Entitled "Realizing a Dream"

I almost feel like starting this entry:

When last we left our lovers ...

Sometimes this all seems so unreal to me ... actually, most of the time it seems unreal to me ... okay, it seems unreal to me all of the time.  Everytime I think back on it and all that has passed between us, I have to shake my head in disbelief and wonder why life is so crazy and love is so intoxicating ... or maybe it's love that makes this life intoxicating.

For reference sake, in case anyone wants to refer back, there are links to Forever Love -- Parts Un, Deux, Trois, in the side section just under the calendar.

I'll be begin Forever Love - Part Quatre with a snippet from the end of my last Forever Love post ...

So, finally I had told him how I felt ... kinda-sorta.  I didn't profess my love.  Experiencing the panic after my last email, I knew I never would. 

I kept scolding myself for having written what I had written, but all along hoping for a favorable response.  The wait was nerve wracking but also somewhat heady.  Did I mention I was conflicted?

I didn't have to wait long.  His response was in my inbox the very next morning.  As I read his response I was shocked, thrilled, stunned and scared.  The battle inside of me raged on.  I transferred the letter to my PDA so I could read it again when my day slowed down.  I had plans to spend the day with my best friend, Meecie and her mother, May. 

May was 82 years old.  She was spunky, sassy, gracious and graceful, funny, loving, generous ... she loved me like I was her own -- in fact, she referred to me as her adopted daughter.  She could read me like a book.  I may have kept things hidden from many people but not Meecie and May.  They could always tell when something was going on with me -- good or bad.

That morning I let myself in and BOUNDED up the stairs.  When we started talking about this and that, I mentioned to Meecie that Paul had written me.  Without hesitation, I turned to Mama and raising my voice so she could hear me, I said, "Mama, I got a letter from a boy I kissed in high school."  Mama got a twinkle in her eye.  Much to my amazement, I started telling Mama May everything.  The more I told her, the more she smiled.  I spoke of the letter I had written and then, without hesitation, I pulled out my PDA and read his letter to Meecie and Mama.  To this day I can hardly believe that I did that -- that I had absolutely no qualms revealing everything to them.  It was especially remarkable because they knew Mr. Man.  Of course, they also knew about his cruelty and my efforts to try to make things right.

Although I read Paul's letter in it's entirety to Meecie and Mama, what follows is only pieces-parts ...

"Writing to you befuddles me.  It's the long-repressed passion, desire, regret, longing, the warm fuzzy remembrances.  I want to nurture that spark and then fan the flames it could blossom into.  That's the legacy you left me with, an intense awareness and appreciation of sensuality ... a lifetime of searching for more of what you gave me.

You, who I've sequestered in a special place in my heart for decades, are a lifelong obsession, the everlasting object of my desire, the one who forged the template for all my future relationships, and it's hard not to jump on a plane and show up on your doorstep with flowers and beg you to allow me to shower you with all that I am and want to share with you.

Your confession that that young woman was "in love with" me sets my heart fluttering, even though it was the mind and heart of a teenager that felt it.  I don't think I had a clue about love at that time, but I've been in love with the memory of us all my adult life.  How could it be difficult for you to believe I would remember you?  I was the other half of our equation, and you + me = pure ecstacy!  I guess the reason you may be astounded that our experienes had such a strong influence on me is that, to my eternal regret, I was not able to express it at the time.  You, my dear one, were the only one who lit my fire until I met XXX .  That's when I found something as wonderful as what we had.  Oh well, we can dream, and I will always dream about what was, what never was, what could be.  And what a wonderful dream it is, my sweet, of you and me and all the years of all the best life has to offer.

Affectionately, and in celebration of those two fortunate young teenagers

Paul

Can I call you again sometime? It was so good to talk with you, although it seemed a bit unreal after so long.  If you ever feel the desire ... [xxx-xxx-xxxx]"

When I was done reading the first thing I said to Mama was, "Wild, right?  Show up on my doorstep?  He's scaring me!"  Mama asked me if I was going to call him and I responded with an emphatic, "NO way!  I think I've done quite enough, don't you?  I mean, I kissed the boy twice and he's (reading from the letter again) "been in love with the memory of us" his whole adult life?  I must have been some kisser, right?"  Mama smiled and said, "Well, yeah!"  I told Mama and Meecie it was exciting to be sure, but it would probably be better to just leave it alone to remain a fantasy.

