(Originally posted on sixmilevillage.com 3/17/2004)
I have been sitting in this computer lab for the last ten minutes staring at the main page of sixmilevillage.com. I felt an incredible urge to write, and I suppressed it as long as I could. People across the table from me began to give me strange looks. I hadn’t moved at all, except for to blink or smooth my hair. I hadn’t touched the keyboard or mouse that rest in front of me.
I just had a terrible voice lesson. My teacher pissed me off, and I’m still on the verge of ripping his head off, which is why I’m not in class right now. He also happens to conduct choir.
But the thing that brought me to the point of needing to write something was triggered when I read Wendy’s writing about Anson. Although I didn’t know Anson, I still cried when I read about his murder. I’m the type of person who cries at a sad story. I can’t help it. I weep with those that weep, even if I don’t know who is weeping or why.
I recently lost the best friend I’ve ever had. The one person who knows everything about me. The person from whom I’ve kept nothing. The first boy I ever loved, the first guy to break my heart, and the first person to completely break my shell. And now he is gone. And the worst part of it is that he’s not dead. Not his body, anyway. The spirit of him, his true self, died some time ago. I’m not sure exactly when.
At some point, he turned into the person who would lie to me about where he was last night, turn things on me and make me feel like a horrible person, lie to my family, his friends, his family... steal my car. A person who would try to tell me that he lied for my own good, lie to himself about the things he had done, and then thank me from the bottom of his heart for being his friend.
And what did I do? I let him go. I had to. He was killing me. He was dragging me down. I was lost. I didn’t realize that the person I thought was my best friend would be the one person whose attack would be most effective. I suppose it makes sense, though. Once I finally let someone inside the fortress, he broke it down. Broke me. And then he ran away. Because he knew exactly what he had done. He knew precisely whom he had made his foe. And a formidable foe she is. For now the weak spots have been rebuilt, and the walls of the fortress are higher than ever. Walls of anger, barricades of pain.
And yet, somewhere inside this fortress there is still the little girl who chased him out of her backyard, found him asleep underneath her kitchen table when his parents thought he had been kidnapped, defended him against bullies from preschool to college.
In the highest tower, there is a teenager who told him he was a fool for being heart broken over his first girlfriend, laughed when he said his first swearword, scolded him when he took his first drink, and told him again that he was a fool--this time for being broken-hearted about his first boyfriend.
And somewhere, past hidden passages, drifting doorways, and ancient crypts, locked away in the deepest dungeon, lies the young woman who dreamed of his happiness, hoped for his future, treated him like a brother, and will love him to the end.
