Mary Agnes -  Here’s Why I Never Told You

 
I thought of that little three-year old boy taking everything literally, quaking in fear of you, his mother, the only parent he had ever known.  I thought of his total terror, and of the verbal child abuse no one witnessed since it was whispered in his ear.  No one could hear.  I thought of the darkness that little boy faced, alone, not able to distinguish reality from irony, thinking you would actually kill him.
Your son’s response to your behavior was silence.  Years later I responded to you in the same way.

 That’s why I didn’t tell you–I was abused.

Joy – Here’s Why I Never Told You

Here’s why I never told you: I didn’t have a pen and paper handy. I wasn’t at a computer; couldn’t shoot you an e-mail. I was standing with you, face to face. I was listening to you breathe on the other end of the phone. You confronted me; you asked my opinion; you wished to know what was on my mind. The reason I didn’t tell you is because you’re not going to get an argument, insight or thoughts of any kind from me delivered from lungs to larynx and out through parted lips. The bumpy road from heart to brain to bodily command was blocked and blocked again by weapon-wielding militants, taking words captive and freeing only scraps of clothing and fragments of flesh to prove that they ever existed at all. 

There were times that I told you –

I told you I was going out with my friends despite your objections, that I was 20 years old and needed my freedom or I would suffocate and die, that I hope you understood and I’d be back in the morning.

I told you I was sorry, so sorry that I kissed your boyfriend not once but several times, that though I was young, and drunk, and desperate, it was no excuse and I have always needed you more than him, more than anybody.

I told you how grateful I was to have you as a friend, mentor, soul-buddy and confidante; I told you how glad I was to dance with you on this earth.

I told you that you should never regret the decision you made when I was an infant, that I’d had a wonderful life and wanted nothing, only for you to know that I was happy and well.

I told you that you were the greatest person in my life, even if I didn’t realize it until after you were gone.

Because I had a pen within reach I told you these things. Because I had a moment to breathe and collect and slowly coax the words out of me and into space in the precise order and volume that was required to convey the sentiment. Words flow from my soul through fingers and hands, not throat.

Aloud I trip and stumble and blindly grope. I forget and err and choke and offend. The phone rings and I recoil in horror as if from a snapping turtle that just lunged.  You can’t expect me to tell you when you come at me this way.

Here’s why I never told you: because without a guide to lead me furtively around those armed guards of my speech, or some chemical weapon to wipe them out at least temporarily, I will not, cannot, tell you the truth the whole truth and nothing but. I offer up pieces and leave misunderstood. Understand that I need time in a bubble with my uniball signo and the back of an old bank statement; my laptop flipped open for a fleeting ten minutes. Trust me - I’ll tell you everything you want to know.

But because you asked and expected me to speak – this is why I never told you.

TERRIE - HERE’S WHY I NEVER TOLD YOU

Here’s why I never told you what had happened to me, Mom.  I knew it would break your heart.

You thought Philip was so gorgeous.  That strong and muscular build. That chiseled face. That dreamy smile.  And those astonishing eyes, the crystal blue of the Gulf of Mexico.  We both swooned over him.   We both thought I was lucky to get him.

So how could I tell you what he did?  Oh, I could describe how much I wanted him to kiss me, how I melted when he held me.  You would understand that.  But I never knew myself how it went so quickly from such sweet kisses to such unyielding force.  I didn’t understand why he wouldn’t stop, even when I began to cry.  And I sure as hell didn’t understand why, afterwards, he began to cry, telling me how sorry he was. 

I felt bruised, confused, ashamed.   I got away as soon as I could.  I didn’t return his calls and hoped I would never have to see him again.  But six weeks later, the Ladies Center confirmed what I feared the most.  I was pregnant.

I couldn’t tell you, Mom.  I had just learned of your high school pregnancy, of how much you had suffered, how you went from beauty queen to damaged goods.  And although you loved your baby, my red-headed and volatile sister, your eyes spoke of the pain you had endured to have her.  I just couldn’t come to you and tell you that I was going to end up the same way.

So there was no question what I would need to do.  I could either hurt myself or hurt everyone else in my life.  The choice seemed very clear. 

“Besides, it’s not really a baby yet, is it?” I asked my best friend Carolyn.  We had been praying to be good Christian girls throughout high school.  I guess mostly we had succeeded.  We didn’t even have anything scandalous to confess in our senior confessions.  We had to make something up.

