Creative Nonfiction: You Don't Know Me

By Julie Wainwright

He was my special Grand Ol’ Opry radio announcer, bouncing me on his lap and playing records on an old Victrola that was so old it belonged in a museum. He told me stories about country songs, most of them about fighting, drinking, and cheating. He knew every country singer on the radio, could name all their hits, and had seen Hank Williams and Johnny Cash in person at the Crawford County Fair. Because Daddy played my favorite 45s, I learned to pick out RCA, Liberty, and Sun Records by their labels.

“You Don’t Know Me” was Daddy’s favorite. He had copies by Eddy Arnold and Jerry Vale, but my favorite version, and his, too, was not the country version but the soulful one by Ray Charles, a black man who gave the song a completely different feel with his deep, rich vocals. Not everybody down here would listen to a black man singing country. But we did, and even today, the song haunts me, taking me back to those precious moments on Daddy’s lap. It’s as beautiful as ever, carrying not only the sound of Ray's voice but the memory of Daddy’s love, the warmth of his embrace, and a time when my world was measured one spinning record at a time.

Gosh, I was such a Daddy’s girl. I sat on his lap every evening. I knew I was safe. I would fall asleep, and he would carry me to bed. I had childhood migraines and had to get morphine injections. Dad would black out the windows in my room so I could sleep without being disturbed. He brought me meals and fed me because I was so sleepy because of what he called my “morphine fog.”

I really don’t know how he did it, but every morning, before Daddy went to work, he did laundry, cooked breakfast, and made sure we got to school on time. In the evenings, he would cook dinner. Mom did not clean, but my aunt and my grandmother cleaned our house only when Mom let them. Mom would drink all day, starting around 10:00 in the morning. I could hear her pouring vodka into a glass and was scared of what could happen. Mom became either really sad or really angry. Mom was an alcoholic, but we never used that word in our house, just as we never used the word for cancer or for mental illness. As a little girl, I learned that my mother was a crazy, out-of-control drunk who hated that I was her child and, every day, filled my heart with shame, telling me she was sorry I had been born. Every night when I went to bed, her terrible words covered me in humiliation,

I wanted to share my childhood story now that I've met Alex, my special friend. When I think about what he means to me, I'm reminded of the song "You Don't Know Me." Alex knows the depth of my passion and my words of love, but he doesn't know my true self, the woman shaped by forbidden memories I’ve hidden my entire life.

Many people numb their pain with substances or by eating, shopping, or having casual relationships. I didn’t do that, but I found other ways to numb myself. In my most private self, I tend to shut down when I’m hurt or overwhelmed. I’ve always done this since I was a little girl, because of my mother’s daily anger and torment. I would enter the land of the dead and remain in a state of depression until my mood lifted. My cousin Betsy, who studied developmental psychology, once told me we all have three personalities: the public self we show the world, the private self we share with those we trust, and the secret self that holds our deepest wounds.

Alexander knows my public self, and I've shared much of my private self with him. But there are still places inside that need to remain locked away. I will never tell him the secrets I keep hidden in the dark recesses of my psyche. Some secrets should remain unspoken, locked away in a strongbox, and buried deep in a pit. Sometimes I find myself in a dark place, talking aloud to Alex, almost challenging him, saying, “You don’t really know me, and you never will.”

We always have options. My therapist told me that we choose our thoughts, words, and attitudes. It is mind over matter. Positivity always wins over negativity. I know those words, but at times I forget what they feel like.

That frightens me because truly loving someone means risking being fully seen. My greatest fear is that he will discover who I am and dislike what he sees. If Alexander ever left me, I would be devastated and begin to question my very existence. I’m afraid because I need him so.

At night, I weep bitter tears, grieving for everything I might lose. My most intimate thoughts: “I wonder if, when all my hidden pieces are finally revealed, Alex will still look at me with the same tenderness he does now. What if he found out who I am and walked away? What if he rejected me for lacking self-confidence and for leaning on him as my North Star, for mentorship, and for everything! What if the magic faded and I’m left naked, ashamed, and embarrassed for having revealed too much?”

