To Whomsoever May Be Reading This,
Love is wonderful. Love makes everything that has been difficult in life worth the journey. It changes our gray toned black and white worlds into Technicolor. Birthday and Valentine’s days are no longer spent alone. There are anniversaries of weddings and first kisses and first dates. That first time we saw him or her across the room, the store, the stadium, or on the screen.
There are many kinds of love. The one I’m going to talk about is the unrequited one. The safest kind. It will never break your heart, as is impossible for unrequited love to do. You started this affair by choosing a person who is not going to ever love you back. You’ve already broken your own heart right out of the gate on the very first day. Unrequited love doesn’t need to do a thing.
Some of us choose to love someone who is already married, in a relationship, or otherwise engaged. Some of us go even bigger. We go for that added layer of security and focus our affections on a celebrity.
A celebrity.
Someone who lives far far away and has other celebrity type people to date and mate with. Someone who will never come into our lives on any level. A 100% guarantee never to contract an STD. Better than a condom every time.
It’s one of the longest and loneliest journeys I have ever been on.
Hold on a sec. There’s more.
I’m not going to tell you that a celebrity crush is at the root of all my problems.
It isn’t.
It never was.
Sadly with unrequited love, what begins as an escape from the trials of his or her own world takes a person into an area of life that can be so much more challenging than any day to day problems.
As was in my case.
So here it goes. I spent anywhere from 2 -5 years with an actual crush. Three of those five years were spent searching for ways to keep myself from having that crush, a journey that continued for another seven years. For the most part I feel okay. The giggly teenager batting her eyes behavior has been gone for a while now. As long as it's been, I’m still afraid to watch anything the “is never going to happen” object of my affection is in. I don’t watch him for long stretches of time. The latest span of not watching has lasted over six months.
It all comes down to me.
Me not trusting myself not to fall into that rabbit hole of adolescent giddiness all over again. All those weekends, holiday weekends and vacations of previous years; times spent making extra trips to my window looking at the smile I kept in a jar by the door, saving it for the moment we finally met, wondering if it would ever be used. I felt more and more like the Eleanor Rigby The Beatles sang about with each passing year. It was only a matter of time before I began to look like her.
Years have passed and these days I spend a lot of time keeping track of all the ways I’m doing better. Of all the improvements I’ve seen in my life, clearly proof I’ve moved on. But complete certainty still eludes me. Somehow there are still doubts. Lingering doubts. What if I’m wrong? Not wrong about him ever being a lover. That possibility never existed. What if he does know who I am? That I exist? What if he digs my work? (I’ve heard my films are very cutting edge.) What if he would like a coffee? What if a chat about books and movies would be fun? As difficult as it feels to be sure of myself some days, there’s one thing I am sure of, I'm tired of living only in my dreams, of wasting my life waiting for something that's never going to come. I’m tired of feeling broken.
Which leads me to this, because sadly, looking at the positives in my life just isn’t cutting it anymore. It’s time to be someone else (sorry Eleanor) and the only way to get to the someone else I want to become is to keep moving forward; through this crap.
The events of recent years can’t be easily summed up in the following paragraphs. Be warned what you're reading is just an introduction to a much longer and more convoluted story.
Names and details have been changed to protect well, everyone. I’ll change what the man looks like and where his specialty lies because I can’t afford a lawsuit. Lawsuits appear to be long and expensive. Not much fun at all.
The story itself is a mixed bag of journal entries and a fictionalization of what happened in my past. It’s my attempt to take a step back and see things from a more detached perspective.
Have I only ever done the wrong things? Was I right about anything? Will I ever know the truth? When the smoke has finally cleared and you have reached the end of this, you decide.
Yours truly,
Marley S.
P.S. Thanks for reading I could use another pair of eyes on this.
P.P.S. This story opens at the beginning of what may be the end because if we start at the actual beginning I may never get to the point.
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They say a person has to go through long bouts of sadness to get to something better. Sometimes that something better you were hoping for never comes, you have to decide whether you’re going to keep hoping for some kind of miracle or if it’s time to let go of something that clearly was never meant to be. Fifteen years. Fifteen years has been plenty of time for fate, destiny, or whatever it is that handles these things to intervene.
“It’s also plenty of time for the jack ass to come forward.” Cassandra said as she walked past my chair.
I watch as she walks through the dining area and enters my kitchen. It’s my best friend’s favorite room. “I’m thinking. Do you mind?” I called after her.
“This is it, the last letter you’re writing. It’s been a year. Today is the last day.” She called back.
“My hand and I are fully aware of that fact thank you very much.”
Today is the last day. This is my last letter to you Brent. Letter #45. I’ve spent a year saying goodbye to you. Practicing over and over. Growing less and less thrown off by your presence, more and more comfortable with your absence. It’s true I haven’t been dating. Not because I’m faltering. Not because I’m having second thoughts. I decided several months ago that I want to have a few things sorted out before I start dating again. I have lots on my mind. Major changes are on the horizon. Difficult ones. I want to be fully present while navigating them. Not spending time focusing on things that are never going to happen. Not dreaming of a life that's impossible to have. Not wasting my time thinking of you.
A familiar hand wanders into my workspace and points to the words, “not wasting my time thinking of you.”
“Clear and decisive.” Cassandra says. “I like it.”
“Move the hand please or I’m biting it off.” I say turning to face her.
“You look like you mean it.” She said. “Good for you.”
I don’t respond because although I’m not feeling sad, scared, or even unsure I’m still a little cranky about it.
