My Dear Stranger

  “He touched my waist and danced behind me,” which he had. And then through the thump of bass beats, and the thrill of the music inside my stomach, I saw her look at me like I really was insane.

  And the man stood there with 2 of his large male friends in front of me. He looked at me like I was crazy. He looked at me like he wanted to hit me. He looked at me... And then his face changed to some weird expression I had never seen before and he leaned in closer to me and quietly asked, “Are you okay?”

  But I wasn't. Obviously. I was not okay, and really I didn't know if I had ever been okay. I actually don't remember a time when I was truly okay. I know I spent years depressed, and I know I had lived with undiagnosed depression for years. I know I hurt myself with razors, and knives and really anything I could find to help me release the pressure inside me. And I know I hid everything from everyone because I was never okay.

  Looking at the club guy for mere seconds in silence, I remember I had no words. I couldn't answer his simple question. Like a deer in headlights I stood still staring at him as I tried to find my words. The music continued and the mood was wild all around us, but we 5 stood completely still among the chaos of the night club as I stared at him speechless.

  So slowly shaking my head no, I finally exhaled. Strangely, I almost wanted to kiss him which was insane to me. I never wanted to be touched by anyone ever, but here I was looking at this stranger in a dance club and all I wanted to do was kiss him in that moment. But I did nothing.

  When he slowly reached out his hand I actually found myself leaning into his palm as he took my face in his hand, and it truly was one of those surreal, out of body, bizarre moments when everything just stops all around you. The sounds faded, and the atmosphere vanished. I rested my cheek in his hand and I closed my eyes. And I felt something, until I woke up.

  When reality surfaced seconds later I pulled away just as quickly as the moment had occurred. Turning abruptly, I left Silvana and the 3 guys as I stormed through the throngs of people pushing and shoving until I made my way to the long corridor where people made-out against the dark walls before hitting the exit doors.

  Leaving the club, I ran from the doors, hailed a taxi, and was home within 10 minutes. Locking my door quickly, and rearming my apartment, I quickly stripped myself of my velvet little purple dress in my front hallway and stared at the wall as I stopped everything and sat on the floor.

  And then I cried. Like a big, ugly, awful cry; I bawled my eyes out and wished for all the pain in my chest to stop. I just wanted to be normal and not sad all the time. I wanted to be normal so badly I didn't know how to make the craving for normalcy stop. I didn't know how to be normal, and I didn't know how to stop wishing I was normal.

  I realized that was my one and only night out with my one and only female friend in years, and I ruined it because I was NOT normal once again.

  But Patrick found me shortly after that.

  Apparently, he and his boyfriend heard my sobbing in the hallway, which I still find hard to believe, but that's what I was told. Days later Patrick told me they heard a loud, keening-like cry coming from my apartment and he almost threw up from the intense instant upset he felt when he realized it was me making the awful sound.

  So Patrick and his boyfriend used his key, opened my door, and quickly shut off the alarm. And as I looked up at him, his knees gave out and he fell into me as he grabbed for me.

  And that I remember clearly. A very beautiful, highly dramatic reaction from my very beautiful, highly dramatic Patrick as he collapsed around my body and took me into his arms.

  Crying still, I let Patrick hold me forever. I didn't even care that his boyfriend was watching us silently, and I didn't care that I looked like an ass. I didn't care that I was 23 years old and a complete mess, and I didn't care that Patrick knew what a mess I really was, until suddenly I turned my face and kissed him.

  I don't know how I did it, but I know why. I needed a connection that was safe. I needed to not be lonely. And I needed to just feel something with someone. And thankfully, Patrick kissed me back.

  When I remember it now it’s funny because Patrick was gay, and not just a little gay, but totally and completely gay. He wasn't bi, and he had never, ever been with a woman because he always knew he was gay, but there he was kissing me passionately because I needed it so badly.

