Life was passing by much too fast. She was not making enough of each day. And their collective sums were lackluster and insignificant.
The sheer force of how fast each minute and day and week and month was sweeping by left her feeling shocked and choked.
Like the wind had been knocked out of her.
Like she couldn’t breathe.
But wanted to, more than anything else in the world.
Don’t be alarmed. This is not a letter confessing my undying love for you. (Although, I have considered writing that letter many times before.)
This is merely a letter of gratitude, of simple thanks. I’m quite certain that you are the only reason I still believe in fairy tales. In perfect endings, in true love. And most importantly, in happily ever after.
Not because you or I have achieved such lofty pursuits either together or apart. But because I can’t help but think, in some alternate universe, you and I found each other at the right time. When both our hearts were ready. And no one else was in between.
And so lived love as it was always meant to be. Without clauses or footnotes or asterisks. Without epitaphs and swan songs.
And if love like that can happen in some alternate universe, then it must exist. And if it exists, then I will never stop believing in it. Even if it’s not meant for me.
So thank you, Ben, for giving me love to always believe in.
I don’t need perfect. I don’t need chiseled abs and protruding hip bones. I don’t need a rigid jaw and teeth so white they sparkle. I don’t need six feet tall or bright blue eyes or sun-kissed skin or tight biceps and a tighter ass.
I just need a good sense a humor. An honest, thoughtful opinion. A strong mind. A passionate soul. A curiosity. A smile that turns the corners of my lips. A laugh that warms and swarms and melts. A heart that beats its own brilliant rhythm. And cannot wait for me to sing along.
Please just give me someone who doesn’t give up. Someone who doesn’t turn back. Someone who believes. And trusts. And dreams.
You can have yours tall and dark and handsome. I’ll take mine courageous and clever.
And he and I will be just fine.
Certain songs take me back to places I don’t necessarily care to return. Dusty corners of memory I’ve boarded away on purpose. Shadows I’d like to pretend aren’t lurking inside my mind. Wounds that never quite healed.
It was Jimmy Eat World that wove its way into the soundtrack of my summer after graduating high school. When Bleed American washed over me like the Georgia heat. When I was stuck between a high school dreamer and a lost college soul.
I was serving coffee in the morning and ice cream at night in the middle of suburbia with A Praise Chorus and Sweetness on repeat every second in between. Working two jobs just to occupy my mind. So it wouldn’t slip up and find its way back to you.
Now when I hear any of those eleven tracks, I can’t help but go back to that endless summer. I remember that poor, sweet 18-year-old girl.
How she felt like she was finally going to move forward, but really she was just spinning in circles around you.
When I couldn’t sleep, I’d put earphones in so those words could keep me company in the darkness. If you still care at all, don’t go tell me now. If you love me at all, don’t call.
I’d let Your House and Cautioners and Hear You Me lull me into my dreams.
I played that CD as I packed up my things at the end of August. As I drove my little cherry red Mustang to Athens for the first time. Windows down. Volume up. As I made my great escape.
I said my goodbyes. This is my sundown. I’m gonna be so much more than this.
I never managed to escape you that summer. And when I hear these songs today, I sometimes wonder if I ever did.
I still dream about you. Three and a half years later and you relentlessly haunt my sleep.
I used to wake up in agony from those dreams. Feeling pathetic and defeated and lost. But no longer.
I’ve finally accepted the fact that you will never leave me. Those six years we spent together – holding hands and rubbing noses and discovering each other and ourselves – those six years shaped who I am. Those six years altered who I’ve become.
It’s because I let you so deep inside me that I am forever changed by you. My soul. My spirit. The way I think. The way I feel. The way I love.
My dreams of you do not mean I long for you still. They mean I loved you with all I had. They mean I gave you every drop of me. They mean I held nothing back.
Sixty-three and a half years from now, should I still wake up with thoughts of you, I’ll be proud. Proud of how honestly I loved. How eagerly. How fearlessly.
That girl who loved you for six years was the bravest girl I ever knew.
It was a girl named Katie who first broke my heart.
She wasn’t the one I loved, I guess. Not in the diamond rings and white dresses and ‘till death do us part’ kind of way.
I loved her the way any unassuming 16-year-old loves a friend. With commitment and endlessness and simplicity, I suppose. I loved her in a ‘I hope you’ll hold my bouquet and adjust my train one day’ kind of way.
We celebrated the middle of March each year by buying each other a gift. We laughed at jokes that no one else found funny. We slept on each other’s floors on the weekends. Stayed up until all hours of the morning telling secrets and believing the world was ours.
And I told her things I thought only she could understand – the way I felt about the boy I was seeing. That I adored him. That he was consuming me. That I thought he was the one. That I finally felt ready to have sex with him. That I completely lost myself in the euphoria of him.
