I suppose "you" are wondering why the sudden rush of words today. I'm not sure, why, really, other than maybe it's the last day of 2007, and perhaps I'm in a rush to tell my story that tomorrow may be a new day. A new life. Recovery. Healing.
I'm afraid I have to jump around on my story. Don't worry, you'll get every detail in time, but today, I have to go forward, so that I may go back.
She and I packed our things last year, on this day. We hurried through fireworks because we "had" to, it's tradition, after all. Kindof like baking cookies for Santa on Christmas Eve, in the rush of getting kids to sleep and looking at lights, and all of the other things you are "supposed" to do on traditional holidays. We didn't sleep too long. We both got up, knowing it would be the last journey in seeing him alive. The drive was quiet. We didn't speak much. We couldn't listen to the radio, as every singer seemed to be telling us the same thing.
Later, she would tell me that it seemed as if I needed to say goodbye more than she did. Funny how children are perceptive. I still worry that this is true. Did I ruin her innocence for my profit? I'll never know until she tells me. It will probably be a long time coming. I won't be proud if she says it's not true.
He looked less than human. I wondered if he could see through these open eyes. I want to believe he could. I want to believe he could hear, as I told him thank you for waiting. He promised he would wait for us. Did he know we were there? I want to think so. I want to think that he heard me promise I'd take care of her like I have her entire life. Why did I feel the need to tell him that? Why did I feel the need to make everything okay for him? Forgiveness, I suppose. I forgave a lot, mostly, myself.
His breathing was labored. They say you hear a death rattle. I believe he had one that entire week. His eyes stayed opened until the very end. I seriously doubt, with the disease he had invading his brain to the point of it coming out of his nose, that he knew anything that went on. A part of me hopes, for her sake. Not for mine. Maybe I just answered the question.
I whispered to him. I told him we were forgiven. I told him I'd teach her how to look for the deer in the treeline in September. I told him I'd take care of the two girls he was leaving behind. Who was going to take care of me, though?
I'm going to have to take care of myself, as well.
He died a week later. Another long car trip in silence. Pomp and circumstance ensued, as he was a local hero. I couldn't believe I was even part of it. I didn't want to be. My pride prohibited me. I did it, though. I did it for her. Every good thing I had ever become was lost for those moments. All I felt like was screaming how no one knew the truth. That on the outside, it all seemed so ugly. They couldn't know the last talk we had in the driveway. Tears like they were before. That in that moment, he legitimized me, her. I was angry, afterwards, mad at myself for having the need to feel legitimized from someone who was so rotten to me. He turned into a good person, though, mostly. I need to remember that. I need to let it all go into something beautiful, colorful. Cobalt.
Mostly, these days, it's still gray. I feel like the past 15 years have been spent mostly in gray. I feel like I am just waking up, to that 19 year old pregnant girl. I'm afraid all of the things I have done in the past 15 years amount to not much in the "life of me" category. I have been living for others. I have raised, and continue to raise, 3 beautiful children. They have been my life, though. I have not concentrated on me, have not concentrated on the healing. I have sat sedentary, for so long, that I'm not sure how to be the adult I want to be. I always say that I want to live when I grow up.. I want to live. Starting today. Or tomorrow, whenever.
Monday, December 31, 2007
2
The beginning.
I have recently accepted that I don't think of my beginning as when I was born. That, in and of itself is entirely a different story. I don't know who I am. This is literal, not figurative. I plan on finding that out one day, as well. I will just leave it at that, and say that my beginning started off somewhere around the age of 17. I let one person control my entire destiny, my fate. Every move I have made in almost 20 years is because of one person. It makes me ill to even think about. As I have settled into a mottled gray, again, I think it's safe to say that my adult journey has just started, after being held captive by my mind, and by this other person.
He died. Almost a year ago today. Well, a year and a week from today. Funny how I can just now really open up about it. Maybe it's the anniversary. I have no idea.
I was 17. So terribly young, looking back, already a tortured soul, looking for things in other people that I was missing. I felt like I knew everything, as we all did. I was driving.. a white Oldsmobile, or something.. my parents spoiled me thinking I'd come out of whatever funk I was in. Now, I know.. oh, hindsight. I stopped at a stop sign. He was coming from the other way. He was a friend. Nothing remarkable, really, except that he was nice to me. I had been infatuated with another friend of his. Looking for solace, really, but burned, because I equated sex and love. Two totally different things, cognitively, of course, we all know this is true. When you're a 17 year old who has your own issues, you hardly realize the truth, however.
