Letter from my Closet

As I scanned my Facebook feed; I came across a topic of the day posted by a dear, old friend, dare I say, ex of my youth responsible for several closet skeletons.  I read the posed question, shook my head and scrolled onward.  Wait a minute.  Did I really just read what I think I did?  Ugh.  Now I understand that my high school years were far from the land of political, religious or moral fortitude discussions, in fact, my youth blazed behind me fast and infamously, but I don’t regret much, though some would say I should, because I am proud of the sum of my experiences both positive and slightly off balance - Elena always knew.  There was never a question of conservative or liberal, Jesus, Buddha or Allah; we all coexisted as bando, druggie or jock with random non-molders.  A boy/girlfriend was never expected to outline their perspectives on life, the universe, and everything before being considered worthy of making out in the park across the street after school - philosophy was better savored in college.

Where was I?  Yes, the posed question.  I shall paraphrase, “When does life begin?”  Pause.  Breathe.  Moment of unconsciousness. 

Letter from my skeletons: To the boy you once were.

Now a father yourself with a beautiful daughter, recovering from a life of debauchery and wickedness, I seek out that former self to lay ourselves to rest.  Many seasons ago you swept a girl away from naïveté.  For one moment allow yourself to see your daughter as a teenager when she comes home in love with the boy next door, from a good Christian family, who rocks her world completely and heedlessly.  Remember her and understand now what your former self could not comprehend.

You were twenty and I turned 16 that year: in my eyes you were an older, fast talker, larger than life…swoon.  I slid into your circle with ease and your family welcomed me as one of their own.  I believed the best in people and assumed I was protected and safe, that honesty directed all things and everything was right. 

This was the 80s decadence and drugs: cocaine, pot, hash, LSD, opium.  I dabbled and experimented, and assumed the same of everyone.  I had a line that I never stepped over, but inched ever so closely, not noticing those around me leaping well beyond the safe zone.  I was hospitalized one night from too much speed, recovering with a slight case of anxiety that haunts me to this day.  I smoked laced pot on several occasions that still seem like hypnotic dreams.  I don’t remember much of the Pink Floyd concert – the devil may know why.  I came from a conservative Greek household and never had the talk, and my parents trusted too much or were merely too afraid to find out the truth.  You took my hand and said it would all be ok.

At the height of our whirlwind I didn’t know your true poison.  Whether it was the good in you or selfishness not to share; I am grateful for your shielding me from the crack of your world.  A simple I’m sorry and make up adventures always brought my forgiveness and affections.  I felt full of life in your guidance and trusted your desires in our exploits.  Ahh the stump in the field, the basement sleeping bag, going through the toll booth, the boat, the beach…bahahahah some of my best stories come from those days.  Surprisingly for my naiveté I lived.  Abruptly, your world and my world crashed the day the police came, took you away, and I learned that I was pregnant.

       

Eddie came to my rescue with an ear and a hug and encouraged me to tell you.  With a child’s heart I didn’t even know how or why or what.  There was no feeling of options or happily ever after, merely a darkness and unreality.  Your parents brought me to you.  I never understood if it was prison or rehab: I just shut down and my mind thought of nothing.  I remember a large room almost like a cafeteria and everyone gave us some time alone to visit.  I can’t recall if we were across the table or side by side.  I don’t even see your face as I remember telling you.  I don’t know whose idea yours or mine, or if the decision was an unspoken agreement or of there was discussion.  I can’t remember if we talked about options or plans or possibilities.  I don’t remember walking away sad, but I don’t remember you beyond this moment.

That day.  That day so long ago in April was cool and Ed and Missy picked me up and took me to that place in Paoli.  My mom was afraid there’d be protestors and talked to them about how to shield me.  My mom, bless her for her patience with me.  I couldn’t let her come, I begged her not to come, and she agreed as long Ed and Missy promised to take care of me.  You were nowhere or somewhere and not there. 

