Once down the street, He turned and blew one final kiss goodbye for the night, and at once I felt such guilt and shame toward myself, thinking of the boy sleeping in my bed- a bed which craved only my dear stranger's touch.
And though the walk to my room took only seconds, these seconds gave me a chance to forgive myself as my dear stranger had.
Once he had woken, I asked my companion to leave peacefully and when questioned, I told him of my undying love toward my dear stranger. A love no man could ever fill, nor understand, and I again begged him to leave me.
And when my companion left minutes later I stripped my bed of its sheets and rested painlessly on my bare mattress thinking only of my dear stranger's love as I dreamt of His next visit and slowly fell back asleep, alone.
February 1998
17 years old
*****
I remember that boy. He was popular and I was popular, and it made sense. We made sense.
My parents were away again. They were traveling as always, and I was very lonely. I remember one of my friends telling me Kyle wanted to date me. I remember being confused about being wanted by him. I remember my girlfriends thinking I was stupid to not invite him over, especially since my parents were away again.
And so I did. I called Kyle and invited him over. I remember being afraid he would want sex, which I didn’t want. At all. But I also remember that I didn’t want to be alone anymore because my stranger hadn’t visited in the night for quite some time.
And so I invited Kyle over, and I was desperate and pathetic. I was trying to be a posh adult. I raided my parent’s liquor cabinet and found champagne. I bought strawberries and h’orderves. I bought a sexy little negligee. I was trying to be anyone but me.
When Kyle arrived a little after 8:00 he was pretty drunk already. And as he entered our family room, he tried to kiss me but I casually moved just in time. A half hour later he kissed me while we looked at my dad’s music collection together but his kiss was gross, sloppy, and I remember he tasted of stale beer.
When I brought out the champagne and strawberries he chugged from the bottle as many eighteen year old boys would have, but I was unimpressed and depressed. We didn’t feed each other the strawberries while sipping champagne like I had imagined. We didn’t gaze at each other with passion and intensity. We weren’t posh adults, and we weren’t romantic lovers.
Eventually, I worked up the nerve to ask a very drunk Kyle to come upstairs with me, which he did. We walked upstairs side by side and entered my spotless bedroom together. We each paused on the side of my bed, and then he passed out- just like that. The second he stumbled to my bed he was out cold. I remember being surprised someone could sleep so easily and so quickly, no matter how much alcohol they had drank.
I drank all the time. I was drunk often, but I could never easily fall asleep.
Anyway, I changed into my negligee to feel adult and sexy and I curled up against a passed out Kyle for his warmth. I lit a smoke and exhaled deeply any disappointment I felt. I was disappointed that the night wasn’t filled with adult intensity and passion, but I was very relieved too. I didn’t want to have sex with Kyle and I was afraid I would give in if he had tried, just so I wouldn’t be alone anymore.
But that’s the end of our story until He visited me.
And I was lucky. He forgave my almost infidelity, and Kyle was a good guy about the situation when I woke him and asked him to leave.
And at school on Monday Kyle told everyone what really happened, not what could have but didn’t happen. Kyle admitted to all his friends that nothing happened at all between us. He actually admitted he was too drunk to do anything and that he was sorry about it. And I was relieved again.
As far as anyone knew I was a virgin which was important, because in high school sleeping with someone, even once, could be a life sentence to Slutdom. Unless the relationship was a long high school relationship, a girl putting out was a slut- plain and simple. At least according to the standards of my uptight school, she was a slut.
So Kyle was a good guy and my reputation was saved. The only drawback to his honesty was I became more sought after. Boys became way more interested in me because I ‘might’ put out. I was a good girl, but I might become a bad girl with the right guy. And so I was suddenly more popular with the boys, which annoyed some of my girlfriends- as catty high school girls typically feel when someone else gets some attention.
But after the Kyle debacle I never dated another boy from school again. That was the choice I made. Girlfriends pushed for other boys, some in high school, some even in college, but I abstained. Never again did I date anyone.
And for prom I went with Kyle under the absolute understanding that we would not be having sex, nor even making out. And he was cool about it. I even joked with Kyle about one girl who WAS slutty wanting him. So at the hotel that forty of our friends rented after prom, he left us to go have sex with her while I got drunk with my girlfriends. And that was the end.
My young life continued filled with my huge secrets hidden. And no one ever knew about my strange, often lonely, little life.
CHAPTER 4
My Dear Stranger V
Last night as I lay asleep, dreaming lonely dreams, my dear stranger once again came to my room. His visits have become more frequent than just even months before but the excitement and passion was just as great with each visit.
When He sat on my bed the sense of elation I felt became overwhelming. I wanted His delicate hands to touch my body and I wanted His sweet lips against mine. Looking into my stranger’s eyes brought upon such intensity and fulfillment, I barely felt sane.
Within seconds, He took me into His warm embrace and rocked me gently as my heart pounded and my mind raced from my terrors. I wanted to hear His voice. I wanted Him to love my body as only He could. Yet He did nothing.
