Tell Me I'm Not Your Her: Beginning

I thought he was the one, but he can't be -- there are too many reasons why it can never happen. What I need most is something... someone to distract me from what I feel for him. Any trained professional would say that this is no basis on which to begin any sort of relationship, but -- I admit it -- I'm desperate enough to grasp at straws. I can't go on feeling this way; it hurts too much. I need to find some way to forget what I feel for him.

Maybe we can help each other forget.

Lisa

Dear Lisa:

I agree with that trained professional's assessment: this is crazy. But maybe it's just what we need. I can't stand feeling this way any longer, either... I see her every day, and every day it gets harder to see her. Every day, it hurts a little bit more, to feel what I feel and know that I'm feeling it alone.

At the very least, it helps to know that I'm not the only one in the world who's ever dealt with this sort of thing.

I'm glad I heard from you. I hope to hear from you again.

Dear Mark,

Tell me about yourself -- who you are, what you do. I need to know... for I have a confession to make: when I got your letter, I found myself thinking that perhaps you were him. That perhaps he felt the same way that I do, and placed this ad from a despair as great as that which I feel, and that maybe... But thoughts like these are not going to help me forget what I feel, are they? Instead, they only make it worse, and increase the possibility that someday I'll let it slip, and everything will fall apart...

I see him every day, too; we work together -- and if he knew what I felt for him, it would be almost impossible for us to continue working together. I don't want to lose his friendship; I don't want to lose him. I only need to silence this crying ache in my heart. Please... I understand and respect the need to maintain anonymity. But I need to know that you aren't him. I need to know.

Dear Lisa:

You too, huh? <insert wry grin here>

I felt the same way when I got your note. I found myself wondering: are you her? Does she feel the way I do? If I reached out to her... would she reach back?

But I don't dare take the chance, just as you don't: if I were to reach out and be rebuffed, I would lose... more than I can afford to lose.

There's really not much I can tell you; anonymity is important to me for more than the usual reasons. I'm tall, dark-haired, height/ weight proportionate. I work in the law enforcement field. I like basketball. My apartment is a mess. I'm pretty much a normal guy, outside of this unrequited passion that I can't seem to shake. Beyond that, I'm afraid there's not much I can tell you -- but I hope that helps.

I probably shouldn't say this, but I wish you were her. I want so much to believe that she feels as I do. I guess I should ask you to provide details in return, but I'm not sure I want to know -- I'm not sure I wouldn't rather maintain the fantasy that I'm writing to her, and that she's writing to me...

Dear Mark,

Damn it, you COULD be him.

I also work in law enforcement. I have a medical background. And I have red hair.

Tell me I'm not your 'her'. Please.

I find myself imagining walking up to him, and saying, "Mark?" just to see the response... But you're not him; you can't be him. That would be too great a coincidence. God works in mysterious ways, but this is too much to expect. There are thousands of people working in law enforcement in this area alone, and hundreds of them like basketball; you CAN'T be him. You can't be.

If you were him, you would tell me that I shouldn't be afraid to believe in the inexplicable, but I am. Because in this case, I stand to lose too much by believing...

Tell me I'm not your 'her'.

Dear Lisa:

You could be her. You could. Everything you've said, I can hear her saying...

But my 'her', as you so charmingly put it, would never read the personals, much less reply to one. I can't envision THAT happening, not in my wildest dreams. Not even if she were as desperate and as miserable as I am. So I have to conclude, much as I would like to believe in miracles, that this isn't one. That you aren't her, no matter how much like her you might seem.

It amazes me to discover how disappointed I am by this revelation.

If you were my 'her', I could tell you, finally, how I much I love you. I could tell you how I yearn to be closer to you, how I can barely tolerate NOT being closer; how I don't have a single fantasy left that doesn't have you in it. How our friendship has grown so close, so intimate, that it seems unnatural to maintain any distance between us. How much it hurts me that we do.

But I'm not telling her; I'm telling you. And you can't be her. It's just not possible. Much as I want to believe... I can't.

Dear Mark,

If you were my 'him', I would tell you that I hate the distance as much as you do. That I long to reach out to you, and have you reach back. That my life would be incomplete without you in it, and feels incomplete now, because you're nowhere near as much a part of me as I wish you were.

How I wish I could tell him these things.

I've accepted that you're not him, mostly because I don't have a choice. Believing that you ARE him is merely one step closer to the insanity I'm trying to sidestep. I know that you're not him, intellectually at least -- and I've decided that I cannot allow myself to feel otherwise. Not that I've had much luck in forcing my heart to obey common sense; but in this, I have no other option.

