mine...
He was mine. I was his.
And we belonged together.
We are not together which is my own fault, destiny's fault, his fault. It doesn't matter any longer. I haven't spoken or seen him in 20 years. I did allow myself a quick glance at his Facebook profile photo recently. I didn't dare click on his profile for fear of becoming obsessive and sad again although that happened anyway.
A year ago when I left Facebook for familial reasons he didn't have a profile up and now he does. The thing is I barely looked at his photo. Barely.
And yet this afternoon I watched a film that I'm not going to name because it's not important. What's important is that I watched the film once yesterday morning and while I was moved and rather startled by it, I didn't think it affected me. This afternoon I re-watched only 3 scenes because I wanted to hear the words of love the characters spoke to each other again.
I turned off the film, the TV, and lay on my bed for an hour crying.
About him. About us. About how it's been 20 years.
I'm crying right now as I write this. I cried the whole last hour as I cleaned the house. I put on 'Tragic Kingdom' to give me some girl power hope and inspiration. I am having to write this damn blog post to get my feelings out because I have no one to talk to about it right at this very moment.
I've mentioned this person briefly in previous blog posts from long ago, but I rarely talk about him. In fact, you have to be someone I trust above all else before I will tell you this tale. I think in the last 10 years I've talked about him twice? Maybe three times.
My mother and his mother were best friends, and, for the first year of my life, my mother and I lived with his family. I have no memory of this. What I do remember is this. He was always there. He is a constant from my childhood. He and I never spoke about our childhoods as young adults. I can't even remember what we talked about anymore. We must have talked. I spent three or four summers with him from the age of 16 on. I stayed at his apartment in Santa Barbara. He took me to my prom. He was with my parents when we saw "Les Miserables" for the first time.
Yes, I know that sounds trivial, but, in my life, in my heart, and in my family, it is a very important moment.
He was my hero, my protector, my best friend, and someone I loved with all of my heart. When we were growing up, and I was desperate for a sibling (little did I know what lay ahead for me), our mothers allowed us to refer to each other my-almost-brother/sister, but that ended when their friendship died. I remember once when I was about 12 years old, my mother told me that from the moment he saw me, he wanted to be with me. We played incessantly. He tickled me incessantly. As pre-teens, we watched "Star Trek" incessantly. We talked about "Star Wars" incessantly. As young adults, we drank and ate and went to concerts and parties and movies incessantly.
He was always with me. I was always with him.
What I do remember is that we belonged to each other. Maybe not in a romantic way then although people did assume that, but, in the end, that is what I wanted. Sadly, I had to realize that when he met and eventually married his wife.
That part of story is shameful and awful and too painful to ever tell anyone who wasn't at the wedding. You know, even the people at the wedding didn't understand. My mother did. In fact, my mother understood so much that she and my father took me away from the reception, and, to this day, have never mentioned that night to me.
I've wondered what my life would have been like had he not married her. I don't think about it often because it hurts too much. I don't think I would be childless. I'm pretty sure I would be married. Maybe I would be happy. Knowing me I would be dramatically one way or the other.
I have a feeling I would still belong to him though.
He was mine. I was his.
And we belonged together.
We are not together which is my own fault, destiny's fault, his fault. It doesn't matter any longer. I haven't spoken or seen him in 20 years. I did allow myself a quick glance at his Facebook profile photo recently. I didn't dare click on his profile for fear of becoming obsessive and sad again although that happened anyway.
A year ago when I left Facebook for familial reasons he didn't have a profile up and now he does. The thing is I barely looked at his photo. Barely.
And yet this afternoon I watched a film that I'm not going to name because it's not important. What's important is that I watched the film once yesterday morning and while I was moved and rather startled by it, I didn't think it affected me. This afternoon I re-watched only 3 scenes because I wanted to hear the words of love the characters spoke to each other again.
I turned off the film, the TV, and lay on my bed for an hour crying.
About him. About us. About how it's been 20 years.
I'm crying right now as I write this. I cried the whole last hour as I cleaned the house. I put on 'Tragic Kingdom' to give me some girl power hope and inspiration. I am having to write this damn blog post to get my feelings out because I have no one to talk to about it right at this very moment.
I've mentioned this person briefly in previous blog posts from long ago, but I rarely talk about him. In fact, you have to be someone I trust above all else before I will tell you this tale. I think in the last 10 years I've talked about him twice? Maybe three times.
My mother and his mother were best friends, and, for the first year of my life, my mother and I lived with his family. I have no memory of this. What I do remember is this. He was always there. He is a constant from my childhood. He and I never spoke about our childhoods as young adults. I can't even remember what we talked about anymore. We must have talked. I spent three or four summers with him from the age of 16 on. I stayed at his apartment in Santa Barbara. He took me to my prom. He was with my parents when we saw "Les Miserables" for the first time.
Yes, I know that sounds trivial, but, in my life, in my heart, and in my family, it is a very important moment.
He was my hero, my protector, my best friend, and someone I loved with all of my heart. When we were growing up, and I was desperate for a sibling (little did I know what lay ahead for me), our mothers allowed us to refer to each other my-almost-brother/sister, but that ended when their friendship died. I remember once when I was about 12 years old, my mother told me that from the moment he saw me, he wanted to be with me. We played incessantly. He tickled me incessantly. As pre-teens, we watched "Star Trek" incessantly. We talked about "Star Wars" incessantly. As young adults, we drank and ate and went to concerts and parties and movies incessantly.
He was always with me. I was always with him.
What I do remember is that we belonged to each other. Maybe not in a romantic way then although people did assume that, but, in the end, that is what I wanted. Sadly, I had to realize that when he met and eventually married his wife.
That part of story is shameful and awful and too painful to ever tell anyone who wasn't at the wedding. You know, even the people at the wedding didn't understand. My mother did. In fact, my mother understood so much that she and my father took me away from the reception, and, to this day, have never mentioned that night to me.
I've wondered what my life would have been like had he not married her. I don't think about it often because it hurts too much. I don't think I would be childless. I'm pretty sure I would be married. Maybe I would be happy. Knowing me I would be dramatically one way or the other.
I have a feeling I would still belong to him though.
He was mine. I was his.
