They were the perfect couple. They laughed together, played together and connected in an unspoken language. Emmanuel Stello Washington was the joy of her life, until his untimely death. No matter how hard she tried to move on, the First Lady, could not get over him. He was in her soul. Take a privileged look into the private thoughts of a young woman who struggled with her intimate love, her traumatic grief and her inherent spirituality. Read her thoughts as she travels on a journey of self discovery and personal reflection.

Lost Letters of a Lonely Girl

By Cherry DeVore

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 Cherry DeVore
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4685-4367-4

Contents

Again..............................................................1Misty Nights.......................................................3Band Aid...........................................................4Invisible Me.......................................................6I Miss Him.........................................................9Back in Love.......................................................10My Desire..........................................................15Could it be?.......................................................17The L Word.........................................................19Secrets............................................................21Good Morning.......................................................23Dreamin'...........................................................25Lonely but not Alone...............................................27My Rapist..........................................................29It's a Boy.........................................................31Her Baby...........................................................32My Value...........................................................39Questions..........................................................40A Familiar Scene...................................................42Imagination........................................................43Sunday's Sermon: If Loving You is Wrong............................45Love in Return.....................................................47Broken Ballerina...................................................49Truly..............................................................50A Vision...........................................................53The Problem........................................................54All for You........................................................56Finally............................................................57The Same Tear......................................................59The Breakup........................................................63So I Creep.........................................................67Wounded............................................................69Strung Out.........................................................71Unanswered Prayers.................................................72Pleased............................................................74Gone too soon......................................................75Part 1.............................................................77The Funeral........................................................80Just Ask...........................................................81Opportunities......................................................84Choices............................................................85Sunday's Sermon: Faith That Looks Like Failure.....................88Homecoming.........................................................91Fallen Leaves......................................................99Lean...............................................................100Forbidden..........................................................101

Chapter One

      Again


    Has God really offered me the chance to love again?
    The chance to hold his hand and feel his body close to mine ... again?
    Have I been granted his warmth again?
      The warmth that comes from an unyielding source ...
        ... the inner parts of his core.
    Is it my time to laugh again?
    Is it time for my mourning to end?
    Can I find safety in his arms, again?
    Can he love me beyond my pain?
    Can he love me in spite of who I really am?
    Can he hold me and feel my heart beat for him?
    Will he ever really know what I have sacrificed for him?
      As I smile, will he know that it came from years of praying just for
        him?
    I can't afford to loose this man again.
      Lord please grant me this chance to be loved by him ...
        ... Once Again.

Dear Diary,

Out of all the men ... all the places that I have ever allowed myself to be disgraced in. Out of all the times I shared intimate fluids with men and women who never thought twice about me. Out of all the things I have given up in hopes of getting nothing in return ... today was not that day. As I stood before Emmanuel Stello Washington I heard him, I saw him, I felt him. Love. He loves me. Not who he thinks I am, not who I portray myself to be, not a character on display, but just me. He loves me. He loves everything about me. He loves me when I am talking, when I am moaning, when I am whining and even when I am praying. He loves me. He loves the hate in me, the terror I wear on my face, the fear in my heart and the doubt in my mind. He loves me. He listens to me rant, he listens to me cry, he listens to me laugh. He loves me. I have never known a love like this. This kind of love is unreal and unexplainable. I cry when I look at him because I don't understand how I can ever be loved the way this man loves me.

In his heart he speaks to me, he says: "You are my fantasy. You are my reality. Water ... I want to flow with you ... dance with you and live a real life with you. I want to make up for every day we have spent apart. I want to embrace every moment we have yet to be together. Water ... I thirst for you. I cannot survive unless I drink from you. I needed you then and I need you now. Water ... will you Marry Me? Will you allow me to fill you like the ocean? Will you hold my heart, protect it and embrace it? Will you allow me to show you that I will never hurt you, leave you or abandon you? Will you let me be all the things you have deserved all your life? Water ... I need the very essence of you. Please say yes and allow me to be the husband God has ordained for you to have. I love you Water ... I will forever love you."

