Jenny and Ariel

I know … I know … I know.

It's a lot.

So, first … I didn't choose those parents. I didn't ask for that.

Second, YES … I'm now a 44-year-old adult and I make choices. Not acting is a choice. I was 43 when we met. I'd spent a lifetime making choices or choosing to ignore.

I DID THAT. I CHOSE TO IGNORE IT.

For a long, long, long time that seemed the best path.

Frankly, there was no one I met who I felt was worth the effort of dealing with it.

Interestingly (ironically?) I'd just started seeing a therapist when we met. So, I was finally ready to do something.

I didn't ask to be hit every single day. I didn't ask for her to hold me in her arms and tell me she loved me after I was crying so hard and in physical pain. I didn't ask for her to scream at me and ask me why I was crying after she'd hit me until I couldn't move. I didn't ask for all the screaming. I didn't ask to be told over and over and over again: "something's wrong with you."

I didn't ask for the ER visit where the doctor asked my parents to leave the room … and then asked me what happened. I didn't ask to wear long pants to school on 90 degree days so no one could see the bruises.

And I sure as hell didn't ask for that night when I was 13 and I found out what he'd been doing.

I didn't ask for the lesson of shutting the fuck up and pushing my feelings down.

I didn't ask to learn that not feeling anything and not showing emotion was the best way to get out without a scratch... literally. I didn't ask to find out that the person who seemed like he was helping was stealing … from me.

And... I know what I experienced isn't even the worst.. I've seen and met and taught and dealt with kids who faced far greater … challenges.

Jenny's mom told her that I couldn't come over and study Spanish b/c of my family... b/c it was a mess...b/c it was not a good idea to get involved with that.

I was 14.

Ariel screamed at me on the phone one night and said all the "stuff" with my mom and dad, it was just too much.

And so... fuck it, I just wouldn't show all of it. I wouldn't cry in front of anyone...

Sure, I met Monica.

And I wanted Monica and she wanted me.

But... well, I'd learned my damn lesson.

And I didn't want to hurt her.

So. We were friends...until … well, she died... after I'd know her for 8 years.

And so... yeah, I learned this: That feeling … THAT  feeling... well, fuck it. It's pointless. It's NOT for me.

So, I'm sorry.

I'm sorry that fucked up shit happened.

And I'm sorry I waited to really deal with it.

And I'm sorry I didn't stop you...

And … I'm beyond sorry if I hurt you in any way.

I can take a lot.

I can.

And … well, NOTHING hurts like not having you.

I'd take 100 more nights of her hitting me for one more night with you...

This. … This IS pain.

And … you … you are the only person who made me care enough to even deal with it.

Yeah, I was seeing a therapist as we met... but … well, after YOU, all I wanted was to have been that "amazing" man from the very first day you saw me.

And...well, I know I'll fuck up somehow.

I try... and with you, I'd try with 100% every single day...

But.

All of me … is here. For all of you.