Finding What Was Lost

Healing after being broken.

(This post relates to this one, so if you’d like, check it out. It was the first installment for Writing 101 and this post is installment two.)

After losing her virginity, something broken within her. She felt lost, like she traded her everything for a night of passion. He cursed at her, knocking her self-esteem around.

And when he was done, well, she wasn’t sure who she was anymore. Everything felt so wrong. She lost herself, and death seemed like the easiest way out.

Until one night, as she lay knife to skin, did she realize how far gone she had fallen. Instead of trying to find herself again, she just sat and cried. Instead of trying to go on, she completely stopped.

No. No. No, this wasn’t her. That much she knew.

Her innocence was lost forever, but she didn’t need to be. She could overcome the verbal/emotional abuse dealt to her. And with that, she started to look for the sun.

As time passed, she grew.

As time passed, she smiled.

“I’ll probably always love him,” she confided to a friend, “but I can’t not go on.”

And she found herself. And what she found, well yeah there was some scars, but in the place of that girl was now a woman. And she learnt innocence wasn’t a bad thing. Maybe it’s too late for her, but she could share her story and remind someone else that it’s okay. Because once your innocence is gone, it’s gone.

And sometimes, you never know if it’ll be you til it’s too late, you lose yourself with your innocence.

Where I Grew Up

Two story-home.

By the time I was 12 years old, my home had grown boring to me. I was ready to find a new house with new secrets; a new town with new people.

The unfinished basement was always something of interest. We kids we’re denied entrance due to the fact it was unfinished, and it was just all around kind of disgusting. Instead of walls, they went up about 4-5 feet, then just filled with dirt. It was horse-shoe shaped, with the furnace being the only thing of importance really down there.

I used to imagine in the dirt was bodies- people dead by murder from the previous owners. Yes, apparently I had a crime interest even at 12. Us kids took every opportunity to go to the basement every chance we got.

But then there was the upstairs, with its slanted ceilings, and wobbly black railings around the staircase so you didn’t fall down. It was fun to squeeze our tiny bodies through the thin bars, or go on the other side of the rail and walk on the edge. Of course if the parents knew, we were in trouble.

Upstairs had also had three little bitty entrances to the “attic”, but I never did explore those. From what I can recall, the three entrances were filled with pink insulation and the were holes you could fall through. Which basically meant you had to make sure you found the boards to step on, which was difficult due to the fact the pink stuff completely covered the “floor”.

But I don’t know, I never ventured into those doors. Which is odd considering I was always into something.

Written Words

Can change your life.

Dear Abbi,

the letter began, something so typical I didn’t even  but skim the flowing cursive.

I can only sit here and cry with regret as I remember your parting words. It’s been over two years since you last contacted me, and I know it’s my fault. I was so hateful; unsupportive. If only you knew of my regret.

I felt my heart clench.

I finally found your address, and wanted nothing more than to drive halfway across the country to see you myself, but I paused. You have built a new life, pursued your dreams, and I want nothing but the best for you, and I fear my return would only upset you. So I’m writing you this letter, with my sincerest of apologies, with the hopes one day you’ll forgive me. I love you more than anything in this whole world. I wish I had remembered that before my cruel words sent you away.

I suddenly felt like an intruder, as the writer spilled their heart on the notebook paper. Such fancy writing looked out of place on regular, WalMart cheap paper.

So Abbi darling, please forgive me. Please know that I love you. That I’m deeply sorry. I cannot imagine living life without my only daughter speaking to me ever again, but I won’t force you in any way. I hope this letter reaches you…

                                                                     With all my love, mother

I looked at the date of letter, three years ago. How had I finally found it now? And what happened that this mother never mailed this letter to her only child?

Tears stung my eyes. I myself had left home, but when I returned, my mother had passed from cancer. I never got to tell her how sorry I was; that it wasn’t simply her fault alone. I was to blame, too.

I straightened my back, nearly banging my head on the stairs. How her letter ended up in the cubby-hole under the stairs, I’d never know. I had been living here for over a year, and just now found the letter… What if it were too late?

I looked at the address on the envelope. What if the daughter had moved?

I crawled out of the cramped space. Maybe they had been reunited and didn’t need the letter.

Or maybe they did, and I should mail it. That’s the least I could do for a seemingly still broken family.

And with that final thought, I hurried upstairs to my desk. I attached a note of my own, and then sealed both the note and letter inside. I placed a stamp on it, and hurried outside.

Forgiveness was hopefully possible for this family. I never had such closure, and wanted it more for this mother and daughter than anything ever before.