  So we kissed. We kissed nice and softly, until it became heavily. We kissed and eventually I felt him touch me a little. Slowly, he took my breasts in his hands, and he played with my nipples. He explored my breasts and my neck and my face as he kissed me. And it was good. I felt good and safe in his hands.

  When I slowly became aware of my surroundings I was amazed to understand Patrick and I were being watched by his boyfriend Stephen. Patrick; all post club sexy, and there I was in my bra and underwear only, because I had stripped my dress off before my crying jag in my hallway.

  I was having a nervous breakdown and Patrick was here with me throughout it. And so we kissed, and explored, and slowly I found myself touching him back. Amazingly, I even justified in my head that I wasn't cheating on my stranger because Patrick was gay, so it's like it didn't count or something.

  I don't know. But I do know I felt an attachment to Patrick without any fear, and that's what I needed then and there. I needed to feel. And I needed it safely. And he was good to me.

  I remember vaguely thinking at the time, not only are all the good ones gay, but man, they know how to kiss, too. I was distracted and I didn't care about anything, and he was so good, I was lifted, and I was walked into my bedroom. I was kissed against a wall, and I was held tightly by him as he wove us through my apartment to my bed.

  And I still didn't care. I kissed him like my life depended on it, which quite honestly it might have that night. I'm not sure, but with the way I was feeling had I not been distracted, to this day I feel like I may have done something very bad to myself, and finally succeeded.

  But Patrick saved me that night. He kissed me back when he knew I needed to be kissed back before I did something very bad. He kissed me, and soon he touched me too.

  Amazingly, I had a brief moment of clarity, and in my brief moment of coherency, I saw Stephen lying on his side beside us watching as Patrick and I made out. And no one spoke or acknowledged the unthinkable between us. I'm sure I knew what was happening but I chose to ignore it so that I wouldn't stop it because I didn't want to stop it. I desperately needed a connection with someone. And I needed it with Patrick because he was safe.

  But for one brief moment I did panic though and everything stopped. I was suddenly aware that Patrick was pushing my panties down my hips, and I felt Stephen's hand on my other hip trying to help. I felt it and panicked, and everything stopped as Patrick looked at me.

  Begging for something I'm sure, he smiled at me and kissed the tip of my nose, like he always did and I relaxed instantly, and that was all it took.

  Really, I should have felt like a whore, but at that age, Patrick was the first man I wanted to sleep with who wasn't my stranger. He was the only man I could allow to touch me without fear. He was gay, therefore safe, and I knew he truly was my friend. So gay or not, I really did trust him with my body.

  Succumbing to our situation, Patrick entered me with his fingers as I watched his face study me. He looked at my naked body and didn't seem disgusted which I'm sure would have killed me in that intense moment. He looked at me like he loved me- not like a man in love, or even like a man in lust, but just like a man who loved me and was willing to perform an act to help heal me. Remembering his look of love, it was really very touching.

  And so we did.

  For one awkward moment, I saw Stephen reach over and give Patrick a condom, as they smiled at each other. For one second I almost came to my deluded senses, jumped up and ran from the room, but just as quickly Patrick, and presumably Stephen, sensed my panic and he shushed me gently while he applied the condom, as Stephen leaned over me and gently kissed my lips.
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  Shocked, my lips barely moved, but he wasn't kissing me aggressively or even sexually. He was soothing and comforting me, and then Stephen whispered against my lips, 'It’s okay, Sadie. Patrick loves you and you're safe.'

  So naturally, or maybe unnaturally, I burst into tears again as Stephen kissed me for real- like a grab his hair and hold him in place against my lips kiss, even as I felt Patrick slowly make his way inside me.

  Kissing Stephen, I didn't care about Patrick entering my body. I didn't care that I was actually having sex with someone who wasn't my stranger. And I didn't care that it would probably become a huge mistake in the morning when I coherently realized I had had sex with my GAY friend and neighbor while heavily kissing his boyfriend on the lips throughout.

