Dear Boys,

Remember me? I’ll lay odds-on that you do. I was the small, peculiar girl in the weird clothes that wouldn’t sleep with you but loved you just the same. The girl who casually accepted the unacceptable with a nonchalant ease and the girl with the brother who’d have terrorised you had I not been so accepting. Well, I’m not much changed but, thanks to medical enlightenment, I have come to realise that, contrary to my beliefs, I was not the fuck up you all left me thinking I was. Here’s why.

So, whilst I was at secondary school, you were working in one of the local factories. You were my intellectual equal, and my first love. Our families knew each other and you were definitely not the boy ‘my mother warned me about’. (Come to think of it, she never warned me about any boys). I spent every waking hour with you or thinking about you. You’d join me as I babysat for the family up the road and fill my head with your nonsensical ideologies, and our sense of humour was spot on. Long walks across town always culminated in an even longer chat sat on the cold wall outside my house. We’d talk about Thatcher and how she was killing our generation, stealing our future. We discussed our likes and dislikes, man; we’d talk about any old shit! But the chats I remember most are the ones where you told me that, one day, I’d come to your house and find you hanging in your room. I was 15 for fucks sake, and, as I recently found out, chemically unable to deal with extreme emotion. (Though I did try, by offering you a knife, I think). For years I thought I’d done something wrong but, no. It was you.

I hear you’re married now, with a child. I’m relieved you never felt the need to dangle yourself from a light fitting or such like. I’m pleased you’ve moved on and are happy. Most of all I am bloody delighted to have shifted the burden of your insanity from my own. I never really needed it.

After (well, in between) all that there was us. There isn’t an awful lot to say about us is there. Only that you were my childhood crush, until I found another. (Love is a fickle thing isn’t it?) We half-heartedly gave a relationship a go but you were not the cutie of my past and as you revealed that after walking me home at night, you carried on to my friend’s house to fuck her, I thought, ‘Cool. You’re not getting it from me so… yeah… needs must.’ What, seriously?? I actually thought that? Well, it is NOT cool! When I look back and wonder where my self-esteem went, I can almost see me handing it over to you. Thanks for that.

College was great and that was where you and I met. We should have been ‘real’. I mean a proper boyfriend and girlfriend thing but I think we were destined to be just friends. I wanted you to take charge, to guide me because I had no idea what to do. Instead you left me, stoned, in the middle of a town, I think. I don’t really remember so you have nothing to feel shit about! I was with you when I learned of the suicide of another ex boyfriend. I was with you when your ex girlfriend broke in with a knife, threatening to kill me. But I wasn’t with you when you finally grew up and did something meaningful with your life, assuming you did, of course!

Finally, we get to you. My knight. I’m really not sure what you saw in me at all you know. I always assumed that you just loved the fact I had tits and a pulse but, as you have since pointed out, many of the girls in the pub (indeed all of them), had tits and a pulse. So, I guess, there must have been something else. Whatever it was you have triumphed where everyone else fell short. And I am so very thankful. Thankful because I am now the woman I always knew I could be. Sure, I’ll always carry that insanity gene but I have learned how to moderate it now, thanks to you (and a daily dose of Thyroxine). It is you alone, though, who has single-handedly built my self-esteem back up to a manageable height. It is you who ensures my soul is kept secure and safe. You are utterly perfect for this bundle of weirdness and I heartedly thank you for your unerring patience.

I am a very lucky nutter :)

Love, forgiveness and all the water under the bridge you require,

Elvegren

©Lisa Lee 2014, sleeping in Open Letters (Illustration by Lady Of Sorrows)

My First Brush with Danger

Small and peculiar, I was content in my own company.

Introvert and singular, even I failed to notice me.

At the troublesome age of sixteen I attracted a gaze or two. The clothes became peculiar and singular, while I remained small and introvert. I should have been a worry for all concerned yet no one noticed me at all.

In a small town, as introverted as myself, I carved a me sized shape. My outgoing confidence betrayed my inward awkwardness. My two large brothers protected my cool innocence. But that couldn’t last forever.

Pubs, pubs and more pubs. What else is a girl to do? I smoked and drank like a man, dressed like a wood nymph, froze people out. Until I met the dad of a man who was a friend of a friend. I liked that friend. I thought he was cool.

A drunken night, no words exchanged just gazes. “You confuse me,” said my friend. “You have no idea what you do to men.” Hmm, and I downed my pint and rolled another. Cold and indifferent, I shrugged. The dad of the friend (who I thought was cool), said,

“Your face is exquisite. I would like to photograph you.”

“All right,” said I and got into his car.

We head out of town, this dad and I, the friend (his son) in the back with me.

We pull up to a barn, a converted barn and I’m not as impressed as I should be.

I remember little else, I was quietly drunk, though I do recall the light switch.

It was on the wrong side of the wall and it mattered to me. Much more than what could’ve happened next.

I woke up the next day, in my bed in my house with my mum making breakfast downstairs.

My recollection was vague but I knew I’d been good, my friend had been there the whole time. For months subsequent I would ask this chap, “Are the pictures done yet, are they okay?” He'd smile and look kind of sheepish.

Finally, I asked and, finally, he said, 

“Lisa, they are the pictures of a quiet beauty taken by a lecherous, drunken old bastard.” He stopped short of adding, “Who, if I hadn’t have been there, would’ve taken full advantage of your own insobriety.” 

That friend of mine remained confused about me but I became wiser that night. 

For dirty old men are there throughout life but to get into one’s car is not right.

©Lisa Lee 2013, sleeping in Elvegren Life