I have lived my life on paper. The feelings I didn’t want to admit I had; those hard to share / express, have all ended up as words on a page. Be it on actual paper or on virtual, in story form or journal entry. What follows is more of that but now, I am doing so as a means of healing. I must end this chapter before the new NaNo so I don’t end up writing the same story all over again. My Divinity and my Muse expect me to hear and learn from the lessons they send me in my writing, I don’t want to let them down.
So, here I am. The conversation began as it often does, words circling in my head that I wish you or I had the guts to say. This time, it started off with me sending you a note,
“Do you still love me like a best friend?” I’m driven to ask to find some closure as I get ready to move to my new city. You responded quickly with, “Yes.”
I send back, “Thanks.” I want to leave it at that, you know, make as dramatic and mysterious an exit as possible. You were never one to let me off the hook so of course, you come back with, “Were you ever in love with me?”
“Yes”, I answer.
“When did you fall?”
“I fell that night. You probably don’t remember, but you put yourself in a position to protect me. Not from any immediate danger, just made it a point to put yourself between me and the possibility. No man had ever done that. Even when there was danger. It was as if someone finally found me worthy of safe keeping. But ‘in love’ is transitory and I fell out just as easily.”
“Oh. So, did you ever love me?”
“Of course. That came later. You did things, said things, all of which lead me to believe I could just be me. I didn’t have to pretend, or give anything I didn’t have, or want to give. I came to ‘feel’ as if you accepted me and that was the other thing no man had ever done before. “
“You did what every man had done before. From my father on, you turned away for whatever reason. You seemed to work over time to show me how easily I could be replaced as a lover, a friend, as a woman. Every ounce of worth I’d believe you saw in me was quickly reduced to nothing as you seemed to be able to find ‘me’ every so many months. I became just another bitch you were fucking, and I became lost again. I still don’t know why you felt the need to tell me about them, the women; how each one had this or that quality that reminded you of me, but for some reason were worthy of everything you wouldn’t or couldn’t feel for me. Did you care how I might ‘feel’ with each confession of your new loves?”
Of course, at that point the imaginary conversation ends. The epiphany is this: I have to stop fearing the pain and instead fully experience whatever it is I FEEL. The joy of falling into love, the soul soothing act of loving, and the grief and pain when that love isn’t returned. I should feel each as deeply and as fully as I possibly can. There is nothing wrong with feeling – it’s what fuels my writing and there can’t ever be anything bad about that.