I know you love me. You tell over and over, "I love you!" Abundant and plentiful as tap water, "I love you's" flow from your mouth. I don't know why you need to say it as often as you do. But you do. That's just the way you are.
I know you love your friends. You spend hour after hour, day after day online - connected through games and team speak. Their voices echoing yours as laughter spills from the office. I don't know why you choose online over the real world as often as you do. But you do. That's just the way you are.
Once upon a time, I was not sure "I love you" was enough.I found my heart pulled by another who also said "I love you" but who did not live online with his friends. I know it hurt you. I will never stop feeling bad for hurting you. I know you don't want to remember that time. But you do. That's just the way you are.
When I was "not sure" I found myself thin and fit. I had lost weight. I almost lost us. You said "choose me." And I did. And then I gained and gained. And in the past 10 years when I've tried to lose what I gained, you'd say say "I love you just the way you are." You say "You aren't supposed to be thin." You say "Eat, eat. You can't lose weight. You've always been big." That's just the way you are.
I felt so guilty over hurting you that I padded my body to keep anyone but you from finding me attractive. I think you are afraid if I lose weight, you'll lose me.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Friday, March 6, 2009
Damned
I damned myself to hell for you.
I admitted my sins against you and the catholic church so you could get your annulment. Never mind we'd been divorced for years and I'd remarried. Never mind I'm not catholic. Never mind you weren't either. That call to tell me you'd come across the continent to peer in my apartment window, that was the last time we talked. Was it stalking or were you just needing to be sure you sent the document to the right Deborah?
This is the place where I talk about how when we broke up you moved as far away as you possibly could and still be in the same country. You found a girl who was my age, who looked like me, another Deborah. Literally, Deborah, with the same last name I had when I was married to you. Typically I move from that to how I agreed to damn myself to hell, and then back to the stalking. The story peters out that that point with hints of my trying to find out about your life through family and in the last few years, through internet. The story used to end there with me saying, I really don't know anything about his life now.
When I began blogging, I had a blog stalker. The person's screen name was name of our first cat. The person was only commenting on my blogs and was not posting. The tone of the comments from him and the questions he asked about my father - they pointed to a person who knew me and all the places I'd lived.
It was about that same time I wrote a post about us and I included your photo. And your name. And within a day I had an email from you. It was a request to take down the post. I did. And there lies the mystery. Was it really you who wrote me from the generic gmail address or was it my blog stalker?
Where you pretending to be someone else to peer in my windows again, or was someone peering in my windows pretending to be you?
Damned if I know.
I admitted my sins against you and the catholic church so you could get your annulment. Never mind we'd been divorced for years and I'd remarried. Never mind I'm not catholic. Never mind you weren't either. That call to tell me you'd come across the continent to peer in my apartment window, that was the last time we talked. Was it stalking or were you just needing to be sure you sent the document to the right Deborah?
This is the place where I talk about how when we broke up you moved as far away as you possibly could and still be in the same country. You found a girl who was my age, who looked like me, another Deborah. Literally, Deborah, with the same last name I had when I was married to you. Typically I move from that to how I agreed to damn myself to hell, and then back to the stalking. The story peters out that that point with hints of my trying to find out about your life through family and in the last few years, through internet. The story used to end there with me saying, I really don't know anything about his life now.
When I began blogging, I had a blog stalker. The person's screen name was name of our first cat. The person was only commenting on my blogs and was not posting. The tone of the comments from him and the questions he asked about my father - they pointed to a person who knew me and all the places I'd lived.
It was about that same time I wrote a post about us and I included your photo. And your name. And within a day I had an email from you. It was a request to take down the post. I did. And there lies the mystery. Was it really you who wrote me from the generic gmail address or was it my blog stalker?
Where you pretending to be someone else to peer in my windows again, or was someone peering in my windows pretending to be you?
Damned if I know.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Do you know what this means?
I came into the house, my right middle finger pointed skyward, face lined in anger as I screamed to my mother "do you know what this means?"
My memory says she answered "it means hi" - probably with a tight little smile.
It was summer, I was 11, we'd just moved and I had no friends. I was curious what the boys were doing in the park across the street from my house. When I walked up I was stopped by their hand signal, and the dirt clods they followed it up with. And my mother told me, "they were waving at you!"
I was sure it was NOT a friendly sign, holding up that lone finger, but I really had no clue. I spent a year not knowing and yet pretending I did. When I was sent the signal, I returned it. Seemed logical. I added a smile for good measure.
