The Perfect Person

I don't like television, although I'm known to watch movies and true-life stories. Not like "New Jersey Housewives" or "The Bachelor" but true-crime or forensics or stuff like you'd find on Discovery or BBS.

Still, throughout my life, I've plucked little things here and there and I thought to myself, "How wonderful that would be."

Images that flash in my mind and warm my heart, to think they could even exist. People like this. Teachers, healers, helpers, therapists, doctors, parents, neighbors....

My ideal person is similar to the guy in the movie "Nell" in which the female lead - Jodie Foster - is held away in captivity for her whole life. She's even created her own language and the man - Liam Neeson - learns her language.

I think of how he approached her - slowly, so slowly. How gentle he was. How he put himself on the floor, so he wasn't threatening.

I think of other snapshots in my mind's eye.... the image of a white washcloth, tentatively reaching for a tear-stained, grubby face that jerks away in fear. But the gentle hand, holding the washcloth, speaks words of soothing and kindness and eventually, the warm, soft terrycloth reaches the cheeks of the beaten child.

I think of times I've seen - on television - when "tough love" was really love. It was truly love and it was given selflessly to bring out what a child is afraid to see for themselves.

I've seen teachers believe in - and take particular interest in - certain kinds of kids and I wonder, why couldn't I have that? What if I had, had that?

Now, I wish someone would come to my doorway, and sit there on the threshold, cross their legs and tell me about themselves....not ask me questions, but "go first" - like a game.

Show me themselves, maybe move a little closer every once in awhile.

I don't want anyone to wash my face yet. I don't want anyone that close. But I think about it. That tenderness and that authentic caring.

Only I'm not little anymore. Sometimes it's a blessing, sometimes a curse. Sometimes I think maybe if I were young now - nowadays - someone would have saved me.

But they didn't and here I am. Afraid of people. Afraid of touch. Hating to bathe. Hating the mirror. Sometimes fantasizing about violently jerking every piece of jewelry I have hanging on my mirror clean off, as some testament of my hatred for the foulness and fallacy it all seems to represent.

Nothing there is mine. It's all stuff someone gave me to make me who they thought I should be.

It just hangs there.

Like me.

Just hanging here. Just hanging.