know why I knew, but I did know in that moment that I was going to keep waking up, having to face my life as it was and if I didn’t move forward, I would definitely be left behind.

The Book Will Resume This Friday

To all my beloved readers, I humbly apologize for being tardy with the next installment of the book. It will be returning this Friday. I plan to much of my weekly writing on the weekend. While I remain extremely grateful for my recent employment outside the writing world, I found myself slightly overwhelmed and then it happened...I got sick. I had just been thinking how lucky I was not to get ill and how healthy I had been for such a long time, when WHAM! I got steam rolled over by a virus that knocked me to my knees. A week long fever and hacking cough reminded me once again just exactly how human I am.
I look forward to picking back up where I left off. Since I am doing other things full time now, I will be keeping up on the book on the weekends until my shift, shifts once again to part time.
Much love to you and your loyal support. I so appreciate how much you entrust me with your precious time and energy.
Know I think of you and remain truly grateful, daily!

Paper Chase (part 3)

We continued to talk for a few weeks, as we had done for years. Michael was the first person I talked to in the morning, and the last person I spoke to at night. We had always talked openly about any subject, but with my heart worn and hurting, I could no longer listen, I had no ears left anymore. Michael reassured me this would work out for the best, he just needed time. We didn’t live together, we didn’t share expenses or property or anything of physical value, except time, so time away meant the only thing he and I shared was gone. I knew Michael was hurting, too, but the truth was I was unable to take that part in. I had too much of my own stuff to even consider taking his feelings on, too. One night while on the phone he was saying how much he “cared” about me, how he was trying to figure things out for himself and I swear to you, I snapped. I grabbed my kids, who had taken off their shoes and socks, thinking they were in for the night and got them in my car. All the phone calls, all the talking had gotten to me, and I needed to know where I actually stood in my relationship with Michael. I had thought he loved me. It’s what I had thought and acted on, but as I put my barefooted, very confused kids in the car for the short trip to Michael’s house, I no longer knew and I wanted an answer to my very simple question. Michael and I only lived a few minutes away from each other. I had made the trip to his house a million times, but this time as I drove, I felt a gnawing in my stomach. I was not then nor am I now a confrontational person. I hate confrontation of any kind. It makes my stomach twist up into knots and if there is any way to prevent it, even avoidance, I always try and go that route first, but I had shifted into a gear I was not only uncomfortable with , but one I would be in for some time after I got to Michael’s house. I was taking the bull by the horns and getting rid of any ambiguity. My relationships until then had tons of wishy/washy, give and take, ambiguity to them. I had allowed myself to be in situations where I would not take any stand, even when I was knocked off my feet, but this time I had to know.
I knocked on the door of Michael’s house, nervous, but determined. While the kids waited in the car, I saw the door open and Michael who I had not seen in person since the kitchen incident stood in front of me. “Tell me you don’t love me,” I said hoarsely. “What?” Michael asked stunned to see me. “You need to tell me you do not love me. Just say it so I can get on with my life and I am not sitting here waiting for you. Say it!” I was keenly aware that I needed to keep my voice down so my kids would be unaware of what I was doing, but I demanded an answer. “Kel, I…”Michael looked tortured, looking at the ground as if he were a punished child. “Say it, just say it!” I began to get louder. “Come in, just for a minute,” Michael tried to quell my growing anger. “I can’t, I have kids, remember? Just say it already, say you don’t love me.”
I saw tears in Michael’s eyes as he looked up and whispered, “I don’t love you.” His eyes never wavered from mine, as he looked straight at me, not flinching, not moving, I saw what I had come for and that it was time for me to go. I turned on my heel and left, getting back in my car and drove back home. I got the kids ready for bed as they asked me a million questions about what had just happened. I answered as truthfully as I could, trying desperately not to take them down the path I was on. “Michael won’t be around for awhile. He is busy and I was just saying good-bye. It’s O.K., he’s still our friend, but he just won’t be coming over anymore.” “Not even to babysit while you go to school?” one of my little ones asked. “No, not even for that. We’ll find someone else to do that. It’s going to be alright. Mommy is just going to miss him, but we will be fine.” I tucked everybody into bed, went to the bathroom to wash my face and promptly threw up. I rested my head on the porcelain and prayed. Actually, it was more like begging, “Please, let this be enough already. Please, God not one more thing for now. I am not strong; I am not able to handle this. Please not one more awful thing…” After sitting there for a few hours, I got up washed my face and went to bed. I knew in that instant it was time for me to wave the white flag on men, and just give up. It had crystallized for me that my judgment was not only impaired when it came to relationships, but non-existent. God and I were finally on the same page, we both felt I had had enough. I no longer required getting beaten over the head with the obvious because of the blinders I had chosen to wear. Feeling very sad, but somewhat resolved that I would be alone, possibly indefinitely, I drifted off to sleep. I pictured myself living in my little house, stepping over piles of junk mail that would be stacked from floor to ceiling, surrounded by a thousand cats, while I could be seen wearing a very large flowered hat doing my very best impression of Miss Havisham.

