“It’s toasty in here.”
It was his first words walking through the door of my apartment. I immediately began laughing and took a mental note to call my dad tomorrow to tell him the good news. It was another sign pointing to a match made in heaven…even if only in my own mind…(I feel like I am becoming more delusional by the day…)
“Oh my goodness, thank you for saying that!” the relief could easily be heard in my tone.
I went straight to the thermostat.
“No need to change it on account of me! Did not say it to make you feel bad. I’m pretty sure the heat is not even on at my house…haha…I am good either way.”
“Look, full transparency,” I say with a slight chuckle. “This is not my normal. If ever I tell my dad I have someone coming over he gets on me about turning up the heat. I do it for him. I will GLADLY not have it this high.”
“Oh dads,” he said. “Got to love them. Those are the things we will one day miss.”
This theme from him of life reflection and the awareness of time passing (quicker than ready for) would continue on throughout the night.
He seemed…different…this evening. Not in a bad way but like in a way that he has experienced pain and loss in the past six months.
When it already lives in you, it is easy to pick up in another.
–
“So, where is this infamous desk?”
“Yes, the desk!”
Come back to reality, J…its existence had slipped my mind already, overtaken by the emotions of being in his presence again. I dwell in a whole different world…and everyone who comes in contact with me the days following seeing him (heck, even texting him!) know it.
“Follow me…” I said as I motioned toward the bedroom.
He walked in, took a look at the organized chaos, and released an “oh wow…well, I see a bit has been done. Good job!”
“Yeah…got the legs assembled!” I tried to keep my tone optimistic to cover the defeat I actually felt.
“Are we doing this by instinct or are there instructions?”
The smirk on his face gave away him already knowing the answer but attempting to humor me…evidently reading my face in place of hearing my words.
He has always been good at that. Better than anyone else in my life.
“Not sure those legs would exist if I was doing this without a manual.”
“Give yourself a bit of credit,” he said with a gentle smile. “But I am assuming this is what they gave you?”
He held up the instructions and started flipping through the pages.
“This is most definitely not an Ikea build,” he stated amusingly with a laugh. “This is the real deal. And look, they made room for Jesus.”
He was referring to the drawing of the two people standing side by side (but not touching) on the first page. That same image that had me accept surrender of trying to do this solo…and evoked a sadness and awareness of loneliness that took me out for a couple of days.
And now here it was being redeemed…
The laughter replacing the tears.
The memory of the drawing being redefined.
One that has since been framed.
–
We were about 15 minutes into the build, him already having let me know he got a new job and me letting him know I added another to my life, when the latter prompted a question from him.
“Are you finding time for yourself? To write?”
I was afraid to admit the truth. I was afraid to speak out loud that my passions have been sacrificed this past year. I was afraid to share how lost my soul has become in the demands of being human.
But my heart knows nothing but vulnerability with him.
“Not like I should…” my words trailed off. I bit my lip to hold back the tears the confession was uncontrollably evoking.
A brief moment of silence followed.
“Speaking of your writing…I read the beginning of your book.” He said it so casually; sitting on the floor at the opposite end of the desk as me, head down as he was turning the screwdriver. He looked up into my eyes right as the last word was spoken.
I had completely forgotten I gave it to him to be honest. I emailed those first three sections to him on July 21st – on the 20th anniversary of my admittance to the children’s psych ward. I was adamant on rewriting the narrative of that day, and this bold act felt qualified to do the job.
My failure to remember it being in his possession should say a lot about how much I trusted him with those 36 pages. To have no fear in exposing my past to him for the first time. To not be consumed with worry over what he now thought of me.
Therefore, I was not at all anticipating this would be the direction the night would go when he accepted the invitation to help.
I only envisioned the desk being put together, not my heart as well.
–
I didn’t speak right away. The shock of this ACTUALLY happening, of him now knowing more about my history, the truth finally being out there after years of contemplating how/when it would happen, put me in a temporary haze.
And also, I was hesitant to say anything that would apply even the slightest bit of pressure for him to elaborate. I could now be an open book with him but did not know how much of it he wanted to read. I wanted him to lead us in this conversation, to turn the page only when/if he was ready.
And he would…
Flawlessly and beautifully and thoughtfully.
In a way that saw me, that heard me, that healed me.
–
“Before I say anything else J, first, I just want to acknowledge how grateful and happy I am you are here. That you made it to the other side of that darkness. It is incredible to know how far you have come.”
“Thank you. So much.”
How little depth those words would reach of what I truly felt.
“Now, for the writing, I am highly impressed. You captivated my attention. It was not just an intriguing read but an informative one. You gave me a lot of insight to so many areas of my life I never quite understood.”
“Which was my exact hope. I did not want to write just for those who have also gone through it but to those outside of that world too. Textbooks will never be able to convey the reality of the struggle.”
He continued on to tell me his favorite parts, the ones that opened his eyes the most, how he enjoyed the cadence of how the story is being told. He let me know how he envisioned different ways it could have been written but was so happy I settled on this version – that it kept him wanting more, perfectly transitioning right at the moment he had a question and wanted further clarity. He was picking out specific sections (and the SMALLEST of details) and relating them to his own journey, recalling his personal life experiences.
–
He got it… what I went through, what I was trying to convey through my words, why I am who I am today.
–
“I have been struggling a lot with this writing,” I said. “With what perspective I want to share it from. I have been going back and forth on whether to write it in truth or as fiction.”
“I suppose the real question is what has you wanting it to not be from you?” he asked.
“Because every time I have exposed that version of Jenna to the world, people have asked me to not show her. They request I keep her hidden. To not attach it to me is more of an act of protection for a version of me that has already endured enough pain.”
“Can I offer an opposing side to that?”
“Please do. I trust you.”
“Those people fail to realize there could be no seeing of you if there was no her. She made you possible. The way I see it, she deserves the recognition. I am grateful she existed. She gives a new meaning to the Jenna I now know.”
–
He was the first person to not wish her away.
To celebrate her life.
To recognize her for the gift she is.
To see her the way I do.
No longer could I call her invisible…
And that was all she ever wanted.
–
“I feel like there is no other way but to write it as you. You make it real. You give hope. You show what can be possible. People need your voice. It is what makes the story so relatable to anyone who will read it.”
He paused for a few seconds, adjusted his hat, and then spoke the words that would release the fear I did not even know I was still holding captive within me.
“No more hiding yourself, J. Not any version of you – from twenty years ago or twelve years ago or today. The world needs you…not some made up person. Trust who you have been and who you have become. Trust in your healing. You have nothing to fear anymore. You are free now, and you have the answers to lead others to be the same.”
–
People lately have been wondering why I care for him the way I do. Why I give him all the gifts. Why I am willing to wait. Why I offer so much of my heart to him “when he gives so little back,” they claim.
But those words are what they do not hear…
Our conversations they do not know.
They have no idea the way he was used to put the light back on my skin, reignite the passions in my heart, re-introduce me to the truth of how love (even if unrequited) can heal – a truth I no longer believed in after the years of abuse and manipulation that preceded meeting him.
I refuse to withhold my gratitude because he does not display his feelings in the way people want him to. My giving is not dependent on what I can tangibly hold in my hands from other. It is centered on who reflects back at me in the mirror because of their presence in my life.
I know what I see.
I know what I feel.
And I will honor that for the rest of this lifetime.
In any way I can…
Clandestine Confessions 
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