I’m starting to unpack the blackouts. Fumbling around in the dark of my crevices. Finding what I hid from myself. It seems to be all related to ages 8-13. Especially age 12.
I’m scared to start digging. There’s so many bones, so much spilt blood, so much damage and scar tissue bumbling to the surface.
There was a boy. A friend. A confidant. He made me feel less weird. Like I mattered. Like I was useful. Like I wasn’t a freak. Like I wasn’t damaged. And let’s not lie, I had a ginormous crush on him too, but there were genuine feelings of friendship involved as well.
We bonded over dysfunctional families. I remember telling him how I was diagnosed (at the time) as bipolar. He told me he had ADD and his mom was really ashamed of him for it.
We talked about the girls he thought were cute. Basketball. Bar mitzvahs. Homework. Our parents fighting, our siblings. Porn. Trying liquor. Music. How to dance at parties. What kissing was like.
We talked about what we wanted to be when we grew up. I remember he wanted to be a psychologist.
We talked about out beliefs. He believed that Jesus existed and was a cool dude. He was conservative even though he had two moms and was a scholarship kid…
we talked about Ireland and Italy. i always wanted to go. He had been multiple times…
We would fight though. Like everyday. Over the same little thing.
“Why don’t you talk to me at school?” – me
” Because I can’t, people wouldn’t get it [some excuse about popularity] ” – Desmond.
and that’s where this story starts…