A Smile and a Tear to Remind Me the Importance of Forgiveness: Marianne

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