Cassandra studies my expression and body language. “You do mean it. I’ll just leave you with a little inspiring music before I get back to work on our celebratory lunch.” She pulls “Picture To Burn,” by Taylor Swift up on her phone and leaves it on the table next to my coffee cup before returning to the kitchen.
“Don’t forget to change for lunch after you’ve finished the letter.” She calls from the kitchen. “This is a celebration!”
I finish writing the letter before I get the chance to talk myself into backing down.
It’s time my head reminds me; my heart reluctantly follows its lead. Did you know that we are all of the ages we have ever been on any given day? As important as it is for me to see things as they really are the young woman I was, barely out of high school, the one who fell for you as you sauntered across the quad on that crisp autumn afternoon fifteen years ago is still here.
She’s with me every day. I hate looking in the mirror, seeing that girl with dark eyes, long unnaturally blonde hair, wearing a little too much make-up: a young woman with her heart full of hope, her face full of longing and telling her ‘no.’ I close my eyes and tell the girl I used to be that it’s time. I promise that some day when things are different I’ll let her remember the good times with love. Today I tell her it’s time to stop riding shotgun for a while, I want her to take a back seat and look out the window. To see the world outside Brentavision. I reassure her that what she sees will be amazing to both of us if she’ll just give it a chance. Tears well in those doe shaped eyes as her face falls, she does as I ask. The intro to “Teardrops On My Guitar” by Taylor Swift plays faintly in the background as she takes the seat behind mine. I look into her eyes from the rear view mirror. It’ll be okay Renee. I’ve got you sweetie. We’ve got this.
I’ll always be your friend Brent. But things have changed. As of today I am no longer one of your fangirls. Don’t call me. It will hurt younger me too much when I don’t answer.
Renee
Early the next morning as I lay in bed my thoughts keep straying to Brent and staying there for the first time in weeks. Probably because he was all Cassandra talked about during our celebration yesterday. She spent a lot of time offering advice on how to stay focused on my path to living a happier life. How to let go of my feelings for him, feelings that never have been returned and never will be. How to stay focused on building a life that I truly love. Cassandra really wants this for me. I want it too. But in these increasingly rare moments I’m not sure which one of us wants it more.
I close my eyes to meditate and hopefully wander into another hour or two of sleep, it is Sunday. What could be better on a Sunday than sleeping in, lingering over coffee and enjoying a nice brunch on the patio? Picturing eggs, bacon, pancakes, and fresh melon I attempt to drift into a relaxed state.
“I miss Brent.” Seventeen year old university Renee cries from the back seat of the car.
Instead of picturing a Brentless future I find myself riding in an imaginary car with some of the Renees I used to be.
One of them is whining.
“You don’t.” A younger ten year old Renee says to the university student. “You miss the idea of him. The version in your mind full of romantic fairy tales. You’re not thinking of the real Brent.”
I look through the windshield at the sky. “I see a lot of gulls flying around.” I announce. “I wonder if we’re getting close to a beach.”
“The beach isn’t going to be any fun if I can’t picture Brent there with me,” comes from directly behind me.
“You’re never going to be with him. Get over it Dummy!”
I look in the rear view mirror. Ten year old Renee rolls her eyes as she shakes her head. “You need to let it go.”
“I’m trying.” The young woman says. “It’s really hard. I’ve wanted to be with him for so long.” She groans sniffling.
“You can’t always get what you want.” The younger Renee counters quoting The Rolling Stones.
I’d forgotten how much I used to quote song lyrics as a kid.
“I never got lots of stuff I wanted. Do you see me crying?” The older child continues.
“Candy?” Another voice asks.
I couldn’t see where the voice was coming from at first, taking a moment to look behind me I see a four year old Renee sitting between the two older girls.
“See? There are lots of times we don’t get what we want in life. I’ve seen Brent.” She announces.
Ten year old Renee catches me watching her. Meeting my eyes in the mirror she says, “We could probably do better. Lots better.”
The chorus from “Teardrops On My Guitar” by Taylor Swift pulls me out of the imaginary car with the younger Renees who dwell in the depths of my subconscious. It’s not a song I’ve listened to more than a couple of times but for whatever reason my brain decides the song is essential to my well being at two in the morning. Reaching for my phone, I pull up the song and listen. The lyrics accurately depict how seventeen year old me felt about Brent when he first appeared in my life.
Brent with his Ryan Goslings’ Ken doll blue eyed blondness. He appeared to take everyone’s breath away, especially that first semester. My eyes wander to the far corner of my nightstand. I turn on the light and reach out for something hidden next to the bedroom wall. A picture of Brent and me at a twenty-first birthday cook out Cassandra and her parents threw for me. We were chatting, both holding an open beer. I was talking and he was laughing. It was one of the best days of my entire life. My time with Brent has always been an enigma of uncertainty, disappointment and loneliness sprinkled with odd moments when everything was beautiful. The afternoon we all spent in Cassandra’s parents back yard was one of those times. One corner of my mouth turns up in a grin as I wipe off a layer of dust. Setting it back on the nightstand I settle back into bed and look at it.
I look at Brent’s face. “You don’t love me.” I whisper. “You just don’t love me like I've loved you.” Reaching out, I pick up the frame, opening the nightstand's drawer I gently place it inside as Taylor Swift sings, “I’ll put his picture down and maybe get some sleep tonight.”
Turning out the light, I reach out for my cat Lester and scratch
him under the chin until he purrs. “I’ll always have you Lester.
You’ll always be my best guy.” The black cat blinks at me contentedly.
The two of us stay like that until sleep finally arrives.