You

I don't really know you.
I know how beautifully you've written down your thoughts.

I don't really know you, but I call you a friend.
Your encouragement started me on this path - to write these "memories."

I don't really know you, but I love you.
Soul to soul, with no other reason than we are alive on this planet.

I don't really know you, but I am thankful for you.
Thank you for being there to find.

You know who you are.

Spoiler

It was the Christmas I insisted on no girl presents for me. I wanted only things that a boy would like. I just wanted you to get the message to Santa. He'd been leaving me girl stuff forever and I was sick of it.

My sister was taking her nap when you whispered for me to follow you to a small closet at the back of the house. Inside there were dolls, some dresses and a toy both my sister and I had gone nuts for after seeing it on TV. It was the Flintstone's Dino, the perky purple dinosaur with the baby blue eyes. That toy was a jumbo sized, battery powered, walking, talking, little kid's wet dream. As I reached for it you said, "Oh no! These toys are for your sister. Do you think she'll like them?" I was confused - her birthday was in May and it was December.

And just like that - you spoiled Christmas.
At least you honored my request for boy toys.

You really should have known I could not keep a secret.
I didn't tell her she was getting Dino.
I told her there was no Santa.

The chair

Remember that night at dinner when my sister and I were fighting about which chair we were going to sit in? You got mad and said "what does it matter which chair you sit in?" I answered "neither of us wants to sit by you!"

I would give anything to be able to sit next to you now.

Be happy

I used to say you were crazy, that you were verbally abusive, that you hated sex, that you treated me like your slave, that you threatened me with a steak knife.

It made it easier to accept what I put you through. I realize the ending was abrupt for you, but once I realized I could end our marriage, I was on-board.

You must see it now - we were too young. On my end, I was in love with the idea of being in love. When we were in High School I loved being your girlfriend. I loved hanging out with you listening to music. I loved going on ski trips with you and driving trips to Kansas and laughing together about how funny all our relatives were. I did not know what being in love meant. I knew the cheerleaders all had crushes on you.

I wanted to get married because we'd had sex. My mother had told me only engaged couples should have sex. You had free will. You could have said no. It was obvious when we walked back down the aisle and you were crying that you were having second thoughts.

We were married for less than 2 years. I don't remember us being "happily" married for any of it. So here I am, 34 years later telling you - sorry. Sorry for making you miserable. Sorry for how horrible I was at the end. Sorry for being unfaithful and hurtful. Sorry for making you feel you needed to take all our money and the car and my motorcycle. Sorry for making you feel so angry that you called my father in an attempt to get him to commit me. Sorry for being such a horrid person that your family erased me from their lives. Sorry it took years for you to let go and move on. I'm sorry I spent most of my 20's looking over my shoulder and expecting you to be following me.

If you are reading this - be happy I left.

Cilantro

The taste of cilantro equals guilt.
Even the smell of it makes me feel sick.

I'd never had cilantro before your wife put it into the salad she served that night. Everything else about that night, even down to the stolen kiss in the kitchen - been there, done that. But I'd never had a wife catch me kissing her husband. And having her then tell my husband, well you get the picture. Guilt.

Somehow we all got past the scene. We stayed friends, or at least my husband, you and I did. Your wife did not come to your performances and we never again came to your house for dinner. I drove by that house a few months ago. It was inspiration for my very first entry. But my main memory of that house is not the night we ate cilantro, it's the night you and I... well, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Your musical comedy group was a local favorite. My husband and I were musicians then. It was more of a hobby for us, but we went out every week to drink and enjoy music and comedy and everything else the bay area in the 70's had to offer.

We made friends with all the guys in your group, but we were closest to you. And you and I? We had something else going on. Denial was our game. We were loosing. That night, before the kiss in kitchen, you were playing songs on your piano and singing. I sang along with you - a harmony you'd never considered. You asked if I would get up on stage and sing it the next time I was in the audience. Duh.

Your group was girl bait. Dozens would pack themselves into the front rows just to be close to you. You were the main writer for the group and even through you did not sing that love song in performances, everyone knew it was your song. Sad and sweet. The only non-humor song in your set. The night I sang it for the first time was heaven. I was the only girl who ever sang with your group. The front row girls wanted to hate me, but I was them when I sang. I belted how it felt to be near you. It was electric.

