A/N: Hey guys! I'm back! Sorry for leaving you guys high and dry the way I did with Terrible Love :( I know I had a lot of people really interested in it and I'm sorry to just discontinue it the way I did. College life just got a little busy and by the time I settled down, I just had no idea where I was taking that story anymore.
But anyway, this is my newest addition and I really hope you guys like it. I'm really gonna try my absolute HARDEST to stick with this story throughout the show's hiatus. I really just want to fall back in love with writing stories and this is the best way to do it. I hope you guys like it as this story is a little bit out of my comfort zone, especially with where I'm taking it.
Let me know what you think! And as always, thank you so so so much if you've stuck with me.
November 18
I'm trying this because she said you'll listen with open ears and won't judge and I think at this point I'm willing to try anything. I know you won't ever reply to these and at first I thought that would really upset me but I think I've come to realize that it's exactly what I'll need. I don't think I need a response. I don't think I need advice. I think I just need someone to listen and go along with it. Listen and be on my side even when I'm making the wrong decision. If I write to you, maybe a couple months down the line I'll be able to look back and be proud of the changes I've made. Plus if I know you won't judge me for grammar mistakes once I get into the flow and stop remembering how to write like a proper Ivy League graduate.
She said I should tell you everything so you have all the pieces. She said I just have to keep on writing and writing and writing until I'm sure you have everything you need to work it all out for me while I'm asleep. I know you won't reply. I know you'll just take this all in. But I really am hoping that you can help me.
I was trying to think of something to tell you. Because I know otherwise me starting to write letters to you today makes no sense.
It kind of seems like I started for no reason. I could've started yesterday or the day before. I could have even started tomorrow and it wouldn't have made a difference, so by all means it feels like starting today makes no sense. I've found something to tell you. My story starts today and you need to know why today and not yesterday or tomorrow.
I heard something on the bus ride home that really turned it all around for me. I don't usually eavesdrop on other people's conversations, and I know it might be a little rude, but I think I'm going to start doing that more often. I think it's kinda amazing what you can find out just by listening to people other than the voices inside your own head. I know it's not the most effective technique, and it's probably not a good idea, but listening to how bad someone else's life is really does make you feel better about your own. At least that's the case for me. I listened to a conversation and learned about how this woman's husband was suing her for custody of their three kids and in the midst of that it really started to dawn on me that men truly are the root of all evil.
This wasn't my big enlightening moment that turned it all around for me, but it's worth the honorable mention. Men really are big pieces of crap who just assert their dominance over everyone just because they think they can. I know I can't really judge much because I don't know the woman on the bus but I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that she's a good mother. I think so just by the way she talked about her kids and how much she loved them. And that alone made me think about the fact that her husband probably only wants to take her kids away just because he can.
I'm not naive. I know people lie. I know that woman could have just been saying anything to save face and for all I know, she's actually a horrible mother. Because people lie and they make things up and they put up very convincing fronts but there's a part of me that really just wants to believe that she was telling the truth. I wanna believe that the tears in her eyes were real when she was talking about her kids. I really wanna believe that there are people out there who aren't lying when they say they love someone. Even if it is a random stranger on the bus.
The woman's friend told her that things aren't going to get better if she just sits around and waits for them to. She told her that things won't get better unless she puts forth an effort and makes things change for herself, and that's what makes today so much different than yesterday and the other days that came before when I took the bus home. As soon as I heard that, it was like a lightbulb went off inside my head. It was like the pieces all connected, the gates opened up and the answer was waiting for me prepped and served on a silver platter. Everything just started to make sense.
Because I realized that nothing is going to change if I just sit around. Nothing is going to get better if I just hope and wish and pray that it does. I have to make decisions for myself. I have to make things happen for me. If I want to be happier, the responsibility lies in my own hands to make a change.
I thought I was doing my part simply by going. I don't know why, but I guess I just thought that signing up was all the battle. I thought signing up, then taking the bus 45 minutes into Jersey City every Wednesday and sitting there and listening to her talk was going to magically cure me.
I've been cautious with it, though. I take the bus instead of my car since he checks the mileage, and I walk to the station so he won't notice any gas is gone. And I made sure my sessions are only on Wednesdays, from 3 to 4 since Wednesdays are his late days. And I don't mention anything she's been talking to me about at all.
It's kind of scary how I feel like I'm living this secret life. I feel like this is all just a charade and it's only a matter of time before he figures me out. I don't know how, but he always does. That's why I don't even bother lying to him anymore.