But I wish you were him, because to hear him say the things you've written to me would be everything I've ever dreamed of, and more.

I'm sorry I'm not your 'her'. I'm so sorry that this isn't a miracle. I wish life really worked that way...

Dear Lisa:

How my heart soared when I read your letter. How it sank when I realized that your words weren't hers, and weren't meant for me.

We make a fine pair, don't we? <insert weak grin here>

Maybe we can get past this. Maybe we can build something together. Two heartbroken individuals, each pining for somebody else: it's not exactly a match made in heaven, but maybe it's the best thing we'll find right now.

At the very least, we both have someone to talk to; and I don't know about you, but I really need that. She's my best friend, and my only friend, and if I were pining for someone else, I might be able to talk about this with her, or at least distract myself with her presence -- but I can't; you're all I have, in this. I realize how incredibly pathetic this sounds, but I think you understand what I mean.

How is a person supposed to deal with finding their one true love, their soulmate, when they know that it can never be?

Dear Mark,

Your letter WAS incredibly pathetic. And I understand exactly how you feel. <insert sympathetic smile>

I love him so much that I don't know how I could ever love anyone else. Not in the same way, at least: not with the knowledge that I can trust him completely, rely on him utterly -- well, most of the time; he has his own obsessions and priorities, to which I and everything else is a distant second. But so far as he allows anyone to be a part of his life, I know that I am the one person he trusts -- and to confront him with my love for him, and discover that he doesn't return it; how would he feel about me then?

We would never be the same, and I couldn't bear that.

And so I keep it all to myself, though sometimes I have to clench my teeth shut to keep from saying the words. Though sometimes I have to be cold to him, to keep the real warmth from showing. How does one deal with finding true love, when it can never be? Mark, I don't know. Personally, I just keep putting one foot in front of the other, and hoping that someday these feelings will subside. I don't know any other way.

Dear Lisa:

You don't know how much you could be her.

I too have my own obsessions and priorities, and they have drawn me away from her more times than I can easily remember. I know that she understands; if she didn't, she would have walked away from me a long, long time ago. But I also know that I've hurt her, in the course of my pursuits, and I wish I could find the words to tell her how much I regret that. Unfortunately, the only words I've ever been able to come up with all lead to those things I cannot tell her...

If your 'him' is anything like me, I'm sure he values your friendship enough to regret any pain he's caused you. Or perhaps I should say that I hope he does. In my imaginings, I see you as being very much like her, in that your 'him' is someone with the sense to value you for your loyalty and your friendship, the same way I value my 'her'. I deeply and sincerely hope that this is true for you.

I find myself looking at red-haired women in the street, in shopping malls and supermarkets, wondering if any of them is my Lisa... I suppose that this is a step in the right direction, that I'm no longer centering my thoughts around the idea that you might be her, but instead seeing you as a person in your own right. I must admit, though, that my mind persists in imagining you as an echo of her: strong and independent, sensible in all things save for this unrequited-love that we both have in common. I wonder sometimes: if I were to see you, would I know it? Would we somehow recognize each other's wounded souls? Or would we pass each other by, and never know that we'd met?

Considering that your P.O. box is in Maryland, and mine is in Virginia, I find it improbable that we'd ever experience such a chance meeting. But I still wonder: if it happened, would we know?

Dear Mark,

If we met by chance, we might recognize each other -- unless you were with your 'her' and I was with my 'him', in which case I think we'd probably never even notice. <insert sardonic grin>

Is she involved with someone else? Mine isn't, and I think the only thing that keeps me sane is the fact that neither of us has anything remotely resembling a life. The merest thought of him with another makes me want to go and shoot something -- and I've never thought of myself as the jealous type, nor have I ever had an excessive propensity for violence. But when it comes to him, I feel incredibly possessive, even though I have no real right to feel that way.

I'm beginning to think of you as a separate person, as well. Sadly, I don't see you so much as a potential lover as someone who I can talk to, someone to whom I can express these things that I feel. I have friends, but none with whom I feel close enough to trust these thoughts -- my friends and I chatter and gossip, but what I feel for him is far too deep and intense and personal for me to share.

Except with you, because I know that you understand.

Telling you these things chases away the loneliness, at least a little; and sometimes I feel ashamed of myself, for having inflicted my personal anguish upon another. But then I remember that you are doing the same, and feel glad that we can be here for each other, helping each other cope with what cannot otherwise be endured. I only hope that my letters bring some measure of light into your darkness, as yours do for me.