I was invited up to sing that song every performance after that. I never tired of it. But the denial game was getting harder and harder to play. I found myself standing close to you near my car at the end of a night, heart pounding, body weak. It started with touch. A spark flew between us when our skin met. We even looked alike with our thin, heart-shaped faces and sharp noses. The day I cut my long curls off, I walked into the club to find you'd just cut your long curls off as well. Secret smiles. Longing looks. We were smitten. Well, I'll admit I was.

When your group recorded it's first album, my husband was your recording engineer. I was the artist who did your album. I traveled with your band by car up to Santa Rosa for the photo shoot. We sat so close, and you held my hand. It was so much more to me than flirting. It felt bigger. It felt like fate.

When my husband and I broke up, it was not over you. He knew you and I were close, but he while he was ok with it, your wife was not. You and I had done nothing more than steal a kiss or too, but she, unlike my husband, she could see the depths of emotion behind it.

There were other men in my life by then and unlike you, I was newly separated and free. When she called suggesting we get together, I was open to becoming friends with her. I cared enough for you to want you to be happy. Maybe my becoming friends with her, I could let go of the huge crush I had on you. When she showed up at my door, her agenda was not to be friends. We were at war. I was to stay away from you. It seems when you traveled with the band, you were allowed to sleep with anyone girl you met on the road. You were allowed this as long as you never kept in contact with them or slept with the same girl twice. Her story was bizarre, but it was clear I was a threat to the balance that kept you two together.

I felt ambushed. And her words had the opposite effect from her intention. Game on.

Months passed, and I found myself at a fourth of July party a bit out of control. Drugs of the day were pot and cocaine. The later was new to me. I was buzzed when I came home to find your message on my machine. "Deb, I am home alone and want to see you. Will you come over?" Duh

You, my friend, were wasted. The bottle on the piano was almost empty and your words were coming out sideways. But this was a moment I'd dreamed of. I was alone with you. I'm not sure I'd call what we had "sex." It wasn't really possible with the two directions we found ourselves in. At the time, it was all a delightful turn of events. It brought me to the place where I knew in my heart I wanted you as a friend and not a lover.

I gathered my things and was headed out the door when you said,"I had sex with you, so now I can never talk to you again."

I laughed it off. I thought it was the booze talking. I was in the audience at your next performance, but when the love song was played I was not invited to come on stage. Not only would you not acknowledge my existence, but the entire band seemed to look right through me. Maybe your wife's words had been a warning for me.

My (ex)husband became a regular guest performer with your band. He got to be the friend I had wanted to be until you moved away. Has it really been 26 years? When I drove past your house, it felt like I'd been there the night before.

I could still taste the cilantro.

Heart and soul

Sometime at the start of Junior High, we became friends.

Thrown together by a love of music, Jewish fathers, Presbyterian Sunday school - we were a team. You were the accompanist for the choir. I sang lead soprano. We both played flute in the school band. You were the only kid I knew with a piano in her room. I had always wanted to play piano, but even in my wildest dreams I would never would have equaled your talent. It was like music just gushed from your fingers through the keys and filled the room. You humored me - letting me play the easy part of piano duets.

Years we spent - you on the keyboard and me singing. All our spending money went toward sheet music. We performed at church, at Lion's Club meetings, at Rotary Club meetings. If there was a meeting that needed entertainment - we were there.

Boys came and went, but you were a constant. My love for you was fierce. We shared our teens together.

When I began dating the guy I later married, you did not approve. Perhaps it was the hormones - mine seemed to bloom before yours. What was driving me was not yet driving you. That afternoon, in your family's basement we were sitting on the couch talking when I saw the fear in your eyes. You thought you were losing me to him. And in that moment I wanted to do something to show how I felt about you. I wanted to kiss you.

My body was on auto-pilot. My face was aready leaning towards your's when I stopped myself. This was a side of me I'd never shared. What if you did not like me? What if you did? In that moment I knew things would never be the same for us. Instead of kissing you, I took a deep breath and told you I wanted to kiss you.

The phrase "bum's rush" comes to mind when I remember how quickly you got me to leave. We never talked about it. Which meant I never got to deal with the pain I felt. I was more like you than anyone in my world, now I was like no one. And worse, I disgusted you. We continued performing together. We were still in every music and drama group. But the distance that afternoon created only grew larger. And my life continued on it's chaotic path.

I locked that part of me away for a long time.

