It's Time

I think it's time you know the truth about who I am. I've wanted to tell you from the start, but…well, I just imagine the worst. But I think it might be time.

So, here it goes.

The truth is, I only found Vocal because I was looking for you.

Perhaps, I should start from the beginning.

You may remember me. I grew up with your mom. She and my older sister were best friends and your aunt was my best friend. The four of us, with their little sister tagging along most of the time, spent half of our childhood joined at the hip. Sometimes your uncle and the neighbor boys tagged along. This leaves the story of my childhood inextricably bound to my memories of your mother and her sisters. They felt like bonus sisters, always there through it all: the good, the bad, and the terribly ugly, teeth-too-big-for-your-mouth, phases.

Summers became epic sleepovers, one night out on our trampoline, the next in your grandparents living room, the next back over at my place in the basement. Back and forth, we'd take turns as long as our parents put up with it. One time, in the middle of the school year, the three of them stayed with us for an entire week while their parents took a trip to Hawaii. We only had one bathroom and five girls getting ready for school at the same time, but still, I look back on that as one of the greatest weeks.

Throughout the years, we shared nights of fireworks, trick-or-treating, hide-n-seek, ghost stories, and toilet-papering the neighbors. We had grand adventures at Deer Creek(pronounced crick, not creek), hiking up Timp, and exploring the neighborhood. We climbed trees, built Barbie towns, shared picnics, and worked on our tans together.

One time, your mom taught me all the words to Sir Mix-a-lot's "Baby Got Back." She had painstakingly written out all the words, by hand, as she pushed play, stop, rewind, play, over and over, on her Ghetto Blaster. I used that knowledge to simultaneously impress and horrify my children a few months ago.

As we grew up, we giggled together over boys we liked, learned to put on makeup, swooned over NKOTB and the cast of 90210, and dreamed of what we'd be when we grew up. Our childhood faded into adolescence and five little girls became five teenage girls, barreling head long into adulthood.

I remember when your mom met your dad and started talking about him, constantly. They were inseparable from the start. One day, they drove past me as I was walking home, honked and held up this adorable ball of black fur, Yoshi, the cutest little puppy they had bought together. Soon after came the proposal. We celebrated their wedding and your mother made the most stunning bride. We squealed in joy when we learned you were on your way the following year. Then, in the middle of your baby shower, I knocked your mom’s wedding photo, clunk, clunk, clunk, down the stairs. Everyone stopped and looked at me as I turned tomato red.

My sister got married next and quickly started having babies of her own. Their friendship only grew tighter as they waded through the difficulty of young motherhood together. One time, I went to lunch with your mom and my sister; of course you and my nephew came along. You tried to drink out of her straw and your mom told us how the week before she had let you and her next sip of soda included a soggy, cold chunk of French fry. I have never shared a straw with any of my children because of that story.

In one summer the rest of us got married, both of your aunts, your uncle, and me, four weddings, no funerals, within five months. Your mom celebrated with each of us and then again when we started having babies of our own.

All the while, I watched you grow into a beautiful little girl, full of excitement and so smart.

But then, Summer of 2004, everything went wrong. None of us were to blame but all of us carried guilt.

You know the story; the truth about the monster that destroyed our world.

Your mom made the choice that was right for her, for your family. A choice I tried my best to understand, even though it hurt so much.

I haven’t seen you or your mother since that summer.

I sent her a message twice. Once to say she didn’t have to respond, but I wanted her to know I loved her and still thought about her, so she would know she wasn't alone. The second time, to let her know my father died.

I wanted to talk to her a thousand other times.

We all did.

But I tried to keep my distance out of respect.

Others did not.

Seventeen years went by and I heard you had become a writer, won some awards, and published some stories. It was crazy to think you were all grown up and accomplishing amazing things. So, I Googled you. I looked for your writing, determined to support you in our shared passion, even if you never knew it.

Your story was the first thing I ever read on Vocal.

It was the story of why fear dominated your entire life, fear of the rest of us.

I sat there reading the story of how you felt hounded, stalked by your mother’s family and friends. Finally, you felt brave enough to put yourself out there, in the world.

And there I was, cyberstalking you.