What kind of woman was she? Wasn’t Julie Wainwright strong, independent, and capable of managing her own life without some strong, handsome, and successful man holding her hand and guiding her through the rough patches? Couldn’t she get along on her own? Julie heard herself say she couldn’t live without him. She would be devastated if he left her. If he packed his things, and took off with some Madison Avenue babe who was physically attractive and a celebrity as well.

Do I love him too much, and why do I love him so much? Could I survive Alex finding out the real me and deciding I’m not the woman he needs? Those questions have suffocated me under a tarp of self-doubt, each whispering that I somehow wasn't good enough. It wasn’t rejection itself that terrified me; it was the possibility that the man I loved would see my true self and walk away. What would that profound grief feel like? What emotions would I carry for believing I would never be enough for him? Would grief settle in my body like dried concrete? And in those moments of darkness, Alexander, my sweeter-than-sweet Alex, always responds, “Julie, I know you and love you. You are all I need. You are all I want. I love you because I know who you are.

“I get you.”

The words were simple, yet they landed with the force of an answered prayer. For so much of my life, I had been convinced that if people knew everything about me, they would leave. My scars are hidden behind my smile and laughter, but if they saw the frightened little girl hiding behind the capable professional, they could see I was too damaged and complicated to love.

Yet Alex wasn’t interested in my polished version. He saw a woman who still cradled her childhood fears; he saw nights when self-doubt crept in like a thief, and he saw the tears I tried to hide and the wounds I pretended had healed long ago. And somehow, instead of backing away, instead of running from me, he stepped forward. She imagined them kissing softly at first, and then, spontaneously, both losing control until their lives were upended—the top becoming the bottom and the bottom the top. Love is strange. He prided himself on being strange, and she was just as strange. Maybe love is loving someone despite their scars, not because they seem strong, but loving someone after you've seen the scars, after you've witnessed the weakness, after you've heard their fears spoken in the dark.

The song says, “You don't know me,” and for most of my life, those words felt true. Daddy knew the sweet little girl on his lap, listening to Ray Charles, while the world knew the woman who survived against the odds, worked hard, and kept moving forward.

Then Alex arrived; everything shifted; everything changed. It was subtle. It was dramatic. It was me. It was him. Patiently. Gently. One conversation at a time. For the first time, I began to wonder whether the song was wrong. Perhaps being loved is not about finding someone who knows every secret. Perhaps it is about finding someone who knows enough of your heart to stay. Someone who looks at the frightened child, the wounded woman, and the hopeful dreamer all at once and says, “I am not going anywhere.”

When I think of Daddy, I remember sitting safely in his lap while Ray sang those haunting words. The room was small, the record player crackled, and the world outside seemed far away. In those moments, I knew what it felt like to be loved without fear of rejection.

But love speaks differently.

Alex never asked me to erase, distort, or sugarcoat my past. He never expected me to become someone else, and he never forced his way into the hidden rooms inside me where no one is allowed to enter. He simply stayed. Day after day, conversation after conversation, he reminded me that the frightened little girl and the capable woman have always been the same person.

Maybe none of us are ever completely known. We all carry stories that remain locked away, wounds that still ache when no one is looking. Love isn’t the absence of those hidden places. Love is finding someone willing to sit beside you. When Ray Charles sang, “You don’t know me,” I understood those words as my truth.

Today, I hear something different. I hear Daddy’s voice teaching me what safety feels like. I hear Alex’s voice reminding me that I don’t have to earn love by pretending to be fearless. And somewhere between those two voices, I received the greatest of gifts as I learned to love myself and realize that I am loved.

 

 

 

 

Julie Wainwright created her story through conversations, memories, and shared hope with her literary consort, Alexander Stone. Despite being miles apart, they believe that love grows through vulnerability, resilience, and acceptance. The Distance Between Heartbeats is their heartfelt debut, inspired by a journey of passion and mutual respect, and dedicated to anyone who believes in the joy of enduring love.