FBF

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours"

You should not feel bad. I started it. I just wanted to know what all the fuss was about. I knew my father had expected me to be born a boy. I should have been a boy. At the age of six it seemed so simple. I would become a boy. First step was seeing what you had that I didn't.

We locked ourselves in your family's bathroom and I went first. I pulled down my shorts, sat on the toilet - and peed. You watched. Your turn - you opened your zipper, faced the toilet - and peed standing up. I was instantly jealous. You showed me you had a little flesh hose you shot pee out of. What happened to my hose? Did my parents have it removed? Would I grow one? Was this what was so wonderful about being a boy?

I taught myself to pee standing up.
I climbed every tree I could find.
I dug in the dirt.
I collected bugs and snakes and lizards.
I jumped off everything.
But I could not grow a flesh hose no matter how much I wanted one.

My parents and your's called you a "book worm." Ridiculous! I read more books than you! They called me "tom boy." Who was Tom and what did he have to do with my wanting to be a boy? I was supposed to be named Paul. That was the name my parents had decided on if I was a boy. Why wasn't I named Paula?

In the sticky Kansas summers, all our moms would push us outside telling us to, "go play." Your house was always my first stop. You were my friend and a boy, but not my boyfriend. I was much more interested in the pretty girl that lived behind your house. You could not understand why I was interested in her. I guess I wasn't sure either. As a boy, I thought you'd think she was pretty.

I was devastated when I was not invited to her birthday party. You were."Go play" put me outside that day with no one to play with and too much free time. I snuck through your yard to spy on the party. She was wearing the most beautiful white dress I had ever seen. Her hair was all pins and curls with ribbons. Her shoes were shiny with buckles. There was a cake on the table and piles of presents. I was jealous of her and you and everyone at that party for getting to eat that cake.

She saw me in my dirty play clothes hiding in the bushes. She sent a group of boys after me. As a kid I told my mother they took off their belts to hit me, but I'm sure they just chased me. And threw rocks. I thought my mom would be proud I'd gotten away from them, but she was angry. I'd embarrassed her. "Debbie, tell me why you were spying on girl and her party?" I knew girls were not supposed to like girls. And like it or not, I was a girl.

You never told my secrets.
You never acted like I was a freak.
You were my first best friend.

Patterns

In the beginning, there was you.

I longed for you and the delicious scent that got stronger the closer you got. Flowers, you smelled like flowers. I passed time waiting for the moments you would hold me. In your arms I was your precious. I was your little Debbie. Tight against your chest - your warmth, lyrical voice and the gentle bouncing comforted me. I had no words then, only thoughts, images, senses.

I remember the roundness of your face, and your dark eyes and black and silver glasses. I remember how your curls framed your face. I remember your fingers running through my curls and how your fingernails had red tips that matched your lips. And that smile. Every time you saw me you were beaming. It was easy to mirror that. Love breeds love.

There were others.

The young woman in the kitchen who fed me bottles and swayed along with music on the radio. I can still picture her back and the crisp dress she wore as she cleaned dishes in the sink. I remember the young man who's face was much like yours who came home at night. He tossed me into the air and caught me while singing life has it's funny little ups and downs, downs and ups, ups and downs. And the other woman - with the warm chest and gentle bouncing - her face dark but with teeth and eyes gleaming. I was her little Debbie too, a "beautiful lil' child." Her scent was fresh bread and soap. As she carried me -she sang songs I could feel. Swing low sweet chariot, hush lil baby don't say a word mamma's gonna buy you a mocking bird. The young woman in the kitchen sang to me too. Three little fishes in an itty bitty pool and mares eat oats and doe's eat oats and little lambs eat ivy a kid'l eat ivy too wouldn't you.

I grew up singing.

My clothes smelled like you because you'd made them. Sweaters and bonnets and socks so soft and sweet. I still have many of them. Minty green with white fur collars. Pink with pearl buttons. I even have ones you made for my father when he was a baby.

There was a day we sat in on a chair set out in the freshly mowed grass. The chair bent backward to rock. I was clinging to you and looking up past your face at the patterns the sunlight made as moved through branches of the trees over our heads. I slipped into sleep in your arms.

I found a chair from the 50's that bends like that. I rock, eyes closed as the California sunlight washes over my face and remember you. My precious Dee Dee. My grandmother.

