There's a guy that has been "missing" for almost two months. And there is a body that has been found. I didn't really know the guy, but my friends did... and I do know that at least part of him was hurting inside. And odds are that he is now, in fact, dead. And a victim of "foul play." Although I didn't know him... this is stirring up emotions inside me.
I had a friend named Pam. I met her when I used to travel to Fort Wayne to work. Pam and I quickly became friends... but we never really knew what bonded us together so tightly. I was secretly in my own hell. Hated my job. Hated that I had "sold out" for money, but trying to justify it because it was allowing me to break the chains of debt. I had no time for me. Family. Friends. No time to breathe. And I met Pam.
Pam and I hung out a lot after work. Even though I wasn't supposed to "fraternize" with the "help." Pam was a beautiful person. Very spirited. Strong. Hilarious. And sad. She wouldn't tell me she was sad. But just one look at her swallow an entire bottle of beer in one gulp... told me so. And there I was, in my own hell, my own sadness... unable to violate the comfortable laughter... and ask her what was truly hurting her. To confront her. To beg her to be kind to herself. To know that she was loved.
And Pam died.
Pam was alone. In another country. Studying to become a doctor just to please her beloved stepfather. Hiding her painful secrets and the pain of those secrets from the family she so adored, and that hopefully adored her too. I had been thinking of how I should have called her the very day that she died. I had wondered why she hadn't responded to the email I had sent that eerily said, "Please at least let me know you are alive."
So I never got to tell Pam that I loved her. For her. Despite her internal struggles... despite her drunken foolishness. Despite her pissing her own pants as a grown woman. That I loved her sarcasm. Her obnoxious laugh. Her freckles. How much she loved her stepfather... and how desperately she yearned to make him proud. I never got to tell Pam it was going to be okay. Never got to tell her that she could cry on my shoulder. Even punch me in the face, if it would keep her going for just one more day. I never got to tell Pam that life, no matter how painful it can be, is worth living.
I didn't even get to go to Pam's funeral. I didn't know her parents. Didn't know who to get in touch with regarding the funeral. I never got to say "Goodbye" to her... and I never wanted to.
I had a friend named Pam. I met her when I used to travel to Fort Wayne to work. Pam and I quickly became friends... but we never really knew what bonded us together so tightly. I was secretly in my own hell. Hated my job. Hated that I had "sold out" for money, but trying to justify it because it was allowing me to break the chains of debt. I had no time for me. Family. Friends. No time to breathe. And I met Pam.
Pam and I hung out a lot after work. Even though I wasn't supposed to "fraternize" with the "help." Pam was a beautiful person. Very spirited. Strong. Hilarious. And sad. She wouldn't tell me she was sad. But just one look at her swallow an entire bottle of beer in one gulp... told me so. And there I was, in my own hell, my own sadness... unable to violate the comfortable laughter... and ask her what was truly hurting her. To confront her. To beg her to be kind to herself. To know that she was loved.
And Pam died.
Pam was alone. In another country. Studying to become a doctor just to please her beloved stepfather. Hiding her painful secrets and the pain of those secrets from the family she so adored, and that hopefully adored her too. I had been thinking of how I should have called her the very day that she died. I had wondered why she hadn't responded to the email I had sent that eerily said, "Please at least let me know you are alive."
So I never got to tell Pam that I loved her. For her. Despite her internal struggles... despite her drunken foolishness. Despite her pissing her own pants as a grown woman. That I loved her sarcasm. Her obnoxious laugh. Her freckles. How much she loved her stepfather... and how desperately she yearned to make him proud. I never got to tell Pam it was going to be okay. Never got to tell her that she could cry on my shoulder. Even punch me in the face, if it would keep her going for just one more day. I never got to tell Pam that life, no matter how painful it can be, is worth living.
I didn't even get to go to Pam's funeral. I didn't know her parents. Didn't know who to get in touch with regarding the funeral. I never got to say "Goodbye" to her... and I never wanted to.
And her number is still in my cell phone. I can't delete it. I know that no matter how desperately I wish that she would answer if I call... she can't. But I can't let go of that one little bit I have left of her. Sometimes, I hear her laughter. And it makes me smile.
I wonder how she felt the day she died. If she meant to die, or if it was merely an accidental overdose of self-medication self-prescribed for her lonely angst. And I remember being in my garage, painting doors for my house. Being irritated about how tedious it was... and then realizing that Pam died at 26. She never got to buy a house and get pissed about painting doors. She never got a chance to have kids, to get married... maybe even to "simply" feel loved. And I still... a year later... feel such a sorrow for her loss. A longing for her to have just one more chance. The ability to at least hug her... and tell her that although I couldn't save her... she, in a way, saved me.
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