Foolish Thoughts

I found this scribbled on a piece of paper along with my notes from camp.  I don’t remember writing this, but I remember feeling this way and after reading it, all those feelings washed over me and puddle in my gut.  I’ve been part of this camp for three consecutive years.  Each year has gotten exponentially harder.  This past year I was given the opportunity to write the camp story: a day by day account of camp.  I was excited.  I knew how to do it.  I was confident.  But just like every year, even though I convince myself that it will be different, and it’s probably all in my paranoid head, I never feel like I belong there. It’s a strange, guilty feeling.  To work this particular camp is an honor and a great opportunity, but after three years I think I need to move on.   

We’ve been friends a little over a year.  Not great friends, not good friends, not even talk on the phone friends, but friends just the same.  Sometimes we hangout with the same people, we do the same things.  We’ve talked, we’ve laughed, we’ve shared drinks, and now we’ve shared a touch, a moment.

It was a small intimate gathering, only eight of us.  We spent the majority of the night talking, laughing, telling stories, and pointing out those we don’t much care for, along with those that we do.  (Trust me; we are not as shallow as you might think).  As the night progressed we divided and made our way to separate parts of the house.  Some were on the deck, one opted for bed, and a few took up camp on the couch.    I, being tired, decided to partake in the couch conversation.  It was your everyday, late night, drunken male discussion, plus me.  And it also being three in the morning, I zoned out and lost complete interest.  Until, I felt the touch of his hand. 

I was alone on the love seat.  My back was up against the far armrest so I could look at all three gentlemen at the same time.  I wanted to make sure I was able to make eye contact when talking to each individual.  I was sitting on my left leg, while my right was pulled close against my chest.  I had my right arm flung and hanging over the back of the couch.  No one but he, was insight of my hand.  He was seated on a bar stool and was positioned in close proximity of the loveseat I was occupying.  We were all chit-chatting, enjoying the conversation.  Up to this point there had been no eye glancing, no flirting, no sexual innuendos, not a touch, not a graze, nothing.  So, when our hands slightly touched, I thought nothing of it.  I thought it was an accidental tap.  Those things happen.  They happen all the time.  But then it happened again, and again.  Then, with a slight move of the wrist, our hands were locked together.  Not once, during this whole encounter did we make eye contact.  I was in shock that it was even happening.  I was also enjoying every minute of it.  It was exciting.  It was our own little inside conversation, a secret that only the two of us shared.  It was fun and I wasn’t expecting it.  It was nothing more than a touch, an acknowledgment, but it was nice.  I didn’t want it to end.  But when it did, it wasn’t awkward.   We hugged, smiled, and said good night.   

In a year and a half, my mind never went there.  I never saw him as a possibility, only a nice guy who I sometimes hung out with, until now.  Now, I’m intrigued, I’m curious.  I want to know more.  I’m not sure if it’s the new attraction I have for him, or if it’s shear curiosity.  I want to get to know him.  And if there happens to be another accidental touch or maybe something more, then so be it.  It’s a chance I’m more than happy to take.

“Is that a statement or a question?”

“A statement.  Jeff just left with lucky hoe number two, leaving me stranded with no car and no place to sleep.”

“Of course, you know you are always welcome.  But you know how I like to sleep, in the middle.  Can you handle that?”

“It’s never bothered me before.”

“Good.  Another shot?”

“Another shot.”

This conversation, with a very close, dear friend took place around 2:00 AM in a bar downtown.  Actually, it was bar number two.  Now, I know the three of us, Friend 1, Friend 2, and I walked from bar one to bar two.  Where at bar two, Friend 2 (Jeff), leaves with a young, attractive, yet easy girl.  Who, Friend 1 and I all night long refer to as, “Hoe number two.”  However, I don’t remember our exact transportation back to bar one, where my car was parked.  We were a good six blocks from bar one.  I just remember being back there, taking more shots of tequila.  I don’t remember what time we left, how much we had to drink, or who drove home.  The last coherent conversation I remember is the one stated above.  I remember friend 1 and I flirting like teenagers all night, like we always do.  Taking shot after shot of tequila, trying to prove to each other who could, hands down drink more (I believe I won, I’m almost positive).  Then, somehow, someway, just like in the movies we were suddenly at my front door with me struggling with my keys.  How we got home is still a mystery to me.  A miracle, I tell you.  The Gods must have been in our favor because not only did we both get home safe, but so did my car.

