Dear Patrick

*Lana's perspective*

To be so desperately confused about two people is in itself an embarrassing and even awkward state. And then to be so unbelievably ignorant when being persuaded that the story my brain had taught me to believe was wrong was quite confidence-breaking. But I managed, because we all do.

In a few short sentences I could summarize my fucked up life:
1) I had a dad who was crazy in love with my mom and a mom I thought was beautiful
2) I have this profound and unprecedented love for Patrick Kane
3) I thought Derek was Patrick and Patrick was Jacob for a couple weeks of my life
4) I was pregnant but miscarried
5) I'm only 25

Otherwise, I am completely blessed.
Eh.

Patrick came to Derek's house weeks after I left the hospital, completely confused, memories scattered and jumbled all over the place. He told me that I was confused and I was wrong. I told him he was a cheater who used me as a publicity stunt. Then Derek told me that I was confused and I was wrong- that it had been him (Derek) who cheated. He added that I was never a publicity stunt, that that was a defensive mechanism of burning retaliation. But that was besides the point.

Instead of leaving with Patrick or staying with Derek, I left.

I took my passport and credit card and nothing else and I went to the airport and booked a flight to Norway. God knows why but Norway seemed like the place to be. And in Norway I felt a revival. Spiritual, physical, emotional, call it whatever you deem most effective but I was Lana again.

I felt happy and content and so beautiful and so not confused. I knew me and I knew Patrick and I knew Derek. I knew Julia and Tazer and Seabrook and Sharp. I knew my pathetic lying mother and my desperate and targeted father. I remembered all my dad's journals and I remembered my real dad. I remembered all the secrets and remembered all the lies.

One would think that after finally finding all this dirt, I'd be sad, angry, depressed even. But to the complete contrary, I was satisfied. It's like knowing the answer to a math problem, and knowing it the whole time but shying away from saying it aloud for fear of being wrong. But then you man the fuck up and you check your answer and you're right. It's a sort of pride, I guess you could call it, when you realize your accuracy- a sort of happiness. A terrible metaphor that probably was, but all the hits to the head severely affected my writing skills.

I sat in a little bakery in the heart of a small village just along the border of Norway, only a couple minutes drive away from Sweden and listened to a thick Norwegian dialect laugh out an entire story. The baker was an adorable, short man- black haired, blue eyed. He spoke half English, but spoke so quickly that the Norwegian would override my native tongue. He tossed a folded roll of bread to me from the counter where he'd just finished sprinkling it with cheese and diced tomatoes. I loved me some cheese and tomato bread.

He told me one thing that I couldn't forget. He said that I could run from sadness all I wanted. I could hide under rocks and dive underwater; I could camouflage in trees and sprawl carelessly in the sand. But I couldn't confuse sadness. Because sadness doesn't forget itself. "It covers itself, yes, but it never forgets." He told me.

"What do you mean it covers itself?" I had asked

"My lovely, I mean that sadness is sad sometimes when you make yourself sad all the time so it tells you to find fake things to pretend you are happy. But your heart tells sadness, 'No, I cannot allow it. I cannot allow myself to be fulfilled by fake happiness.' The heart says. The heart says that, my lovely, it really does. So then the heart one day will decide its time to tell you that this is not home, even if it has the best bread in the entire world." He laughed, tossing over a cheese and raspberry crescent.

I nodded my head and agreed whole-heartedly.

I longed to go home.

And go home I did.

***

I pulled into the driveway of Patrick's house. His porch light was on. I saw the gleam of his golden hair resting ever-so-beautifully on the back of the chair. He looked at the car when the headlights hit him. My car was strange to him, it was different. He stared blankly at the car, trying to put a face to the license plate but failed. My windows were tinted so he couldn't see passed their transparency. But then I opened the driver's seat door and stepped onto the cemented pavement. And though he hadn't seen my face, he jumped as soon as he'd seen my shoes touch the ground.

Notes

I highly doubly that there's still interest in this story unfortunately :'( and I'm completely to blame for waiting this long. But its been sort of a therapeutic journey, i guess one could say, for me but I'm definitely feeling a world and a half better. please if you're still reading!!, leave a comment so i know whether or not to keep going..

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:)