Dear You,
I registered for classes at the University. I told you to meet me there. You didn't show. Maybe you didn't remember. Maybe something's gone wrong. I'm not angry; I'm worried now, more than I ever was before. What else is new?
You know, I imagine I hold you at night, under the covers and atop the cold spots of my dark sheets. Nothing carnal, nothing erotic...just...holding you. Listening to the sound of your slumber. Feeling your arms at my waist, your breath on my throat, the quiet brush of my lips on your brow. My imagination is all I've got these days, and it is my imagination that has kept me going.
But I wonder how long my imagination can last. Will I one day abandon you for someone I can hold at night, someone I can hear and talk to and laugh with?
Tell me, what exactly am I waiting for?
I'm sorry. I've grown fond of rhetorical questions.
You know, I imagine touching you. Nothing carnal, nothing erotic...just...touching you. I'm mapping you out with my hands and mouth and eyes. A soft caress on your cheek, a hand through your hair, a gossamer kiss on your mouth, a simple hand hold and whispered word in your ear. I imagine we're at a little restaurant, it's midday, and we're sitting across from one another, laughing and talking and forgetting about our food as you take my hand in yours and we stare out the window at the city and enjoy time rather than fear it. The world flashes by in groaning steel and whirlwinds of color, in hardened hearts sauteed in oil and forgotten dreams, tainted with pessimism and the toxic ashes of past woes and regrets--
--and yet we sit. And touch one another.
A soft caress on the cheek.
A hand through the hair.
A gossamer kiss on the mouth.
A simple hand hold and whispered word in the ear.
We sit, and enjoy time rather than fear it.
All imagined. No wonder I'm so great at telling made up stories, or even other people's stories--but I can't seem to begin to tell my own story without you here to take a part. I searched for you in the crowds, for the long raven hair and rain gray eyes. I tried to ignore it, but my heart hurt nonetheless. I tried to ignore it, so I stifled my heart for the day and smiled my best.
I'm sitting alone in the dark again. The moon is hiding tonight. How many times will I sit alone in the dark?
"And what if you don't like your 'insides'? What if you don't want to show anyone?"
Veronika, the international student from Slovakia, read it out loud. It was a random note she'd drawn from the little pile in the center of our circle. They were anonymous, the statements and questions ambiguous, the purpose solely for discussion. She read it again. Eight Chinese students and three Americans pondered after her accented voice had faded to silence. Another one of those freshman cheesy, emotional, bonding activities. We participated anyway.
"I hope whoever wrote that note realizes that we all here are amazing and unique people. We are all seeds. We're still growing. All we have to do is allow for some rain and sun in order to do that," one girl said with a somewhat sheepish smile on her face. Her message was corny, but though I cringed inwardly, it's a nice metaphor. Cliche, but nice still. Besides, it's hard to find someone my age who speaks in metaphors.
I wrote that note.
It's true. Sometimes I hate my 'insides' and sometimes I want to hide--especially from you. But I want you to dig me out. I want to show you my insides, even if I don't know myself what lies beneath this skin.
My college orientation leader said something about a mental health service for people with depression. He said it would help. But I smiled to myself; no prescription medication or leather-chair-and-clipboard appointment with a shrink can help me. I know of only one pill that I need, and he's an angry, lost, lovable, beautiful, five-foot-eleven warrior with way too much love for me but not enough common sense to keep him on a straight asphalt road without a few scars and bruises.
You know, I imagine you're here with me. Every day.
Love,
Me