After focusing and giving myself a little pep talk, I manage to open the door.  Once inside I kick my shoes off, throw my keys in the mail basket, and I lead our drunken butts upstairs.  At this point we are both stumbling over our feet and our words.  He goes straight to the bathroom; I make a b-line for my room.  I don’t bother to turn on the light.  I take off my jacket, my shirt, my jeans, toss them in the floor and I throw on a t-shirt.  I take my hair down and I literally fall into bed.  I lay there for what seems like hours, begging the room to stop spinning.  Bargaining with myself, “I promise never to drink again, just please, PLEASE don’t get sick.”  I’m almost asleep when I hear and feel him slide into bed.  I say good night and roll over.

(Now, I feel I need to remind you that we are friends, good friends.  This is not our first time sharing a bed.  No, this is just one of many.  We know the routine: climb in, say good night and roll over.  That’s us.  That’s our friendship.  Yes, we flirt like mad, but that’s it, just flirting and teasing.)

Now, the room has stopped spinning and my body is finally starting to relax and I calm down.  When out of no where he rolls over, pushes up next to me, and slides his hand on to my hip.  I can feel his warm breath against my neck.  In my head I think, “Ok, he’s a snuggler.  I’m not.  But if he wants to cuddle, ok but I’m going to be comfortable.”  So, I back up into him and reposition myself; close, but comfortable.  Finally, we are both situated and I start to fall back asleep.  Then, I feel his strong, soft hand start to head south.  He slowly slides his hand over my hip.  Then, with out any invitation or warning, his hand glides straight over my hip, across my stomach and down my panties.  WHAT?  The only thing my drunken mind can register is, “Wait, what is going on here?  This feels wrong, but REALLY GOOD.  I’m confused.”  I was half in shock, half excited, and half drunk.  I know, I know, I have one-half too many, but that’s how I felt.  Of course, “REALLY GOOD” won out, 10 to 1.  In my self-pleasing mind, pleasure always triumphs.  It had been a long time and it felt good, so I jumped at the opportunity, or rather it jumped at me. 

I slowly reach down, wrap my hand around his and guide him inside me.  I slowly turn and face him and our eyes meet.  There is so much intensity in his eyes, that I hold our gaze, just starring at him.  He whispers, “Are you sure you want to do this?”  I shake my head, and then ask, “Are YOU sure you want to do this?”  Then with that beautiful big smile, he shakes his head, yes.

Before I fall asleep each night, I pray.  There are certain things I pray for, certain people, certain situations, certain uncertainties, and certainly myself. I always need to be forgiven for something.  Though, my prayer life as an adult is different than my prayer life when I was young.   As a child, I would worry I would forget something or someone. Then, if something happened, it would be my fault.  I also believed there was a
RIGHT WAY to pray. Therefore, I started to write my prayers down.  I knew I would not leave anything out if I first put them to paper. I’m still not sure if I pray the RIGHT WAY, but MY WAY works best for me.  My mother recently found a letter that I wrote to God when I was six.  When I read it, I laughed out loud.  My spelling was horrendous. Though, what I lacked in spelling and grammar I made up for in content and artistic ability. I can actually remember writing this particular letter.  My Grandmother, my father’s mother, was a heavy smoker and I constantly worried that she was going to die like my Grandfather.  This was one of many letters that I wrote to God concerning this issue.   However, letters to God did not compare to the thousands of letters I must have wrote to my mother.  After I would write them, I would go and place them on top of her pillow, so it would be the first thing her eye caught as she stepped into the room.  This was how I apologized and said “I love you”, I always did it in letters.  I only wish my mother would have kept them all.

September 18, 2006 

It was 10:30pm and I was nodding off while reading David Sedaris’s Dress your family in corduroy and denim…what was wrong with me?  I should have never been too tired to read anything by David Sedaris…he’s one of the funniest and one of my favorite writers.  Why was I so tired? I DON’T KNOW!  It could have been from the sleep deprived weekend I had with my friend Jaymez, maybe I finally calmed down from all the excitement of having dinner with my sister,
Tara, or it could have been the fact that I was into my second day of my period, which always leaves me drained.  All three events could have worn me completely out all on their own, so it could have been one of the three or it could have been a mixture that caused me to fall asleep while reading…I’m guessing it was the latter.

My weekend with Jaymez was, well in one word, great.  We had so much fun, well I know I did.  I cannot speak for him, well yes I can, he had fun too…he told me.  Jaymez is one of the few close people I have in my life.  He makes everything funnier, more exciting, more adventurous, and just more fun. We went shopping, where I spent way too much money, ate delicious food at Max & Erma’s and made notes of “what not to wear” thanks to the MANY fellow dining customers, and then caught the 7:20 movie to see “The last kiss“…which you should all go and see (it’s one of those movies that you leave and you can’t stop talking about it.)  Jaymez and I had a 2 hour discussion on the themes and topics from the film. On a side note, the soundtrack is unbelievable.  Rachael Yamagata’s Reason why and Amos Lee’s Arms of a woman knocked me off my feet.  Then we spent Saturday night watching the first 24 episodes of Punky Brewster on DVD, basically we spent the entire weekend laughing.

