mitchell said it best: "closure."
I did it.
I did it.
I dropped the CDs off at his house. In the mailbox. In that yellow mailbox in front of that green house that I was never invited into. I didn't even know for sure if it was his house-- I had to text him and check. How pathetic is that? Pathetic.
But that I finally did it is not pathetic at all.
I hadn't even planned to do it tonight. I was just stir-crazy, cooped up at home waiting for the clock to tick to 8:00 so I could leave to go to Bridgeport and meet Dustyn and Mitchell for the new Bond movie. So I left early, figuring I could check around in the stores for some khakis. I need them for my job. And I wanted to listen to my Disney CD's.
And then "A Dream is A Wish Your Heart Makes" came on. And I started to cry, just a tiny bit, remembering how I sang that song over and over, as a mantra, coaxing myself into believing that maybe my dreams would come true this time. Maybe I'd get to experience that elusive, magical feeling called requited love.
So that song came on and I remembered, and then I remembered, "Oh. I have the CDs in the car. The way I'm going is practically right past his house." So I texted him. I asked, "I have the stuff to give to you. Can I bring it tonight?" He said he wasn't home--should he be?, he asked me. I said it didn't matter. He said he wasn't planning on being home until 1 or 2 a.m.
So I sat in the parking lot of the new Church built by his house. I worried that the people coming out of the church would come out and ask me why I was just sitting in the parking lot. I thought in my head, "I'll just tell them I'm lost." Half of me thought that was an accurate statement; the other half scoffed. I wasn't really lost. I was, actually, finally on the right path, it seemed.
I was still mad that I didn't have everything that I wanted to give him. I wanted to print out everything I'd ever written about him. I wanted to photo-copy all of my journal entries about him (so like half a year's worth). I wanted to type out all the texts. I wanted to give him a complete list of all the songs on the playlist. I wanted to give him the typed instructions. I wanted to write a long, drawn out letter, explaining everything there was left in me.
But I condensed everything into three little notebook pages out of my little pocket spiral in my purse.
What I can remember of it:
"I don't have everything (I never did have it all, for you, did I?), but I wasn't really planning on giving this to you tonight anyway. But a song came on my stereo and it told me to. And, wow, even now as I write this another song just came on that tells me to keep going--this song is even on these CDs.
These CDs are what I need to give you. I don't feel that I owe them to you. I feel that I owe them to myself. Since we started talking---no, even before we started talking, I've kept a list of songs about us. About my feelings. These songs are everything we've shared, but also everything I've never shared with you. Think of it as a timeline of our moments, and the parts that were most precious to me. The big moments that have stayed with me, will stay with me. Yet you've probably so easily forgotten.
I loved you. I always chose you over me. And there were so many moments where I thought, "Finally. Finally--he's choosing me now, right?" But the answer was no. You would cross the line, only to jump back over and wave your hands, dismissing what your hands had done as meaning nothing. And then you chose someone for it to mean something with, someone who wasn't me. And I lost it. I cried for three hours, and then all the way home, scaring the poor flight attendant. Scaring even myself. I didn't know what to do, and it wasn't until after weeks of depression that I realized it.
I choose me.
Finally.
I choose me.
These songs say all that there is left to say. It would be redundant to write more.
...But... even so...
I will miss you.
...Goodnight. Sunshine."
...Or something like that.
Even as I drove away, a part of me gripped my heart and thought, "No. Turn back. Turn back and fix it, turn back and change it, you forgot this, it's not time yet, it's not time..." but the farther I traveled, the less that voice was present. It was flooded out by tears. I don't know what kind of tears they were. I just cried down highway 99. Then somewhere between the transition of 99 to Tualitin-Sherwood Rd, it was gone. I mean, I'm still sad. But it's no longer in a desperate way. The heaviness lifted. It dwindles a little. I imagine it will for a while now. I imagine that voice is going to leak back in and try to convince me that it wasn't time yet. Even now, part of me is wondering, "Well, I did it. Now what might he do?" And, yes, even a tiny part of me is even hoping for certain things, wondering of packages in later years, or desperate proclamations. Those kinds of silly thoughts that started this whole unrequited love story.
But another Disney song came on, and another one convinced me that it was time to let go. I'm listening to it now.
And this may be dramatic, and stupid, and too whiny for some of you reading this...
but it feels like a new beginning.
(...I did think of something I forgot to add. It might be the very last thing I say to him. I don't know when, but I do know it'd be unfair of me to not let him know.
"I forgive you."
But, for that, I'm definitely not sure if it's the time. It might not even be for a long time.)