I told her those things. All those things. Every last moment. Every detail.
Those were the things I thought only she would understand.
She did understand.
Only later did I realize just how well.
I went away for school and left the two of them together. The boy I loved more than anything and the girl I trusted with everything.
And they found each other.
And they forgot about me.
Time came and did the best it could to heal, but I still cannot think of the gruesome details without wanting to buckle over and vomit.
The two of them fucking in the back of his small green pick-up. Pulled over in Hurt Road Park, judged by only little league fields and empty concession stands. How many times did he pull away there with me as only the faintest reality suffocated in the back of the his head? Or hers?
For a while I was so sure he broke my heart. I thought it was he who shredded me up inside.
But years later, I’ve long forgotten him. Him and his selfishness and his perfection. His opinions and his qualifications. I never quite got a hold of him. He was always just out of reach
But I remember her. That girl, the one whose breasts he groped and kissed – that was my best friend. The brown eyes he stared into once told me I could trust them with all my secrets. The dark curls he wrapped his fingers around, I pinned them in an up-do for her prom. I pulled them out of her face for her own father’s funeral.
What a fool I was to fall for her.
Sure, it hurt that he would do that to me, but boys break hearts. I knew every moment of that relationship that he was going crush me.
But your friends, they’re supposed to be the ones who pick the shattered pieces of you off the ground. Not the ones holding the sledgehammer.
It was my best friend Katie who pulled the trigger and walked away. It was my best friend Katie who dug the knife in my back then twisted it around. It was my best friend Katie who first broke my heart.
I used to run. Five or more times a week. Four to eight miles each day. Life used to happen while I was running.
I would drive out to Folly Beach. Park in an open lot near 2nd or 3rd streets and walk out through the dunes toward the water. I’d usually go right first, toward the pier. I’d run until the beach ended. Until there was nowhere left to go.
I’d stop there and just take in the view. All sea oats and foamy peaks and glittering water and nothing more. I’d give myself a minute, maybe two. Sometimes I’d even stop my iPod and just listen.
Then I’d turn around and go back. On good days I’d even go past where I parked, toward the water tower, picking up some extra miles along the way.
The last quarter-mile or so I’d gradually increase my pace until I was all out sprinting as I crossed a mental finish line. Hearing the voice of my old track coach in my head with every stride, “Finish strong, Shelnutt!”
On the way home, I’d ride with my windows down the whole way, no matter what temperature it was outside. It was the runner’s high. An incredible feeling. A euphoria. An overwhelming state of absolute satisfaction.
Somehow, the habit that I loved so much didn’t hold. I lost it along the way. I moved away from the beach. Tried running downtown, in gyms, in parking lots. I tried trails and bridges. I found partners and lost partners. I bought new sneakers. Ran 5k’s and 10k’s and half marathons. But I never could get back to that place.
Where running wasn’t exercise. It was just my time. A gift. It was a moment of therapy. A moment of glory. A moment of peace and pain at the same time. A moment where I just loved myself. I was strong and nothing else mattered.
Today, I haven’t run in months. My running shoes are old and filthy. My playlist, out of date. My sports bras and shorts hardly fit anymore. But today, I’m lacing up again. Today, I’m going to run. And again tomorrow. And again the day after that.
So hopefully, one day weeks or months from now, I’ll be able to find that place. And life will once again happen while I’m running.
I cannot overstate the importance of a moment. A brief hiatus to catch your breath. To let out a heavy sigh. To curl up in an oversized chair.
A moment with a fat round glass of red wine. A blank piece of paper and a favorite pen. A new page in a word document. A new font to go along with it.
A moment to gather your thoughts. To fumble through all the inspirations the day has gifted you. To jot down the starting points. The brilliant opening lines and character names. The underused words you stumbled upon like bacchanalia and davenport and euphonious.
A moment to capture all the details you can put to use. A short Brit with a lisp. A goldfish bowl filled with paper fortunes. A missing cat named Mosey. The sound of wiper blades on a dry windshield. A fleeting moment of déjà vu in the shower. A fading dream. A growing nightmare. An old email from when you first fell in love.
This will be the only time you have. To cater to your dream. To draft something delightful. To give yourself a chance.
You were meant to write the world a story. It’s time to create a moment for yourself.
On a record-breaking fiery day in early July, I came to the realization that I have a story to tell.
I will not take it to my grave. I’ll slit my wrist and let the words gush from my veins. I won’t stop until my body is bone dry. Until journals are busting at the seams. And cocktail napkins are wet with fresh ink. Until notebooks are overstuffed and bloated. And every last pencil is worn down to just a nub.
And this story, my story, is heard.
writeamuck 