Dear Lisa:

You have no idea how much I look forward to your letters. On days when the effort of gazing at my beloved and remaining impassive takes all the energy I possess, writing to you and hearing from you is the ONLY light in my darkness. Don't ever feel ashamed of sharing your feelings for him with me -- for in doing so, you make me feel less alone, and less despondent, and more able to stand the darkness and the solitude.

No, she isn't involved with anyone else. And I am glad of that, as you are -- though often I loathe myself for it. She's a wonderful woman, beautiful and intelligent, and she deserves to love and be loved... but I am selfish enough to want her to love only me. If she were to find someone, I'd try to be happy for her -- I'd try so hard, because she deserves it -- but I think it would kill me, to know that she was with someone who could never in a thousand years love her the way I do.

I find myself assuming that your 'him' is your partner (as, in law enforcement, we tend to work in teams) and that the reason you so fear telling him of your feelings is because of this... This is my situation. We work together so closely, we trust each other so deeply, that I can't bear the thought of anything disrupting that intimacy -- and yet it's not enough; I want more. She holds my soul in her hands, and I think she knows it, but not the totality of what that means...

Forgive me if I sound depressed. Some days are more difficult than others, and today wasn't an easy one for me. Sometimes I find myself gazing at her, and my heart just aches, and I can't make the pain stop, no matter how hard I try... but writing to you helps. Hearing from you helps.

Misery loves company. I guess we're living proof. <insert sad smile>

Dear Mark,

Misery does indeed love company... and yet, considering how your letters brighten my day, I wonder if we can truly call it 'misery' at all.

I know what it's like to be caught up in an ache that can neither be expressed nor repressed. To love, and keep that love silent. Bluntly stated, it sucks. <insert grin here> At least now we have the support of knowing that we're not alone... Perhaps we should form some sort of twelve-step group for the hopelessly lovelorn?

When I was fourteen, I had a terrible crush on the most popular boy in my school. I remember thinking, with a flash of adult clarity, that I couldn't wait to grow up, so that I wouldn't have to feel such helpless adoration again... and here I am, as caught up in the feeling as I was then, and cursing myself for it. I thought maturity was supposed to make these things easier? I suppose that was just wishful thinking.

I managed to grow past that crush. I think that I -- that both of us -- could move past our feelings now, if we truly wanted to. The question is, do we really want to?

If I had an answer to that one, life would be so much easier.

Looking forward to your next letter,

Dear Lisa:

A twelve-step group -- I love it! 'Lovestruck Anonymous'... this could catch on... <insert wry grin here>

I guess I must have been a late bloomer -- I didn't experience my first bout with unrequited love until I was a senior in high school. But it was every bit as painful, trust me; and I too swore that I'd never let myself fall into that trap again. And here I am, falling, and hating myself for it.

Do I want to overcome this feeling? Good question. I remember reading some sort of study on the psychology of partnership, of facing danger together and how that can bring people closer, or make them think that they're closer -- I remember reading that when the danger passes, the bonds formed between such partners tend to loosen and dissolve, and the people involved often discover that they're not so alike as they once thought. And I remember feeling, when I read that study, that I didn't want to lose that bond with my partner, no matter what the price might be -- I remember feeling fear, and despair, at the thought that our rapport might be less than what I believed it to be. I'm not sure I want to overcome this feeling... and yet I can't bear feeling it any more. What am I to do, with such contradictory desires?

When I was a kid, my favorite toy was a teddy bear that I'd had since infancy: it was old and ragged, one ear half chewed off, but every night when I went to sleep, I'd hug it and tell it all about the things that had happened to me during the day, all my hopes and fears and feelings. I retained that habit straight through high school, even though I lived in fear that someone would discover my secret -- left it behind when I went off to college; I'm not sure where that bear is now. I hope this doesn't offend you, but talking with you reminds me of talking to my old friend Pooh Bear (original, huh?) in that I feel the same sense of comfort and security in these letters that I felt then, pressing my face into its fur. My mind keeps reminding me that we're strangers, but somehow I feel that I know you, Lisa -- even though in truth I only know this one corner of your heart. I've seen a side of you that no one else has, just as you've seen that side of me, and I treasure that immensely.

Hope to hear from you soon.

Dear Mark,

Why should I be offended? I'm touched. <insert warm smile> Though I must warn you, I'm nowhere near as fuzzy as your Pooh Bear. At least, not when I remember to shave my legs.

