In the past few months, I have started to realize that I
need to let go of my anger from the past.
I know that to find peace and be able to enjoy all the wonderfulness
that has become my life, I need to let go, move on, and forgive. You see, the past couple of years have been
some of the best so far. When everyone
told me my thirties would be better than my twenties, I didn’t believe
them. At 31, however, so far they’re right.
I have had some wonderful experiences in the past two
years. I have some of the best friends,
old and new, that a girl could ask for.
I met Donnie Wahlberg, one of my tweenage
dreams. I’ve been to New York City on a
couple of girls trips. I’ve been to an
NKOTBSB concert that only existed in my wildest dreams in high school. I’ve raised money and walked in Komen races
in memory of Danny Woods’s mother, Betty, and everyone who has been affected by
breast cancer. I’m leaving in a couple
of weeks to go on a cruise with New Kids on the Block and about 3,000 other
biggest fans. I’ve been in a few
weddings, including my brother’s beautiful wedding to my sweet new
sister-in-law. Still, the anger,
bitterness, and depression that I am holding on to are preventing me from
enjoying all the wonderful blessings that this world is providing.
Marianne’s story is an alarming, frightening, stark, and sad
reminder for me to figure out this forgiveness thing sooner, rather than later.
Marianne:
It was the November 2002, after I graduated from college. It was during the year I took off before grad
school. I went to Virginia to visit my
college dorm mate where she was working on a one-year internship. We were going to drive the hour to
Washington, D.C. for the one full day that I would be there. I felt like such an adult. I had flown before, but never alone. I, certainly, never purchased my own ticket
prior to this trip.
Melissa picked me up from the airport here in Baton
Rouge. She told me about our new
neighbors as I listened intensely and anxiously. My ex-boyfriend lived in the apartment next
door to me. He found someone at his work
to take over his lease, because he bought a house. I knew the new neighbor was someone who, at
least, knew him. I was almost certain
that he had “warned” this new person about his “crazy”, “psycho”, “stalker”
ex-girlfriend that lived next door. (Although I was also sure that he didn’t
inform my new neighbor of how he beat me up physically and beat me down
emotionally, but that’s a whole other blog post.)
My group of friends all lived in the same complex in an area
of town right north of LSU that nobody wanted to visit. It was dangerous. There were gunshots. There were rapes and burglaries. Our little group, however, had formed a community. We couldn’t afford cable back then, so we
often sat out in the courtyard smoking cigarettes and bonding over dreams and
reality until it was time for bed. If
that courtyard could talk, the stories would be endless. I knew I would meet the new neighbors soon
enough, but I was worried about any preconceived feelings that she had due to
Patrick’s stories.
Only a few days after they moved in, we met Marianne. She saw us sitting outside smoking and shyly
came outside to say hi. She did ask which
one was Sara, and we all laughed as we filled her in on the truth behind the
stories Patrick told her. She welcomed
us into her apartment so we wouldn’t have to smoke in the cold November
temperatures.
Marianne and her roommate, Adam, fit into our little
community immediately. We were all fast
friends. Marianne was kind-hearted. She was the definition of a true friend. When I had a bad day, she was the first to
offer her shoulder to cry on, and then turn some crazy music up loud for us to
dance the sorrows away. She was the
first to celebrate new promotions, graduations, and the day I found out that I got
into the MBA program at LSU. Marianne
was ALWAYS there.
As much as Marianne fit in, she was different. We shared half-birthdays, and she was exactly
a year and a half older than me. My
birthday is July 25, 1980, and Marianne was born January 25, 1979. While we were all near the same age, Marianne
was in a different phase of life. Most
of us were in school, had just graduated, or starting college, but Marianne did
not finish college. Her dad worked in
broadcasting for most of Marianne’s life, and she had a passion to do the
things that her dad had done. She worked
at the radio station (that is how she met
Patrick).
She worked overnight, however. While most of our little group went about our
busy days, Marianne slept. When we all
said goodnight in the evening, Marianne left for work. During her first few months living at West
Chimes Place, Marianne commuted to and from work in her truck. One day I noticed Marianne’s truck was gone,
but she was home. She was a bit
embarrassed as she told us all, that she had not been able to make payments,
and her truck was repossessed.
Soon after, many of us took turns, along with Marianne’s
cousin, taking her to work for 11:00 pm.
Her cousin always picked her up at 6:00 am when she was off work, but
sometimes she needed help getting to work.
Eventually she was able to buy another vehicle, but after a short time,
that car was gone too. At some point,
her parents helped her pay cash for a vehicle, but after only a few months, the
transmission went out. Marianne’s battle
to keep usable transportation broke my heart.
I knew deep down that she truly had the best intentions, but she just
couldn’t keep up.