Paper Chase (part 2)

The next thing on my list was to dye my hair a dark red. I have red heads in my family. I so envied them their difference, their uniqueness in the way they stood out at the reunions amongst the blondes and brunettes. I wanted, needed to feel different even if it came out of bottle and lasted only for a little while.
Lovey and I went hair shopping in our local drugstore. We searched the isles for the right shade of red, something a bit dramatic without the Bozo overtones. It took several hours and two boxes of dye to get my hair to what I thought was the perfect color of auburn. I blinked back the surprise when I first looked at myself. “You look good,” Lovey assured me now that the damage was done. I definitely looked different, but I felt the exact same. Lovey watched me as I perused the mirror looking for something beyond my hair. I stared at my eyes, my face to see if any other differences had appeared. “How do you feel?” Lovey asked. “I feel a little different,” I lied. Lovey hugged me knowing I was lying and just let me have it. She didn’t push me for anything more than that. It’s why I love her so much, she never pushes me to be or say anything I cannot be in that exact moment. She is somebody, who to this day, allows me to feel what it is I need, rather than what it is that should be expected.
Our time was so limited, so short. We squeezed in every activity that required my bravery to try and start my life over again mid stream. Lovey knew what I was up against. She reassured me until the very moment she had to go and board her plane back to Boston. She had to return to work and I had work, school and my kids. Our busy lives didn’t allow for much face time. Most of relationship is phone based, small intimate phone calls from faraway places, where we laugh, talk, encourage and love each other. Without her there to hold my hand, I wondered how I would survive, but for Lovey she never questioned that I would. There was not a single drop of doubt on her face, in her demeanor. She knew for certain I would figure it all out, alone if necessary, and the kids and I would somehow make it to the next phase. And I would be doing it with dark auburn hair, a very red and painful ear, and the memory of her holding my hand.
Michael was very much a part of my life during this time. He sort of floated in and out in waves. He was not at all sure how to handle Danny’s death or handle me handling Danny’s death. Everything felt surreal, out of balance. He tried to be my friend, my confidante, the strong one I could lean, but it was all so big. We were getting closer as the months passed. Soon it was the holidays and we were spending all of our free time together. I was working two jobs and going to school, so I needed as much help as I could get with the kids. The kids were having their own struggles trying to figure what and whom to trust. They knew Michael well. He is Betty’s Godfather and had always been around, but this was different and they were resistant to any more changes in their lives. They tested him to his very limit. They acted out because children are not resilient; they are tiny people who do not have the life experiences to assure them of success. Michael tried his best to be a good babysitter, but my kids are smart and they have ways of torturing those they do not want around. I reminded him that he was the grownup and in charge, but I could see the glint in their eyes and they plotted their revenge on whatever babysitter would try and tame them. Part of me found this very funny. My children, so smart, so very clever were very good children. They were generous and kind and the best human beings in my life then and now, but when they are ornery, well all bets are off.
By Christmas time Michael and I were seeing each other exclusively again. Another dance was being played out between us. He, the confirmed bachelor, found my life to be overwhelming. I the family oriented one, found the silence in his house to be deafening. Together we were a good match, but the combining of lives had some side effects that were difficult for both of us to take. We spent the holidays together, and in a blink January had arrived. Michael’s birthday gift to himself, being a bachelor he managed to celebrate with or without a partner, was to go skiing in upper New York. He did it every year, with friends and female companionship. The previous years it was me he would take, where we would ski, celebrate life and eat cake. I took a few days off, packed my skis, got babysitters, dog watchers and cat feeders and went away with him for a long weekend of adult fun. I loved getting away with Michael, forgetting all the pain, all the constant responsibilities, all the never ending interruptions. With just him and me, we could spend real time together enjoying each other’s company, being ourselves, having fun.