Sunday evening I had a date! That’s right a date!  Not just any ol’ date either, but a date with Tara, my younger sister.  Just like every other date I’ve gone on, this one was no different. I was excited and I was running late…as usual.  Tara called:

I’m on my way, are you ready?”
“No, I still have to jump in the shower. I’ll be quick, in and out, I promise.”
“Brooke, you have never taken a “quick” shower in your life, you don’t know how.  You are physically incapable of it.  Puh leeze hurry, I’m starving.  I think my insides have begun to eat the walls of my stomach…seriously!  You think I’m kidding, but I’m not.”
“Ok, give me 30 minutes.”
“You’ve got 15.”

Jump to 45 minutes later, I’m dressed and walking out the door.  However, I’m not wearing what I initially wanted to wear and my hair is far from being dry.  Our dining destination had previously been decided, Olive Garden.  I had been craving their breadsticks for weeks.  I could taste the warm butter and garlic in my mouth.  It really helps to go out with Tara, she knows everyone.  We walk in and immediately we are greeted with a thousand, “Tara, hey! Murphy, what’s going on?, and Tara, how’s it going?”.  There was no putting our name in, no waiting 15 to 30 minutes.  We are taken straight to our table and drink orders were taken before we even sat down.  Talk about good service.  For an appetizer Tara had calamari, I hate sea food, therefore I inhaled three breadsticks.  We both ordered the never ending pasta bowl, which we ordered the same 5 cheese marinara for our first bowl and the same alfredo for our second.  Yes, we each had two bowls…it was the never ending pasta bowl, you couldn’t get just one.  Dinner was great.  Though, all the food and talk wore me out.  We both needed some one-on-one time with each other.  We rarely find time to hang out just the two of us.I got my period Saturday morning, so by Sunday night I was completely wiped out…enough said.So now, it’s Monday night, 9:23 p.m. I’ve worked on a few assignments and did a little writing. I will be glued to the T.V. in thirty minutes watching Weeds…I’m so freaking excited!  Then later tonight I will continue reading Mr. Serdaris’s book…without falling asleep.      

“I love you.”  Followed by the longest, heart-wrenching, pin-dropping pause ever.
“I know you do.”
“I really do love you, really.”
“Really, I know”, aggravated that he was taking the conversation there…again.
“Then why can’t you say it back to me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Brooke, please.”
“I’m sorry.”

I hated apologizing, especially when I wasn’t sure what I was apologizing for.  I wasn’t sorry that I didn’t say “I love you.” I knew I wasn’t in-love with him.  I was sorry that I didn’t know why and all I could say was, “I don’t know.”  “I don’t know” and “I’m sorry” became my crutches, my dependencies, my excuses, and a way to escape everything. It was so much easier to say “I don’t know”, then to think of an honest excuse or the real reason for avoiding the question or argument.  I hate that even today I still rely on these phrases when I don’t want to deal with a situation. 

I couldn’t say “I love you” because I didn’t, period.  Those three words literally would not pass over my lips.  Trust me I tried, but something would stop me each time.  I knew if I said it, I would be lying, so instead I lead him on. I was too scared to tell him the truth, too afraid of hurting him, afraid of what he might say, or do.  We dated for almost two years and I gave-in and said it, out of obligation or force, I’m not sure.  He desperately wanted me to love him or at least say it, that eventually I said it just to shut him up.  I felt sorry for him, he did love me, and that gave me power, and I liked it.  I feel a little guilty saying that now, but it was true.  I was a power whore and I was queen of my castle.  He would do anything for me, and still would today if I asked…I know, I’m horrible.

Today, I am still the same way when expressing and verbally telling people that I love them.  I have to really love you to say it, especially to your face.  I don’t feel it’s a phrase that should be casually thrown around and uttered so carelessly like, “Call me.”  I reserve those precious three words for those who are precious to me.  If I say it to you, then I truly mean it and always will.  I can count the people I love on my two hands, and I like that.  I tend to keep people at a distance, only allowing a special few into my personal life, and these people I know, will always remain close to me.  I don’t know why I’m this way, and I’m sorry if I ever hurt you.  

“Don’t say you’re sorry.  Tell me why you can’t say it.”
“I don’t know why.”
“STOP.”
“I’m sorry.”