I did it.
I dropped the CDs off at his house. In the mailbox. In that yellow mailbox in front of that green house that I was never invited into. I didn't even know for sure if it was his house-- I had to text him and check. How pathetic is that? Pathetic.
But that I finally did it is not pathetic at all.
I hadn't even planned to do it tonight. I was just stir-crazy, cooped up at home waiting for the clock to tick to 8:00 so I could leave to go to Bridgeport and meet Dustyn and Mitchell for the new Bond movie. So I left early, figuring I could check around in the stores for some khakis. I need them for my job. And I wanted to listen to my Disney CD's.
And then "A Dream is A Wish Your Heart Makes" came on. And I started to cry, just a tiny bit, remembering how I sang that song over and over, as a mantra, coaxing myself into believing that maybe my dreams would come true this time. Maybe I'd get to experience that elusive, magical feeling called requited love.
So that song came on and I remembered, and then I remembered, "Oh. I have the CDs in the car. The way I'm going is practically right past his house." So I texted him. I asked, "I have the stuff to give to you. Can I bring it tonight?" He said he wasn't home--should he be?, he asked me. I said it didn't matter. He said he wasn't planning on being home until 1 or 2 a.m.
So I sat in the parking lot of the new Church built by his house. I worried that the people coming out of the church would come out and ask me why I was just sitting in the parking lot. I thought in my head, "I'll just tell them I'm lost." Half of me thought that was an accurate statement; the other half scoffed. I wasn't really lost. I was, actually, finally on the right path, it seemed.
I was still mad that I didn't have everything that I wanted to give him. I wanted to print out everything I'd ever written about him. I wanted to photo-copy all of my journal entries about him (so like half a year's worth). I wanted to type out all the texts. I wanted to give him a complete list of all the songs on the playlist. I wanted to give him the typed instructions. I wanted to write a long, drawn out letter, explaining everything there was left in me.
But I condensed everything into three little notebook pages out of my little pocket spiral in my purse.
What I can remember of it:
"I don't have everything (I never did have it all, for you, did I?), but I wasn't really planning on giving this to you tonight anyway. But a song came on my stereo and it told me to. And, wow, even now as I write this another song just came on that tells me to keep going--this song is even on these CDs.
These CDs are what I need to give you. I don't feel that I owe them to you. I feel that I owe them to myself. Since we started talking---no, even before we started talking, I've kept a list of songs about us. About my feelings. These songs are everything we've shared, but also everything I've never shared with you. Think of it as a timeline of our moments, and the parts that were most precious to me. The big moments that have stayed with me, will stay with me. Yet you've probably so easily forgotten.
I loved you. I always chose you over me. And there were so many moments where I thought, "Finally. Finally--he's choosing me now, right?" But the answer was no. You would cross the line, only to jump back over and wave your hands, dismissing what your hands had done as meaning nothing. And then you chose someone for it to mean something with, someone who wasn't me. And I lost it. I cried for three hours, and then all the way home, scaring the poor flight attendant. Scaring even myself. I didn't know what to do, and it wasn't until after weeks of depression that I realized it.
I choose me.
Finally.
I choose me.
These songs say all that there is left to say. It would be redundant to write more.
...But... even so...
I will miss you.
...Goodnight. Sunshine."
...Or something like that.
Even as I drove away, a part of me gripped my heart and thought, "No. Turn back. Turn back and fix it, turn back and change it, you forgot this, it's not time yet, it's not time..." but the farther I traveled, the less that voice was present. It was flooded out by tears. I don't know what kind of tears they were. I just cried down highway 99. Then somewhere between the transition of 99 to Tualitin-Sherwood Rd, it was gone. I mean, I'm still sad. But it's no longer in a desperate way. The heaviness lifted. It dwindles a little. I imagine it will for a while now. I imagine that voice is going to leak back in and try to convince me that it wasn't time yet. Even now, part of me is wondering, "Well, I did it. Now what might he do?" And, yes, even a tiny part of me is even hoping for certain things, wondering of packages in later years, or desperate proclamations. Those kinds of silly thoughts that started this whole unrequited love story.
But another Disney song came on, and another one convinced me that it was time to let go. I'm listening to it now.
And this may be dramatic, and stupid, and too whiny for some of you reading this...
but it feels like a new beginning.
(...I did think of something I forgot to add. It might be the very last thing I say to him. I don't know when, but I do know it'd be unfair of me to not let him know.
"I forgive you."
But, for that, I'm definitely not sure if it's the time. It might not even be for a long time.)