The truth is ... thirty-nine years later, beat up from drug addiction, living on the streets, MS, Katrina ... I'm just not anything close to who I was back then.  There isn't a speck of innocence left in me.  He was in love with the memory of us and I felt  I shouldn't take that away from him ... no matter how badly he thought he wanted to see me.

I must have read that letter a hundred times but it took me forever to respond to it.  For 2½ weeks I avoided opening my email.  I was still struggling with my dislocated thumb at that time and typing wasn't easy ... but that wasn't why I put it off.  I didn't know what to write to him.  What he was talking about was passion.  Maybe he had been in love with the memory of us but I had worshipped the boy I remembered for years.  I compared all men to him.  To this day, I've never felt about anyone the way I've felt about him all these years.

For years, my journals have been peppered with his name.  For years, I've been attracted to men because they had the same hair color or were the same height or played a particular instrument.  For years I longed for a man to touch me the way he had -- hating them because they couldn't give to me what a boy of fourteen had.  For years, in the arms of another man, I'd closed my eyes and traveled back to those brief moments with him.  I once even dated a man because his name was the same.  When I thought of all those facts, I wondered who was scarier, me or him.

I would repeat to myself over and over, "I want this chance.  I want the chance to find out what could be."  But fear was stronger than desire so I did nothing.  I did nothing for eighteen days and then sent a short letter.  It was much less than he deserved but it was all I could muster.  My heart was too full of fear and what ifs.

"Dearest Paul --

How horrible I feel -- I've been so negligent.  Things have been so hectic, not to mention the fact that my thumb is still giving me problems.  Physical therapy three times a week and the progress has been slow but it's improving slightly.

I have so much to tell you ... so much to say.  I need time to read your last email.  I confess, I haven't been online in quite a while.  Email can be so daunting.  I sometimes forget that there are times when there is actually something welcome when I open my inbox ... like a letter from you. 

When I have some time and a little more privacy than I do at this moment, I promise you I will answer your email.  Just seeing it makes my heart pound -- little beads of moisture break out on my temples and the back of my neck.  How does it feel to know that you still have that affect on me after all these years?

Please forgive me for being so negligent, although you must know I didn't mean to be.  There's not a thing I'd rather do than drift into what we had and have.  Real life is so ... real, let's say.

I adore you.  I hope that you will remember that always.

With love ... Friday"

"I need time to read your last email."  Little did he know I had already read it dozens of times.  I nearly had it committed to memory.  After all the beautiful things he had written to me and all I responded with was a few sentences devoid of even a hint of passion.

Again I stared at the "Send" button and wondered if I should answer at all.  What was I doing?  What did I expect?  If I keep this correspondence going, am I toying with him?  Or, am I giving him the opportunity to toy with me?  Reason lost.  With hope that he wouldn't give up on me before I could make up my mind, I hit "Send".

Later that night, standing before the mirror, I studied my mouth -- slightly turned up at the corners as I whispered his name ... "Paul".  Fifty-four years old -- feeling like a school girl -- remembering what it was like to be a teenager, developing a crush on a boy that would last a lifetime.

** note **

I spoke with Paul recently.  He told me he had read my Forever Love posts.  He made me laugh when he said, "I can't wait to find out what happens!"  Neither me, Paul, neither me.

Is it a bad thing to ask for what you need?

       

Several weeks ago my doctor ordered blood tests to determine if I was becoming diabetic.  Good news, no diabetes but the results revealed my potassium level was in the danger zone and my kidney function is decreasing.  I discussed it with my doctor.  We decided that I would change my diet and re-test.  I went in last week for the re-test and was told to call this morning for the results.  I called this morning ... so far, no news. 

