Sometimes It Hurts

Sometimes it hurts. It hurts so bad I can't imagine another moment. I close my eyes. And beg for it to go away.

I hear a sound or smell a smell or stop and think and it hurts.

Olfactory memory is so strong. The smells sometimes are the worst.

The associations are not always clear. The ones that trigger the memories.

The stone house at the end of the street. The one with the green roof. I can see it from the window of my childhood bedroom. Hear the screaming.

Standing on a soccer field with dust flying around. A team on the back field, so I'm not totally alone as my coach leaves.

Waiting. The last to be picked up by 30 minutes or more.

The discoveries in the trunk of his car.

Bedtime at 8... screaming until 10 or whenever I fell asleep or he left or she went outside.

The pain is so incredibly real in those moments. And all I want is for it to go away. Why are those the memories that come back? There are good moments, sure. Ones I created for myself -- mainly because I couldn't be at home.

I'll be driving along and hear a song. I'll be in a group or at work and someone will say something.

And it's in my head. The pain. And I can't let them see. Let anyone see.

Sometimes, if I have a drink or two before I go to bed, I sleep so hard I don't remember my dreams.

Sometimes, I think about where I am. How far from there I am. How maybe those survival skills have served me well.

One day, when I was 13, it was all exposed. Which made things worse, really. Now, everyone could see. Friends got a glimpse. And that made the hiding worse. Made the lies more elaborate. Made my nakedness more urgent ... more in need of covering.

I knew they'd seen. I knew what they'd seen. I knew what they thought. Sometimes, they even told me their thoughts.

And so, I retreated. Into writing and being alone and not asking the girl to prom and not inviting anyone over to the house and staying at school until the library closed and taking a job that kept me until 11 and being gone on Saturdays and at church on Sundays -- where I was good, very good. So good people thought I'd one day be a pastor.

I wanted to kiss the pastor's daughter, in fact... but I couldn't ask her on a date. Couldn't invite her in to that world.

Sometimes, the ideas for stories get all jumbled in my head. Sometimes, they are so clear and so vivid and the words beg to be written and if I don't write them, it hurts. And if I have a drink or two, the ideas may fade. Two drinks and a hot shower means a night of solid sleep... and maybe I'll wake up and the stories will be outside or in the lake or back at the office away from me.

There's the one called "Borrowed Sugar" and the one about the big and loud boys.

They hurt my head. But, they are coming out. And making room for what's next.

Sometimes, I just want to be the man I was on the way to being when I was 17. On that day. The sunny day. The perfect one. The one day when all was right and the fruits of my hard work had paid off and the hiding meant people had forgotten about what they learned when I was 13. On that day, there was a path. And I took it. Part of the way. And then got off and back on but it was never the same.

I always smile when I think of that day. For a moment, I held perfection. I don't know that I'll ever have such a moment again. Maybe we get two or three. Maybe another one will come.

But that one bright, perfect day doesn't erase the darkness that preceded it. Or the discoveries that came later.

Sometimes, I wonder why it couldn't have ended right then. On that day. A moment of perfection. Perhaps a few seconds of fear, then memories of me as I was and thoughts about what could have been.

Those thoughts don't last long, though. I'm on the college campus or doing interesting work and thinking about a turn that could at least make the road less rocky.

Those memories give me perspective. I won't say nothing could be worse. But, the worst things that have happened since haven't come close to what happened before I was 13 ... and after. Until I left. Even then.

That span of time holds a special level of pain. And that time is gone.

Sometimes, I'm 17 for one more day. And I make a choice that pushes me forward. To who I could be.

Sometimes, I just celebrate the fact that in the midst of all that was happening, I had even that one day, one moment.

Sometimes, it just hurts. And I don't suppose it will ever stop.