Okay, that might be an exaggeration. I simply looked you up and read stories you had posted on a public platform. But that's how I felt in the moment. I had become the epitome of your fear.

But that didn't stop me from subscribing to you so I could read more.

I told myself I only wanted to support your writing. But I also longed for a lost connection to a missing piece of my childhood. You hadn’t posted anything in months. Months became years.

While I waited, I explored Vocal and found exactly what I needed in my life. I had always put my writing aspirations on hold for some distant future date. But Vocal promised me an outlet for my passion. After years of someday, I began writing and published my first stories. Along the way, I created amazing friendships. Eventually, I found success.

Every once in a while, I would go back to that first story I read. I would type out a long comment about how appreciative I was that you had written your version of the story. I wanted you to know that it helped me understand your mother more and how I saw her bravery clearly for the first time through your words. More than that, I wanted you to know it helped me find a community that changed my life. Where would I be without Vocal?

But then I would erase it because I am a coward.

Eventually, I thought you would never return to Vocal and I wrote a poem for your mother. Part of me hoped that somehow she would stumble upon it someday. Considering you hadn't been active on Vocal in four years, I knew that was very unlikely.

A few weeks later, at my brother-in-law’s birthday party, I stepped away for a break. The August sun beat down on me. The crowds and noise overwhelmed my mind. So, I slipped inside to sit and pulled open Vocal on my phone.

I saw the little dot next to the notification bell that can sometimes feel like a drug.

I clicked on it, completely unprepared for the shock to come.

There was your name. You published a new story.

I opened it, read about your current life, and cried.

Then I typed in a comment. I complimented your writing and expressed hope you would find the same support on Vocal that I love.

Then I paused.

Do I tell her?

I should, but what if it makes her afraid to publish more stories.

I chickened out and left the comment without the personal information.

A few hours later, we were headed home and I again pulled open my phone. There was the little dot again, you had responded.

I typed in a response…do I tell her?

No, how do I explain?

Maybe she already knows who I am. Her mom would recognize my name for sure. I desperately wanted to believe you knew and didn't care.

But if not and I tell her, I might be responsible for her never writing again. I can’t do that.

Then I thought about the relationships I have built with other creators on Vocal. What if I continue to comment on her stories, she comments back, we become Vocal pals, and then she realizes who I am?

Wouldn’t that be worse? I can’t build a relationship on deception.

But could I risk making you afraid, causing you to retreat back into the shadows and give up writing?

I decided I would wait, see if you wrote again. I promised myself that I wouldn’t continue to build a relationship with you on Vocal without telling you the truth. I should just let you get a little more comfortable on the platform first.

Weeks passed and I didn’t see any more stories from you. I went back to your old story again. I thought about commenting.

I didn’t.

A few more weeks passed. You wrote a new story.

I had promised myself I would tell you if you wrote again.

I did not.

I commented, I loved your story, wonderful insight. But I shared no truth with you. You commented back and I realized I felt like I had a piece of her again. I was getting a peek into your life, her life, just like a stalker.

The thought wriggled in my stomach like a viper.

I went back and read your first story again. I felt the fear that plagued you throughout your childhood. I read the line about being hounded with messages and I felt horrible I had ever sent any to your mom even though it was only two.

But…

When I look at it from your perspective, I remember that sweet little girl who looked so much like her mom, who had her world shattered by a very real monster. A little girl who learned to be afraid of sharing her talent with others because it meant they would come knocking on the door again. A woman who rose above the darkness and wrote a beautiful, painfully true story and was brave enough to put it into the world even after all she'd been through.

Am I the worst of them, hiding our past connection while hoping you’ll write another story?

I should tell you who I am.

But..

I did not.

I should write a confession and send you a link.

I did not.

Because...

I am still a coward.

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But, now, it's time.

So, I will write a story to submit to Confessions. I'll try to be vague enough to respect your anonymity. I won't include any names, that could betray your identity. I won't send you a link in a comment that could be seen by others. Not because I'm a coward, but because this is my story to tell and your story is yours to tell.

But I hope you see this confession.

I hope you understand my side of the story.

I hope you forgive me.

Most of all, I just hope you keep writing.