Promise Me You’ll Take Me There

I have been alive for twenty one years, and in that time I have been hurt.

I have given my body to people who don’t care for it, I have given my body far too little to exist on. I have given myself without hope of reciprocation.

I have been hurt. But haven’t we all?

I have hurt others too–I have. I lie a lot, I’m selfish, fearful, demanding. I often can’t feel the weight of my actions; I get prickly when I feel I am in danger; I lash out. I’m human, whatever. I hurt people.

I have been loved too. Genuinely loved. Which is nice to remember. People have cared about me, Allison, enough to tell me how much. It’s a wonderful feeling; like a dream.

It’s hard for me to trust that someone could love me, as I can’t see past my too-long toes. In myself, I see only the result of really terrible decisions–starving, lying, hopelessly needing.

They see me differently, the people who’ve loved me. Surely they must. Or they see the freakish toes and think, “This girl must never fall over. I guess I’ll stick around.”

I hope to live into that someday, to live into the something else they must see in me.

They promise to take me places, these people who care. Which is wonderful, as living in plans is something I do compulsively. I sit still and dream about what-ifs all day. I never really Go anywhere. But dreaming is nice, no?

I want, more than anything, to stand atop the Grand Canyon and cry. I want to see the great empty space and I want to feel small in front of something massive. I want to look at the earth and be completely astonished by something fucking real. Real, real, real beauty that I can See with both my eyes and trust to be material.

I tell this dream to nearly everyone I meet, in the hopes that someone will want that too.

I started dreaming at 19.

Her name was Jackie. I had just entered treatment for Anorexia, and so had she. She was 21 and we were fast friends–almost too fast. Within a week we knew everything about each other, apart from when exactly we were going to recover.

Late one night, we decided to make bucket lists. At the top of mine, for reasons I cannot seem to remember, was “Go to Mexico”. Something about Mexico called to me that night, and though I don’t completely understand it, I respect it. I was in a weird place.

Anyway. Number two was “Get a Tattoo.”

I was stuck on number three. I turned to Jackie and expressed my concern; I couldn’t see far enough past treatment to make crazy, extravagant plans for my life.

“Well” she said “What do you love?”

And so I told her a story.

There’s a famous environmental activist named Katie Lee who, as a young woman, explored a place named Glen Canyon.

Her and two friends, both men–one a photographer, the other a geographer–spent weeks here, living in awe of the land. Katie describes it as the most alive she has ever felt. Surrounded by beauty, with only her body and a camera, she found something worth living for, worth loving.

I’ve watched recent interviews where she attempts to describe the beauty of this place, and she always end them in tears. She speaks of a beauty so complete that it left her dazed; beauty that couldn’t touch Eden. She is was in love, absolutely, with this place. With this time in her life.

That’s love I want.

Glen Canyon was flooded after the construction of the Glen Canyon dam in 1966, and Katie lost her Canyon under twenty feet of the Colorado river. She has never stopped fighting for its return.

When I finished, Jackie said, “What about the Grand Canyon?”

Well, what about the Grand Canyon?

Since then it has become my dream to see this beautiful thing.

She promised to take me there, one day.

Jackie and I hardly speak now. And though I know she meant it at the time, I know we will never go to this place together.

I have loved I have loved I have loved since then. Lots of people. Only a few enough to ask about my dreams.

So many people have told me they’d take me there–that they’d go with me on my dream and stand at the top of the Canyon and hold me while I cry into this big hole.

And one day, someone will.

I will go West. I will find my Canyon. I will stand at the top and cry and love and my body will be full.

I will Never let it go. I love too much, too often, with far too much of myself to stop.

Dear reader, promise to take me there, even if all we ever do is talk about it.

I promise it’ll be worth it.