At first, it wasn’t a big deal, as several of us helped
out. As time went by, and friends
graduated and moved away, I found myself one of the dwindling few that she
relied on to get to work. I continued to
help her commute through most of grad school, but I began to feel burdened,
unappreciated, and so tired of the late night drives across town. I occasionally would tell Marianne that I
couldn’t take her, but the guilt often ate through my heart, and before I knew
it, I was in my car way after dark, driving to the radio station with
Marianne. It wasn’t all bad, some nights
I would stay for a few hours, and we’d listen to music, take smoke breaks, or
talk.
When I graduated from grad school and found my “big girl”
apartment in a better area across town, I was sure my nights of driving
Marianne to work were over. Surely, she
wouldn’t expect me to leave my apartment, and drive 15 minutes to her
apartment, then drive another 15 minutes to her work, and still another 15
minutes back home. Besides, by then I
had my first “big girl” job and was working forty hours per week opposite of
Marianne’s hours at her job. I was right
for the most part, she didn’t ask for a ride nearly as often. A few times, in desperation, she called and I
made the drive to help a friend.
Even though I had moved away, Marianne remained a great
friend. She introduced me to many of my
closest friends today. She would come to
my apartment. We would sing
karaoke. We would swim in the pool at my
new apartment complex. I have some great
memories from those days.
Marianne never had a lot of money, but she always gave the
sweetest, most thoughtful gifts. For my
birthday for a few years, she made “The Sara’s Birthday Radio Show” CDs. She recorded herself doing a radio show
dedicated to me on my birthday. The CDs
usually had Marianne intro’ing and outro’ing the songs with special messages to
me. Some of her messages were sincere,
and some were cheesy inside jokes. The
CDs also included songs that had meaning to me, us, or our friendship. A few times, she made the CDs for me for no
reason in particular. That was
Marianne. She was sweet, thoughtful, and
sincere.
One of the last times we hung out, is a night that makes me
sad. Marianne had returned from a cruise
with her mom, sister, and other family members.
She called and asked if she and Cristina could come over. She had bought souvenirs for us and wanted to
bring them over. We giggled as she
presented the gifts in the silly way only Marianne could. She gave me a mini sombrero, which she
proceeded to wear around my apartment for the evening.
That night, I learned that Marianne won about $2,000 in the
casino on the cruise. She had borrowed
money from her sister and used her winnings to pay her back. When she got home from the cruise, she had
gone with her parents to the casino in Baton Rouge. Her winnings had dwindled to about
$1,400. I was excited for her. With $1,400 she could buy a car, granted not
a super nice car, but a car nonetheless, to get her to and from work. After the gifts, we (probably I) decided to take lemon drop shots. Marianne said that she could only have one,
because she needed to wake up early the next day to go to New Orleans with her
parents. When she told me, she was going
to the casino with her winnings, my head exploded.
At the time, I thought it was “tough love”, but I didn’t
realize it would change the course of our friendship. I truly wanted the best for Marianne, but I
could no longer provide a ride to work.
I felt as if instead of helping her, I was enabling her. I was probably pretty harsh. I know I was angry. To this day, Cristina still says I made her
uncomfortable and that she’s never seen me explode the way I did.
After that night, my time with Marianne dwindled. We spent less and less time together. I remember when I bought my house, almost
three years ago; Marianne was there for two days in the hot June weather
helping, like the slow and steady tortoise, reliable and willing as ever. Marianne was ALWAYS there when I needed her,
no matter what was going on elsewhere. Once
I moved into my house, Marianne and I continued to grow apart. I nestled down afraid to venture out of my
comfort zone and was too proud to apologize for that night or forgive her for
asking me for rides for so long.
A while back, I spoke to Marianne. She was excited. She had her own apartment in a nice area and
seemed to be doing well. She wanted me to
come see her new place. I told her that
we would make plans soon, but we never did.
A few months later, I received a house warming invitation for
Marianne. I already had plans, but
didn’t take the time to call her to let her know I wouldn’t be there.
Last Tuesday, I learned Marianne had a stroke. By Thursday, things were looking good. By Friday, her dad posted on Facebook that
she made a turn for the worse. He asked
that everybody pray and said, “We need a miracle.” Saturday evening I found out that the doctors
had declared Marianne brain-dead. Sunday
morning, before I even woke up, Marianne passed away. Today I saw the obituary that says Marianne’s
viewing is Thursday night, and her funeral is Friday morning.
As I am trying to heal and learning how to forgive and let
go, Marianne was there again. Marianne
was ALWAYS there. I am saddened to say
Marianne showed me that later may never come.
Don’t count on later. The longer
I hold on to bitterness, anger, and sadness, the more time passes in my short
life and those lives around me that my feelings affect.
While, I’m not sure how to let go, this past week has taught
me that I need to let go. I will never
be able to tell Marianne how important she was in my life. I will never be able to tell her how much her
acceptance of me, after hearing Patrick’s stories, meant and still means. I will never be able to tell her that I am
sorry for being mad or ask for forgiveness.
I will never take another drive late at night, across town, to bring
Marianne to work. Now I wish I could
more than ever.
Marianne
1979 - 2012
1979 - 2012
