let me help you*
short story
Sometimes I don't understand how we could've happened, but I'm happy
that we
did, no matter how much you hurt me with your lies. Sometimes, I lie on
our
living room rug, staring at the ceiling, wondering how it's possible
that
two people who loved each other with such a fierce passion can also
hate
each other so damn much. Sometimes, I pretend that you're here, holding
me,
loving me, screaming at me, tearing me down with your hateful words and
untrue accusations . . . just to say that I can hear you, that I can
feel
you, that I can see you.
Love and hate are two separate and opposite emotions that one could
just
automatically assume that you couldn't feel them at the same time, with
the
same person. But I feel them both with you. You're the one that I hate
to
love, but love to hate. Somebody that can make me feel both safe, and
uncomfortable in just a split second. Somebody that makes me . . . me.
Love and hate shouldn't be felt together, especially not with the same
person. And yet, I feel them both with you.
I've loved you since I can remember, stupid, beautiful you with your
passion
for life, that smile that makes me melt inside and those eyes . . . oh,
you
could hypnotize me with those starry blue eyes. I love the way you kiss
me,
the way you look at me with adoring eyes that assure me that there is
nobody
in your life that even comes close to measuring up to me. I love the
way you
make me feel -- safe, loved, wanted. I love the person that you were.
I hate the person you've become. The hateful man who thinks the world
owes
him something, who uses women to make him feel in control, who breaks
my
heart constantly with false hopes and broken promises. But just because
I
hate who you are now doesn't mean I'm not holding out for the man that
you
used to be. I forgive the words that fly out of your mouth the minute
they're said . . . but I do not forget. I can't forget. It's so easy to
forgive you, even if you are calling me names and saying and accusing
me of
terrible things, but it's not so easy to fight things that eventually
invade
my dreams.
How did it get to this?
You don't know this, but I pack my bags at least once a week and
attempt to
leave. I know I should. I know that you don't treat me right, and that
I can
do better. But I keep hoping that you'll come to your senses and change
back
to the man that you once were, the person that I'm still in love with.
Because that person is my soul mate, in every way possible. God knew
what he
was doing when he matched us up. We're a striking pair.
You were everything that I've ever wanted to be . . . and you used to
tell
me the same. You used to tell me that it wasn't possible that God had
given
you somebody like me to share your life with . . . nobody could be so
lucky.
People don't usually find their soul mate when they're six years old,
but we
did.
We met on our first day of first grade -- remember? We were sitting
next to
each other because the teacher sat us in alphabetical order.
Timberlake,
Timmins -- that's just the way it always went. I was wearing a pink
dress, a
dress that my mother made me wear, but I hated and you told me that I
was
pretty and asked me to play Tonka trucks with you. And I did. From then
on,
we were inseparable.
You were my hero throughout all my childhood. You were the one that I
would
turn to if I was in trouble, the one that would mend my heart when it
broke,
the one who wiped my tears when I cried. You were my best friend. You
were
my world.
I realized that I loved you when I was thirteen, but I didn't find the
courage to tell you until I was fifteen. And you told me that you loved
me
too. You kissed me. It was our first kiss, but it certainly wasn't our
last.
Then 'N Sync happened, and everything suddenly became harder. The odds
were
against us, and so was the world. Nobody thought that we would last
through
it -- nobody thought that we were as serious about each other as we
said we
were. There was so much to lose, and sometimes, it seemed as if the pot
of
gold at the end of the rainbow would never come.
We've been through your parents divorce, the death of my close friend,
all
of our tough teen years, the betrayal of people that we thought we
could
trust and you traveling around the world, leaving me behind in Orlando,
trying to kick start your career. But despite all that, we survived.
See how
strong we are, how good we are for each other?
We were fine until a few years back.
You became spiteful, almost hateful. You started drinking, and I still
don�t
understand why. You hate alcohol. I don't understand how somebody who
had
loved life so much could suddenly hate it. Something terrible must have
happened to you to go to such extreme, but I wouldn't know -- you never
told
me. You never tell me things anymore.
For the first time, I was scared of you, and the power that you held
over
me. You were everything to me, and I was afraid that you would use that
power against me. But not as terrified as I was of losing you, and
still am.
Because the truth is that I will always love you, no matter what you do
to
me, because that's what love is. Love is scary. And I'm scared for you,
my
love, because I know that you're hurting . . . and there's nothing I
can do
to help, because you refuse to let me get involved. Sometimes, I'm not
sure
if it's because you're trying to save me, or just simply because you
don't
want me help. I'm confused.
I'm so torn, knowing I should leave, but wanting so badly to stay. I
don't
know what to do anymore. I'm at my wit's end. I'm tired of waiting for
you
to make up your mind, to realize what a hateful asshole you've become
and
apologize to me, so that we can go on with the rest of our lives . . .
together. If this is the person that you want to be forever, then tell
me
now so that I can leave in peace, knowing that it was you that
destroyed us
and not me, because I wasn't there for you in your time of need.
And I'm trying, Justin, I'm trying so hard to be there for you, but I'm
tired of holding on. I'm tired of fighting with you, I'm tired of being
the
only one who makes all the sacrifices, I'm tired of watching my own
life,
and yours, pass us by . . . but I'm especially tired of crying. I hate
crying. You know that.
What happened to you? What set you off? Was it the fame, the overload
of
work . . . or maybe, even, was it me? I knew you so well, and yet, I
don't
know you at all anymore. You've changed so drastically that you've
become a
total opposite from who you once were. Who I loved. Is that possible?
Are
you still under that hateful persona somewhere . . . or have you killed
yourself?
It's like suicide, only worse. It's watching you, living but dead
inside.
That's worse than any death could be. At least if you were dead, I
could
come to terms with it -- I can't come to terms with this. I practically
refuse to accept something so unfair. I love you, remember? Let me
help.
There's still time. You can still save yourself.
I really wish that you would. I know I could help you, if you would
only
trust me the way you used to. You've been there for me, please let me
be
there for you. Please tell me what's wrong, so that I can help you
shoulder
this incredible burden. Please love me again. You used to, and you
probably
still do, somewhere, underneath all the hurt and pain.
What happened to the sweet boy that tutored me in math every night for
two
and a half months so that I could pass my exam and bring up my mark?
What
happened to the teenager who fought to put me on his tour as a dancer
so
that I could be there, making my dreams come true along with his,
despite
the fact that most people disagreed? What happened to the man that
loved me
so much that it practically radiated off of him?
When you find him, let me know. I love him, I miss him, and I'm anxious
for
us to continue the rest of our lives together . . . forever.