Last Weekend

was exactly what I needed.

Before I left, I could barely wake up by noon. The wet and murky fog of general sadness that had settled around my soul for no real reason kept me from enjoying all but the best of moments. I could smile and I could pretend, but there was no feeling of freedom within me to lift me through the hard days. Every day, I cried.

Things are different now. I know it won't last. Eventually, the things I want and cannot find my way to will begin to weigh me down again. But for now, I am enjoying the light-hearted breeze that is dancing around my shoulders.

I know exactly what changed me. It wasn't the 7 hour drive all by myself, which made me feel like an adult again, although the time away from my father, who tries to control all aspects of my life, did remind me that no matter what my father thinks, I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions, and good ones, at that. It is a good thing to remember, because without the ability to make life's decisions, I cannot feel as though I have any control at all over my life.

It wasn't the nights away from the confines of my home, humid and warm and olfactorily offensive. This definitely helped bring about the change, since I got to spend almost three full days surrounded by clean air and fresh air (You wouldn't think I'd find that by going from the U.P. to Chicago, would you?), but it wasn't a primary cause of my new-found sense of self.

The change wasn't caused by the time I spent Saturday dodging raindrops as I dashed from the car into a slew of thrift shops, searching through another man's junk to find my treasure. It wasn't sliding into the cool water of the hotel's swimming pool and drifting away into my own mind. It wasn't curling into the warm and thrusting water of the tiniest hot tub I have ever seen. It wasn't settling into a couch at 1 a.m. with a couple of mudslides to watch really bad movies from the very early 1980s.

And it wasn't spending Sunday in the sun of the Maxwell Street flea market, with my skin turning pink and my mind turning over and over and over again to take in the people, the culture, the glorious tables buried in old jewelry, cheap shampoo, four-for-ten-dolares bras and panties, every odd and end you could think of and a million others you can't. It wasn't the Mexican tacos with pico de gallo or the fruity sugar waters in summery flavors like watermelon and pineapple or the tortillas hecho por mano. It wasn't listening to the four-year-old boy who urgently explained to his mother that, "She wouldn't like it- she's a tomboy and she doesn't like girly things!" or the elderly woman who told her granddaughter that she would buy her everything Maxwell Street had if it would make her happy, but felicidad comes from friendship and not from ownership.

Those things all helped. Each and every one of them pulled my thoughts up and out of the rut they've been resting in and helped me build a new path to send my thoughts traveling along. But it wasn't any of them that really made the difference.

It was a man who made the difference. Not a man who is in love with me, or a man who ever will be in love with me, but a man who is a very good friend. A man who was waiting for me when I finished my 7 hour trip, who trusts that the decisions I make are the right ones for me. A man who directed me to every thrift store we could find when our flea market plans fell through because of rain, who sat by the side of the pool and waited for me while I slipped into the coolness and then the violent swirling hot tub. A man who let me curl into his arms while we settled into the couch to watch half a night's worth of wonderfully terrible old movies, who stroked my hair as I sipped on the chocolaty smoothness of a few mudslides. A man who took me to the Maxwell Street flea market and ordered my lunch for me because I was afraid to speak Spanish to a native speaker, even though I know a little of the language and love it almost as much as I do English. A man who discovered my love of the written word and bought me book after book after book because the discovery pleased him so much.

A man who held me as I slept, who didn't shy away from the rolling swells of flesh that cover my body and steal away the beauty that others could see if only I was thin. A man who laced his fingers through mine as we drifted off to sleep, who kissed me tenderly, urgently, sweetly, violently, all in turn.

A man who is willing to accept me as I am, but a man who will never be any more than a once-in-a-while lover and a long distance friend. It was his choice to play this role in my life, but it was a choice that works for me, because I don't think any other kind of relationship would work for us. We were not meant to fall in love, only to satisfy each other from time to time, and to let each of us believe that maybe life can be a little different than it is.

It is in his arms that I can pretend that love exists for me, somewhere in the world. It is in his arms that I believe I can find it. He does not hold my heart any more than I hold his, but his loving caresses rub a soothing salve on the tattered and torn edges of my battered soul. In his arms, I dream of a time when the arms around me will belong to another man, one who loves me, one who I love with everything I have. I can live with that, though, I think, as long as I have Chicago arms to hold me, Chicago hands to touch me, Chicago lips to kiss me and make me feel beautiful.

That's what caused the change. For forty-eight hours, I could pretend that I was beautiful, charming, attractive, vivacious, strong, deserving of affection. For forty-eight hours, I could be anyone. I could be the person I dream of being rather than the person who I am.

I have a window of opportunity, now. There is a series of days ahead, maybe even weeks, in which I will feel a little stronger than I did. In that time, I will believe that I can achieve the things I dream of. I must work quickly, now, deliberately, selfishly, untiringly. If I can make just one dream come true before this wash of confidence slips away, there is a chance that I can pull myself from the depths of sadness that envelope me and make a better life for myself. This is the journey I am embarking upon.

A journey that started with a simple weekend trip to the heart of Chicago. A journey that I fear, but a journey that will once again refresh my soul. Un viaje de esperanza.