I blinked again and it was time to go home and face my life again. I had had a wonderful time. I enjoyed simple pleasures of falling snow and wind in my hair. Friends were there laughing, playing, it had been just what I needed to feel like a woman, a real live female. I have loved being my children’s mother, but I had become acutely aware that it couldn’t be my only role in life, if I wanted to live fully.
We had been home for a couple of days when Michael was in my kitchen. I was feeling warm and safe and somewhat comfortable. My feelings were growing by leaps and bounds. I felt so connected to him since our ski trip and I looked over at his face and smiled. I had just walked in from school tired from a long day of study and driving, and he had been at the house waiting for me. I noticed he wasn’t smiling. His eyes were sad, with his mouth down-turned. “Kel, we have to talk.” I felt my stomach seize. My entire body clenched knowing I was about to hear something hurtful. Michael wasn’t looking at me, but past me, the way one looks when they are about to rip your heart out. And then that is exactly what he did. “I can’t do this. I am not cut out for any of this. I care about you, I do, but this is not going to work.” I stood there in my tiny kitchen with my mouth open, glued in one place unable to move. “Where did this come from?” I stammered. Michael had tears in his eyes and I felt my face flush, hot, burning, as if struck by a fever. We talked for few minutes after that, he said he had been thinking about it for a while, he needed time to figure things out. “When did all this happen? My God we just got home from the ski trip? Were you getting ready to dump me back there? I feel so used.” And I did feel used. I felt like he had used me as his personal female stand in, as if I were some kind of convenience food item he could pull out of the freezer at his whim, so he was not alone. “I didn’t use you, I care about you.” Anger was welling up inside me at the words ‘I care about you’. I knew exactly what that meant. It meant I was good enough until he was ready to go, until he could find someone better, that’s what it meant. I care about the homeless, but I didn’t invite them on a vacation and sleep with them. I was more than just hurt this time, this break-up. I was furious for allowing myself to get caught up in Michael’s inability to commit. It was legendary, his way of never following through; at least it was with me. We had broken up and gotten back together so many times, when people found out we were dating they instantly got bored. I stood and watched him walk out of my kitchen, tears running down my face feeling as though, every single time I started to feel secure about anything the rug would immediately get ripped out from underneath me.

Paper Chase

It was the year of heart break, of breaking down and ultimately breaking free. We had buried Danny that October. “In 1997 Danny died and was buried”, she said with dramatic effect. On the third day, nothing happened. That’s the thing about real drama, it isn’t dramatic at all. There is no orchestration to impact the scene, there are no great shows of attention, no crowds gather, not a sound can usually be heard when the unthinkable happens. My friend Jim and I have had this conversation during our times of non-drama, drama. We have both felt the isolation, the silence, the utterly banal state of existence in a time in our lives when we were changed forever. Is it ironic? At the time, humor escapes me, but later, well after the suffering has taken place, I tend to go toward the funny with maudlin delight.
Michael being my resident best friend at the time of Danny’s death did me a solid and gave my other best friend, Lovey, a plane ticket to fly to Cleveland. She flew in from Boston to see us, the kids and I, all shell shocked. As if a bomb had gone off in the house and our faces were frozen into the exact expression the moment of impact we stood in front her motionless, waiting for anyone to free us from the icy prison of heart break. She swept in with love, laughter and lots of hugs, trying to evaluate how far gone we really were. She gave us exactly what we needed at the precise time we needed it… love, buckets, barrels, cascading watery free falling sheets of love. The kids clung to Lovey, as if she were their life line to anything normal, or even human. I was struggling myself, so having a mom type stand-in was the perfect gift for them and me. At night when the kids would go to bed, Lovey and I would talk about the details of me, my life and Danny. “Oh, Kel, I am so sorry.” I looked at Lovey with tears in my eyes knowing she already knew every thought in my head. She had known me since college and we had lots of late night conversations. I never held back from her. With her and my friend, Precious, I had no boundaries. If it was a thought in my head, it fell out of my mouth. They have been like sisters to me since the day I met them. They are as much family to me as my kids, or my own parents and my biological sister. I have told them or they have witnessed firsthand every bad, awful, wonderful, hateful, loving, destructive, productive thing I have ever done. We all have lived in other cities, but never have we truly been separated. That’s how I knew they were my family, as well as my friends.