  But time continued, and though it was nice, there were no fireworks or even an 'oh my god' moment, but I don't think there needed to be. I wasn't looking to have raise the roof sex, and I wasn't looking for orgasmic bliss to whisk me away. I wanted a connection to someone, and that was all. I wanted to feel something other than nothing. And I did.

  When Patrick was finally ready to release, Stephen seemed to sense it and he stopped kissing me. While Stephen was looking at his boyfriend, I was mesmerized by the look on Patrick's face. He looked so different than my stranger did in this moment of release.

  He looked beautiful and peaceful, or like content. Maybe because this wasn't back arching screaming sex he didn't look like my stranger did during His intense releases, or maybe Patrick never looked like that upon release. I didn’t know. I had been with my stranger and I had the bad time, both which looked so different to me.

  And thankfully Patrick had the sense to look at me as he released and not at his boyfriend, which would have humiliated me I think. Actually, I'm sure had he been looking anywhere other than at me, the sense of uselessness and loneliness would have been so complete as to throw me over the proverbial edge. But he didn't. He smiled at me, leaned in, and kissed my lips as he had his orgasm.

  Shuddering after his release, he didn't flop on top of me, or even say something stupid and pointless. He merely leaned down and turned us so we were spooning. Rubbing his chest against my back he cupped my right breast in his left hand more like a comforting caress than a sexual act, and then he whispered, 'I love you Sadie, and I'm glad I could be with you.' And that was it.

  Stephen left the bed, walked to Patrick's side, presumably to remove the condom from Patrick and he left the two of us alone. Patrick pulled the covers up over us, and unbelievably I fell asleep soundly, quickly, and without the constant pain in my chest I lived with each and every night of my life.

  Hours later, I woke up to Patrick still asleep in bed with me, and no other sound in my apartment so I fell back asleep for another few hours.

  Waking again around 11:30, I actually had to shove Patrick to get him out of my bed, which he did, eventually. And as he walked out of my bedroom, he didn't say a word, which was good because I had a feeling words were going to mess with my head and cause my sudden peace to crash down all around me.

  When I heard my alarm disengage, I wondered about Stephen until I heard them quietly talking in my hallway as they closed my door. Unbelievably, Stephen must have slept on my couch to leave me and Patrick alone. Unbelievably, they had both made a kind of love to me that night. And unbelievably, I felt warmth deep inside me for the first time in years.

  So when Patrick yelled from my door he'd see me later for dinner, I smiled. I didn't feel awkward, and I didn't feel like we had made a mistake that we could never come back from. More amazing still, I didn't feel like my life was going to be over soon, nor did I feel the soul-consuming depression I lived with constantly, in that moment.

  And we were fine. Patrick came back over around 6:00 to make dinner in my apartment.

  Walking in, he leaned over the back of my couch and kissed my cheek, as I lay snuggled up in a blanket. Then he prepared dinner for us.

  And I remember walking into my dining room thinking 'here we go...' when he called me for dinner, but Patrick smiled at me and asked instead, “Do we need to talk about last night?” And shaking my head no, we didn't say another word about the night we kind of made love together as friends.

  And even now when I think back, I realize Patrick really was a little miracle to me at that time. Remembering how handsome and charismatic and charming he was makes me ache with missing him. To this day, when I think of my Patrick, my heart breaks when I remember our sudden end.

  CHAPTER 15

  3 months after the bizarre night I had sex with Patrick, which was 3 months after the miscarriage, which was 4 months after Him, I entered Patrick’s apartment for my morning coffee. He and I had an open door policy for food and coffee, so I helped myself once in a while.

  Walking to Patrick's counter, I saw his thesis. And I don't know why- maybe it was fated. Maybe I was meant for this. Or maybe I was just nosey. I don’t know why, but I looked at his thesis with pride.

  Opening the first page I read the dedication to SMA- my initials, and I was so surprised, I smiled instantly as I snatched it up. After the title followed a 2 line synopsis.

