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The beginning.

I have recently accepted that I don't think of my beginning as when I was born. That, in and of itself is entirely a different story. I don't know who I am. This is literal, not figurative. I plan on finding that out one day, as well. I will just leave it at that, and say that my beginning started off somewhere around the age of 17. I let one person control my entire destiny, my fate. Every move I have made in almost 20 years is because of one person. It makes me ill to even think about. As I have settled into a mottled gray, again, I think it's safe to say that my adult journey has just started, after being held captive by my mind, and by this other person.


He died. Almost a year ago today. Well, a year and a week from today. Funny how I can just now really open up about it. Maybe it's the anniversary. I have no idea.

I was 17. So terribly young, looking back, already a tortured soul, looking for things in other people that I was missing. I felt like I knew everything, as we all did. I was driving.. a white Oldsmobile, or something.. my parents spoiled me thinking I'd come out of whatever funk I was in. Now, I know.. oh, hindsight. I stopped at a stop sign. He was coming from the other way. He was a friend. Nothing remarkable, really, except that he was nice to me. I had been infatuated with another friend of his. Looking for solace, really, but burned, because I equated sex and love. Two totally different things, cognitively, of course, we all know this is true. When you're a 17 year old who has your own issues, you hardly realize the truth, however.

He said I was beautiful. They still do. I didn't believe it at the time. I do now. We would spend hours, after that, sitting on my mama's front porch. The house.. I revisited it at the age of 33.. I couldn't believe how it hadn't changed. That house stood there, waiting for me to revisit, waiting for my memories to flood the front yard, all the way up to the concrete step that we would sit on. Every night that summer, we would smack the mosquitos tasting our legs, talk about things that didn't matter. Inconsequential bullshit, looking back. But it mattered then. He mattered so much.
Looking back, it wasn't he that mattered so much, as the way I let him make me feel. I felt valued, worthy, loved on some level.

The next spring, we went through a destructive spot.. 4 best friends, one being his brother's ex girlfriend, died in an accident. We all were left in that black part of the canvas. He would later say that she didn't deserve to be there with "them," part of my world, the "they's." She was better than we, and somehow, I was responsible.
I left for Texas..

I healed. It takes me longer than most to heal-I'm not really sure why, although, I think more, demand answers, analyze things until they're broken and bent and not worth figuring out. I torture myself into wanting to know all about something, or someone. I hate it. I do.

I moved back to the dirty South, still loving him. He had written me a few letters, days before email and cell phones were options. Always on graph paper. Always those same upper-case letters that meant nothing, except the part that said "I love you."

It's funny how I remember the little things, and not the big things. I can vividly remember what I was wearing the night we re-connected after Texas. Black skirt, white shirt, some beads I loved before beads came back into some sort of style. We went to a concert that night. The last concert I have ever been to. We danced, him behind me, I thought life could never be so good. I guess I was right, in some ways.


Eventually, I moved to be near him. This was after he started hurting me. If I could be as strong as I am now, I wouldn't have this story to write. It started little. I was held up to the wall by my neck. It got bigger, though. Eventually, this person who said he loved me would beat the shit out of me. Until the last time. Until I told him if he ever did it again, I'd smear his good name in this tiny Georgia town until he didn't have a good name anymore. It seemed to work. He never touched me that way again. The love was over, though. Damaged, I was. What hurts worse, mental or physical abuse? At least bruises heal rather quickly.

The black came soon enough. Tears in the driveway, promises of love that would never be fulfilled. I had to start my own life. I left him. That day in the driveway, saying it wouldn't be the last time, I just had to start living. I never did.

Little did I know, those tears in a driveway would come back to the both of us. Promises of love. This time, real promises. But not the type of love you are thinking. Eternal. Each of us sharing something that no one else can. A beautiful child who never asked for either of us.



I found out I was pregnant. He blew me off. He never accused me of cheating on him. He knew I was loyal. He just didn't want me anymore. Fade to black.