“I have to get out of this!” I nearly panted as I paced talking to Lovey. “I feel like I am completely trapped in my own skin. I want to do something to make me feel something. I don’t think I can take one more day of feeling numb.” Lovey looked at me full in the face. She mirrored the sadness I felt back to me. While I couldn’t see me anymore, I could still see her. And by seeing her, I knew exactly what I looked like. My fingers unconsciously reached up and rubbed my eyebrows. Lovey touched her own face as she continued to watch me and I realized I was about to rub my own eyebrows completely off. “It’s a bad habit,” I said to her.
“Just think of the money you will save not having to wax them,” Lovey joked back. She made me laugh.
“God, I really needed you. It’s so depressing around here. I have no idea what to do with all of it. I don’t want to cry in front of the kids, making them feel like they to comfort me while they are grieving their dead dad.” Lovey again with a smile, a wonderful soft smile said with absolute love, “You are a great mother. We should all be so lucky to have you. You will get through this. You always manage to get through the really hard stuff.”
“What if this time I can’t?” I asked her with complete sincerity. “What if this time I fall off the cliff and never come back?”
“Kel, you are so strong. You will get through this just like you have gotten through so many other things. You didn’t think you would survive the divorce either, but look at you, here in your own house!” For a moment she paused, knowing this time was different. Danny and I weren’t just separated or even divorced, this time he was dead. Lovey looked up at me from our ratty old couch, “Listen”, she said so softly I almost had to lean in to hear her, “I know this is different, I do. What do you want to do?”
“I want to get my cartilage pierced and dye my hair red.” I had a defiant look on my face and Lovey immediately noticed how determined I was. “O.K.,” she said with trepidation, “I kind of get the piercing, but why red hair?”
“Because it’s something Danny would never had let me do when he was alive. Even when we were divorced I still stayed inside the ‘acceptable’ box so as not to piss him off. He’s gone now. I can do anything I want. I want out of the box.” I looked at Lovey with pleading eyes. I wasn’t really asking for her approval, but I certainly wanted it, or at least her support. Lovey nodded with complete understanding. The next day we went to the mall where she and my kids watched my first step of crawling out of box.
My children, best friend, Lovey and I were all standing in the middle of the isle in the mall waiting for my turn to get my ear pierced. The girl had gone through all the instructions and asked me to sign a waiver. “You sure about this?”Lovey asked just double checking to see if I had a change of heart. “Yeah, I am sure. How bad can it be?” I said smiling at our little adventure. Then the piercing girl asked me to sit down on their piercing stool, wielding her gun in my direction. “Oh it can get bad for some people. I think it’s the big crunch at the end that makes them queasy; ya know, when the pointy part goes through their cartilage it gets kinda loud.” I must have looked nervous because Lovey and Christy were playing with a teddy bear they used for tiny kids who were getting their ears pierced, when they both looked at me and offered up the bear. I’m not really proud of this, but I took the bear. I squeezed the stuffing nearly out of the bear; the young girl took the gun, placed it directly next to my ear and pulled the trigger. I heard a muffled crunch and thought we were through, when she stopped me from getting up; “Hey!” she called out, “We are only half way there.” It was the next sound I heard that nearly made me vomit. She hurriedly pushed the earring all the way through as I heard this awful crunchy, breaking sound that finished with a pop. The bear, fully mangled by my twisting hands, was handed back as Lovey promised to take us all out to dinner. I looked at Lovey and she at me; together, we fell out, tripping over each other, laughing.

