It’s been a month since I wrote on here, I suppose it would seem fitting that I now have to return to process some things. I wish I could say I think of this blog during happy times, I struggle to think of anything to write even during my depression weeks. The abusive mom story line is beginning to seem tired, maybe I just needed a break from writing. Something inevitably happens, something I just cannot swallow or move past. Something that to me seems like it’s changing the trajectory of my life path (at least for now it’s taking all of my focus). It’s one of those things that I’ve come to learn I can only process through writing.
I’m sure everyone can relate to stories of “the one who got away”. These are common, I’m sure, amongst people like me. Albeit rare, I’ve come across one or two people who had genuine care and concern for me. Who saw my whole mess and instead of wanting to hurt me with it wanted to help me. This feeling was so foreign it of course peaked my curiosity, half of me wanted it, half of me was terrified to allow it in. When I think of this one person in particular, I remember talking myself out of it by telling myself how different we were. “He only loves the mask I show him. He could never love my darkness underneath.” So I ran away. Every now and then he would pop up in my mind and I would think of him fondly.
He had his doctorate, he was a professor, he knew multiple languages, he was a writer, he enjoyed interesting well-prepared fine dining. He took me for fancy cocktails, cooked me dinner and had me try tofu for the first time. He burned me two CDs for my drive. He lived in Japan for a few years. He drove a Lexus and wore a fancy watch. He was older than I was, but not by too much. We watched thoughtful and artistic films picked by him, he had an artist graffiti a jellyfish on his wall in his living room. He kissed me like I was the only girl in the world. He brought me to a poetry reading and introduced me to everyone he knew, excited to show me as his girl. He listened when I spoke. He asked me questions about my childhood I didn’t know how to answer yet.
The truth is, I didn’t feel good enough for him. Not even close. I felt like if he saw my scars he would recoil in disgust. So I left him before he could see who I really was. It was inevitable that my mask would fall. He fell in love with a girl, the version of me I allowed him to see, the real me felt like nothing compared to who he was.
Every so often he would pop in my mind. I wanted to reach out to him, I wanted to tell him I figured it out (especially over the past two years). I wanted to say, “I’m a writer now.” I wanted to hear him respond, “You always were.” I pictured him in a new fancy house, with a wife, or at least a girlfriend. He deserved the best. I pictured him happy, I didn’t want to disturb the image I created for him. Every so often my hand would almost reach for my phone, “It’s worth logging in to social media for the first time in 3 years just to send him a message”, I thought. Every time I would almost do it I would stop myself. “He wouldn’t like me now. I’m too fat. I’m not who I was. He liked someone who no longer exists.” Every time I would want to reach out to him I would talk myself out of it. I was happier to think he was happy living his life somewhere.
On Sunday, I was listening to Spotify on shuffle, something I haven’t done in awhile since my most recent hyperfixation artist, and bellyache by Billy Eilish came on. He instantly popped in my head. He introduced me to this song before she even became popular. I smiled absently at the memory. I went to bed. The next morning, I checked my new emails like I always do, and I see an email with his moms name. His name showing in the body of the email. “Probably a wedding announcement”, although looking back not sure why this was my first thought. In the open email I stopped and stared, after his name were the words “memorial website”.
I clicked the link, and there he was. Except the dates that showed under his name didn’t make sense. 1981-2021. He’s been gone for two years? I scrolled down through all the pictures I remembered of him. I read the description of his life, I read the description of what happened. The words “Tragic accident” appeared before the link that said “read more”. An encounter with a lethal dose of an opioid. This can’t be true. I begged it to go away as it was staring me in the face. “He struggled with chronic depression, effects of loneliness and social isolation, the case is still open”, it read. How did I never know? How did I not notice? I clicked the link to his word press and read his works of fiction. I scanned his Instagram. I apologized to no one out loud over and over again for missing his death. It’s been two years without him and I’m just now getting the notice. I guess social media is good for something. I try to feel each and every emotion. Regret sticks to me and there is nowhere for it to go, I suppose I’ll have to sit with it for awhile. I look through all our old messages and allow the tears to flow.
As I read through them I notice a theme, he wanted to be there for me. I didn’t see it. I didn’t know how to accept help. There was no indication he had any demons. Maybe the feelings between us were real, maybe they were lost in translation. Maybe this was a case of right person, wrong time. I much preferred the storyline where he was living a quiet but beautiful life with a caring and loving wife. He deserved so much more than what played out in his reality. I wish I could tell him that now. Instead, I’m writing this. To you, a blank page. Maybe somewhere, far away in the ethers, he’ll get this message and know I’m thinking of him and wishing things were different.
The Girl Without A Face 