”No, it’s still just a bunch of cells,” she said soothingly.  “Besides, God will forgive you.”

So she helped me to raise the money I needed.  We combined our paychecks from Baker’s Shoe Store in the mall.  She gave me her allowance.  We talked about having a car wash or selling Krispy Kreme doughnuts.  But in the end, I was $60 short.  Finally, I called Philip.  He already had a new girlfriend, a beautiful blonde.  He met me in a grocery store parking lot, and she was in the car with him.  They were on their way to go water-skiing.   A month later, he called me and said he really needed the $60 back.

And then there was that awful day.  I bought a pair of toe socks because they said it would be cold in the clinic.  They were olive green and rust-colored, with the names of cities stitched all over them.  I gazed at Paris and Rome and New York from between the stirrups and tried not to cry as the kind nurse held my hand.

Afterwards, I looked around the ward at the other women with me.  One was very young and sobbed as if she was breaking in half.  One was old and tired-looking, and never opened her eyes.  One vomited as her boyfriend held her hair back and stroked her shoulders.  As I waited for the doctor to say I could leave, I thought that one day I would write about this.  I would call it Even Nice Girls Do.

It was years later when someone else told you.  The sadness in your face almost killed me. 

“I would have taken care of you, Terrie,” you said, your hazel eyes loving me across the kitchen table.  I leaned over and put my face in your lap and wept.

Cissy – Why I Never Told You

I’ve never seen your actual face, only evidence of it in your daughter, my daughter, our child. Can you feel she’s safe, been placed in loving arms and is not languishing any longer in an orphanage? I can’t tell you my thoughts. I don’t have the ability to check in with you. I don’t know your name or address - only the child you carried in your belly, who you passed through your uterus and into this world.

Sometimes I think we are like the two chambers of a heart and you pumped the blood out and I pump it in. Or maybe you pumped it in and I pump it out. We are each her mother.

If I could take the blue of the sky, the green of the trees and the yellow in the petal of a sunflower I would make a palate for you and use the beauty of nature to try to reach you. I would send secret messages in mores code through shooting stars and tell you, “Today, we went to the museum. She, now five, was exuberant. She stood inside the bubble making machine trying to create a see through film around her. She placed particles of rug under magnifying glasses and used her hands to petal a bike which powered en electric bulb.

If I could I would tell you, on the subway ride home she cradled in my arms, a baby in fetal position and said, “Mama. Mama. I’m tired.” Fifteen minutes later as the train emptied she hung from the silver handles hanging from the ceiling as an Olympian. She lifted both legs waist high as I spotted her. Will you look for me, a tourist, and you’re your girl when the Olympics are in China. I will look for you on shows about rural villages in China, wonder if you were impacted at all by the earthquake.

If I could I would tell you how your daughter, my girl, has missed you, I have held her while she is deep in a keening cry, a thundering primal scream which makes me ache each time. I scratch and rub her sleepy back, say, “It’s o.k. There. There. I love you. You’re safe,” until she returns to sleep, sometimes on me, “the mommy mattress.” And when she’s out, my husband, her father says, “That was awful.”

When she screams “mama” in that guttural way he says, “She’s not crying for you.”

“No,” I say, “I know,” and there is little else to say.

How many times did she cry, unanswered in the orphanage for your arms, your blood, your body? And how did she feel when you did not come? Didn’t you hear her? What could have kept you from running to her side I can’t know. But I wish I could tell you she’s o.k. She’s happy, curious, radiant and playful. She’s deep. thoughtful but also silly.

She asks about you, for you and is protective about you. “If anyone asks me anything about my birthmother I’m gonna say ‘that’s my personal business’ – a phrase she learned verbatim from Beth O’Malley’s My China Workbook. She announces this to me with ferocity after crying about missing you.

I am realizing how much you mean to me and how distinct and private her journey to you will be. I hesitate to say too much of her now. I can only tell you my part, how grateful I am you carried her to full term and that she was left in a place where she would be found. I am sorry you live in a country where people cannot legally leave children they cannot keep but cannot legally keep children they give birth to either. Can I tell you I try not to judge you? Once, when she said she loved you, as much as she loves me, and then looked up at me as though scared, I kissed her head and said, “I love her too honey. She made you” and felt a grace I didn’t know I possessed.

