I used to tell you stories once. I know, this is probably a part of me you don't know, but we used to be close. I like to think we're close now - it gives me an illusion of comfort, a feeling that I'm not so damaged and haven't done so wrong - but we don't need to kid ourselves here.. You've left, and I can only hope you come back one day. Ironic, how I find my actions so indefensible that I get mad when someone rationalizes them.
At the beginning, I would cradle you in my arms and confess. Id tell myself you would be the only one who knew everything about me, and I would repeat my story out loud, over and over. I'd start by telling you stories of my childhood, describing the nights spent in my parent's roof deck in Santo Domingo, how I was the only child amidst adults. We'd sit by the fire of a grill in the warm nights, and I could smell the ocean, and seasonings I have never been able to replicate. I watched consistently, seeking approval, not knowing from whom. I saw how Amy, the wife of my dad's best friend, chewed the food sideways, slowly, and beautifully. I remembered phrases that everyone laughed at, and I still say them to this day: "if you weren't a communist in your 20's you were never young; if you are a communist after them, you haven't grown up". I mimicked movements, reactions, and soon everything began to feel like a farce. The goal was to appear an intelligent girl, mature for her age, and I did well. Unfortunately, I found myself unable to escape it. I developed a deep shame because of my falsehood, a fear of being unmasked for the actress I was. Then I strived to become invisible, and eventually, I did well too.
But that's not what I talked to you about, not the feelings. I would talk about how I thought I was invincible before I met you. I would ride in the back of motorcycles, curly strands of my own hair and bugs slapping against my face and sunglasses, high speeds, no helmet, no fear. I did so well at becoming invisible as a pre-teen that I didn't see myself. I didnt imagine death, because as a teen, it was an impossibility: dying was for the weak. But I would tell you more than that: I spoke for hours, all night, because you'd stay up. I told you the REAL truth about my trip across a land you didnt know back then. I told you the truth about my courage: I was brave, but only because I was too scared to be a coward.
I told you my story because telling your story allows you to become objective, hear how it sounds, try to fix it. I always ended on the story of how I met your father, and I apologized, and we cried together. I for my choice, you for the teeth you were starting to grow and I wouldn't get to see. I wondered out loud how it happened that when I had you, I started fearing death, and my knees got weak. I don't know what you wondered, you never said a thing. Somehow though, it didn't matter. I still felt like we were close.
