Atop Rocks, Under Desert Junipers

A journal entry of a teenage girl’s unusual heartache from the late 80s — an explanation to why she wants to be a psychiatrist and how people dance in her head.

I do not want to bottle up what I’m feeling forever, so I am now confessing to a piece of paper. I want to get the sadness out of my mind whether it be by telling someone, or carving it as a permanent stain on a piece of paper.

First and for most, I had just realized I am, let’s just say, not like most girls. I had noticed this during my Sophomore year in high school. Surprisingly, it was not a difficult process to accept myself for who I am since it’s the eighties and the times are ever changing. I’m just upset how, out of all the times fate decides to tell me that I’m not like most girls, it had to be when my insecurities are peaking, when I feel like I am a mistake, an error — a fix to be made.

But when you’re strongly moonstruck over someone, you will not care for how odd you may be. All insecurities will be a big blur, with the only thing you can focus on is your desire to, maybe, talk to a particular person that fuels you to wake up every single day, being the best version that you can make yourself be.

This is how I felt about one particular person for a long time. At times, I feel strange for liking someone like her. But who would not want to feel strange if it equated to happiness eventually?

There are many aspects of her that I adore. Her smile, her positivity, her sometimes warped sense of humor; she was a daily ball of energy. Her smile and big brown eyes were always filled with excitement no matter where she was, no matter how shy she could be at times.

I had no clue why she would be shy, though. She was a flawless dancer and actress, if not a flawless individual. It’s no mystery why all the boys were after her.

Thankfully, I did not have to be a boy to get her attention. We had Trigonometry together, a class where we spend most of our time chatting, gossiping, and what I assumed was flirting. Now, you tell me. Will not constant compliments and excessive dreamy stares disguised as “asking for tangent” make one feel excited?

It definitely made me excited. We wrote each other notes in class then.

“Hi Leslie,” She wrote one time.

“Hey! Which problem do you need help on?” I replied and slipped the paper back to her desk behind me.

“Not a specific problem — I just need to know the inverse of tangent,”

“It’s cosine over sine, for the hundredth time!” I let out a soft giggle as I gave her the folded note back, not even trying to hide it from Miss Morales anymore. She never minds.

“Oh, yeah! Just wanted to say how wonderful of a person you are.”

“You are amazing, too. Intelligent, talented, borderline sassy, beautiful.

You’re one in a melon.” In the paper was a poorly drawn watermelon.

“Aw, Leslie! You’re way more beautiful. Inside and out. I’m happy to be a part of your life. Donut change!” Yeah, you guessed it. Poorly drawn as well.

We had plenty of these written notes to each other. We’d write to each other before tests, wishing each other good luck — a competition for who can write the cheesiest trigonometry joke. It was a ‘thing’, up until our Junior Year, when the only class we had together was drama.

I took the class just so I could have it with her. Though I did end up liking the skits and improvisations we had to do, I was only fueled by her parts, by both the staged and candid dialogues we ‘delivered’ to each other. We were so often paired; I mean she was kind of a teacher’s pet so we were getting paired up by request.

“She means the world to me,” She once told the whole drama department during auditions for freshmen. I had then worn a wide smile the entire day.
For a brief moment, I thought she knew that I had feelings for her. I even thought she liked me back. If you relied on actions rather than words for answers, that’s what it would have seemed like to you too.

You do not necessarily realize the fact that not everyone is gay — definitely not when you’re in love. Thus, you simply go head over heels for every heterosexual you fancy.

We spent so much of our times together, from making fun of each other to then complimenting each other. Arguing, and then agreeing, sharing common interests, and then introducing personal interests — that kind of thing. Of course, we looked like regular BFFS, which was in a way, a good thing. Because these days, outdated anti-gay folks are everywhere: in the press, tabloids, and churches. It’s open season for us in the ’80s, basically. You’d think because the nineties are approaching, that, people would be more open-minded, but it’s not the case at all.

We got so close that taking me to her grandma up to Washington for vacation last Christmas was not strange at all. Our families both spent the new years together in a cruise ship to Central America. with both suspected no signs of us being together. I mean who would? We were both girls.

We seemed unstoppable as a pair, even when I was heavy in emotions because of my family condemning me for who I am. Sometimes I feel as though they should be cautious as to who they all an abomination. For all they know, the abomination is one of their own blood.

I did not see any sign of prejudice from her, so I thought, I should confess my feelings. After all, If I want any type of response from something, I need to act upon it. For a moment, I counted on her to do so, but she’s just too busy obsessing over NKOTB. I never really knew what girls found in Joey McIntyre. Oh wait, that’s right, it’s because I do not like men. Great.

