I never got to tell you

I love you. You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. You have the only smile I will ever need to see. When you kissed me on the swings with your slightly crooked mouth that so perfectly mirrored my own, it would have been my sexual awakening. But I was being molested at rhe time. The feeling I had in my nether-regions triggered what I didn't know then was a PTSD flashback. I associated sexual pleasure with being taken advantage of by wicked men. I didn't know how to act or what to say to you. I was sure we were both too young to be interested in sex and romance, and you were 3 years younger than me. I wish I had said, would you wait for me? I wish I had said, someday I will be ready to be loved by you in every way. I wish I had said that I fell in love with you the moment I met you, even though at that time I had no idea what sex or romance were. I wish I had told you that one of the top reasons on the list of why I wanted to be a boy when we were little was so that someday I could grow up and marry you. I didn't know about lesbians yet, back then. But I couldn't get any words out with any meaning, so I rambled dumbly, clumsily pointing out that we are too young and I don't even know if I like girls or boys or anyone that way yet. And you cried and ran away. And I came back, either later or the next day, because you were my best friend and I loved you and I was going to tell you about being molested and I was going to ask you to hold my hand and help me tell your dad so he could protect me, since my family had failed. But you had locked yourself in your room and you wouldn't talk to me, and your dad didn't let me go up and see you, even though I begged him and I told him it was important. He said you told him to send me away. And I kept being molested, every time I visited that house where we were neighbors. And I never got to tell you, that's why I stopped coming over. It wasn't because I didn't want to see you. I got so dejected and numb and shut off to the world that I forgot anything existed outside the hell that was home and the hell that became of my second home, the place where I felt safe and alive, the place where I got to see you. And I never undersrood why I so clearly remembered my aunt asking me if I was gay, as we drove past your house. At the time when she asked, I had forgotten that you had kissed me that day on the swings. Everything from that time was so jumbled. I didn't even remember that you lived in that house. I didn't remember that I had a friend who I loved and who loved me. And I told her I wasn't gay. I didn't think I was, anyway. Not at the time. I never got to tell you that our chance backyard meeting, when you were at your grandma's house and I was at some relative's house, just on the other side of the fence, was the happiest moment I had had in months, and having to say goodbye so quickly was the worst I had felt in years. We didn't even have time to exchange phone numbers. Or maybe I gave you mine. But I can't remember if you ever called me. Until you did. And when you called me, I still didn't remember that we had kissed, but hearing your voice flooded me with excitement and then dread. I was so happy to hear from you, but it was so out of the blue, and I had taken a suicide prevention training class in high school because I knew how it felt to want to die and I wanted to help other people survive long enough that we could all get out of our parents houses and start our own lives. When you called me I still lived with my horrifically abusive grandma. I was 19. I must have been 19, because I recently found out that's how old I was when you died. It must have been that night. Because I remember now, though I'd forgotten for many years. I remember hearing so many of the telltale signs, so rapidly. I remember you asked me if I remembered something. I bet the question you asked was if I remembered the time we kissed on the swings. I couldn't remember it then, it would have been too traumatic - I had so suppressed and stuffed and pushed aside my reactions to the sexual abuse of my childhood that anything that reminded me of it in any way had to be locked out of my conscious memory, so I could survive. I remember that I started to tell you, I was going to let it all flood out because I needed to keep you on the phone. I had missed your voice so much. I missed you so much. I said, "to be honest, I can't remember much of my childhood, bec--" and I think you were crying and I tried to say wait please hold on I need to tell you something I need to talk to you I need you I love you but again you ran away and said goodbye so soon. And I ran to the living room and I said, "Grandma I need to borrow the car, it's an emergency" and she said no, and I said "I think my friend is going to commit suicide." And I told her about the warning signs that I recognized from training. I don't know how she stopped me. I was ready to grab the keys and yell "call the cops I don't give a fuck" and sprint out the door to you. But I can't remember what happened. I don't know if I ever had the keys in my hand and if I ever did I don't know how she could ever have stopped me. Maybe I couldn't find them. Or maybe I did find them. She minimized the situation, she said you weren't going to do it. I don't remember how she stopped me. I know I didn't believe her. I remember laying in bed awake all night, scared. I think I tried to *69 you but it didn't work. I didn't have your number. I didn't have your address. I don't know if I called 911. I could have. I might have. I don't remember. I didn't know your address, but I knew the address across the street from you. I don't know what happened. I don't know if I could have gotten there in time. I don't know how you did it. I do know I never heard from you again. I do know you were 16 when you died. It was a Friday the 13th. I don't know why I wasn't at work. I worked on Fridays when I was 19. If I had been at work and missed your call, would your need for closure have prompted you to wait another day? Would you wait for me? I remember not remembering. I don't know when I forgot the terror of that night. Was it when I finally, exhausted, fell asleep under the grey dawn skies? Why didn't I go to your house that night? Why didn't I try to go check on you the next day? Why didn't I find out what happened until 12 years later? I went on living as if it had never happened. I probably went to work the next day. I probably studied for finals that week. Why didn't I look you up, all those years? I mean. I did. But I didn't remember your last name. I didn't remember how you spelled your first name. Even though at your birthday party at the bowling alley I listened to each of your parents explaining the spelling to people and why they chose it and why it was meaningful to them. I remember my aunt making some comment belittling unconventional spellings of common names, but I thought it was cool. I didn't even remember that you were 3 years younger than me, even though I must have known how old you were turning each time I went to your birthday parties. I never got to tell you those were the best parties I have ever been to in my life, to this day. I never got to tell you I wanted to spend every day of my life eating cake with you and showering you with gifts and decorating easter eggs and swinging on the swings even if it was raining and laughing together and admiring your perfect dimples when you smiled. I never got to tell you that you set the foundation for my taste in women and men for my whole life, and I'm pretty sure it's because I always only ever wanted you. I never got to tell you I'm sorry I didn't steal the car and speed directly to your house. I don't know if I would have made it in time. I don't know how you did it. I don't know if it was fast or slow. I know you didn't know I loved you. I think you thought I didn't. I'm so sorry you ever felt that way. I never got to show you I loved you. But I love you. From the moment I saw you I have loved you and I will love you until the day I die. I have missed you since I was about eleven, even when I didn't know it was you I was missing. And I will miss you until the day I die. I stopped being a Christian long ago, but from what I have read, you were Christian when you died. So I prayed to the Christian God and I asked for us to be together in the next life. I begged, and I cried, and I finally started to grieve. Because I remember. I remember now and I hope I never forget again. I love you, Loryn Nicole Anderson. The world has been without you for 12 years and 9 days. I have been without you for about 23 years. I will never stop missing you. At least not until I can see you again. Would you wait for me?

HOLY FLAMING FUCK