      Misty Nights

    In a dazed, dark, misty night,
      the tears roll from my eyes.
    With arms opened wide,
      I cry for you.
    Scared of having you,
      scared of loosing you.
    Too afraid of the fear and too broken to face the pain.
    So I run,
      faster and faster,
        with arms outstretched
          and the wind in my face ...
            blinded by my very own tears.
    I can't see the hole in my heart, but I can feel the life draining out of
      me.
    I won't say it ... Oh please don't make me say it ...
      this love thing is no good.
        It is not kind ... It is painful and it hurts ...
    And I will never be hurt again ... at least not by you.
    So I run in silence ...
      into the arms of the lonely, dark, misty night.
        "Baby ... I Love You."


      Band Aid

    Goodbye ...
        This seems to be the phrase of the day.
    I love you ...
        Seems to be the band-aid that holds it all together.
    I need you ...
        Seems to be the words that pierce my heart.
    I fell in love with you a long time ago.
    Every word I have ever written was wasted on you.
    The innocence I once felt from being loved by you was proven to be a
      facade.
    The protection you once gave me left me naked and cold.
      I loved you when the world was against you.
        I stood by you when no one else knew you.
    I treasured you even though they told me there was no good in you.
    I cared for you when you could care less.
    And now I am looking at you and I no longer recognize you.
    So you can take your band-aids back ...
    For my wounds are too wide and too deep for superficial fixes.

Dear Diary,

Today is my thirty-eighth birthday and I am home alone with a box of chocolate sprinkled cupcakes, a bottle of sparkling apple cider, and an oversized electric blanket. Being alone is not new for me, it is actually a welcomed time of reprieve and reflection. The only problem with being alone is that it gives me too much time to miss those who I desperately wish were a permanent part of my life. I miss my twin sister, who died in a horrible car crash on our sixteenth birthday. I miss my mother, whom I never knew, because she gave us up at birth. I miss my innocence, which was robbed from me by lusty foster parents, who couldn't keep their hands out of my panties. I miss my first love ... who lied to me when he promised he would never leave me. I miss my freedom, that was taken from me, the day I married the most sought after preacher in the entire city.

Yea, I like being alone, but I hate that it gives me time to miss those things that probably have never missed me. Being alone makes me think of my worth and my value. It also allows me time to ponder on my personal perceived realities. I know people see me and say they need me, but it doesn't seem like anyone genuinely loves or even values the person within me.

I am the voice of reason for all of my friends. I am the loyal girlfriend to all the men who have every graced my life. I am the resourceful leader to those who look up to me. I am a superhero to my husband, family and staff of employees. I am considered a prophetic and articulate angel to my church members. But yet I feel alone, vulnerable and invisible. I feel like no one knows the real me ... at least no one alive. For the only man that ever knew me and invested in me has now gone on without me.

So I sit here alone, on my birthday, remembering all that I don't have ... and wishing I could just turn back the hands of time so I could have the only thing I ever wanted ... real Love.

      Invisible Me

    Close your eyes and look at me ...
      can you see me?
    I'm right here, in the darkest corner of the room.
    I promised you I would be here,
      just like you demanded me to be.
    Unveil yourself and sense me.
    Can you feel me in the room ... sitting in the nonexistent chair?
    If you can't find me, it's because I got up so you could watch me dance.
    Didn't you know that the silence of your music would move me?
    Please tell me you can see me now?
    Can you recognize the love inside of me?
      Or am I invisible to your heart too?
    I will stay here if you want me to ... I will wait right here ... if you ask
      me to ...
        for if you can't see me,
          then I don't want to be seen.
    So just please open your soul and recognize that it's me.
      Close your eyes and dance with me.

Dear Diary,

In nearly forty years, I have loved several men, but I have only been in love once. I find that a little sad and disappointing, but that is my reality. I never meant for my life to be this way, especially since I truly love the idea of being in love. To my disgrace, I have been touched by many men, but have only slept with four of them. One was by force, one was by choice and the other two were merely out of obligation.