I should have taken her obsession for boybands as an obvious sign that she is not and will never be interested in me, or in girls. Ugly girls like me. Maybe if I was pretty and blonde, my chances will go up 1% at most. Maybe if I was a boy.

But you know how a lot of things are one big blur when someone is in love? Well, I decided to confess my feelings for her by writing her a note in class. The last one, in fact.

“Girlfriend! wanna meet up under that funky looking tree in the hill after drama practice?”

“As usual. Love the new nickname by the way,” She wrote back.

Later that day we were sitting atop rocks, and under desert junipers that were obscuring the livid January skies live to have. It was a place of isolation, a place we were fond of having deep talks in, a hideaway for sharing secrets. The tree grew to be the shape of the moon, and we just loved it so much that we started laying under it on a regular basis.

“Hey girlfriend,” She yelled, holding on to the slippery scarlet rocks. I offered help, but she refused.

“Hello. You seem to like the new nickname I’ve given us. I mean you.” I said back. I wore the red and gold bracelet I specifically made for both of us.

“Yes, it’s totally rad. This bracelet, too!” Her smiled stretched from both sides of her cheeks; I can still remember it. It was perhaps the last genuine smile I saw from her.

“Great! I’m glad that you like it, girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend. Girlfriend. Kinda gets boring after a while. Although, I’d date us. We’d be such a great couple!”

My heart jumped. I was nervous… and happy… and hopeful. I did not know what to do.

So I replied, “Do you really think so?” I still was not brave enough to directly say it to her. I forever have a subconscious bias in me regardless of how powerful our emotions can get. I still held back, and I’m quite torn about feeling relief or disappointment.

“Stop joking around, that’s bogus! If I was gay then you should study psychiatry and treat my disorder!” She answered. Lightheartedly. There’s no other way to say it: It broke my heart.

I was so angry and disappointed at myself. I told her what she would think if I was gay — she did not respond. She looked down on the reddish rocks we sat on for what seemed like hours. I never even got to tell her that I liked her. At that moment, I did not want to talk about unrequited feelings to the person I had it for. It did not help that boys snuck up on her; they had been dipping on our conversations the whole time. As if things could not get worse, she said, “Leslie, meet my boyfriend, I guess. We started dating last week.

I better get going now. Talk to you later. Some time.”

‘Some time’ was her way of saying, “Never again, Lesbie Leslie.”

“Leslie? Is this your best friend?” Her boyfriend told her. ‘”Why are you friends with all the homos in school? First, Flamer Joe from Chemistry and now Leslie the Lesbie from Math. You need to stop hanging out with your queer clique.”

“Will you stop,” She yelled back at him, softly. She was going to defend me. But of course, the jerk said he was joking around.

Oh, he was not.

After that incident, I spent a lot of time in solitude, contemplating. I refused to talk to my friends. Instead of being excited about drama class, all I felt was the agony of seeing her recite dialogues with such grace, without me.

What hurt me the most is that she stopped talking to me indefinitely. So much for her promise that we will forever be the best of friends. But no: she threw all those hours, days and nights of talking, comforting, arguing, basically sharing our lives with each other, out the dumpster just like that. Just because her boyfriend told her so.

Or maybe, just because I’m gay.

What’s it like to be happy? I do not think I’ll never know. However, I will not end my life because I’m too much of a narcissist.

All I want is to feel appreciated. To be important to someone, anyone.

It’s been a month since it all occurred. I’ve lost a lifelong friend for merely wanting our friendship to go another level, for being myself.

It just does not feel good… to be rejected without having closure.

I sent her a letter yesterday, to tell her how I feel; she never really gave me the chance to. I wrote:

Since you’ve been constantly killing me by crossing my mind, I wrote a little poem to poke fun of your amazing dance recital performance yesterday.

I have always danced with you in my mind.
In fact, it was so pretty in my head that I almost asked you to dance with me outside my mind.
As soon as I ask you, I see you — already dancing with someone — unstoppable.
I decided not to ask. But reality kept toying with me, and the dance kept appearing in my mind.
Since I am delusional, I think sometimes that you would be willing to dance with me instead.
I continue to be hopeful.
So if ever you miraculously decide you want to dance with me,
I willfully will.

I am not asking her to reply or anything, but I remain hopeful. No matter how hard I try to ignore my feelings for her.

What do I do now, be a psychiatrist like she suggested? Perhaps if that is how I have to get over it, then so be it.

I certainly do hope people like me in the future don’t have to experience this type of heartache. Someday, I hope it will be all easier

I await the morning that everything will be different.