A little while ago, I shared a correspondence with a woman who once found this site by searching for “cool futon covers” on the web. She was a single mother (the search was for her daughters’ new futon), and she told me that she gained a new consciousness after reading my entries. She led me to believe that this somehow changed her life, a woman who was beginning to realize that she had come to the end of the direction of her life in her early thirties, and that she grew up too quickly, and couldn’t relate to her teenage daughter.

She had always been nervous, and what I believe was a little intimidated, with our correspondence; I could tell that she was putting up a wall, a sort of separation to keep her distance. When I brought this up to her, she acknowledged it. Later, she sent me this letter.

This is me. Without spellcheck or the comfort of a cut + paste option. Ink is honest. Even more I hesitate before completing the thought/sentence. But I wanted to give something more and this seems like an acceptable amount for now.

What if I am just “trite”? I established that opinions are irrelevant, so what the hell.

I had a massage tonight + I feel better, physically. I can move my neck and look over my shoulders. I was beginning to look like a little old lady when I drove, turning my entire body at the waist to look left or right. It cost me $80 to not be in pain. Funny, that’s about the amount that my company paid me to get in this shape. Ironic.

I just climbed into Jessi’s top bunk of her bed + hugged her. She didn’t hug me back, but she didn’t push me away either. That’s progress. We argue over the most insanely stupid things. It is usually by accident that we find ourselves getting along these days. Putting forth an effort doesn’t seem to work at the moment. I suppose that will change over time….but I sure do miss her.

It is late. I’ve had my bath, I ate dinner (egg salad + cheetoes). I won’t read tonight. I have enough in my head right now. Besides, I’m afraid I will be tempted to stay up too late. I can’t function on a few hours of sleep like some people. I need a solid seven hours minimum…and that’s been rare lately. I have a big closing at 8am with a very important client. She is there because of me. I’d love to tell the primadonna bitch to kiss my ass, but she pays my bills…so instead — I will kiss hers. Being a grown up sucks.

I wonder what it would be like to “check out” of this world? To give in to the notion of insanity and be forgiven anything + everything for lack of a functioning mind? Perhaps that sounds a bit dramatic — but for me it sounds like peace. If only I could somehow be sure that I could find my way back — maybe then it would be a viable option. I’d never have the guts. I couldn’t let go of the controls. Voluntary insanity — — now there’s a fantasy I could play with. But alas, I would never make it in a world without logic + order. Wow. I have written non stop. No more hesitating. I realize I’m no longer breaking up the paragraphs correctly: and I’m sure I’m starting sentences with the word “and”. Ha! I haven’t reread one thought, haven’t ripped out a page + started over — see — it’s just me.

I could tell that just from talking with me, learning how I understand my life, she was beginning to understand many parts of hers that she wasn’t comfortable thinking about. Raymond Lindquist once said, “Courage is the power to let go of the familiar”, and I admired her for what seemed to be a great effort to share herself with a stranger.

For a while now, our correspondence has stopped. It was her decision, and something I assume to have ended only because she has given no response and no reason. She always told to me of her dreams, to one day buy a motorcycle and take the highway to the woods, instead of her exit home. From there she would save the world, one tree at a time. I’ve always hoped that that’s what happened. That the reason why she stopped replying was because she took Jessi with her, and left everything else behind.

And I wish her all the best.