* * * STILL NOT ABOUT WEAVING * * *Thursday, I mourned, for what, I can’t put into words. I felt sad for me.
My closure seemed simple; I only had to decide the saga was over, to see that it had been over for years. I’m tired of being angry, hateful, in doubt, and most of all, of apologizing for things I may not be responsible. We chatted some more that night.
How serendipitous that I finished “Lollipop Shoes”, a novel about reinventing oneself, on Tuesday. People who stay keep living and growing and part of that involves forgetting, but people who leave sometimes remain stuck in a moment. But every time he typed her name, I felt a kick in my face reminding me “You weren’t good enough.” I regretted not having been less self-absorbed, so at least we could have had a semblance of a parting.
Ben is my soul mate; he is calm, stable and unflinching, my opposite. The boy was passionate, competitive, volatile, the same as me. Though I sense he’s mellowed, and hope I have as well. My life has been cruisy since I met Ben; straight forward and upfront. Ben is more sure than I am I’ll come right in the end.
Friday, I was exhausted. I thought about departures, of reinventions. In my case, it’s never been about escapes, but to better myself, to try once again, so I don’t fail again. I grew up with parents for whom my best was never enough, and still isn’t. My first boyfriend gauged me against alternates for five years before dumping me. I, in response, tested and challenged and dared him to break “us” up. I got what I asked for. There was never much room for trust or blind faith in my early life. No wonder I mistrust compliments; no wonder I am suspicious of people to whom I need not prove myself. Like Liz. And Ben.
Saturday, I became tired of my own thoughts and words, and couldn’t decide if this is something I should publicize.
I did receive an email about Washburn Class of ’77 reunion in July, something I never imagined when I wrote about reunions on Wednesday. I still oscillate between wanting to remain an outsider, and wanting to reconnect, between wanting a normal friend with the boy, and having nothing to do with him, ever again. I know I opened that floodgate Tuesday night; pretending this week never happened is not an option.
These are my truths, and this has been my life. And I need more time.
Lest you think I’ve once again succumbed to a self-indulgent git-ness, I have, and I can only hope it has been therapeutic for me. But I shall close this with one of my favorite quotes, uttered by an ex-gang member turned youth worker generating freat results with little/ no funding somewhere on the North Island.
“Get off the cross; we need the wood.”
Thank you for indulging me.