We'd been talking, arguing really, for a couple hours, and he drags out the fact I had a picture on the 'Net well before we met (which is true.) Really, I'd completely forgotten I placed it there; on a site for redheads only - a community of redheads, not particularly a dating site. I'm a redhead; I thought it was cool.
He says, "How do I say this? You just looked better then... more lively, more youthful, you're carrying less weight then. I want you that way."
The picture was taken less than one year before I left my marriage. That picture was October 2nd, 2001; I left the following June. The picture shows me dressed, stressed, drawn, trying hard to look relaxed, and steady; I was a young mother, my child 3 1/2.
Thinner. Carrying more "weight" in my soul than ever in my entire life.
The reality was that I was dying private deaths every day (but no one knew.)
How do I reply? What do I say? That I had SO much weight then? That I was saddled with demons of betrayal and dishonesty? That I was carting around the responsibility of departure as I'd already "left" the marriage mentally and spiritually?
That I was being tortured by two people then: him and me? One from the exterior, the other exacting scarring internal damage.
How the hell was I supposed to answer his comments? He didn't know me then.
# # #
At what point do people stop understanding one another, and start making it about themself? "Why don't you look that way for me?" or "I wish I knew you then..."
... though the thoughts might have been there, the words I'd never speak. Why hurt someone you didn't even know before you met? Why think you deserve a person at a different time in their life than when they're with you? Why wish for a part of a person that has passed... and is better off past?
Can we be so perfect in the tense in which we're relating, say, right now, that we ask for parts of our partner we never knew but recognize as "better then", now?
I'd rather have a version of myself that did not include that particular picture, that brief time of my life, that former spouse. However, if ingredients combined create the whole; that picture is the thermometer indicating I was "done" and ready to be left to cool for a while, out of the heat, and away from the camera.
- Current Mood:Mellow
- Current Music:General office buzz and click
- Current Location:Bread & Butter Factory
This is the tree, next to which I buried an old, dead dog.
It's in central Missouri, not far from where I attended college. I have laid my hand on her to appreciate her age and strength. It is a Burr Oak and possibly the oldest tree in Missouri.
About the dog...
It arrived sometime in my childhood; I don't recall exactly when. I hadn't asked for it to appear. It just did. It hung around for a while before I actually adopted it. No one else in my family had any interest whatsoever. They were busy with other things: co-dependency, and alcoholism, people-pleasing, hiding. They were building and painting, then maintaining all the scenery and costumes that were our family life. We had scripts. Roles.
Over the years, I came to love and believe in the dog; and although it never required much attention it took a lot of work, even for an adult, to keep it alive.
While I was leading it around it died. It's not like I wasn't paying attention - it didn't cause a fuss or fury, it simply passed away. Never noticing this, I kept the leash firm in my grasp and continued to bring it with me everywhere. I simply never noticed it died.
That dead dog went to parties, weddings, to work, family functions, job interviews, christenings, funerals, holiday gatherings, travels near and far. That dog was hauled through my divorce and into my subsequent (on-going) rebirth and healing. Wherever I went, the dog was dragged along. Nobody ever commented, and I'd long since taken for granted I was schlepping this dog around; it was something I just did. It was normal.
Eventually, it began to get in the way.
It became the focus of my thoughts. It was the center of conversations with friends who'd always known about my dog, but loved me too much to bring it up. Keeping one hand on the leash prevented me from fully engaging in anything: couldn't hold my child, or lover, with both arms. Was able to only juggle simple things. Barely. Worst of all, I realized how heavy and awkward it was to drag around. I began to grieve, and feared my next move.
The thought of simply dropping the leash and walking away never struck me until last month. That's when the stench became so intrusive and overwhelming. It was indeniable and impossible to ignore.
Last month, after discovering the dog decomposing at the end of the leash, I realized I had to let it go. For good.
Bye-bye, puppy. Thanks for the company. I'm sorry I wasn't able to keep you alive. That would have taken my whole family, but they were busy.
Sleep well.
- Current Location:Bread & Butter factory
- Current Music:Co-worker's chatter and the unending phone
- Current Mood:Satisfied. Yes.
It's not hard work that wears you out but the repression of your true personality. ~[author unknown]
Work your Grief up into Art and it is gone.~[author unknown]
He who does not understand your silence will probably not understand your words. ~Elbert Hubbard
One of the most frightening moments for anyone about to embark on a creative endeavor is that moment of solitude when you have to begin. Get used to solitude now, and build your tolerance.
- Current Mood:but in a good way
- Current Location:Mentally, in bed.
- Current Music:None: I finally let the cat in. Bad cat.
She'll have a ____ time. It's so unpredictable. My wish is that she has an AMAZING!!! time and can't stop talking about it until vacation visit part II. If I'm ok with it, she'll be ok with it. Right?
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The possibilities of all the time I could waste in the next 17 days are overwhelming (other than the time spent at the Bread & Butter Factory). The thought of another alone time gone sour looms large. Bitchy, mean ghosts of Failure to Art/enjoy/spoil myself/relax/have taken up residence in my head. I'd like to begin eviction prodeedings, please.... How did I come to believe such miserable and negative thoughts?
The multi-media art magazine I bought last night has nifty ideas, and a slightly annoying cattle-prod effect on my ego...
"Oh, geeeeez! I can do that, forcryingoutloud! C'MON, already! Moooove aside, you 'artist' [spit]. Let me show you how to do that...OUTTA my way, please!"
And I can.
But I haven't.
And I know it.
And it's guilt and doubt, and excuses I've come to believe are real and scary. I sure as hell didn't teach myself these things!! These thoughts are not ME! I know that. They feel wrong and uhealthy - yet I was fed them like mouldy grain to a hog so they are familiar. (Doesn't make 'em right, however.)
Re-learn. Re-learn. Re-learn. Every-blessed-thing.
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Now that Wonder Mommy will be on Summer Break: Part I, I will take my dear friend's advice and just stand there, in the middle of the studio, and do nothing.
"Just stand, move stuff around if you feel like it but don't go in there with this 'MUST' to make something."
After the play's done on Saturday night, and after the cast party and my plan to have FUN. (Aaah, fun. Yes. Need some fun.) After the pre-show party across the street where I see myself mingling... and after church on Sunday (maybe), I will put myself into the studio.
And just stand there.
Until I start missing my child.
The key, I think, is to sooth the missing feeling with art making. It worked when my former partner had cancer; I was in the old studio every night after her baby bedtime until, sometimes, 3 AM. Often, later if I was in a groove.
I miss the groove, almost as much as I miss my child when she's away.
- Current Mood:Yes, geeky.
- Current Music:The bad cat is mewing to come in. I'm ignoring her....
- Current Location:Beside myself
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replace every little difficult thing with wonderful art. that sounds like a dream. but it also puts pressure on the psyche to create....creativity often caves under…