Original article posted by Chellee:
I have been sitting in this computer lab for the last ten minutes staring at the main page of sixmilevillage.com. I felt an incredible urge to write, and I suppressed it as long as I could. People across the table from me began to give me strange looks. I hadn’t moved at all, except for to blink or smooth my hair. I hadn’t touched the keyboard or mouse that rest in front of me.
I just had a terrible voice lesson. My teacher pissed me off, and I’m still on the verge of ripping his head off. Which is why I’m not in class right now. He also happens to conduct concert choir.
My mom calls to ask me if I’m okay, and I just want to snap. I know she really does care how I feel, but the main reason she calls is to make sure I will get good grades and therefore be able to maintain my scholarship.
But the thing that brought me to the point of needing to write something was triggered when I read Wendy’s writing about Anson. Although I didn’t know Anson, I still cried when I read about his murder. I’m the type of person who cries at a sad story. I can’t help it. I weep with those that weep, even if I don’t know who is weeping or why. I can directly relate almost every story to something that has happened or is happening to me. It kind of sucks, although it makes me very empathetic.
You see, I recently lost the best friend I’ve ever had. The one person who knows everything about me. The person from whom I’ve kept nothing. The first boy I ever loved, the first guy to break my heart, and the first person to comepletely break my shell. And now he is gone. And the worst part of it is that he’s not dead. Not his body, anyway. The spirit of him, his true self, died some time ago. I’m not sure exactly when.
At some point, he turned into the person who would lie to me about where he was last night, turn things on me and make me feel like a horrible person, lie to my family, his friends, his family; steal my car to have sex in it. A person who would try to tell me that he lied for my own good, lie to himself about the things he had done, and then thank me from the bottom of his heart for being his friend.
And what did I do? I let him go. I had to. He was killing me. He was bringing me down. I was lost. I didn’t realize that the person I thought was my best friend would be the one person whose attack would be most effective. I suppose it makes sense, though. Once I finally let someone inside the fortress, he broke it down. Broke me. And then he ran away. Because he knew exactly what he had done. He knew precisely whom he had made his foe. And a formidable foe she is. For now the weak spots have been rebuilt, and the walls of the fortress are higher than ever. Walls of anger, barricades of pain.
And yet, somewhere inside this fortress there is still the little girl who chased him out of her backyard, found him asleep underneath her kitchen table when his parents thought he had been kidnapped, defended him against bullies from preschool to college.
In the highest tower, there is a teenager who told him he was a fool for being heart broken over his first girlfriend, laughed when he said his first swearword, scolded him when he took his first drink, and told him again that he was a fool; this time for being broken-hearted about his first boyfriend.
And somewhere, past hidden passages, drifting doorways, and ancient crypts, locked away in the deepest dungeon, lies the young woman who dreamed of his happiness, hoped for his future, treated him like a brother, and will love him to the end.
Re: Saying Goodbye…
I know what you mean, and I can empathize. It’s like you run a spy organization, with all sorts of secret information and passwords and codes and things. The higher up in the organization you are, the higher the information you have access to. Not many people are allowed in; it’s fairly exlusive, and takes awhile to make it to the top.
And then your top agent, the one you’d trust with your life, turns out to be a double agent. They’re not necessarily working for the enemy (whoever that may be), but they’re not necessarily working for you, either. They’re working for themselves, and you can’t ever fully trust them again. You don’t know whether to let them go and hope they won’t betray you, or shoot them. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” How can you go on, knowing that pieces of information vital to the spy organization are running loose, and you don’t even know what pieces they took, or when they’ll emerge?
I admire you for your strength in knowing when to cut something off. All I can say is cherish the memories of the past, and know that that person will never die, as long as you keep them alive, whether it be in the dungeon, the tower, or the hidden linen closet in the servants’ quarters. Keep it locked up for a good long while, but don’t forget it’s in there. Things have a nasty habit of changing and mutating when left alone in musty closets. I know, I have a metaphorical house full of locked closets with who knows what lurking behind them.
Re: Saying Goodbye…
And I cried reading this. Sometimes it’s harder to lose someone you love, but have them be alive somewhere in the world and not being that same person.
I feel your sadness in your words. And I hurt for you
Thanks, girls, for feeling my pain. I really appreciate your comments and understanding!