 

Writing 101, discovery of a letter.

 

All of the above is fictitious. I actually did once find a letter when I worked as janitor a few years ago. I kept it, somewhere. It was a woman begging God to know why she was here; how could she raise her kids, etc. It broke my heart, knowing somewhere in the building which I cleaned, was a woman so depressed, but not knowing how to seek help. Lost, but scared to find a map for fear of being a failure; fear of ridicule.

I prayed for her every night. I passed it along to my mom, and she prayed for her every night. I never knew which woman it was. I have no idea if things ever improved for her.

But sometimes written words have a stronger impact than spoken words. Because written words have a harder time lying.

Celebration of Song

Or songs, whatever.

Head Over Feet by Alanis Morissette holds memories that I should probably forget, but simply cannot. I recall I’ve mentioned this song before, but it’s one of my favorites, and with it comes memories also.

Its meaning to me, is that, well…No matter how something starts out, it can end up becoming wonderful.

Alanis sings about her friend with benefits becoming more than just a lover. That what started as sex, turned into something greater. And at first it simply related to my life at the time. My friend with benefits situation grew past sex, and feelings changed. (They also died, but that’s really not the point.)

I Still Believe and Walk by Faith are both by Jeremy Camp, and go hand-in-hand. These two songs literally helped me through the death of my baby brother. I would cry my eyes out as I listened to them. No matter where I was, I would cry if I heard these songs play.

Now, seven and a half years later, I hear either one, and all my memories come flooding back. I don’t cry anymore when I hear either one, unless it’s been an emotional day anyway, but I do definitely remember everything from that time right after his untimely death.

Those songs mean comfort.

Awesome God by Rich Mullins will be the third song. I know, what’s up with all these Christian songs? (Minus Alanis, but still, this makes three mentioned in a single post.)

I would take walks with my mom, and we’d sing. This was one of our favorites, and every night, we’d walk, talk, share…and sing. I miss the closeness we once shared, but I guess sometimes things change.

It was wonderful, being so close to my mom. I always think of her and our walks and singing when I hear it, and I wonder if she, too, remembers. I know the song is about God, but its meaning always goes a little further to me. It’s God, and fond memories of my mom.

Loss of Innocence

Once it’s gone, it’s gone.

With long brown hair that hung in loose curls, hazel eyes forever framed by blue-rimmed glasses, she didn’t picture herself pretty. She continuously compared herself to every other girl, never quite measuring up.

And not just in the looks department, but her innocence. She was so innocent, naïve. She had yet to learn the ways of the world, how heartless and unfeeling people could be. She trusted your word; if you said it, you surely must live by it.

Because in her world, why would you lie when the truth was so much easier? Her world was pretty near fantasy.

Until the day she met him.

Months trickled by before she finally sought him out after that initial meeting. Things went awkwardly at first, and she left full of embarrassment. Instead of being turned off to the idea of putting herself out there, she drew confidence from it. After all, what was life if you never pushed past your own insecurities?

Another meeting turned into another.

Her innocence started to wear on her. How could she keep his interest if they shared nothing in common? She took the offered beer. The first time she ever gave in to peer pressure was that can of Budlight, offered to her in some strange man’s home.

Then came the vodka. And with it, pieces of her innocence lost, riding on the wind.

She’d never really been kissed, but then that night came it finally happened.

“Stay the night,” he said softly.

She blinked at him. “Are you sure it’s okay?”

He simply nodded, and she agreed. Just like that. It felt daring, agreeing to stay the whole night at a man’s house, in his bed. Pushing herself, seeing how far she could go.

They lay in bed, and she feels him touch her gently. She turns into him, and his finger is lifting her chin. His lips caress hers. Her heart quickens.

So this is a real kiss! Her mind screams. She can barely breathe, catch her breath.

He deepens the kiss, his tongue doing things she’d only ever read about.

His hands grasp at her breasts. Her breathing hitches.  His hands trail lightly down her stomach, to between her legs.

She pulls back. “No,” she whispers, “I’m a virgin…I don’t feel comfortable going any further.”

Her face flames red in the dark lit room. What must he think of her?

He kisses her a final time, and lays down.

In the morning, she drives home, replaying the entire scene in her head. Her head whirled. Things had never been so exciting. Her life was finally gaining something worth sharing. She was finally getting out and doing more than just reading books and writing.

Until she stopped and remembered her whispered confession. He wouldn’t ever talk to her again, she just knew it. But, she comforted herself, she had finally stepped out of her box, and gained a little more experience.

Her innocence, well she was shrugging it off like a winter’s coat in spring.