Memory Bank (conclusion)

By the middle of my senior year I felt stronger. Toxic, as the boyfriend from home will now be referred to, had caused me more pain than even I could take, so I was plotting my way out. We did the dance of how he would change, how I would stop talking, how we would become anything other than ourselves to the point where I could not take it for one more minute. One evening in my parents house he came over to talk, but he didn’t talk, he never talked, he just sat in front of me staring at me with what I can presume was contempt and hatred. Once again I was charged with ruining another life, his. As we sat at the kitchen table I started telling him my feelings when he reached across the table, or more like lunged at me and covered my face with his hands. It was as if I had woken up out of a bad dream. In order to save myself, something that felt foreign to me by this point, I pushed him off to keep him from what I feared may be an attempt at suffocating me and screamed for him to get out. I yelled that my parents were due home any minute and he had to go. Stunned as if I had electrocuted him, he jumped back and skulked toward the door. I threatened to kill him if he ever came near me again. He left and all I felt was relief. I wasn’t sad that he was gone; I was just overwhelmed with the feeling of wanting to live. I didn’t contact First, as I had thought I would. I was feeling too humiliated at all of it, each bad decision, each purposeful wrong thing hung over me like a cartoon anvil I felt certain would crash down on me at any time. I spent more time in my room, isolated from my friends and activities. I would pull out the letters First sent me, toying with the idea of what I would say now that I felt like I was a broken version of the person he had originally met. I pictured myself writing him, “Dear First, I have completely and utterly fucked things up and fucked us over. I hurt you deeply and while I could not be sorrier, I want you to know I did it with intention. I am damaged goods now and I was wondering what you were up to.” I would pull out his pictures and stare at them. Seeing his smiling face brought calm to my tornado of a life. I wondered if he were happy. I assumed he had moved on and was now seeing a beautiful girl, smiling at her, planning their future. Time and again I would pull everything out to touch things, see his face, wear the necklace he gave me, sitting long enough to imagine I was with him, trying to breathe him in once again. I would even pick up the phone briefly, but ultimately cowardice would rule and I would put everything back in a box. I had reduced First to living in a box, much like I had done to myself. I had imprisoned both of us. I spent even more time on my floor crying trying desperately to let First go. He deserved to be freed from the dark, dank box I had reduced him to. I wondered if First thought of me. What did he remember? Was the pain I caused us all he was left with? My mind believed he had the same feelings that I had, where I had ruined everything in order to not ruin his life.
I was in high school as a senior doing my thing, looking normal, living broken, playing in band, singing in choir, trying my damndest to fit in. I only had a few more months of school when I would have to start making big decisions on my own. I should have felt free, but what I felt was lost. I had no idea what I wanted to be, or where I wanted to go, or who I was. Each day closer to graduation brought another unique set of questions I did not have an answer for. I briefly dated another boy from school who dumped me a week before prom. I made him take me anyway. He sat at the dance thoroughly pissed to be there, definitely pissed that he was with me, and never really talked to me again after that. I had given up First because I could not see him taking me to prom, so I was going come hell or high water. Was it worth it? Isn’t that what we ask ourselves every time we muck things up? Was it worth living the high school dream of going to prom? No. With First I was happy. With the senior boy who was forced to take me in spite of how he felt, I felt sad, unwanted, unloved. Even I could see the pattern by then. No First=me with every slap dick in a fifty mile radius. Even the few boys who tried to win my hand, so to speak, had no chance. I was planted like grass to the path I was on. The way was shut and no one was getting in. As high school ended all I could feel was numb. If truly I was victim, it was at my own hand. I had set my life up to allow myself to be hurt in every way imaginable. I made choices at the “y’s” in my road to take me into the belly of hell. I chose despair over joy, danger over security, and ultimately self destruction instead of self confidence. I had done this to myself. Although I will not take responsibility for other’s actions, I had no choice but to take the hard look at how I got there and why I stayed for so very long, putting myself in peril time after time. I was a coward. I believed every bad thing ever said to me and wouldn’t give the good things a moment’s thought.

