I’m feeling particularly lonely this evening and would love to have some company. You see, there’s been an extra lot of suffering in the world today; a lot of death reported. The shootings at Ft. Hood in particular call to mind how one such love of my life could be taken from me and I’d never know it because, well…no one he knows would know to tell me if a depressed bullet happened to find it’s way into his brain. Sorry, that was a touch morbid eh? He could be gone – COMPLETELY dead and buried and I’d. NOT. Know. (*shudder*) Sorry. Don’t mind the tear. I promise it’ll be the only one.
And then there’s the work that I’m doing on Mod One. Remember, the Getting to Know Yourself? Yes, well here we are on day three and what I’m finding is a bit hard on the emotions. Not because I don’t like what I find. Quite the contrary. I fall more and more in love with me every day. It’s tiring to realize how much of a victim I’ve played through the years. Letting life happen to me in great big, soul dulling sweeps. By the way, have you seen the movie Shirley Valentine? You haven’t? Here – watch this. It’ll take about an hour and some change.
If you don’t want to watch, this clip sums up my feelings at this moment:
There are plenty of clips like this through out the beginning of the movie. Places where she looks the camera in the lens and speaks the words in my soul. *SIGH again* I used to dream of going to Greece and finding myself. I got to go a couple of years back. Even spent time on the island on which Shirley Valentine was filmed. It’s where I found my “table by the sea” (which is where I based the wrap around story of my latest work of fiction). But unlike Shirley, I didn’t have the where with all to stay and I haven’t been back. I used to be content with being me. We lived in Lakenheath, on the air force base. I remember little things, my first kiss (Jeffrey) and my first crush (Anthony – I’ve had a weakness for Anthonys and Tonys ever since). The stories mom tells about my adventures coupled with the few memories I have, paint a picture of a kid who was self-assured, comfortable in her tiny body, and adventurous beyond what was good for her. She spent hours with friends, or without, and despite the various issues (there was already grief bubbling in my little psyche), she was courageously greeting the world.
My goodness how things can change in 40+ years, eh? I envision her taking me by the hand and leading me to the beach. She’d offer me a seat next to her, then begin to tell me stories of all she had done that day and all that she planned to do the next. She’d talk in that almost incessantly joyful way little kids do. I’d listen, laughing gently when appropriate, smiling when she turned her unblemished face up toward mine. She’d look me in the eye in those moments, unafraid. It would be me who would turn away first, staring instead at the waves to hide how much guilt I feel for having let her down.
Oh, sorry. *sniff* I said there’d be no more tears, didn’t I? No, wait, please. Sit with me for just a few more minutes? It’s been one of those days. If I had a special someone, I would have come home and just snuggled next to him. I would need his arms around me, my head on his chest, his cheek resting against the top of my head. No conversation necessary, just his solid warmth against the coldness of mortality, inhumanity, racism, discrimination, misogyny, all this damn HATE, and sickness, and BULLSHIT. I have had my limit of world suffering. But alas, it is still just me or rather what’s left of me. I love what I have left, but I want more of me back. What would I have grown into if I hadn’t let others tell me what I was supposed to be?
I’m sorry again. Perhaps you should go. I’m not being very good company. But I am finally being authentic. That’s got to count for something right?