He said I was beautiful. They still do. I didn't believe it at the time. I do now. We would spend hours, after that, sitting on my mama's front porch. The house.. I revisited it at the age of 33.. I couldn't believe how it hadn't changed. That house stood there, waiting for me to revisit, waiting for my memories to flood the front yard, all the way up to the concrete step that we would sit on. Every night that summer, we would smack the mosquitos tasting our legs, talk about things that didn't matter. Inconsequential bullshit, looking back. But it mattered then. He mattered so much.
Looking back, it wasn't he that mattered so much, as the way I let him make me feel. I felt valued, worthy, loved on some level.
The next spring, we went through a destructive spot.. 4 best friends, one being his brother's ex girlfriend, died in an accident. We all were left in that black part of the canvas. He would later say that she didn't deserve to be there with "them," part of my world, the "they's." She was better than we, and somehow, I was responsible.
I left for Texas..
I healed. It takes me longer than most to heal-I'm not really sure why, although, I think more, demand answers, analyze things until they're broken and bent and not worth figuring out. I torture myself into wanting to know all about something, or someone. I hate it. I do.
I moved back to the dirty South, still loving him. He had written me a few letters, days before email and cell phones were options. Always on graph paper. Always those same upper-case letters that meant nothing, except the part that said "I love you."
It's funny how I remember the little things, and not the big things. I can vividly remember what I was wearing the night we re-connected after Texas. Black skirt, white shirt, some beads I loved before beads came back into some sort of style. We went to a concert that night. The last concert I have ever been to. We danced, him behind me, I thought life could never be so good. I guess I was right, in some ways.
Eventually, I moved to be near him. This was after he started hurting me. If I could be as strong as I am now, I wouldn't have this story to write. It started little. I was held up to the wall by my neck. It got bigger, though. Eventually, this person who said he loved me would beat the shit out of me. Until the last time. Until I told him if he ever did it again, I'd smear his good name in this tiny Georgia town until he didn't have a good name anymore. It seemed to work. He never touched me that way again. The love was over, though. Damaged, I was. What hurts worse, mental or physical abuse? At least bruises heal rather quickly.
The black came soon enough. Tears in the driveway, promises of love that would never be fulfilled. I had to start my own life. I left him. That day in the driveway, saying it wouldn't be the last time, I just had to start living. I never did.
Little did I know, those tears in a driveway would come back to the both of us. Promises of love. This time, real promises. But not the type of love you are thinking. Eternal. Each of us sharing something that no one else can. A beautiful child who never asked for either of us.
I found out I was pregnant. He blew me off. He never accused me of cheating on him. He knew I was loyal. He just didn't want me anymore. Fade to black.
I have recently accepted that I don't think of my beginning as when I was born. That, in and of itself is entirely a different story. I don't know who I am. This is literal, not figurative. I plan on finding that out one day, as well. I will just leave it at that, and say that my beginning started off somewhere around the age of 17. I let one person control my entire destiny, my fate. Every move I have made in almost 20 years is because of one person. It makes me ill to even think about. As I have settled into a mottled gray, again, I think it's safe to say that my adult journey has just started, after being held captive by my mind, and by this other person.
He died. Almost a year ago today. Well, a year and a week from today. Funny how I can just now really open up about it. Maybe it's the anniversary. I have no idea.
I was 17. So terribly young, looking back, already a tortured soul, looking for things in other people that I was missing. I felt like I knew everything, as we all did. I was driving.. a white Oldsmobile, or something.. my parents spoiled me thinking I'd come out of whatever funk I was in. Now, I know.. oh, hindsight. I stopped at a stop sign. He was coming from the other way. He was a friend. Nothing remarkable, really, except that he was nice to me. I had been infatuated with another friend of his. Looking for solace, really, but burned, because I equated sex and love. Two totally different things, cognitively, of course, we all know this is true. When you're a 17 year old who has your own issues, you hardly realize the truth, however.
He said I was beautiful. They still do. I didn't believe it at the time. I do now. We would spend hours, after that, sitting on my mama's front porch. The house.. I revisited it at the age of 33.. I couldn't believe how it hadn't changed. That house stood there, waiting for me to revisit, waiting for my memories to flood the front yard, all the way up to the concrete step that we would sit on. Every night that summer, we would smack the mosquitos tasting our legs, talk about things that didn't matter. Inconsequential bullshit, looking back. But it mattered then. He mattered so much.
