Chapter Four #4
I decide to just word-dump again, writing unfiltered, unedited and see where it takes me.
My scrawling brings me to this conclusion: At first glance, I thought the task was going to be about my “inner-child”, and then I discovered that being a kid again is about being unguarded.
I was shocked to discover how quickly I didn’t care what other people thought of me and my silly game.
I was free in a way I haven’t ever been, even as a kid, maybe.
I thought it would be nostalgic but instead, it became about letting myself be me, without care of what everyone thought.
When Martin stumbled into the trajectory of my shoe, I didn’t think twice about inviting him to play.
I didn’t attempt to hide my silly game, or explain it away, I just wanted him to join me.
I wanted him to be a part of it. Which he did.
And Martin’s unfiltered participation and willingness to meet me where I was, amplified the fun because it was shared.
What sticks with me from this day is the breathless laughter, the shared soreness, and adrenaline that came with being so free as a kid. No analysis. No over-thinking.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but you should try it!” I write. “Maybe you already have, but going to the park has affected me in a way that I can’t fully understand or describe, but I feel free. Like I found me again in some real way.”
I stare at the page in front of me, then mindlessly flip through the leaves of handwritten text.
What I have in front of me is not unfiltered.
I’ve filtered out Martin. Sure, I’ve mentioned him and the fun we had at the park, but it feels like I’m afraid to include Martin to the fullest, like somehow my secret person won’t understand the friendship we have.
Like it’s something to hide. I reach my arm instinctively around the back of my shoulder, rubbing the spot that still smarts a little from the sweetgum-ball attack.
My body remembers the sting of the impact and the soothing warmth of Martin’s fingers, the twitch of my muscle beneath his touch.
Can one’s mind actually smile, I mean like a big, fat, face-stretching smile only in your subconscious.
I think that’s what’s happening to me. But my actual face refuses to smile.
I’m torn by the fact that I can’t fit these parts of my life together.
But then something strange and warm and maybe brave triggers in my core and I return to the place in the journal I left off. I grab my pen and commit: “Can I be frank with you?” I start.
And then what appears on the page shocks me a little. I’m telling my secret person about past relationships. About my ex, Sabrina. I’m not sure why, but I don’t overthink, I just word-dump.
Sabrina and I had been together for about five years.
We lived together in northtown, in the apartment her parents had leased to her when she moved into town and opened her shop.
I loved her. Well, I thought so at least. And then I called it quits.
It was all me, the dumping, in a worse-than-cliche “it’s not you, it’s me” moment that was truer than anytime in it’s ever been said in all of history.
I woke up one day and realized that she and I shared our lives mostly in logistics, like we were good friends, routine lovers, proper companions, and loyal family-figures for each other.
But all of those things were richly grounded in the safety that came from knowing you had someone to call if your car broke down or were too sick to go to the pharmacy on your own.
We were just two entities who shared and supported each other through our blind routine.
It was beautiful in a stale way. The security of it was nice.
The lack of loneliness felt good. Having a plus-one waiting in the wings was always comforting.
But I discovered that I hated it. It’s ironic actually, how much I wished for surprise and spontaneity and mystery, when those are things I actually feared.
I liked the safety of routine. Well, at least I thought I did until I had a life built around it and a relationship that was surface-level perfect in every logistic.
There was no passion or surprise or wonder. Just a perfectly shared life.
And I sort of snapped. I turned my life upside down, shocked her, and everyone I knew, with a break-up and a new life.
Except, it faltered like a New Years resolution. It was like I had bought that new gym membership, took some “before” pictures, dreamed big, and then totally reverted back to the safety and comfort of my routine. Only this time, on my own. Alone.
Not sad alone. Just lacking my default companion. And reminded daily that I may never have the wonder and the mystery. Or the surprise.
Except now, I’m surprising myself by sharing all of this with my secret person on this page.
I stare at the page I’ve written, half re-reading, half trying not to. My hand is trembling a little and my lips have become dry. I swipe them with my tongue for dear life.
“I haven’t shared this with my friends.” I write, “So I have no idea why I’m comfortable sharing this with you.
But here it is. Several days ago I received an anonymous note from a secret person, and now I can’t contain myself, can’t stop surprising myself, can’t stop chasing that part of me that I hoped was there.
I guess what I’m trying to say is thank you.
Thank you for not being my default companion. ”
I stare at the words I’ve written. My lips are burning. I can’t believe the person I am on paper. It feels like these words have been ghosting through my head and now have a permanent place in the universe.
Almost as if I’ve engraved them into the marble of my real life.
And all of this with someone I don’t even know.
I won’t undo it. I won’t unwrite this part of my life with my secret person. And that feeling scares me.
I close the book, wiping my dry lips with the back of my hand and then with each other.