I don’t always know the right thing to say to her. But at least we can talk. You, I can only say I imagine in the quiet stillness of night. I send you thoughts from my heart and hope they are messages that travel and bring reassurance. She’s wonderful and I could fill a letter a day detailing our lives.

You share her blood. I share her home. You share her ethnicity. I share her hugs, giggles and days. She’s a treasure.

If I could make the jet stream speak I’d speak to you. If I could turn air into an aroma that would bring you a moment of my time I would take you to her, to watch and see her for yourself as she is in the act of becoming.

On father’s day, we gave her dad a photo album of their trips together hiking and walking and playing. The last one was of her crossing the monkey bars.

“Look at that fierce determination on your face. I love it,” he said.

“I don’t. My hands hurt looking at the picture. I can feel it.” She rubbed her hands together as though the rubbing out the ache. She feels you that deeply. I’m trying to tell you what I can’t.

Paula - Here’s Why I Never Told You

Dear Julie Elizabeth,

It’s just after 6 a.m. and I am sitting in the Adirondack chair on the back porch wrapped in the afghan from the family room sofa. The backyard lawn is covered by a rented tent with five tables arranged under it. My fingers are looped through the handle of my coffee mug as I think about this afternoon’s bridal shower, in honor of you. I sip the hot coffee and gaze at the white and green tent, the tables and chairs under it, and through to the garden on the other side where the purple and pink lupine and the peonies are in bloom.  

The scene blurs as I see you once again in my memory as a little girl; talkative, curious and imaginative at home but very shy meeting other children. That’s why I told you that going to preschool would be fun for you, because you were going to meet all kinds of different kids your age and some of them would be talkative, curious, imaginative and maybe a little bit shy like you. I told you it would get easier to say Hello when you got to know the other kids and explored all the different preschool activities. And that’s what happened. You got very good at saying Hello and you loved school, gained lots of confidence and you grew up to become a friendly and caring young woman. Today, at your bridal shower, your family will be there. But most of the people coming to celebrate with you and your fiancé are friends who you said Hello to along your journey to today.

Over the summer we will continue to plan for your October wedding day, in Ontario, Canada. It’s a beautiful seven hour drive along the Mass Pike, the New York Thruway and north to the Thousand Islands. Your new life as a married permanent resident of Canada will begin, far away from the familiar world you have created. You may feel homesick at some point.  Here’s why I never told you it is easier to say Hello than Good-bye. It’s because for the first few days that I dropped you off at preschool, at the same time I was gently pushing you to learn to say Hello, I wept softly on the drive home because it was hard to say Good-bye to you. That first successful separation, (two and a half hours seemed like a long time then) when you learned to say Hello to life away from home and I learned to say Good-bye to you, was the beginning of your individualism and autonomy and a parenting lesson for me which I have repeated countless times with you over the last twenty two years. I know you will make friends in your new home because you know how to say Hello. And even though I know we will be in touch often, there will be tears as we say Good-bye.

Love,

Mom

Kim - Here’s Why I Never Told You

Here’s why I never told you how painful it was when our friendship took a hiatus. I am not sure exactly how it happened, but it felt like a dagger to my soul.

I never told you that I couldn’t handle your distance. I know that you were going through a difficult time, but unfortunately, timing was not our friend. I was plummeting into a very dark place. I couldn’t be the one to reach out. I could not call. I wanted to reach for that phone, to hear your voice, to ask for help. I was spiraling down a drain of despair, while you were circling your own. And then time passed, and the sadness turned to anger, and then back to an immeasurable depth of sadness.

Here’s why I never told you what I was going through. I couldn’t. I could not speak of it.

And then time went on and when I did reach out to you, you were so cold. It was like reopening that wound all over again.

I never told you that seeing you at his wake was like a spiritual healing. To feel your arms around me, to know that we still loved each other. To realize that life is too short.

Here’s why I never told you how much I loved you and how much I hurt when you were gone. I felt you might not understand the depth of my feelings, we are so different you and I, and yet still connected by a history, by a genuine liking, by a friendship that passed the test of time; back when we felt strong and invincible, when we still thought we could control this life of ours.

So now I will tell you. You are so very important to me. To go through this life with an old friend, it makes the getting out of bed easier, the painful times more tolerable, the good times richer. To share a laugh with someone who remembers when -  it feels safe, it feels like going home.

