My Awakening.

Today I'm linking up with the Red Dress Club! Here's today's prompt, courtesy of Katie / @Ksluiter:

Hemingway was famous for his super sparse writing. He used almost only dialogue in many of his works. Write a piece in which you use ONLY dialogue. (I'm bending the rules because, well, I can.)


"Let's go someplace where we can talk," Jessie said as I got into her car.

"What about P.J.'s? I'm seriously craving an iced mocha," I suggested.

"Nah, I was thinking of someplace quieter. I just really need to tell you something," she said.

"Okay. Well, wherever you wanna go is fine, you're the one driving," I said, as I reached over to switch on the radio. I started humming along with Dave Matthews.

"So how are you? Are you going back up to school next week?" she asked.

"Yes! I'm so ready. I'm sick of talking to my shrink, sick of thinking about it all, and I really just want to get back to normal. Whatever that is. You know?"

"You're not going to hurt yourself again, are you? Because I gotta tell ya, that scared the shit out of me Erin. You just can't do that," Jessie said. "It's fucked up."

"Honestly, I can't promise I won't do it again 'cause I still think about it. It's like the urges come on so suddenly sometimes and I can't stop myself. Nobody gets it. But the Prozac and Klonopin are helping," I added.

"I'm worried about you. I mean, you're my friend and I love you and I don't know what I would've done if I'd been the one to find you with blood everywhere," she said as she pulled her car into a spot at The Point on the Lakefront. Then she turned off the music.

My stomach lurched. The Point was where people went to make out. I saw a few other cars, most of them with foggy windows. I leaned the side of my head on the glass and looked out at the waves. Jessie took the keys out of the ignition and tossed them into the cup holder. It got quiet. My stomach gurgled and I clamped my hands down over it instinctively.

"I'm not sure how to say this," she began. "We've been friends for a long time and I don't want to lose that. But lately..." she trailed off. "Lately I've been thinking about you. Like, a lot." She stopped and took a deep breath, then exhaled.

"I've got feelings for you," she blurted out.

"Feelings? What kind of feelings?" I asked, staring hard at the whitecaps, blurring the edges of her in my peripheral vision.

"Why can't you look at me? Can you look at me, please?" she asked.

Reluctantly I lifted my head and slowly shifted to face her.

"I'm in love with you," she said simply. "I just am."

"So you're telling me this now. When you know about Lauren, my dad, and everything I've been dealing with. You know I have feelings for her and I'm a mess dealing with all that crap, plus the cutting, my parents. And you do this now?"

"I know, I know. But I had to tell you. I had to get it out," she said, shrugging her shoulders.

I sighed and rubbed my temples.

"What do you want me to say, Jessie?" I asked. "I'm sorry I don't feel that way about you. And even though I don't really know who I am or what this thing with Lauren is all about, I know my heart belongs to her for now. I may be a freakin' train wreck, but I know that much."

"So why can't you just look me in the eye and say it?" she asked.

"You know I'm terrible about the eye contact. Get off my case," I snapped. "Besides, this is the last thing I need right now. I'm not trying to hurt your feelings or anything, but I just can't deal."

I began unraveling. Looking out at the waves, I thought of Edna Pontellier. I longed to be in the Gulf, giving up, handing myself over to the rough waves. Salty, swirling water sucking me under, drifting down into the dark, cool deep. It would be so much easier.

"Jessie, I'm sorry. I really am. But can you please just take me home?" I plead.

Inwardly, I'm stuffing down the sudden overwhelming desire to cut myself, to offer up my blood to some unknown God.

A Bunch of Wildflowers

I came into my room and it was dark. I saw you standing there, frozen.
Caught by surprise with one of my books open in your hands.
It took me a minute to realize it wasn't just any book, but my journal.
The one Dad bought me from the Smythson Shop on Bond Street in London.
The one with the flowers on the cover and leather tipped corners.

I was the cat and you the mouse:
I leapt to my bookshelves to assess the damage, you scurried out in a blur.

I felt violated in the worst way, unsure of what you'd read;
or what your intentions were.
First I got hot, then cold, then goosebumps and sweat covered me.
I had to get out. Away. My words were stolen, my private thoughts, pieces of me.
Dreams, fears and doubts all splayed out for you to see, to snicker and laugh at.

I threw my journal in my backpack and went to the library.
My steps sent the cockroaches running in droves across the sidewalk.
I shuddered thinking of the ones hovering above me, hidden in the old oak trees.

I chose a desk in the corner by the window and threw my things on the floor.
I opened my journal and re-read the last few pages as waves of nausea washed over me.
Too dangerous to write anymore. Too stupid. Too vulnerable.
What did you see?