  'The Story of S' was the title, and that’s when I knew.

  'The Story of S- A tragic tale of a woman drowning in misery through years of undiagnosed mental health issues, suffering through life with Borderline Personality Disorder.'

  This was me. Sadie Madeline Adams. I was ‘The Story of S’.

  Running for my home, I took Patrick's thesis and I grabbed my purse and fled my apartment. Unsure of what I was doing or where I should go, I drove hysterically to a park near the high cliffs of our city. I drove to the edge, and sat on the edge, while I lived on the edge, holding my story in my shaking hands.

  And so I read.

  And it was all there, too. Everything. From my rape right after I moved into my apartment, to last month’s crying jag over the rigatoni I had burned. Everything was there, and I realized I had been an experiment, and a test. I was his 4 year PhD thesis.

  I read things from his perspective. I read things from my perspective. I read things from an objective perspective. I read everything. And I WAS a woman drowning in misery.

  Hours passed as I sat on the edge with my legs dangling, looking at my life from this new perspective.

  To say I was devastated is an understatement. To say I was hurt means nothing compared to the despair I felt that day. To say I was embarrassed is also an understatement. I was humiliated, and I was destroyed. Plain and simple.

  I was 'The Story of S' and I couldn't function as I sat on the cliff.

  Reading pages and pages of me was stunning. Literally, I was stunned by Patrick's observations and insights. I was amazed by how much manipulation actually occurred between he and I in those last 4 years. I was simply stunned reading the story of me.

  So I read and reread for 9 1/2 hours the history of those last 4 years of me...

  By 5:30 I was done all but the last chapter. But for some reason I was waiting to read that chapter. For some reason I thought my last chapter would be important, so I waited.

  Eventually, I stood and stretched my aching body as I walked back to my car at the cliffs. I drove completely numb to a corner store nearby. Once there, I bought a pack of smokes and a dreadful coffee, then I returned to my spot on the cliffs.

  My cellphone had been shut off hours before when Patrick had called but I refused to listen to my voicemails. I was homeless and alone. I couldn't return to my apartment, and I didn't know what to do. I was utterly alone. Again.

  Walking back to my cliff-side perch, I lit a cigarette with remarkably steady hands, sipped my gross coffee, and picked up Patrick's thesis for the grand finale.

  And after previously reading his opinions and views of me, I thought little could shock me. I thought there was little else that could hurt me. I thought, what could he possibly write that he hadn't already written?

  But I was wrong.

  Flipping to the fin
al chapter I was again stunned by the graphic descriptions of me and my life. From his observations of my neurotic tendencies, to borderline agoraphobia, to suicidal tendencies to my complete lack of trust in anyone, Patrick nailed me.

  Patrick painted a picture, or rather wrote a thesis, describing the most pathetic woman that had ever existed. Patrick painted me as the most weak-minded, mentally unstable person walking around unmedicated and free of psychiatric assistance ever.

  Patrick painted me as a complete lunatic capable of nothing in this world except for a complete decline into madness and depression.

  In chapter format with subtitled text, he gave a psychiatric condition followed by endless examples of how I fit within the definition of said condition. And he told everything.

  I was stunned. There were so many psychiatric terms mentioned, and though I knew the definition and example of almost every one of his descriptions, admittedly there were a few which stumped me.

  Suicidal, depressive, neurotic, borderline personality disorder, emotionally unstable personality disorder, social anxiety, social psychosis, etc., I understood all too clearly.

  Fits of self-mutilation and excessive alcohol addiction I understood as well. Inability to relate to others was another I knew, and agreed with totally.

  He described how I felt emotions more easily, more deeply, and for longer than most others do. Therefore, he wrote, I have a harder time getting over situations which most people could get over or move past, quicker and easier, causing me to suffer an abnormal amount of time over one specific crisis than the majority would. He even gave percentages and references of the things that occurred to me as basis for his conclusions.