My resume states quite clearly that I studied Philosophy at Ohio University. For all intent and purpose, I did, unless you caught a glance at my grade point average. That low ball number shows I didn’t study much of anything. I hadn’t wanted to go away to college right after high school. I wanted to work for a few years and get on my emotional feet before I headed out on the next leg of my journey. My mom, bless her heart, had no choices for college when she grew up. Being a poor female, she had the right to remain silent and do secretarial work. All she ever wanted was for us to get out and experience things for ourselves. All I wanted was to work, make a little money and figure out who in the hell I was. We had reached an impasse. I gave in because I had no back bone, no sure willed argument against it. I had no ideas of my own, or ability to make a decision. I originally balked at going, but my mom kept repeating, “If you don’t do it now, you may never get another chance.” She ended up half right. I went, flailing through college as if I was wearing clown shoes. I picked the first major that seemed even remotely O.K. and joined a sorority. I loved being in the sorority, though, it was one of the best decisions I made while I attended. The girls were smart, fun and kept me out of trouble. They became my family away from home. I obviously didn’t love every single one of them, but they were a good group. They were people to hang with, talk with and share life space. My freshman fall semester, I lived in an all girl dorm. It was the age of preppy. Nothing I owned looked as if I weren’t homeless. I was a baggy jeans, t-shirt kinda girl, and I was surrounded by an Izod, popped collar set. I wanted what they had, but I realized much too late it had nothing to do with clothes, or money or what they owned in the external. What I sought was the kind of clean cut all American happy look they seemed to convey. The preppy kids did not look like the broken, they looked as though they would get high paying jobs, marry people who would love them, have houses filled with children and lots and lots of love. What I was looking for was me, only a different me than the one I created for myself. Over winter break I found an outlet store that carried the very clothes I thought would make me feel “normal”. They were seconds and not at all the best full price shirts, but I so desperately wanted to break free of the confines of who I thought I looked like that I scrounged together enough money to buy a few precious things. I wore them proudly, collar up so I would look like the people I tried to emulate. I can’t honestly remember if it was after winter or spring break when I got an unexpected call, First on the other end of the phone. “I am coming up to Marietta College and I want to see you.” Marietta was on the way back down for O.U., so there was real hope I could make this work. “I’ll be there.” My parents were very skeptical of me driving alone before school started. Where would I stay? Why was I going? What would we be doing? They had questions and a lot of them. I had blown my parents trust to bits when I dated the other guy. They hated the boy from my hometown. My mother in particular never trusted him, and after we dated a while, I had changed, visibly and emotionally. My mother sensed that something was terribly wrong, but I wouldn’t tell her anything. I denied anything being wrong; I lied to her about him so many times she was hesitant to believe me about anything. I can’t remember what I told her about my trip to Marietta. My gut tells me I probably lied about that too, but I didn’t care this time. I felt no guilt, just a desperate need to see First again at any cost. I knew if my parents found out I had lied it would open up another can of worms for me, but I felt justified in my own mind. I drove the three and half hours to see him down the long stretch of highway, through the valleys, wishing the car would go faster. I felt real fear going on this trip, though. There was no doubt I had hurt us both. Would he forgive me? Would he see all the scars I now bore? Would I… was it possible to be me again, when I was so unsure of who I was, anymore? These questions plagued me during my drive. When I got to the college there was First standing in a parking lot. In that instant I knew I had to be brave enough to find all my answers. I would not take the coward’s way out and I would face him, if for no other reason than I felt like I had no choice. All the initial awkwardness fell away and I saw him, the him I had dreamed of a thousand times. I saw that he had scars of his own. His hair was disheveled, and his clothes showed the strain of the long trip to Ohio, but his smile, his eyes, they showed an older, more mature, version of the first boy I had ever loved. I noticed the sadness in his eyes that came from someplace very far from where we stood in that parking lot. I knew as he looked me hard in the face he saw it in mine, too. We had both earned our place on earth the hard way. He was the literal version of the starving artist. I had a few dollars and wanted to go somewhere to eat. I didn’t understand how he could not afford a pizza, that it was a luxury item for him. When I asked him, he turned to me and spat out, “You are acting like a spoiled sorority brat.” I reeled back from his comment and he quickly grabbed me into his arms and begged for forgiveness. I knew he didn’t really mean it, he was just tired and worn thin. He didn’t know that my clothes were as a much of a lie as what I had told my parents about where I was going. We didn’t know the details of how hurt we both were from making wrong turns since the last time we had seen each other. What we were certain of was there was still love between us. We leaned into each other holding each close, knowing the clock was once again ticking and our time was limited. That night we slept in the freezing cold in my car. His friend was camping nearby. We were both small and could fit on one seat of the Chevy Impala I was driving. We didn’t talk much that night. We hugged each other, kissed, held hands, and traced our fingers on each other’s faces. We watched each other sleep, listened to the sound of our breath as we inhaled in tandem. It was all so innocent, so striking in contrast to the life and lie I had been living. The sun rose and again and someone was leaving, but this time it was me. I went back to school and almost as if it had all been a mirage my life went directly back to where it had been. It was the very last time I would ever see my beloved First.