When I was a child, I loved to play with my brothers' trains. I used to pretend that I was traveling on one of those toy trains, riding off into the sunset, into the unknown, on some grand adventure. I've found out since that 'grand adventures' are usually far more dangerous and nowhere near as satisfying as they're reputed to be... but I still remember that feeling of breathless anticipation.

Writing to you feels a bit like that: like being poised on the verge of something absolutely unknown and vastly exciting, no matter how great the possibility of disaster. We are indeed strangers, knowing nothing of each other save that we are in love with two other people; why does this seem to hold such promise? It makes no sense to me, and yet it is what I feel.

Whoever you are, Mark, you have given me something to cling to, at a time when I feel so hopelessly adrift. If nothing else, we are kindred souls in one significant respect; and that is nothing to sneeze at. Whether we might ever become something more... that is a question that only time can answer. But for now, I can honestly and truthfully say: stranger that you are, I am pleased to be able to call you my friend.

Dear Lisa:

I'm glad. I like you, too.

And I'm almost beginning to believe that this might work out after all. My mind's eye still sees you wearing her face -- but now I find thoughts of you punctuating my pinings for her, which I must say is a welcome relief. I mean, how much can one person pine for another before the whole thing becomes ludicrous? Sometimes I look at myself and realize that I've become a parody of a lovestruck fool, absolutely ridiculous to behold; and I'd laugh at myself, if only the whole situation weren't so damn painful...

Maybe, with enough time and effort and the support of a friend (thank you!) I can overcome these feelings, after all. Maybe both of us can. I still love her, I will always love her, but if I can find a way to accept that this love can never be, and move on... maybe there's hope after all.

Which is an amazing thought in itself, since until we began writing to each other, I'd pretty much convinced myself that I was a hopeless case.

Thank you, Lisa: for being who you are, and sharing what you've shared with me. You've given me so much more than you know -- and if this is the beginning of an adventure, I can't wait to see how it will unfold.

Dear Mark,

Today I thought I'd met you, but I was mistaken... I suppose it just goes to show how many tall, dark-haired men with redheaded partners exist in the law enforcement field.

What startled and dismayed me, though, was the realization that I was deeply relieved by the discovery that he wasn't you. No matter how much I try to tell myself otherwise, I want you to be MY 'him' -- somewhere inside myself, there's a part of me that believes that you are my 'him' -- and knowing that disturbs me, because this is supposed to be a way of distancing myself from my love for him, not drawing closer to the obsession.

I had thought that I was moving away from that reckless concept. I was wrong.

And I don't know, any more, if this is helping me. I think that maybe it's only making it worse. I dream about meeting you, discovering that you ARE my 'him... and I fear that the repercussions of such dreams will cause me to some action I'll surely regret. That someday I'll convince myself so strongly that this impossible dream is true that I'll throw myself at him -- and fall into an endless abyss, when he fails to catch me.

I think... oh, Mark, I'm sorry... but I think that maybe it would be a better thing, for both of us, if we didn't correspond any further. No, I'll be truthful: I think it's better for me. Because I love him so much, and I want you to be him so badly; and I think that if we continue this way, I'll lose sight of all rationality and reason, and begin to believe the dream...

Mark, I'm sorry.

Dear Lisa:

Your letter shook me to the core -- because if you mailed it on the same day that you met the 'almost- me', it was the same day that I was convinced I'd met you. Which is either one hell of a coincidence, or more evidence to support my own impossible dream that you ARE my 'her': that you were right there beside me, meeting the pair of almost-thems that weren't us at all...

I think that we should make arrangements to meet each other -- someplace public, someplace safe -- meet in person, see each other, and KNOW finally and irrevocably that the dream isn't true. I think that we both need that certainty, to be able to continue with our lives. If we simply cease to write to each other, neither of us will ever know; instead, we'll always wonder: was she my 'her'? was he my 'him'? were we so close, and never knew?

Once we meet, the dream will be destroyed -- and though it will hurt me, to lose that last illusion of possibility, at least I will know the truth; and so will you. And perhaps we'll be able to continue our correspondence then, unfettered by that secret hope we both seem to be nurturing. If not -- if you still feel that it would be best to break this off -- at least we'll have that knowledge.

Let me know what you think.

Dear Mark,

I think you're right.

How about Tuesday the twelfth, seven o'clock, at the Friday's on Pennsylvania Avenue -- do you know it? Or another time and place, if you prefer...

Dear Lisa:

Tuesday the twelfth at seven at Friday's is fine with me. I'll wait for you outside.