No words

No Words

Bastard

I was just 21 and obviously naive. You weren't the first to take advantage of that. My boss at the pub where I worked had tried just a week before. He kissed me - then tried to fondle me. Seems by letting him kiss me I was a "c--k tease." By asking him to stop I was a "bitch."

Predator

In the middle of showing my portfolio to a Portland art director - he got up and locked the door. He explained how his instant amorous behavior was caused by the green eyeshadow I was wearing. I got out of his office by promising to go to lunch with him.

Abuser

Certainly it was nativity that led me to have an affair with an co-worker. At 20, I had only been with oppressive my husband. The co-worker took me to lunches that felt like dates. I was spellbound by the interest he showed in me, but once the relationship turned sexual - I became his victim. He used me up. When I told him my marriage was over, he said, "I am not your friend."

Pretender

I was easy prey for you. You knew everyone who worked at the pub and they all treated you like a friend. You had me believing you cared for me. All you really had to do was listen, and smile, and hold my hand. I'd been through so much. You were so strong and you seemed so sweet. It was nothing to get me into your bed.

Opportunist

I woke up that morning needing to let out the pain I was feeling. I went to my art desk, picked up an exacto blade and began making tiny cuts on my arm. There was no one there to stop me. The boyfriend was at work and he'd told me that morning we were through. He'd found out about you. My ex husband was suing me. I cut and cut and bled and cried and the phone rang. I told you what I was doing. You told me to come over.

Rapist

You really didn't need the pills you gave me. I walked in numb. My makeup was running down my face as you got out your camera. Whoever you were taking photos of surely it wasn't me. I was somewhere else, barely aware you were talking me out of my clothes bit by bit, click by click. There was moment of calm as you laid me on your bed upstairs. I trusted you. I thought you were going to hold me while I slept. I wanted to sleep. I was going to sleep, until I saw the camera on the tripod. I was groggy, pleading with you to stop. I was saying "NO!" as you raped her to the rhythmic sounds of the automatic shutter.

At the time, I blamed myself for what you did to me. I never reported it. Months later you called and suggested I should come over and we'd look at the photos you'd taken of me.

There is no word for that.

At arm's length

I was in my fifties when we finally talked about my childhood.

Oh, I'd asked questions and you'd given me a glimpse or two into your life - but in my cousin's kitchen, we enlightened each other. The safe distance we'd put between us was not there that morning. I found myself pouring out memories and stories about my life as your child. I talked about wanting to take my life at 15. I talked about the man in the park when I was 7. I talked about locking you out of your house when I was 5. I talked about what it was like to be your baby and see you through the bars in my crib and know you would not be coming in to hold me.

I was in my fifties when I finally felt you loved me.

With the Kansas sunlight spilling across the table and all those clocks ticking around us, you said the words I'd needed to hear forever. "I am so sorry, Debbie. I was not there for you."

You believed then that it was a wife's duty to put her husband first and her children second. It was your intense love for my father that kept you at a distance from me. To the 20-something you, there was only so much love to go around. You had to be frugal. You learned to hold me at arm's length and I learned to take attention anywhere I could find it.

I was in my fifties when, finally, I stopped.

I love you mom.

Unbearable

For the record, it wasn't the bear I wanted, but the chance to be on that stage getting the bear. It didn't even look like a real bear with it's pink chest and face, but it was big. As I watched the other kids around the bleachers screaming with joy and racing down to the stage to collect their prizes I could not think past my own need to be a winner.

The winning coupons were hidden in the chocolate bars. Kids rich enough to get the candy got the chance to win a big prize. Grandma had bought us both a bar. I ripped mine open to instant disappointment. She was helping you open yours, but it was me that saw the ticket peaking out. Obsessed, I grabbed the ticket and bolted for the stage. I could hear your surprise and screams behind me but they were drowned out by the crowd cheering for all the winning kids collecting their big pink and black bears. I was a perfect angel as a clown handed me my prize. I was beaming. I was a winner. But it did not feel like I'd imagined it would. The moment my arms were around the bear and I was headed back up into the stands the guilt hit. I had cheated. I was a cheater.

To deal with my guilt, I had a story by the time I got up to our seats. I had gone to get the bear for you. I had done this favor for you because I was your big sister. I was too old for bears. You were too little to go down to the stage. The clowns would have scared you. My words did nothing to stop your tears. You wrapped your arms around the bear but it was not a comfort to either of us. Grandma was glaring at me. Everyone was glaring at me. Cheater. Thief. Bad girl.