Looking back, it wasn't he that mattered so much, as the way I let him make me feel. I felt valued, worthy, loved on some level.
The next spring, we went through a destructive spot.. 4 best friends, one being his brother's ex girlfriend, died in an accident. We all were left in that black part of the canvas. He would later say that she didn't deserve to be there with "them," part of my world, the "they's." She was better than we, and somehow, I was responsible.
I left for Texas..
I healed. It takes me longer than most to heal-I'm not really sure why, although, I think more, demand answers, analyze things until they're broken and bent and not worth figuring out. I torture myself into wanting to know all about something, or someone. I hate it. I do.
I moved back to the dirty South, still loving him. He had written me a few letters, days before email and cell phones were options. Always on graph paper. Always those same upper-case letters that meant nothing, except the part that said "I love you."
It's funny how I remember the little things, and not the big things. I can vividly remember what I was wearing the night we re-connected after Texas. Black skirt, white shirt, some beads I loved before beads came back into some sort of style. We went to a concert that night. The last concert I have ever been to. We danced, him behind me, I thought life could never be so good. I guess I was right, in some ways.
Eventually, I moved to be near him. This was after he started hurting me. If I could be as strong as I am now, I wouldn't have this story to write. It started little. I was held up to the wall by my neck. It got bigger, though. Eventually, this person who said he loved me would beat the shit out of me. Until the last time. Until I told him if he ever did it again, I'd smear his good name in this tiny Georgia town until he didn't have a good name anymore. It seemed to work. He never touched me that way again. The love was over, though. Damaged, I was. What hurts worse, mental or physical abuse? At least bruises heal rather quickly.
The black came soon enough. Tears in the driveway, promises of love that would never be fulfilled. I had to start my own life. I left him. That day in the driveway, saying it wouldn't be the last time, I just had to start living. I never did.
Little did I know, those tears in a driveway would come back to the both of us. Promises of love. This time, real promises. But not the type of love you are thinking. Eternal. Each of us sharing something that no one else can. A beautiful child who never asked for either of us.
I found out I was pregnant. He blew me off. He never accused me of cheating on him. He knew I was loyal. He just didn't want me anymore. Fade to black.
1
I suppose I should start off apologizing, but I can't. I've apologized my entire life, and I'm tired of saying I'm sorry. I'll just write.
If I were to write, as a painter paints, about my life, a quick brush stroke on a blank canvas, it would start off as black, meander over to gray, where it would stay for more than a decade. Shortly, it would become black again, and then full of vibrant colours for just a moment.. fade to black, and then settle into gray again. I want the colour, honestly, I do. Vibrant reds, greens, yellows, I've not had enough colour. Blues would be good. Cobalt. Now, it's just gray.
I watched a movie the other night.. the name is of no signifigance.. it was about a boy who wanted to kill himself. That, in and of itself didn't bother me, it was , after all, just a movie. The thing I understood, though, was that a painter took herself off her medicines for depression, citing that she couldn't paint when she was on the medicine.
I understand that, as I haven't wanted to write in over a month-afraid that these new medicines wouldn't work well, if I let out even the most minute of feelings. They have been safely trapped under the veil , I know they are there, but i haven't wanted to revisit anything.. I enjoy the gray.. I don't want the black. I can't even say I'm searching for colour as of yet. I know I want it, eventually, but I feel warm, safe and in the healing mode in this hazy gray. I won't apologize.
If I were to write, as a painter paints, about my life, a quick brush stroke on a blank canvas, it would start off as black, meander over to gray, where it would stay for more than a decade. Shortly, it would become black again, and then full of vibrant colours for just a moment.. fade to black, and then settle into gray again. I want the colour, honestly, I do. Vibrant reds, greens, yellows, I've not had enough colour. Blues would be good. Cobalt. Now, it's just gray.
I watched a movie the other night.. the name is of no signifigance.. it was about a boy who wanted to kill himself. That, in and of itself didn't bother me, it was , after all, just a movie. The thing I understood, though, was that a painter took herself off her medicines for depression, citing that she couldn't paint when she was on the medicine.
I understand that, as I haven't wanted to write in over a month-afraid that these new medicines wouldn't work well, if I let out even the most minute of feelings. They have been safely trapped under the veil , I know they are there, but i haven't wanted to revisit anything.. I enjoy the gray.. I don't want the black. I can't even say I'm searching for colour as of yet. I know I want it, eventually, but I feel warm, safe and in the healing mode in this hazy gray. I won't apologize.
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