Almost-Life

Grinding dust under brown leather boots with bits of light pink stitching. Pores awaken as they soak in the first warming rays of a Monday morning. Hoofbeats and gentle snorts echo from the misty field. Cool air rushes into a set of lungs and back out of a relaxed and growing smile. This is exactly where I want to be. And there he is–my favorite person–backing his red truck by the old “mountain”. It’s been a messy 4-year trail for the two of us, getting to this point. But, so deeply and forever worth it! This is our life now– wrangling sweaty little campers with our friends, tearing up the dirt riding the quarter horses in our unofficial rodeos, dodging harsh looks as we show up late to church choir practices, shattering a lightbulb during a group couch-pillow-fight with our friends, and, my favorite, leaning up against each other as we– just him and me–drove the old red truck down to the Peach Festival in the farthest town I could pick. This is our life, and by this time next year, it’ll be sealed with vows in our old “farmer’s church” built in the shape of a long chicken coop. And I might not ever ask my Friend for another thing ever again. He’s answered the deepest prayer my heart has ever held and has given me the kind of life I always wanted and I can see forever right here in front me. How lucky am I!

Briskly walking to the Pontiac after a quick scan of the surroundings. Hopefully no one saw my jeans. Scrunched up nose as the key seems to take its sweet time finding the ignition. Blasting warm, sitting-engine air oddly feels better than sitting in still, stagnate car-oven air. After 15 minutes of driving in choking heat, swing open a long black gate and greet the impatient whinnies of some retired horses affectionately-called “hungry hippos”. My chest lightens and my jaw releases a little. I forgot how that feels. This is nice. And, at least for about 90 minutes, my head feels a little quieter. “What are you gonna do now?” “Are you sure you don’t look pathetic?” “How much time do you really have left?” “What do you think they’re all thinking?” “Don’t you know they’re missing you back at the camp?” and other questions like them don’t push so heavily and relentlessly on my body while I’m here. It’s a good place. The one light spot in days of endless heaviness and pressure. But it’s not exactly where I want to be. But where do I want to be?...and how would I get there? A swift kick at the stall reminds me that the thoroughbreds want their buckets of sweet feed right now, which has such a delightful tangy smell like sweet-and-sour sauce, and these beauties don’t actually need to hear about my “almost life”-- that was two years ago and over 900 miles away, anyway…I should probably stop bringing it up to myself…This can’t be healthy. Finish up, and drive home while the windshield wiper makes that awful rubbing noise in between the sudden cracks of thunder. As I fumble to unlock my empty house, I am soon joined by the faithful companions who seem to enjoy pressing their weight down against my forehead, shoulders, and sense of hope. What should I do tomorrow? Is that safe to do alone? Can I even afford that? No one will notice if I just sit in this wooden kitchen chair until I can see the horses again, tomorrow.

Where is that life that warmed my skin like a day at summer camp? How did I lose the future that promised ravenous kisses on my neck, trips to new hiking trails in an old red truck, teaching a little brown-eyed baby how to sing like his mom, friends who will prank my car at our wedding, a church to help the next little brown-eyed boy or girl who needed love and a chance to have a life as enriching as ours, and do it all with my favorite person riding in the saddle of life with me? How was I now living in an empty house, second-guessing the very clothes I wear, racking up screen-time on my phone searching for safe, free things for a lonely person to do, and driving 15 minutes every day a few days in the summer to clean up after a few thoroughbreds so my mind could rest from the growing pressure of deciding how to fill all the empty places that have been freshly gutted and lay raw and open in my life, now?

Turns out, when a little brown-eyed, dark-haired boy with a scar on the back of his head learns that he has no personal power or worth outside of that which he can steal from someone else, he might not ever stop stealing that power from others. When the child of a dying mother is taken advantage of, he might not stop choosing to take advantage of others, even if he one day, might have a desire to. Even when he meets a hazel-eyed, dark-haired girl with whom he shares more than most anyone, he might not stop mingling manipulation with goodness he offers. Perhaps he makes plans for their future little brown-eyed boy. He might discuss showing off this girl as his bride at the next big family vacation on a North Carolina beach. He may pray that God will grow and help the two of them while he holds her hand on a bench outside of an ice cream shop. He may stammer as he unburdens his shortcomings to this girl on a walk in the woods or in the frozen yogurt parking lot. He might even be her first kiss as he shares that he’s interested in her being his last first kiss in her gray Pontiac outside the zoo. It may even be that this couple in blue hoodies search for an expert in trauma and addiction to help him heal and allow their relationship to grow. Unless, of course, this brown-eyed boy has learned to lie...and it’s just the hazel-eyed girl looking for help. He may invite her on a hike to ask for her boundaries and assure her that they must work together to keep them…only to violate those boundaries piece by piece until he’s used every inch of her skin that she never wanted to offer. Small boys who suffer the horrors of being preyed upon can grow up to horrify themselves with the predators that they themselves become, including preying upon those whom they might’ve truly loved.

The man in my heartbeat had grown to be an abuser and a self-proclaimed manipulator who preyed on me then moved away and left me with cold words glowing on my iPhone. The next time I saw him, he had begun siphoning away the autonomy and love of a younger, more freckled-face girl who, upon our first encounter asked, “Have you met my boyfriend?”

A small, familiar vibration hits my phone as I hang up with my new therapist and scribble down in a spiral notebook “linkage and autonomy” in my new rental a few states down south. The text reads with a shallow charm laid over a sink hole of desperation and uncertainty. Knowing the sender and knowing what part of that sender typed the text is two very different things. Are these words a plea for help from my dear friend of 5 years who’s trapped in his addiction and remorseful of the loss of our connection? Is this just a cheap lure from an experienced abuser for 30 minutes of attention and a bit more physical use out of me? Is this the manipulator hungrily and skillfully reaching out to grasp and crush the little ground I’m standing on? Or is this the little dark-haired boy in need of a kind friend who loved him and would hear him?

Bitterly and unfortunately, the reason doesn’t matter. I can’t respond for his sake and mine. If love or even a friendly gaze is to ever be held between us unhindered again, he will need to show more change than a singular vibration on a phone.