My first sexual experience was at the hand of a date rapist. I don't remember much of what happened, all I know is that it was my twenty-first birthday and my friends took me out to a local bar to get me drunk. It didn't take long for their mission to be accomplished. Three drinks later, I found myself disoriented and very woozy. I don't recall much after that, except waking up in a strange bed, next to an older man who was a janitor at our college. We were both naked and he was asleep. I was sore, wet and sticky. I had bruises on my arms and legs, and there were slight traces of dried up blood on my inner thigh. I jumped up and started screaming. He woke up, clamped his hand down hard over my mouth and told me to get dressed. I did as I was told and then he drove me back to the dorms. I cried for the rest of the day, as I tried to drown myself in the shower. Three months later I discovered I not only had a sexual disease, but I was going to have a baby by a rapist.

Dear Diary,

My second sexual experience was with my first husband. Holston Caldwell was an amazing man who attended the same college I used to go to. He was a perfect southern gentleman, who carried himself with an air of silent dignity. Holston and I were acquainted before my first tragic incident, but we became close friends shortly after I dropped out of school. I didn't trust anyone, anymore, and I had distanced myself from any and everything that was vaguely familiar to me, even school. Holston was the exception, for he made me feel loved and respected. He would call me everyday and every night just to check on me and the baby. He never asked me about my child's father or the circumstances surrounding my pregnancy, he was simply concerned with my health and well being. He convinced me to marry him during my sixth month of pregnancy so that I could have proper medical care. I decided to go through with the loveless marriage because I trusted Holston and I knew he would always be there for me.

Holston and I had sex for the first time five weeks after I gave birth to my daughter. It was really wonderful because I appreciated him and his patience with me. He respected me and I believe he cared for me and my brand new baby girl. Sex with Holston wasn't passionate, but it was meaningful. He was sweet, careful, gentle and consistent. After sex, Holston would lay in my arms and tell me his deepest thoughts. He once told me that he had been molested as a child, but I never told him I was raped while at college.

We were a cute little family and I enjoyed knowing I was married to my best friend. My husband divorced me after five years of marriage because he discovered I was a closet alcoholic. I had turned to drinking shortly after the rape and I thought I was doing a good job at hiding it from my family and the world. Holston fought for and won custody of our daughter whom he adopted at birth. Loosing my husband and my daughter was a horrible wake up call for me, but it was the shock I needed to land me into my first stint at rehab.

      I Miss Him

    It is so dark,
      but I'm not afraid.
    I'll just go home ...
      that's what I'll do.
    Yea, I'll just go home ... if I can still find my way back there.
    I called him,
      I know he still loves me.
    I need him,
      but he doesn't want me.
    I'm scared.
    What if he will never trust me again?
    What if he will never need me again?
    That's why I'm with you.
      You won the left over prize.
    So just lay here and do for me
      all the things he used to do.
    Before I began to miss him ...
      all over again.


      Back in Love

    Uh oh ... My heart just stopped.
    Why? Your voice ...
      It's been so long ... and such a lonely time.
    Once best friends, now separated because of pride ...
      but I never stopped believing in you.
    A team is what we used to be ...
      and then I left it all behind, because you hurt me.
    Once your baby girl, now a young lady.
      I thought I was safe with you,
        but you let me down ... hard.
    They say "Can't have your cake and eat it too,"
      but I was hungry ...
        I hungered for the fulfillment of your promises.
    You promised me, from my childhood days ...
      to stand beside me ... through thick and thin ...
        no matter what!
    So what happened? Where did it all go?
      I had to leave you ... and now I'm licking my wounds.
        but I will bury the pain ...
      because I'm back in love ... with the thought of loving you.