Barb – Why I Never Told You

Of the two of us, I was certainly the luckier.  I was fortunate enough to know you, love you, and see you as the good soul you were.  I’m sorry I wasn’t brave enough to acknowledge the truth sooner.  Now that I have all the time in the world, I have that luxury; not in any meaningful way, it’s only for me now.  I am not sorry for the time we spent together.  In spite of the endless repetitive arguments, the passive aggressive behavior, and the hard times, there are still good memories, and love, to the extent we were capable of it. 

You were the last thing I was looking for under the circumstances, so of course, I found you.  We met at a hotel restaurant in Trenton, NJ.  It was the middle of the CPA exam and you had gotten lost on the way to your hotel room.  I think I managed hygiene that week.  I was not exactly “on the prowl”.  I was 23 and you were 27.  I’ve often thought that people latch onto each other in a crisis.

There were periods of unemployment, losses of loved ones, your eye surgery and more CPA exams to come.  I watched your businesses take off.  I couldn’t see that those hard times became the threads of the hair shirt that was us.  Once you can truly accept someone both as they are and for the dreams attached, handling life becomes as breathing in tandem.  I’m sorry I had it backwards.  While crisis can pull apart, it is not the glue that binds.  Love that lasts is that which gives your soul a home.

I am also sorry that it took me seven years to understand what I was doing.  Being alone scared me yet you should have been free to find someone who could accept you as you were.  After the “forced engagement” ended, it amazed me that you spoke to me at all, much less considered me a friend.  Loving yourself enough to understand that unhappiness IS a good enough reason not to marry was more strength than I possessed.  Returning that ring was the hardest thing I have ever done before or since.  I knew in my heart that I could not hate you.  You had hurt me to the core, yet it was not in me.  There is a difference between evil and flawed.  I could still see the good in you.

As we built our separate lives, I couldn’t help but admire how you truly understood what it meant to be a friend.   I was a little jealous, and happy that there were a lot of people thinking of you, feeding you, and giving you things, though you had no real “need”.  I am clear that there was the unspoken that if either needed the other, day or night, one would be there for the other.  What went unspoken is the permanent mistake I must live with.

The last time we spoke was all too brief.  Had I known it would be the last time, I’m not sure I would have let you off the phone.  I would have told you that I still loved you after all these years.  You deserved to be happy with someone, even if it wasn’t me.  You were a good person loved by many.  You were always welcome in my home.  I wish there was something I could do to ease your sadness.  There were many things, maybe I’d said some before but my memory is fuzzy.  When they found you in your garage, I had no idea how much it would hurt, how much I would miss you.  No one expects to pass away at 44, you were a life interrupted. 

I didn’t tell you then because I hoped that a part of you already knew and I assumed, naively, that I had more time.

Kathy - The Reason I Never Told You

The reason I never told you is

it just never came up.

There never seemed to be a good time.

I couldn’t quite find the words.

I wasn’t prepared for your surprise

or sadness.

Shock

or disgust.

The reason I never told you is

I didn’t know myself.

I couldn’t quite follow the thread.

I wasn’t prepared for my own surprise

or sadness.

Shock

or disgust.

The reason I never told you is

it’s none of your business.

You haven’t earned that right

to see into my heart and soul

though you may think you have.

The reason I never told you is

I like having secrets.

Places within me that are untouched

by human hands.

Kept for me alone

like a hidden stash of chocolate

in the cupboard.

The reason I never told you is

I don’t know how

to explain in words

what is hieroglyphics in my mind.

Shadowy figures that almost make themselves known

before slipping back into the alleyways.

The reason I never told you is

that I prefer to be Observer

not Observed. Scientist

not Bug under the microscope.

Dressed, not naked.

Slippery, not static.

A chameleon

not a filled in crossword puzzle.

The reason I never told you is

I hate to repeat myself

and if you didn’t get it

in my touch

or my tears

or my poetry

it ceased to be worth it to me

to have you hear me.

The reason I never told you is

You.

Rajka – My Father Never Told Me

My father never told me why he abandoned us when I was 7 years old.  He never told me why he never came back.  During my whole childhood my father was with us for one year only. That was when he came back from the war as a war hero.  A year later, he left one morning and never came back.  I shiver at the thought how much I needed him.

When somebody asked me where my father was I would burst  in tears and run away.  I began inventing stories, such as:  My father would never leave us.  Or: he left for an important confidential mission. Or:  Sometimes I meet him secretly. 