The required counseling terrified me and robotically I said no thank you and why do you make girls feel so awful about a decision that they make.  The wait felt grey and numb.  I didn’t exist.  I don’t remember changing, but I remember that room.  It was cold and smelled overly-sanitized and was very small.  On the table, shivering, exposed, I heard voices, but didn’t want to open my eyes.  I remember them explaining each part, and thinking, “Why. Why. Why?!”  I wasn’t under general anesthesia because it was too expensive and this was all I had saved.  I heard the machine…r.rrrrr..rrrrr…rrrrrchug chug rrrr chug.  The pain that I wasn’t supposed to feel seared inside and out. 

After that day my memory fails.  The infection that followed brought anything left of me to the brink.  I hurt and screamed and cried and had nightmares that woke my parents from deep sleep.  I had an allergic reaction to the pain meds and wanted to die.  My father raged and sobbed that he failed to protect me.  He never said a word to me, but I heard him yell at my mother, and he bought me flowers as the only gesture he could bare. 

A family friend was looking for a nanny to take with them to the Bahamas to watch their little angels on vacation.  A free trip to the beach and I just had to watch the kids over dinner time so the adults could enjoy their vacation.  My parents agreed this time away would be great for my health.  Suitcase and bathing suit in hand I landed at Club Atlantis with such promise.  The kids beamed in front of their parents and turned behind their backs.  They spit, hit and threw things at me and yelled that they didn’t have to listen to me and I was nobody.  The parents went out to dinner and dancing and parked on the beach and left me to their entitled monsters who took advantage of my fragile state.  I remember the trip occured over Mother’s Day and I sat in the hotel room on the double bed while the kids screamed that they didn’t have to go to bed and they didn’t have to listen to me.  A typical Lifetime-esque show about mothers, their love of motherhood and their children brought me to my knees.  I called my mother gasping for air, crying for so many sorrows.  Worst decision ever.

You stayed in jail after your court appearance, and I think we passed a few letters or calls.  And after your release I went to Wildwood to see you.  In fact, our best picture together was there along the rocks of the bay.  We looked picture perfect, standing there in the breeze, arms around each other.  But holding on was useless.  I resented your lack of participation in the whole affair; the fact that you could never know the darkness I experienced, what lived deep inside because of our innocence - or stupidity.  It never happened to you…like a blowing wind and a whisper it passed you by without a mark.

I hospitalized myself that fall because I couldn’t come to terms with my pain.  It’s not that I ever wanted us back – the naiveté and school girl fantasies no longer resided in my heart.  I needed to understand life and everything I could know about what life meant: my ignorance of the ways of the world, my foolishness, believing so blindly, my anger at my parents for leaving me unprepared and exposed.  My desire to define the existential questions didn’t find answers: I was ill-equipped for my journey.  I hid myself from my classmates, friends, family, the world.  It took me a long time to realize that I went there to hide amongst the suicidal, drug addicts, the abused and neglected, since I felt unworthy of the normalcy outside the walls as well as needing protection from that scary outside life. But I didn’t belong there.  The anger I learned in therapy never left, seething beneath the surface, and prompted so many reckless and bad decisions thereafter.  I know now that I was punishing myself, not forgiving myself or you.

I carried that Scarlet Letter in my heart for too long.  It wasn’t until I was pregnant with my own little girl that the guilt and pain slipped back into my sub-consciousness.  How did one life deserve to arrive and another not.  I didn’t deserve motherhood.  And how would I look into her eyes knowing that she will be an only child, but shouldn’t have been.  I know now these were silly mind games to play with myself and left me wallowing in a pit of despair that I didn’t deserve.

So your question about when does life begin prompted me to reply that life begins when there are organs and a brain to support life functions.  I wanted to cyber scream, “You Bastard!”  I wanted to send you an email blasting your selfish question.  I wonder if you understood my position.  I wonder if you felt a pang like I did.  It’s not fair to hold you to that image of who we were then or expect that your closet holds these same demons.  But then I slipped into that time of long ago and realized you and I never made peace with that time.  I’ve held you accountable instead of asking both of us to forgive each other and share a moment of empathy for our youthful foibles.  I’m not here to have a religious or scientific discussion about the start of life, the difference between life or the potential for life.  I’m not here to guilt you or me into some sympathic apologies.  But I am here to ask you how you come to terms with your question yourself.

My skeletons have packed their bags and walked into the light.  I’m grateful for modern technology for bringing us cyber together and laying a potential life to rest.