All good things come to an end, and summer's end paralleled the beginning of my second year of college. I felt different that year, quite ready to welcome new opportunities. Looking back, last year's memories recalled a vision of myself trying to breathe through a plastic bag while striving to function like a normal human being. Now, constrained neither by the depression spawned of unfaced problems or subdued emotions, the world appeared as it should; I had drawn out all of the hob-goblins that my mind repressed, and scourged them.
Several weeks into the fall semester I received a letter from my ex-boyfriend. Briefly informative and somewhat impersonal, I considered it a peace offering and a suggestion that mild relations could resume between us. I was pleased. We knew each other's likes and dislikes, and had spent many recreational hours together; his casual friendship would be a pleasant addition to my good luck.
Deciding that enough time had elapsed since the rending of our emotional ties, I wrote back to him, honestly defining the hurt I had experienced and how hopeful I had been that we could one day be friends. After posting my letter, I heard from him again, almost immediately; his exuberance toward restoring a relationship was overwhelming, and it was plain that the direction he wished to take was unlike that which I had mapped. A definite knot swelled in my stomach; I did not want to relive that which had transpired between us when we were last together, and I nervously asked myself, "what have I done?"
In typical style, I suffered for awhile, drenching myself with worry until I sought my notebook to disentangle the hoard of thoughts that had just constricted my rationality.
Aug. 5, 1981… Is it wrong to have a friendship wherein one of the involved parties is highly romantically bound to the other, who is not? . . . Is it wrong to relish each other's company, ruled by the standards set by the individual who is not involved whole-heartedly? All of a sudden I feel I have greatly wronged him by writing back… Is it right to call someone to be your friend, and date him, but constantly keep him at bay? I somehow feel that I am the bait and the holder of the pole, while my "friend" is kept running in pursuit.
It always helped to see my problems in the black and white form of ink strokes on paper. Perhaps I was unrealistic to believe that two people having such different intentions could maintain a healthy relationship. I would not fret about it, I decided with determination, nor would I tolerate a reenactment of last year's folly. As long as I remembered that days were made up of individual minutes, I had no reason to burden myself with worry over that which had not yet come to pass. If I controlled the minutes, the hours, days and months would surely take care of themselves and cause no pain, for as I had written in a journal, "I can't stand to hurt anyone any more."
Beginnings and endings, life changed continually under their influence. Autumn 1981 seemed rich and alluring, a virtual invitation to walk in the sun. In a diary entry dated over one year later, my memories of that time were sweet.
Nov. 3, 1982… My life was beginning to come alive… From an experience with cancer five years before, I was given a sharp taste of the harsh brutality which is an innate, but sometimes overlooked, characteristic of life. I viewed life as highly impermanent, and believed that it was too short to spend one's precious time playing games of popularity and prestige. What mattered was feeling… experiencing… life to its fullest without marring in any way the rest of society. Modeling I saw as a potentially exhilarating encounter, which, like all facets of one's life, would inevitably come to an end. Carrying this baggage of values upon my shoulders, I felt entirely prepared for success or failure, and intended to propel myself toward modeling at full throttle. I had no idea that the end would so soon be upon me…