I was the focus of quite a bit of negative attention. A month after we moved in someone covered the sidewalk and driveway with dirty, mean words. I knew the words, but not the meaning. I met you when I walked next door to ask if anyone at your house had seen anything. You became my first friend in Lamar.
I was instantly in awe of you. It was summer and you had managed to save your Halloween candy in a shoe box under your bed. You allowed yourself a piece a day so it would last all year. Unimaginable.
We played basketball on your driveway. We swam on the swim team. We rode bikes. We talked and talked and it was you that taught me what my parents had not.
I was holding up both hands, middle fingers raised screaming at my my mother "it means FUCK! it means FUCK!" Course I'd just learned a lot more than the word, I'd learned what the word stood for, which was the real reason I was angry. It seems that FUCK is what happens when a man puts his thing into a woman's thing.... blah blah blah... what a HORRID thought! I could not IMAGINE this happening to me. It made the women have a baby. And you said, "women like it!" You got the info from your sister who was in High School, so it must be true.
The next step for you was a boyfriend. He was on the swim team too. There were 3 girls and 3 boys in our age group on the team. I got stuck with the lesser of the three, and well, he did too. You were into making out, I was into wishing I was you.
At our 20 year high school reunion I found myself talking with you and I was in awe of you all over again. You lived in Las Vegas. You and I had both been married at 19 and divorced soon after. You were beautiful and stylish and soft spoken and real. I remember the way the gold lamé gown hung on your frame. You seemed so thin, too thin. We spent the time in Lamar laughing and promising to keep in touch. Then we didn't.
I recently found your first boyfriend online. He became a banker who rides motorcycles. He married his high school sweetheart and they are now grandparents together. He remembers you fondly as his first crush. He remembers you.
I wrote him of your passing, not that I know much.
Drugs, illness, or eating disorder could be the cause - or just the underlying sadness I read in your eyes at that reunion. It was profoundly sad that I could not get anyone to tell me what really happened to you to cause your death.
When I see you again, fill me in ok?
And wear the gold lamé dress.
I felt beautiful in that dress.
My memory says she answered "it means hi" - probably with a tight little smile.
It was summer, I was 11, we'd just moved and I had no friends. I was curious what the boys were doing in the park across the street from my house. When I walked up I was stopped by their hand signal, and the dirt clods they followed it up with. And my mother told me, "they were waving at you!"
I was sure it was NOT a friendly sign, holding up that lone finger, but I really had no clue. I spent a year not knowing and yet pretending I did. When I was sent the signal, I returned it. Seemed logical. I added a smile for good measure.
I was the focus of quite a bit of negative attention. A month after we moved in someone covered the sidewalk and driveway with dirty, mean words. I knew the words, but not the meaning. I met you when I walked next door to ask if anyone at your house had seen anything. You became my first friend in Lamar.
I was instantly in awe of you. It was summer and you had managed to save your Halloween candy in a shoe box under your bed. You allowed yourself a piece a day so it would last all year. Unimaginable.
We played basketball on your driveway. We swam on the swim team. We rode bikes. We talked and talked and it was you that taught me what my parents had not.
I was holding up both hands, middle fingers raised screaming at my my mother "it means FUCK! it means FUCK!" Course I'd just learned a lot more than the word, I'd learned what the word stood for, which was the real reason I was angry. It seems that FUCK is what happens when a man puts his thing into a woman's thing.... blah blah blah... what a HORRID thought! I could not IMAGINE this happening to me. It made the women have a baby. And you said, "women like it!" You got the info from your sister who was in High School, so it must be true.
The next step for you was a boyfriend. He was on the swim team too. There were 3 girls and 3 boys in our age group on the team. I got stuck with the lesser of the three, and well, he did too. You were into making out, I was into wishing I was you.
At our 20 year high school reunion I found myself talking with you and I was in awe of you all over again. You lived in Las Vegas. You and I had both been married at 19 and divorced soon after. You were beautiful and stylish and soft spoken and real. I remember the way the gold lamé gown hung on your frame. You seemed so thin, too thin. We spent the time in Lamar laughing and promising to keep in touch. Then we didn't.
I recently found your first boyfriend online. He became a banker who rides motorcycles. He married his high school sweetheart and they are now grandparents together. He remembers you fondly as his first crush. He remembers you.
I wrote him of your passing, not that I know much.
Drugs, illness, or eating disorder could be the cause - or just the underlying sadness I read in your eyes at that reunion. It was profoundly sad that I could not get anyone to tell me what really happened to you to cause your death.
When I see you again, fill me in ok?
And wear the gold lamé dress.
I felt beautiful in that dress.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)