When the librarians kicked me out, I trudged home,
Back to the scene of the crime. My deepest thoughts spattered
Like blood all over the walls of my room, the floor...


When I got back you were waiting for me
With a bunch of wildflowers you'd picked.

Gay By Proxy?

Today it's time for a smoothie. I'm taking chunks of real, juicy events, throwing in some changed names, places, times, etc. and blending it with some artificially-flavored details. However, it remains "Pretty All True" in the words of my favorite Olivia the Pig, and one of my new favorite bloggers, Kris, of Pretty All True.

Gay By Proxy.

Back in 1996, my gaydar was going off. Constantly, it seemed. In my Senior Seminar class with Dr. Miller, in Cups Coffee Shop on Old Canton Road, walking around Northpark Mall, and even as I was helping myself to a giant red concoction full of Everclear on Fraternity Row most Thursday nights.

Gaydar is genetic, you know. My dad is gay, which means that gaydar comes free for him. And somehow he passed it along to me, which sometimes made me think I was gay by proxy.

Which could explain why I fell hopelessly in love with a girl named Lauren. Actually, I became obsessed. Clad in old cowboy boots, she strutted her stuff in my daydreams, all over campus, and into my Women's Studies class upstairs in the creaky John Stone House. I sat next to her self consciously, barely daring to breathe lest the grits I'd had for breakfast waft her way. I stole glances at her and was shocked to discover her meeting my gaze. Unable to maintain eye contact, I looked down at my lap and immediately felt my face flushing crimson.

Eventually I grew a bit of confidence and became friends with Lauren. Admittedly we were better friends in writing than face-to-face, perhaps because of my writer-y-ness, and because what confidence I had wasn't enough to let me look her in the eye whilst having a real conversation. I was too shy and scared. And I quickly learned that she was, too, although she'd never have admitted it. But I felt it.

The emails started flying between us.We had so much to talk about. They became intensely personal, lengthy, and some days I was under such a heavy fog that I didn't realize what was happening around me. I confided in her about everything, and she me. I began to analyze every word. Over the summer we also wrote letters back and forth, sometimes 8-10 pages long. Written by hand.

Even with my head in the clouds, I knew this was unusual. I knew I was feeling "things" for Lauren. And my gaydar was going off wildly, so loudly that I couldn't ignore it anymore, but I didn't dare say anything to her. To anyone. I could barely admit to myself what was carved upon my heart and surely visible to everyone else. What made it harder is that I started to sense that Lauren had feelings for me, too...

Desperately seeking validation, I took everything to my shrink's office. I knew I could count on Robin for an unbiased perspective. Loaded all Lauren's letters in an old box along with a scrapbook she'd made me. The inside covers of the scrapbook were covered with hundreds of pictures of flowers she'd painstakingly cut by hand out of magazines. Like the walls of Idgie Threadgood's room in the old folks' home in Fried Green Tomatoes, one of my favorite movies/books of all time. In my mind, we were Idgie & Ruth.

Robin opened the scrapbook and simply gawked. The time, energy, and love that had gone into it were obvious. She looked right at me and said, "You don't have to show me any more. I truly believe Lauren has mutual feelings for you." Robin sensed my frustration and I told her I was tired of hiding my true feelings. She helped me realize it was time to fess up, that I had to come clean and tell Lauren what was going on inside my head.

One night I asked Lauren to meet me in one of the lecture halls so we could talk privately. It was quiet and empty, so different from during the day. Darker. Things echoed. We sat next to each other on the steps leading down to the stage. My heart was racing in my chest and I didn't think I could do it. Somehow I did. I don't really remember any of what I said that night except that at some point I whispered (while looking down at my Doc Martens--not at her, not making eye contact), "Sometimes I want to kiss you."

She talked me out of it. She blamed my dad. She convinced me that I was just feeling our friendship very deeply and that we were so connected/in tune with one another. She rationalized it all and soon I was crying and apologizing and she was hugging me and it was all over not really.

I bought into her arguments, I clung to them. Because on one hand they made total sense and also because as you know, I have a big heart. I love everyone. But after that moment, I hated myself. Although I'd told her everything and didn't have to hide anything anymore, I felt exposed, naked, stupid, and wrung out. Which led to the episode in the shower.

Lauren found out that I'd hurt myself and things were never the same after that. I distanced myself because I didn't know what else to do. I'm sure she didn't understand it all, potentially blamed herself for part of it, and also resented my doing it in the first place.

But I can't take any of it back. I can't un-do it.

These are the pages of my life.

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