I felt guilty for lying but once I started it was impossible to stop.  My stories about my father added excitement and fun to my childhood years. However my great inventions collapsed when I saw him again.  I was 18 years old.  He told me:

“I was in prison for 3 years.  In solitary 40 days. They asked me to give them names.  I would not squeal on people who were fighting with me.  They could not break me.”

“Why didn’t you come home after prison?”

“I will tell when we get to know each other better”.

I was disappointed but wanted to hear more.  I wanted to see the real man behind the hero image.

I slowly got to know my father.  More than once he told me:

‘I don’t need anything from anybody.  I do not depend on anybody.”

50 years since the end of World War II, civil war broke out. The chaos and fear quickly spread over the country.  The airports were closing.  I had to get back to my family in US. There was the last plane, Lufthansa, ready to take off.  A mob of people were fighting to get on the plane. Several guards came to disperse the crowd. 

I pushed my way through and tapped on back of one of the guards:

“Pardon me. I must leave, I must get back to the US.”

“Are you a refugee?”

“Yes.” 

He escorted me to the plane. He told the steward:

“Find a seat for this woman.  She is a refugee.”

I left my country, on the German plane, without a ticket.

I had to escape the horrors of the war.  This time, I knew, I would remember it all. 

Last time I saw my father he was 94. The country was at war, the curfew was on. The shelters were crowded. My father, the hero, was boasting that he will never hide in the basement.     

My father never told me how could I put together his image of a hero, the man who could not be broken – and mind of a man who deserted his family and followed only the demands of his pride.  His last daring act was:  he put on his Sunday suite, a tie, a hat, and with his walking cane walked out, in spite of the curfew orders. 

An anonymous old man was found lying off the road.  Somebody took him to he hospital.  He was left on the stretcher for hours.  The hospital staff was overwhelmed with wounded soldiers.  Nobody cared for this old war hero.

My father died as a victim of the war in the country he fought for. 

My father left one Sunday morning and never came back.

Rajka – That’s Why I Did Not Tell You

We were the best of friends.  For five years we met each morning and walked, hand in hand, to work. We worked in the same office, often sharing assignments.       

Once we got to the office the first thing was to light a cigarette.  If I was the first one to reach for cigarette, I would offer you one and you always took it.  Seldom,  when you lit yours, you never offered me one. Smokers’ etiquette is:  one does not light a cigarette without first offering it to others.  I did not think about it then, because I was the one offering and you were the one accepting. 

With coffee and cigarette we would sit at our desks and began to work, chatting most of the time.  After spending eight to ten hours a day we never ran out of subjects.

We were more different than similar.  You were tall and slim.  I was average height and slightly chubby.  You wore different outfit each day. I was alternating between my few. You wore make up and expensive jewelry.  I never used make up and had only one ring. You were not very good looking:  with very thick glasses sitting on your prominent nose, you could pass for an awl.  I was told that I was  “pretty.”  You thought of yourself as being very sophisticated and above average intelligence.  I did not think much of myself, but when I did, I was glad to be “average” without any hang-ups.     

I often wondered:  why does this homely looking girl invest most of her salary into cloths, jewelry, hair.  Shoes!  I almost forgot your shoes!  They were all hand made by the best shoemaker in town.  He, or you, made sure that his insignia was prominently seen on his shoes.  My shoes were hand-me-down from my aunt. 

We did not choose each other.  We were thrown together and mutually dependant. The success or failure in our work was judged by our common efforts.  

In those five years of our friendship I sometimes doubted my sincerity.  I deliberately pretended I was not aware of your egocentricity, selfishness and your “superior” attitude. How could I befriend such shallow person?  Out of necessity

I never told you how and why, after five years of days blending into each other, our friendship came to an abrupt end. All because of one cigarette.

One day I ran out of cigarettes.  I asked you if you had one.

“Sorry, I don’t have any”. 

Those words cut through me like a sword. A sword that killed the friendship.  I saw you put a pack into your purse.  One cigarette has no power to brake up friendship.  It was your shameless lying, and lack of basic understanding what makes us decent human beings.  With this one cigarette you saved for yourself, you lost the best friend you ever had.

That’s why I did not tell you what caused my sudden change, why I found excuses for not meeting you in the mornings, and why I would never ask you for a cigarette but kept on offering you mine.  I did not see how could I make you more miserable than you were. Maybe I felt superior and wanted to be forgiving, however bitter, and you never knew it.

That is why I did not tell you because I could not  break through your world of

of self-deception.