Archive for February, 2013


I remember

I sat next to his hospital bed, holding his hand in mine. Looking it over and thinking about bringing him hand lotion the next day. I could help his dry hands heal at least.

“I want to invent something.” He said.

Squeezing his hand, I ask, “What would you invent?”

“I don’t know. Something. Something that would take care of you for the rest of your life.”

I smile and look from his hand to him. “Oh yea? What about you?”

He smiles at me. “Something to take care of us for the rest of our lives.”

I’m not the most forgiving person in the world. (understatement.)

Something said in such a subtle way can catch in my brain and replay for days.

And they start to sound like pot shots.

Not everyone is my friend.

I know this.

As cheerful and friendly I try to be to get along with people, just because I get along with someone doesn’t make them my friend.

I’m not the most forgiving person in the world. I never forget anything.

Looking back…

I remember sitting in that shrink’s office 4 years ago. Looking at the ceiling and the walls. Holding a box of tissues between my hands. I had been crying for weeks. Not eating and crying.

He had asked me what I wanted to talk about. And all I could think was, ‘Where do I start?’

Do I talk about the accident? Or do I go back further? Do I talk about…. everything?

I went into necessary amounts of detail because I’ve been trained that everyone is on a need to know bases. And at the end of that session, I was handed a journal. The idea of the journal was to write everything I was feeling, thinking, and seeing down. So that it wouldn’t dwell in me. That by putting all that somewhere, I’d be ok.

The journal turned into this blog. And it took me a year after seeing that shrink to really start to write things down about my feelings towards the accident, the boy, and…. well, everything! Because he put me through hell. All that had to go somewhere.

I think about that journal and I think about how that was suppose to help me. In a way, coming here and airing out the memories and what I’m feeling now… it does help. It doesn’t entirely fix me. But it helps.

What happened… everything that happened… I can’t just get over that. It’s not something you simply get over.

But I learn to live with it every day.

And I try not to get frightened of every guy that seems interesting enough to get to know.

I do get frightened. But I TRY not to.

Siren

I just needed to talk to him today. Even if it was bad and disruptive, I needed him today. I couldn’t help myself.

I wish things were different sometimes.

I think about how he rescued the letter from Housing. How he said he found there on a desk. And when he put it in hands, I remember staring at it, feeling relief, and holding it to my chest… as he explained to me that he had found it.

How did it stray so far from it’s intended course of me?

I can’t help but wonder that the reason he ran was because he felt threatened by the boy in the letter.

And was he really falling for me?

And was he so daft that he couldn’t see that I was falling for him. And that the boy in the letter should have felt threatened by him.