You kept that bear on your bed.
Maybe you even forgot the day you got it, but I never did.

Sorry.

Bursting the bubble

The day I told you what I was REALLY thinking ended our friendship.

I find myself playing back that phone conversation in my head with remorse. How much of what I said set you on the path that ultimately led to your death?

I said what I did because I saw you wallowing, thrashing against what was true. You wanted what you wanted. You felt nothing for the people around you other than what they could do for you. You wanted to be pitied, to be cared for, to be the focus of attention. You took it all to the point of creating your own version of reality where you could say what you wanted and everyone would just listen. Many actually played along. You were believable. I did not believe you but pretended I did. I could see beyond the words to what you were feeling.

I spent years letting you vent until you began to manifest your fantasies. People were getting hurt. You were a train bent on crashing head on to destroy the good in your life and people around you to make a point about what you could not have. To get your way. To be happy.

Friends tended to believe rather than question you. With only one side of the story - your side - I'm sure they found it easier to agree and give you their verbal support then move on to their own lives. Your life was a side story to them. What they so casually accepted as truth fueled your fantasies.

Your downward spiral was epic. Many of your friends saw the drinking. Many saw the control issues. That day, the day I told you what I was really thinking , I saw it all. I realized that your side of all the stories could not be true. They'd grown too elaborate. They fit together too well. You were no longer calling to get clarity, you were calling to gather an army. You were going to war against your ex boyfriend. A conspiracy of your own creation pushed you to take dramatic action. Your needs were not being met. You were being taken for granted. You had done so much for him, and he had lied to you. He had taken from you. You were going to bring him down for hurting you.

The day I told you the truth I spoke from my heart. I loved you and you needed help. You needed therapy. You needed to stop drinking. You needed to see the difference between your reality and actual reality. I heard "a huhs" and "mmm's" but you did not hear me. You were already spinning my words in a new direction. It was expected. I could take being your next disappointment as long as you stopped hurting others.

I did not stop being your friend on that day. As the truth came pouring out I felt so close to you. I felt like my words might wash over you and give you insight. I felt we could take steps together to get you help. I let you know, I would be spreading the truth so all your friends could help you too. That was too much. I know it now. But you said then you understood. And the calls began. I found them. All your friends and family spread out across the country. I called contacted each and we talked about you. First they said what you'd told them, then what they knew, then they listened as I filled in the gaps and made sense of the story. At the end of each conversation I knew more about you. I had another friend pulling for you to get well. Your midnight call list grew thin as more and more of your friends chose not to listen to your drunken rants.

If you had not stopped talking to me, maybe I could have helped make sense of it all for you.I'd brought it on. I wanted to scream "ME! I did this. I know you love me. Can you see that I am doing this because I love you?"

You did much of what you said you'd do. You pushed people from your life. You turned every event into another reason for you to act and think like you did. You let the love around you turn to mud no one wanted to wade through. Loving you was a trap - one got stuck - and once stuck you had a captive audience.

Maybe our friendship ended because you wanted to send me a message. Maybe by pushing me out of your life I would somehow feel what you were feeling. You may not have been in contact with me, but I was still in contact with all your friends. They saw me as the only connection to you that was solid. I was the only person not on your list of conspirators. I was the only person you were not spinning stories about. When you spoke to friends, it was as if I vanished from your mind.

You lost everything the month's after I'd talked to you. I know now it was really your own doing, but I'd turned up the speed so you'd hit bottom faster. You were taking care of your mother in San Diego when you first attempted suicide. You family should have called me. I would have come. I wish I'd come. They put you into a clinic and you talked your way out. That makes me smile as much as it makes me sad. You were so charismatic, so persuasive. It was one of the things we all loved about you.

You used to tell me your worst fear was to have nothing, to have no one.

When you life passed before your eyes did you finally see?

You had everything.

Russian

Everyone has something in common with everyone else.

Today I stood to one side while other more influential people did their meet and greet. I hovered near you, waiting my turn tell you how wonderful your performance was. That was the appropriate thing to say, the expected thing. But lately I've found come to realize the joy in finding common ground.

I grew up in Kansas. My father and grandmother were Jewish. As a child I was obsessed with show tunes. I sang constantly. I loved the Wizard of Oz. I thought I was Dorothy.

You laughed and said you thought you were Dorothy too.