During the really gut wrenching moments of my life I searched for First. When I was due to give birth to Betty and I had made out my will, signed the last legal document, I wrote letters to all of my friends, including First. I didn’t have his address anymore, but I wanted to write the words just in case someone else could find him. When I was going through my divorce, once again I picked up the search, but had no luck finding First. One night in a rage Danny had burned every love letter I had ever gotten. He threw the whole entire box of keepsakes in the fireplace and said simply, “Get over it.” With no address or phone number to go by, I did what I could to find him, until it seemed destiny had once again played it’s hand and I was not find him then or ever. I had given up hearing from First. The moments I thought of him the most were when I was dating and he was the bar that other men had to reach. In my youthful ignorance I thought I destroyed all the lessons, all the moments that had meant everything. But the voice of First could not be silenced. His voice would stay in my head when I was feeling so alone, I felt I might die from it. I thought of him when it looked as though a man wasn’t going to treat me right. First became the beacon I followed to find my own heart, so one day I would have it give. One day, I found a man who loved me. He loved me as First had, completely. The greatest gift I ever got from First was the ability to recognize that love doesn’t come often, so it truly is better t have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. I learned that lesson so well, that I married the only other man who saw me all the way to my heart, my darling Michael.
First is happily married now. He is peaceful and funny and most of all happy. Just as I had, he learned the lessons of love and held close to the girl who would see all of him. Together they created their own happy ending.

Memory Bank (part 8)

The drive home was long, boring and unexciting. With vacation over, I sat in the back seat daydreaming of First. He was literally first and foremost in my mind. Part of me was unbelievably happy, while the rest of me sat in miserable silence. His life was one of an adult, while I was still very much a child, going to high school, being in marching band wearing that hideous hat with a feather plume. As if being in band wasn’t nearly dorky enough, they dressed up in wool uniforms that never were the right size and hats with chin straps. I tried to picture First in my hometown with me. I sat thinking of what it would be like if he were to move to Ohio. How would it work out for us while I was still in high school? Not having enough mature brain cells to paint the picture of romance meeting reality, I let it all go and just thought about the time I had just spent with him. The biggest thing for me was all the talking we did. My insignificant experience with boys was that they didn’t talk much, which having me around, was horrifying for them, because all I did was talk. Being shy at that point in my life was not my issue. First kept up with me verbally, bantering back and forth, and saying highly intelligent things that were so funny. I never felt like the conversation was lopsided like I did so many other times. There was this flow to things, an order of sorts, where we just were exactly as we should be. I wasn’t self conscious around him either, which I felt during our time together. Instinctively, I knew I was different around him than I had been with other males. I was neither intimidated nor disinterested. It was evident to both of us that he was smarter, more experienced in life, but I never felt as though he talked down to me. If I didn’t know something, I asked. If he knew the answer, he told me. It was such a simple way to be. I watched the landscape slide by my window in a blur thinking I wished all of my life were as easy as it was with him.
Once we were home, I unpacked and settled into the life I knew. I had to learn how to drive, get ready for my nerdy band camp, and survive summer in a new house. We had just moved to the opposite side of town earlier that year. Even though I had grown up in my hometown all my life, being separated from the only home I knew was disconcerting. The house was bigger, so my grandmother could move in. She had Parkinson’s disease and could no longer live on her own. My room sort of looked like my room, but newer, a little bigger and it smelled of fresh paint. The carpet was plush between my toes, a lovely champagne color, as I walked around in bare feet. I paced in my room, feeling very anxious about First and if I would hear from him. I tried to busy up, occupying my mind with high school stuff, but the truth was I felt changed, I felt different as if somewhere between when I left my sophomore year and got home from vacation I had become something other than just a high school girl. The feelings I had were bigger than boyfriends from my past. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I knew I would not be the same person who had gotten into my parents station wagon a few weeks earlier.