I don't go back for another session until next week. So I think I'm going to have a week straight of writing you letters and really thinking about all the things she's said. I'm starting to realize that even though I show up on time and sit and listen attentively, I'm not always taking in her words. I don't ever let them marinate for a while in my brain. The more I think about it, the more I think that she's sorta talking at me and not really to me. Because I'm not always listening to understand. I'm mostly listening to respond.
I know something about today is different because for the first time ever, I'm not completely dreading going back next week.
I'm kinda excited.
Until next time,
Brooke.
I blow the leftover pencil dust off my paper and lean back in the chair to admire my work. And I flex my fingers. Open, close. Open, close. Only now that I've stopped writing do I even realize I have a cramp in my hand. It didn't feel like I wrote as much as I did. I got kind of lost while I was going and things just started flowing. Even my handwriting got a little sloppy towards the end because I just stopped thinking about it and just let it flow.
I'm not sure how this is supposed to make me feel. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to feel lighter or more free after I get done writing, but I can freely say that I feel like there's someone behind my back. I know that's not possible, but still. I have to swivel around in the chair to look behind me anyway.
Nothing. Just like I knew there'd be. Absolutely nothing but plain white wall. It's funny how well I know myself. I picked this chair specifically because I knew that I'd feel this way after I was done. The chair against the wall. The one that looks out at everything else. At the stainless steel stove and fridge. At the marble countertops and crown-molded ceilings. The chair that can see straight down the hallway and to the front door, the only door he ever walks through.
You know what? This place would probably sell for half a mil. Off topic, but I think my mind needs a chance to wander and get away from the fact that I just tried a therapy tactic and wrote a letter. But seriously. This house is probably worth some big bucks, even without all the fancy Italian furniture. I've never asked how much he paid for this house, and I'm not sure he'd ever tell me anyway, but my guess is towards half a million because Persian carpets are like $30,000 on their own and we've got four upstairs bedrooms chock-full of Persian carpets.
I'm still flexing my fingers. Open, close. Open, close. They're not as sore and cramped up anymore. For a second I forgot why I even started flexing them in the first place. But then I remember… and that's what it comes back to.
Me and the letter.
The letter and me.
The letter and I.
I and the letter.
I still don't know how writing it was supposed to make me feel but I don't think it was supposed to feel like this. I'm willing to bet that it wasn't supposed to give me a stomachache.
I think maybe I'm going insane because I swear the letter is taunting me. The more I stare at it, my eyes do that weird double vision thing that everyone's eyes do if they stare too long but it's different because it kind of looks like the words are dancing on the lines. They're moving back and forth, then up and down and like they're ridiculing me until I blink and the tears tickle my cheeks.
I don't know if I should feel relieved. Right now I feel guilty. Because I think… somewhere deep down… so deep down I don't even know that it existed… I'm happy. Deep down it feels like there's a part of me that was ignited again after the flame he snuffed out so long ago stopped existing. Like I can breathe. Like I can just… be.
I know one thing. I didn't expect to actually like writing that letter. I didn't expect that I'd wrap it up and anticipate the next time I'd get a free moment without him so I could write another. I didn't expect writing that letter to actually work. But what do you know? She knew what she was talking about when she suggested the letters. Stupid me took forever to heed her advice. What the hell do you know? Karolee is actually good at her job.
Even through the tears still welled up in my eyes, I can make out a very distinct 7:51 on the microwave's clock. He'll be home soon. Probably tired and hungry and in a crappy mood from being on his feet all day. Probably complaining about something I have absolutely no control over. Probably raging mad if he's lost a patient.
But I've decided. Today, I'm going to try another therapy tactic. I'm going to think about what it'd be like if he came home happy. Karolee would be so proud of me.
Let's see… if he came home happy…
He'd kiss me when he walked through the door. And his lips would feel the same way they used to when he'd press them against mine so gently like he thought he'd break my face if he kissed me too hard.
And he'd rub my hair in the kiss like he used to and tell me that I'm beautiful. That he likes the way the new color palate he bought me looks amazing on my eyelids.
And he'd wrap his hands around my waist, not my neck this time. And he'd hold me close, but not the kind of close that makes me nervous. No. The kind of close that makes me want to melt into him because I feel so safe. The kind of safe I used to feel when he held me. Like as long as I was in his arms, nothing would hurt me.
If Paul came home happy… I wouldn't need to be folding my letter into a neat square small enough to fit into an envelope.
But instead, that's what I'm doing. And I'm stuffing it carefully in the back pocket of my jeans for safekeeping.
Stuffing it into my pocket as the front door opens.