Dear Diary,

My third lover was Emmanuel Stello Washington, a self proclaimed thug that I went to high school with. He was everything I swore I never wanted in my life. He was loud, exciting, brash, fun, hot tempered, silly, and a player. He was everything I was not. When we were in high school, he was voted most popular and I was not voted at all because I barely existed. I was quiet, shy and extremely introverted. I worked in the cafeteria, and stayed as far away from others as I could. My loneliness increased with the heart wrenching, tragic loss of my twin sister. Her death changed me ... it emptied me.

The one thing about Emmanuel, or Manni as everyone called him, is that he was highly protective of others. He was the opposite of a bully, he almost seemed to be the superhero for the underdog. Any time a kid in school would get picked on, Manni would come to their rescue. He hated to see others left out or feel belittled.

Our lockers were next to each other and each day he would make a point to speak to me and ask me how I was doing. He didn't just ask the question, but he insisted on knowing the real answer. He would ask me things about my foster family and he would always ask if I was safe. He would check on me daily and inquire if I had lunch money and even when I said yes, he would still slip money into my locker. He would even ask about my sister and he would tell me often that he was there for me if I ever wanted to talk about her.

Manni never called me by my real name, I am not sure if he knew my name or not, but by the time we entered eleventh grade, he stopped calling me "Hey You" and started calling me "First Lady." I never knew why he called me that and when I asked him, he would just smile. I think it was because my last foster parents were preachers and I looked so much like a preachers kid.

I had a horrible sense of style in high school, and with a lack of funds, my wardrobe was accentuated. Nothing I owned was new or even slightly used. I was wearing clothes that came from a different decade, yet Manni accepted me and he never allowed anyone to make fun of me. No matter where I was or what he was doing, he would always call out "Hey First Lady, how are you." When others laughed or made fun of me he would scowl and his temper would explode. He defied his popularity in order to defend me. I didn't want to like Manni, because I knew he was sleeping with half of the cheerleading squad, but I often fantasized about a simple life, on a deserted island, with just him.

Manni and I didn't see each other again for years after graduation, although he gave me his number and asked me to keep in touch. I didn't trust my feelings for him, so I made a point not to reach out to him. I didn't want to become another girl that he was sleeping with and I didn't want him to make a fool of me. So I just held on to him in my heart and I slept with his number underneath my pillow. For years I missed Manni. I never knew him intimately, but I missed his protection and care. I wondered if he was the same way with other girls ... or was he just trying to make me feel good about myself, since I was clearly a train wreck.

I did a good job at keeping my feelings for Manni to myself, until I ran into him at a job interview, nearly ten years after graduation and two weeks after my divorce was final. I was sitting in the lobby of a packing company, completing the application paperwork and a familiar man walked into the building surrounded by a cloud of laughter. I looked up and our eyes met. He stopped short and immediately dropped the cell phone that originally held his attention. "First Lady?" He said those words in a gasping whisper. The four people in the lobby with us were now focused on the dynamic that was taking place. I was stunned to see him. I didn't know what to say or how to respond. My heart decided not to cooperate as I struggled to maintain my vision. I had thought about Manni everyday of my life since we originally parted ways. I had cried for him the day after the rape because I needed him to come protect me and save me. I looked for him the day I got married, because in my heart I knew I wanted him to show up, stop me and confess his undying love for me. I longed for him the day I gave birth to my daughter because I wanted him to be the only father of my children. I fantasized about Emmanuel every time I heard loud music, saw someone wearing bright neon colors, driving a tricked out car or anything flashy and un-heard of. This man had lived in my soul since I was a teenager and there he was standing before me.

I don't know how long it took me to make it to my feet or to get the color back in my face, but before I could complete my exhale, he was holding me. Emmanuel Stello Washington was holding me in the sweetest, most endearing bear hug I had ever experienced. The paperwork that was once on my lap had now joined his shattered phone on the floor and the two of us were publicly trying to merge into one body. I was no longer a shy, introverted desperate child, but now, at this moment, I felt like a helpless new born baby. He pulled away from me and stared at me and said my name again. "First Lady ... wow, is it really you?"

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Lost Letters of a Lonely Girlby Cherry DeVore Copyright © 2012 by Cherry DeVore. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.