I'm anxious.  I've always thought that making patients wait one minute longer than necessary to hear test results was cruel.  The longer I wait, the more anxious I become.  Wait, did I say anxious?  I'm just good old fashioned scared.

I'll update if and when I hear from the doctor's office.

-- edit --

Mr. Man sleeps as my panic mounts.  This has always been one of my loneliest times in recent years -- waiting for test results.  I should be used to it by now ... but I'm not.

-- 2:31PM --

If you saw me now, my shoulders heaving from sobs that I can't contain, would you think less of me?

-- 6:23PM--

Cried myself to sleep.  When I woke, the house was dark and no call had come from the doctor's office.  They will see my face tomorrow and it won't be a happy one.  I'm no longer stressed ... I'm angry.  I'm usually very patient but this is different.

1. Protocol :: code of conduct
2. Girlfriends :: earth angels
3. Shoulders :: White Shoulders 
4. Coming home :: kickin' off shoes and losing the bra
5. Let it in :: It?  What is "it"?  Don't let IT in!!!!
6. Honor :: thy mother and father
7. Tyler :: Mary Tyler Moore
8. Thriller :: SoBe Life Water commercial see below
9. Angela :: my favorite niece
10. The winner is :: "I'd like to thank the Academy ... "

Sobe Life Water Commercial

You know the drill ... or do you?  "Rules are, there are no rules." There are no right or wrong answers. Don't limit yourself to one word responses; just say everything that pops into your head.  You can mutter there or you can mutter here, in my comments.

I'm in a silly mood today.  I swear, I can't take it.  I don't know what's up with me.  One day I'm feeling wild and joyful, the next day down in the dumps, the next day sassy, the next day blue, the next day playfully mischievous.

*sigh*  What to do with myself.

I'm think I'll go eat my weight in sushi.

In the alley, behind a restaurant, there was an alcove that was once used to store several large trash cans.  The trash cans were gone, replaced by a huge dumpster that hid the alcove from view.  It was where I hid my belongings during the day and where I returned to sleep each night.  If I was lucky, there was something salvageable from the dumpster.  If I was really lucky, the old Mexican dishwasher would slide a greasy paper bag full of scraps beneath the dumpster.  I never spoke to him except to say, "Silencio, por favor." when he first saw me squeezing behind the dumpster one night.

I have a very vivid memory of waking one day.  The first thing I was aware of was the smell of rancid meat and spoiled food.  It took me a moment to remember where I was.  I was cold but oddly, my knee and my calf were warm.  Slowly but surely, I began to remember where I was -- in my alcove, on my sleeping bag, with a deep gash in my knee.  The warmth I felt was blood.  I started to remember why I was bleeding.

Lorraine and I had scored several ballons of heroine earlier in the day and had just fixed.  I loved heroine ... that mind numbing sweet release ... nodding without sleeping ... floating in that long, drawn-out hypnagogic state.  The vomitting wasn't fun but once the heaving was done, the heaven would begin.  Lorraine loved heroine, too -- more than she loved me -- more than she loved anything.

After we had fixed, I put the rig, (syringe, tie-off, spoon, etc) in my large "flower child" crochet purse, along with one balloon of heroine -- our fix for the next morning before we went looking for more money for more dope.  Then I settled into my nod.  At some point I felt a gentle tug on my purse.  Through half-lidded eyes, I saw Lorraine trying to carefully slide the purse out from under my knee.  I tensed my knee, clamping it firmly down on my purse.  Then came the pain.  Lorraine had plunged a large piece of broken glass into my knee.

Obviously, the fix wasn't enough for her ... she wanted it all.  I felt the purse slide out from under my leg; then Lorraine was gone.  I wasn't angry or hurt.  When you have heroine, other junkies either become your best friend or your worst nightmare.  I was a little surprised -- I never dreamed she would turn on me like that.  Actually, she had the right to the heroine.  She was the one who turned tricks to get the money for the dope.  She shared it with me as I shared everything with her -- at least everything in my little alcove world.

