during this time, i also developed close friendships with a few guys that consisted mostly of us sharing our deepest hurts and theories of why they existed. without being conscious of it, my compassion for them and ability to understand them was seducing; and they quickly became obsessed with me. the feeling was always one sided and it tormented them to the point of becoming or revealing a deep depravity.
one of them, Damion, who was four years older than me, literally built a shrine of me in his bedroom. and although i never saw it, he made certain i knew it was there. describing the amount of space that it took up and hinting at the types of things gathered there, a lock of hair, a drawing, a few poems. but each time he mentioned it, he would also hint at something else there, something darker, that i was never allowed to see. still, his confession of it, and the way he shared it was like he thought it was a gift to me. as if, in knowing his devotion, i would feel obligated to him. despite this, i didn’t run away. perhaps i was too lonely. or so young that i didn’t understand the implications of the confession. the fact that it traced the perimeter of a much bigger, and likely clinical issue.
neither of us drove, he didn’t have a car and i didn’t have my license. and he would often walk the 12 miles from his house to mine (or that’s what he said). there were so many things about damion that i was unsure of; and i put a lot of energy into trying to discern where the truth in his accounts was hidden. perceiving my efforts only compelled him more. he began to tell my guy friends, that i had a severe illness that i didn’t want to talk about. or that we were secretly dating, but that my brother would beat him up if he found out. still, it wasn’t right away that i learned of these things. and so our friendship grew.
we would stay up all night, smoking cigarettes on my porch, sharing and trying to understand who we were. admittedly, he had some emotional issues, and spoke vaguely of being hospitalized. but despite this, or maybe because of it, he had a lot of insight into me. he would tell me why he thought i felt a certain way and i would accept his interruption. yet, now and then he crept in a little blow, that even in the moment i knew was intended to wound; even though it was said in a way that appeared accidental. he would let the comment drift out of him and slowly float it’s way over to me, like a feather. lingering just long enough to make an impact. then, he would sweep it and me up, by sharing a poem or a song that he wrote for me.
one night, he borrowed his moms car and let me drive it around town. as i glided through the residential streets of neighborhoods that seemed endless, we dissected each other’s souls. he shared, as he had in the past, how his father died, but this time he added that he was in the room. the next time, he would say that his sister was there too, and he had to protect her. still, the next time, he would say he tried to wrestle the gun out of his dad’s hands. in the darkness, with my eyes on the road, he would confess that after his father’s suicide the real tragedy began. but he wouldn’t say what it was. he wanted me to want it. to see the agony in his story and beg to fix it; and i would.
as time past, things grew a little more strange. the poems he wrote for me, would be written on his body. the people in his life became owners of islands and heirs to thrones of small nations. and eventually, the manipulation became too much. i could no longer discern what was true and what was a lie, either about his story, or my own. so i cut him out of my life. and although it was clearly a strange and twisted relationship, i was still thankful for all the hours spent in conversation. not because of his insights, but because it was through them that i realized i needed more help than a companion could offer.
the other friendship which dropped in and out of my high school time-line, was with a guy named Laurence, who would continually try to submerge himself with me, to the point that it frightened me. still, we continued to be good friends. he had his license and would drive me anywhere i needed or wanted to go. everyone thought we were dating. at youth group, if he perceived me to be flirting with someone or talking to someone for too long, he would leave me there, to find another way home. one day, he took me to my psychologist, 45 minutes away. we got into an argument on the way, and he deserted me. clearly, he felt used. clearly, he was being used. it’s not didn’t care for him, i did. or that was intentionally taking advantage of him. he was one of my closest friends and i laughed more with him than i did with anyone. but i should have cut him loose. because, as much as i tried, nothing could make me have the feelings he wanted me to. and although i would justify myself because i had told him this, he wasn’t strong enough to end it on his own.
one night, he snuck into my room while i was sleeping. he crawled into my bed, gently put his hands on me and begged me to love him. i threw him off me and yelled at him to get out. he wouldn’t leave. i told him again and again, apologetically that i would never have feelings for him. it was clear he wasn’t going to get what he wanted, but he couldn’t let it go. he tried to wrap himself around me. “it just feels right,” he said in a voice that strained to sound soothing. “get the fuck off me,” i demanded. he kept urging. “just try it.” his touch was gentle, even delicate. as if he was a mother, trying to get her child to sleep. and yet, there was such desperation in it. a need that made every cell in my body want to disperse to another world.
it was late, but all the pleading and cursing woke my little sisters and they crept downstairs to get my dad. in the meantime, laurence kept trying to cajole me, “ashlee, i need the rejection only you can give.” just then, my dad yelled into my room. the depth and strength of his voice seemed to fill every part of it. he was going to kick laurance’s ass if he didn’t leave, immediately. it was over. for that moment, and for the rest of my life.
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