For hours I stayed silent in His arms as emotions rushed to the surface, often creating tears and just as often smiles. I wondered how my dear stranger could bring upon every emotion with no words, but with only a gentle touch.
Soon after, I felt tears trickle down my face and I realized His eyes cried for me. His tears tasted like sweet wine on my tongue and His heart seemed to bleed with each tear of my own.
Finally, I asked Him why He cried but no words escaped His lips. Looking closer at His eyes I saw such sadness.
Suddenly, my stranger grabbed me and forcefully pushed me flat on my bed. With His eyes looking wild, He pushed my pajama bottoms down my hips until He gasped and stared at my thighs. Oh god, I tried to fight Him. I tried so hard to pull away. I grabbed for my blankets and I grabbed for His wrists. I tried to push His face away but He was just so much stronger than me. So I just stopped fighting.
As my stranger looked at my thighs, I cried. What else could I do? What could I possibly say? I didn’t know how to explain away all the marks.
So staring at the wall I whispered, ‘I’m sorry.’
When He gently turned my face back toward Him He no longer looked wild. His face had calmed. His eyes weren’t crazed or sad. He simply looked at me fully as only He could. He looked at me completely.
Raising an eyebrow, He once again asked without words.
‘Um, I don’t know why. I didn’t mean to do it. Sometimes I don’t even know I do it until I’m bleeding or until I kind of wake up to what I’ve done. I don’t know why, I really don’t. Sometimes I don’t even remember picking up the knife, or the razor, or the sharp things. I just see it after and I kind of feel better. I don’t know. Um, I don’t know what to say. Are you mad at me?’
God, I was so desperate, but He didn’t speak.
Frightened, I stood and held Him in my arms, rocking ever so slowly, humming the numerous tunes He had always given to me.
The last few visits He had seemed sad and confused like myself. He no longer looked to have the impossible strength which used to comfort me in the night. He seemed so sad and terribly weakened.
Immediately fol
lowing these tears, my dear stranger stood and took my hand into His own. Together we danced to the darkness of night, and I knew we were completely together once again.
Seconds later, He raised my chin, wiping away any trace of tears while I looked into His eyes, until suddenly His voice rang out.
And I felt ecstatic. My heart began racing once again. I wanted so desperately to hear His words of comfort and reassurance.
When He finally spoke, my stranger told me of our love so rare, and of the felicity achieved by His visits through our passion and surrender. And He even admitted He was often frightened by the intensity of our love, but He wouldn’t change it.
And this confession left me bewildered, though completely sympathetic, for I too felt this same fear.
After those few words, He gently placed my body back into my bed and left me for mere moments. When He returned He once again stripped my thighs of my blankets and slowly, gently, He began cleaning my wounds. Once He seemed satisfied with my care He rocked me until I fell asleep.
When I awoke this morning, my heart ached for my dear stranger and for all the hope and love He gives to me. I feel embarrassment for what He saw and I feel a heavy sadness in His absence, but with swollen tear-stained eyes I wait for Him, knowing He will return to me soon.
April 1998
18 years old
*****
I was cutting myself often then. I couldn't really control the urge to cut myself, at least not when I was alone at home. Sometimes I did it at school with my metal ruler down my thighs, or sometimes with my keys, but usually I could refrain at school so no one could see what I was doing.
At home alone was different though. At home there were too many implements available to me. Alone at home there were too many sources of release. Alone at home there was too much freedom to refrain from fixing myself.
At home, I could sneak my parent’s alcohol and drink alone in my room, or I could use the knife under my bed to cut my legs until I felt better. So I did.
I don't know why I had to do either, but I know I always felt better afterward. The minute I felt the physical pain and saw the blood I was instantly better. If I was stressed, or tense, or scared or lonely, it helped. And afterward I was distracted from my feelings because I had to take care of the wounds. I had to focus on hiding the injuries. I had to think about what I would say if someone actually saw the wounds, so I was distracted by mending my body and focussing on any explanations I may have to come up with as an excuse. The wounds were a release and an escape for me.
Thinking about it now, I'm pretty sure I wasn't a 'Cutter' though. I didn't cut myself because I liked it. I didn't crave the cutting itself, but rather the feelings that occurred afterward. I think I just used cutting myself as the means to the release I needed.
If there had been anything else I could’ve done I'm sure I would have tried it. And alcohol helped. So if my parents were away and I could get drunk in my room, I did that for the release I needed instead.
But I know I was never a Cutter per se, I was just an escapist who used cutting as the means to the end.
CHAPTER 5
Stretching my arms overhead, I’m aching. I have no idea what time it is, or how long I’ve been in the garage. I feel like I just started this thing, yet I’m pretty sure I’ve been at it for a while.
Walking into my home I realize a bathroom break is definitely needed and another coffee is mandatory. I’m cold and tired, but I really want to finish this tonight.