The gash was huge.  I noticed that the color of the exposed meat was white and wondered if that was really the color or if it was the color the heroine told me it was.  I reached for a embroidered peasant blouse and tied it around my knee. 

I started trying to figure out what to do.  I couldn't go home for a number of reasons ... mainly because I didn't want my mother to see her junkie daughter.  Secondly, I didn't want to be around her boyfriend who couldn't keep his hands off me -- it was the reason I left in the first place.  Loaded and injured, I would be defenseless. 

The only hopsital I could go to would have been the county hospital but my mother worked there.  Everyone knew her and thus me.  I couldn't take the chance.  The only thing I could do was go to my mother's house and figure out what to do once I got there.  I thought maybe I could hide in the detached garage until I could get into the house.

I limped out to the street and stuck my thumb out.  Those were more innocent days; hitchhiking was pretty much an accepted mode of transportation.  I was picked up by a hippie couple in a  vdub van ... how cliche is that?  They dropped me off about a block from my mother's house.  I waited until the house went dark.  I wondered if I could sneak into the house.  That's when I saw the cellar doors.  Why I hadn't thought of that in the first place was beyond me.  I was too loaded to even know I was too loaded to have a sensible thought in my head.

I crossed the lawn to the cellar doors, lifted one open, eased it down as quietly as I could and waited.  I finally surrendered to exhaustion and what was left of my nod.  When I came to, I listened.  When I was sure that my mom and her boyfriend had left the house, I slipped in through the back door.  Another sign of a more innocent day and age -- my mom never locked the back door.  Later I found out that after I ran away, she still left the door unlocked for me in hopes she would come home from work one day and I'd be there.

I went into the bathroom, took a bath, and washed my hair.  I poured alcohol in my wound and bandaged it up the best I could.  I was beginning to jones.  I needed to fix.  I hated Lorraine at that moment -- enough to want to eff her up when I found her.  I went into my mother's closet where she had put boxes of my clothes since I had left home.  I changed and stuffed some clothes into a pillowcase.  I had no idea if my sleeping bag or my clothes would still be in my alcove behind the dumpster.  No idea if Lorraine might have gone back and taken my stuff to sell.  I raided my mother's pantry and made myself a couple of cold burritos to take with me.  I straightened up after myself the best I could and left.  I went back into the cellar ... I was exhausted.  In the damp darkness of the cellar I ate half a burrito and then I fell asleep on an old chair my mother planned to reupholster one day.

When I woke I heard muffled voices.  My mother's bedroom was directly above my head.  I thought I heard her mention my name.  Then, I heard my mother sobbing.  She knew I had been there. 

I found out later that my mother found my bloody peasant blouse I had accidentally kicked beneath the clawfoot tub.  My poor mama.  She couldn't have known that the wound was in my leg and not my torso.  I sat, shrouded in darkness but no amount of darkness could hide my shame.   Shame that I had hurt my mother, shame that I was a junkie, shame that I had thrown my life away for a fix and then another and another and another.  I vowed to get clean, to get straight, to quit hurting my mother.  But first, ...

... first, I had to have just one more fix.  I was covered in sweat and aching all over.  One more fix  ... just one more fix.  One more trip into that familiar mind numbing sweet release ... nodding without sleeping ... floating in that long, drawn-out hypnagogic state.  I wanted to quit feeling sick.  But more than anything, I just wanted out of the pain ... out of the pain of a life no girl my age should have had.  I had only just completed my junior year of high school.

That was the memory that came flooding back this morning when I took the trash out to the dumpster.  The smell assaulted all my senses and sent me reeling back into the past.  It was momentary, but vivid.  I stifled tears as I walked back to the condo. 

When I opened the door, the heater kicked on.  Scented candles were burning all through the house.  The washing machine end-cycle buzzer sounded.  Supper was simmering on the stove.  My purse, with a wallet full of credit cards and cash, sat on my desk.  I closed the door and leaned against it -- as if doing so would keep the memories from intruding. 

My thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Man.  "You okay?" he asked, "You don't look so good."   I told him that the dumpster was foul and had made me nauseous and a little lightheaded.  He apologized and said he should have taken out the trash.  He suggested I lay down for a little while.

I went into the bedroom, pulled back the silk, gold comforter and slid between the clean white sheets that smelled faintly of lavender fabric softener.  As I curled up, I reached down and rubbed the jagged scar on my knee.  The thoughts wouldn't stop coming.  I reached for my iPod, put the earbuds in and tried to drown the thoughts out.  Nothing in this cozy little life of mine was going to drown out the memory of Lorraine laying on my sleeping bag, foam coming out of her mouth and nose, her skin an odd dark bluish-green.  Nothing was going to make me forget that I picked up a soldier at the bus depot and ...   I did what I needed to do because Lorraine was dead and I needed just one more fix.

When people ask me about the scar I always tell them that I cut it on a piece of broken glass.  I told someone the whole story once and they gave me that oh, you poor thing look.  It infuriated me.  Poor thing, my ass.  I was responsible for that period of my life.  That period of my life wasn't something that happened to me ... it was what I did.  I made the choices.  And it was only the beginning of a string of lousey choices I would make for years.

Those memories don't come calling very often.  When they do come, there's always a trigger .... like the stench of the dumpster.

I don't think I'll be taking out the trash again any time soon.

As for most people, music reminds me of people, places and things in my life -- past and present.  Candy sent me the link to this video several weeks ago.  The song keeps looping in my head and I'm totally okay with it.  The song makes me happy and the video puts that Cheshire grin on my face.  Quite coincidentally, this song (released in 1967 by the Turtles) was one of my favorites in 1968.  <-- Forever Love reference  The song is about a boy / girl couple but it fans that friendship spark inside of me as well.  Thank you, sweetheart!

"Bah-bah-bah-bah bah-bah-bah-bah
bah-bah-bah bah-bah-bah-baaaaah"

About a month ago, Meecie and I attended our first Red Hat Society function ... dinner at a local restaurant.  I enjoyed it even though my evening was cut short because I was plagued with neuropathic pain.  I look forward to our next gathering.  I even had a new sassy red hat ...

The headband is actually a scarf that can be tied dozens of ways and the bow is actually a clip that I can clip on the hat or just clip it on a ponytail or on another hat.  I can tell I'm going to be such a hat whore.

The reason I'm bringing this all up now is that over the weekend, I received an email telling me that a group picture from that evening was in the Valentine's Day issue of The TImes-Picayune!  The picture is pretty grainy and distorted everyone's features a little (my sister says my nose looks huge in the picture -- thanks, sis) but here it is anyway ...

click to enlarge

That's Meecie (Honeybee) on the far left and then me.  Now y'all are getting your first look at the Dynamic Duo that is Meecie and Friday.  =^)  Take a good look because this is the last picture that will be taken of Meecie at that weight.  Meecie's gastric bypass is scheduled for March 11th.  YAY, Meecie!  The five year fight is over and a whole new life begins, girlfriend!  You go, girl!

So, kinda fun but I was feeling like crap that day so didn't take too many pains to look my best.  I guess I should always operate on the, "Always wear clean panties in case you get in an accident" philosophy.  Not that I wasn't wearing clean panties, I definitely was ... red ones.  What I mean is, I should have taken the time to wear make-up or wear the jeans that fit me better or do something with my hair other than braid it or ... well, you get the point.  Then again, how was I supposed to know they post the group picture in the newpaper every month?

I say ... and you think ... ?

1. Passport :: WD external hard drive
2. Small world :: "And a smile means friendship to everyone ... it's a small world afterall!"
3. Radio :: disc jockey
4. Marine :: a few good men
5. Wall :: the walls have ears
6. Wanna be :: poser
7. Pigtails :: inkwell
8. Hyphen :: trait d'union
9. 9.99 :: just about 100%
10. Unrated :: undiscovered

"Rules are, there are no rules." There are no right or wrong answers. Don't limit yourself to one word responses; just say everything that pops into your head.  You can mutter there or you can mutter here, in my comments.