True to his word, First wrote, and called. He was the exact person I had thought he was. I knew I loved him, but wondered if he felt the same lightning strike I had. We talked about everything. We couldn’t seem to get the words out fast enough. He did love me. He felt the same as I did. I had not imagined things, or blown things out of proportion because he felt it too. First soothed my anxious heart many times over the summer. As weeks slipped away I began to doubt whether our relationship was feasible. First drove up to see me later in the summer. I clung to him as the child I was. Reality played no part in how I was feeling. I didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything but being with him. In our family home, it felt weird having him there, but I felt normal when it was just him and me. When we could spend time just the two of us, it all felt as if the pieces fit, as if we were precisely in the right spot, in the right time. Once again, First had to leave, taking all of my love with him. Again I mourned. And then I did something I still regret to this day. I took all of my childish insecurity and actively chose wrong over and over and over. My actions changed both of us irrevocably, but this time it was no divine intervention, it was no lightning strike. This time I allowed fear, anxiety, and selfishness to run the show. What I did would hurt both of us right to our cores.
I talked obsessively about First. Remember the first time you fell in love? Remember how you felt as though you had won the lottery? It was my mind set everyday all day. But there was a caveat; I whined incessantly about not having him around. I went from happy to hand wringing in under thirty seconds. I can’t remember if I asked for advice or just got it anyway, but the next thing I knew everyone in my inner circle began telling me how ridiculous I was for thinking I could have a boyfriend his age, with that much distance between us. “Do you seriously think he is going to want to take you to prom? Good God Kellie, he is in college.” “There is no way he isn’t having sex with other people. Look at how old he is.” “If you make him move up here you will ruin his life.” “Ruin his life…” became the constant voice I heard time and time again. In my head I wondered, “If he moves will I ruin his life? Will he think I am worth it? What if we break up and he hates me forever for ruining his life? What if he discovers I am nothing and he moved away from his friends and family for nothing?” At sixteen one can become a tortured soul and I certainly did. I spent countless hours telling myself I was not worthy of First, or his love. I chose to listen to bad advice from ill informed people. Where I was confident, happy and able to follow my gut instincts with First, on my own I became a human wrecking ball, destroying everything in my path. I did not want that for my beloved First. I knew he deserved everything, I felt he certainly deserved better than me. He deserved someone who could stand in their truth and feel confident about their decisions, not some snot nosed, wimpy sixteen year old who couldn’t drive. I told First we were breaking up because I wanted to see other people. I told him the distance was too far. I lied.
We did indeed break up. First, always being a gentleman told me he understood. I was crushed. My heart was truly broken and I felt little consolation with having saved First from a fate of being with me. We left things alone after that and I went back to being a miserable teenager. I ended up dating a guy who had dumped me the previous year, arbitrarily. I was a good girlfriend doing what I was told, going on dates, going through the motions of what “normal” was supposed to look like for a high school junior. I let it slide the first time my resident boyfriend told me to shut up. I was shocked initially because First would have never done anything like that, but this was different so I said nothing. I muffled my cries the first time I got hit by the boy who was close to home. I was indeed having lots of firsts, but none were happy. I accepted that this boyfriend wasn’t so smart, he was dangerous. I forgave him each time he raised his hand to me, screamed at me or called me names. I felt I deserved it. I punished myself for hurting First, for thinking I should have the happiness I felt around him and for what I’d done. I knew I gotten it wrong, but felt as if it were too late. I thought I had ruined everything, so it was best to let it go and accept that what I had was all I could ever hope for. I stayed in that abusive, hurtful relationship for years. I let my own insecurities, feelings of worthlessness, steer my course. It was a terrible relationship, if you can even call it that. He was a drug addict and I was his whipping post. There were many nights when I would lay in my bed thinking of First and the love I gave up. I thought of him falling in love with another girl, living happy, all of his dreams coming true. I would lay there closing my eyes so tight the tears would squeeze from my lids in forced hot streams, running down my cheeks, soaking my pillow, staining it black with mascara. The following summer I looked into the stars and wondered if First were looking too. I sat out on our deck just star gazing wondering if I would ever get out of this self imposed prison and find happiness one day. I looked out over the horizon and felt a shiver up my spine. It was a physical whisper of sorts; a reminder that once, a long time ago a boy loved me for exactly who I was. In that moment, I began to remember who I had been before my most recent “reality” had set in.