After nuking my coffee and using the facilities, I realize I’ve been at this quite a long time. I don’t know the actual time of night, but I’m sure it’s nearing midnight. I should probably check my messages, but I don’t really want to hear Jamie’s sweet little voice tonight, especially knowing I didn’t wish him a goodnight at his bedtime, which would also be another first for me.
I have never been without my son, and I have never not fed him at bedtime, nor tucked him in and kissed all over his little face before he slept. I have never been without my son, and after this weekend I know I never want to be without him again. Jamie is mine, and I love him too much to ever be without him again.
Grabbing a blanket from the hall closet, I wrap it around my waist and prepare for more of this. I know I have to complete this. I know I have to get this done this weekend. It’s time for us.
Entering my garage, I’m a little disgusted by the smoky smell but I ignore it. There’s always time to air it out before my guys return to me. So grabbing one more outdoor pillow I prop it in the lounger and sit back down while sipping my favorite coffee.
Thinking about my past is weird for me. I don’t really feel like this was my past because my present is so different. Everything in my world is so wonderful now. Everything is totally planned and scheduled, and I don’t ever walk around aimlessly like I did back then. I know these were my earlier years but I feel very much removed from them.
This is a very strange feeling for me, but eventually I light another cigarette and settle in for more. It’s time.
My Dear Stranger VI
Last night as I screamed within my nightmare panic, your haunting image increased my suffering. I wanted you to be with me. I needed you to be here for me.
I have moved again. Unsteady in my homes and unlikely to stay for long, I have moved once again. Yet, with the move before you had found me. Creeping quietly into my room, gently into my new bed, you finally came home to me.
When you found me you smiled at my fear. When you found me we held each other in my new residence. Should I again fear your absence with this move? Should I question your ability to find me? Should I question your love? Should I cry as I wait for your arrival?
I want to smile at my insecurity but I can't. Where are you? Where have you been for so long? What has taken you so long to find me?
Together, we have never been so absent from each other. Love used to hold us so close. Each challenge and each brutality strengthened our love. You used to cherish each moment we spent together. You adored my neurotic insecurity. You comforted my pain. You caressed my untouched body. You pushed my inability to express myself. You loved my body. You loved my breath. You loved me, completely.
My tears are again streaming. My mind is again screaming. Where are you? Why have you not come to me?
Time endures. Days are blurred. Your absence depresses. My life is pain filled and my heart suppresses… this agony.
I will attempt sleep once more, though I know this sleep can only be torture and pain without you here as you haven't been for more than half a year.
I love you and I miss you, my stranger, my dear.
November 1998
18 years old
*****
I had started college by that time and I had moved out of my parents’ home. I was alone, officially. I was now completely and totally alone in my own home.
It’s funny to me now how I thought of that time as being truly alone, but in reality I had always been alone. I had an independence my friends didn’t have, but envied. I had an independence from the emotional attachments some friends needed with their parents. I didn’t need friends or family, and I never needed attachments… except to Him.
And I remember that apartment so well. I loved it. It was the perfect apartment for someone like me. It was in a small building, but a four-square type building with a landing in between each neighbor therefore we were only beside one other neighbor, allowing for a certain amount of privacy that I loved. And with very high ceilings and thick walls, I never heard the neighbors above or below.
It truly was a wonderful apartment for someone like me who wanted her privacy desperately.
So I was officially alone, but my friends from high school still visited and partied with me. They came over. They drank with me and danced and sang. We were young enough to still feel like kids partying like adults. We felt young and free and we loved the fact that one of us had an adult apartment to party in. So we partied. And while I partied I f
aked being a typical 18 year old very well.
I drank with my friends, and I acted like any other 18 year old girl on the surface. I was normal. I went to college and I came home and crashed in the afternoon to prepare myself for all my friends arriving at my door by 8:30 to start pre-drinking before we hit the bars we loved with the fake ID’s we cherished.
And overall I was truly okay. I was lonely at night, waiting on His visits, but the loneliness of the days were filled superficially with being 18, hanging out with girlfriends, drinking in the evenings, and having a certain amount of fun to occupy my time.
But my nightly ritual continued. I showered and shaved, while I waited for Him to come for me. I begged in my bed and I cried in my living room. I said pseudo-prayers, and made deals with god. I was desperate at night. I was the desperate version of myself that I hid in the day from my friends. I was always waiting for Him to come to me with a desperation that was numbing.
I was always waiting with a certain anxiety based on fearing He didn’t know where I was. When my parents moved the year before to a nicer home around the corner from our previous home, I was afraid. I thought for sure He wouldn’t find me. I went into full panic mode every night while I waited to tell Him of our quick move. I waited but didn’t see Him again before we did actually move into my parents’ new home.
Amazingly, the very first night of our move He came to me though. Amazingly, He knew where we were and He came to me happily. He came to me that first night and I didn’t have to suffer the what ifs or the oh no’s of Him not knowing where I was. He came to me immediately after that move.