Why I’m a Library For Liars

You know what really used to get me off? Lending books.

If I read something that I appreciated or thought was beautiful, I wanted the people I cared about experience it too. Immediately! Makes sense, right?

I gave people–be it lovely best friend or emotionally damaged ex-boyfriend–my favorite books, hoping that they might be moved the way I was. I could think of no better way to show affection–no better way to be close to someone.

In this way, I could share myself innocently–could give myself easily.

Kissing? I think not. How bout a good Dickinson anthology? I get my hands on one of those, and oh boy. When I’m done with it, I will give it to you like it’s nobody’s business.

In all seriousness, I no longer have a copy of any of my favorite books.

The funny thing about lending books to people who don’t really care about you, is that you don’t get them back.

I’ve done this so many times, with so many people–friends, boys, whoever. But there’s one time in particular that I’m reminded of tonight, after finding a copy of this book at Goodwill earlier today.

I used to have a copy of my favorite book–The Heart is a Lonely Hunter–that I very much loved. It was heavily highlighted and well-worn–I had dogeared, scribbled on, and cried with this book for years.

I loved it. Not just the story–which is a goddamn work of art by the way–but this specificbook. It was mine. I had made it mine.

Just over a year ago, I gave it to a very beautiful, but deeply confused boy to read. He was creative and deep and sad and, dear god, he had long hair. And I just. I’m me.

You know how it be.

He was really quite lovely to be around. The first night we met, he made me black coffee. I told him it was so good I saw God.

He kissed me on the street.

I was wearing his jacket.

It had a key in the pocket.

I am positive he remembers none of this, and that doesn’t make me sad. It’s a tender memory that I’ve chosen to keep, and I’m glad I kept it. Even though I’m the only one who did.

We dated briefly, and I felt absolutely undeserving–not because he made me feel this way, but because I had decided that, for some reason, I wasn’t enough.

Of course I wasn’t good enough. Of course I couldn’t measure up. These were things I told myself–these were the things I believed.

I wanted to give as much of myself as I could to him, because I knew it wasn’t a lot.

I wanted to lend him my favorite book. I wanted him to read it and understand it the way I did–to share what I could with him.

I told him how beautiful it was, and put it on his dresser. He thanked me. He was lovely to be around.

I am positive he never read it.

He may have thrown it away. He may have given it to the girl he was with while I was away.

Or hey, it may be in a box somewhere. Who knows.

All I knew is that I didn’t get it back.

And what I know now is, of-fucking-course he didn’t.

Of course he isn’t going to read it. Of course he’ll give it to her, or throw it away, or–I dunno–use it to start a fire.

AND THAT’S OKAY.

I lent him a book that he didn’t ask for, or want, because I desperately wanted him to think it was beautiful too. I wanted him to get it–to get me. To have something of mine. Anything of mine.

He didn’t read it. He didn’t give it back. And this is all okay.

What isn’t okay is that I gave something so special of mine to someone who didn’t want it.

What isn’t okay is that I told myself I wasn’t enough.

He didn’t want the damn book. He didn’t want me. He lied to me. And yet, I don’t hate him for this–not at all. It made me realize something so profoundly important about myself.

I was compassionate because I cared about him, but I was blind because I didn’t feel like enough.

In deciding that I wasn’t good enough for him, I allowed parts of myself to become insignificant. My importance to myself was not only diminished–it was nonexistent.

I gave him a book he didn’t want to read. My book. My book that I loved.

I didn’t want to give it away or lose it or toss it on some shelf or watch him give it to another girl.

But I did, and oh my God am I sorry to 21 year old Allie. She really wasn’t all that bad. She was just trying her best.

One day she’ll find another copy Goodwill. One day, she’ll find an apartment halfway across the country. One day she’ll move to the mountains.

One day, someone will ask to read my favorite book, because they want to.

They’ll read it, and it’ll move them.

Then they’ll give it back.

And I won’t feel like I’ve lost anything.

And, dear God, that’ll feel good.

 

I love you dear reader. So much. Thanks for hanging in there with me.