Hello again. I am taking this blog up again after many years away, I hang this first ornament on the bough-mostly as a new blessing on a stopped and stalled desire to write. Second, I leave it hanging here so that if anyone that it is about Googles me in a late-night "I wonder what she's up to" fit of sentimentality, they can see that yes indeed, I am thinking of them too.
I will need a few minutes to talk to you about "All Too Well" by Taylor Swift; in fact, I will need 10 minutes for you to lean in, listen and understand the place I am at.
This was a perfect time for this album to land- and the seemingly symbiotic nature of Taylor reclaiming her work that men took away from her, while I sort, reclaim, and unburden myself from my past. This song extends grace and makes me feel less foolish and alone as I struggle with feelings of shame and try to grant me forgiveness and understanding for how reckless I was with myself. Call it a return to the source, a chance to mourn all the loves that happened in my heart when I was a wide-eyed girl.
The still-splitting pain inflicted by older men who loved the way I loved them but could never reciprocate (and let's not act like this isn't a pattern I have kept repeating).
It is hard at 46 to look at the time, opportunities, and money I wasted on men who were not worthy of what I gave.
I flunked out of college because of love and the pursuit of it- I couldn't keep my focus on me or my life- there was always a *him*.
There was always a *him* giving just enough to keep me ever-present, ever-available but never giving me enough to keep me from descending into panic attacks and emotional frenzies.
Always a *him* who was always happy to take everything I could give but was never man enough to take responsibility for the feelings that came with taking.
Always a *him* who had souvenirs of me- notes I left them, cards, letters, art, poetry, a file of emails, a file of photos of me that they treasure- an object to be collected but never a real girl, a real relationship or real-life.
Years later, I still get texts or emails, a photo of these relics found stashed in a box -and I say, "Wow, cool," but it makes me so angry. They hold up this piece of me as a treasure- this piece of me that they barely thanked me for exists as a receipt, proof to them that they didn't fuck me up so bad, because "I loved them enough to ........." fill in that blank. As my friend Char perfectly stated," They are showing off a prize they didn't win," and it's so painfully true.
I loved them enough to lavish on them. I spent money I didn't have, gave time I couldn't afford.
I loved them enough to make the nothing they offered *luxurious*.
My identity was malleable. I changed into what they desired, dressed like the musicians and movie stars they liked and dyed my hair when a preference for redheads, brunettes, pink was mentioned.
I was able to expand, contract, dull down, or shine according to whatever was needed and fit whatever space was available to me. All of it of me, by me, from me. They existed as a movie screen, only needing to stand there while I ran in circles as the author, director, and projector.
I struggle now to reconcile what feels forever lost.
The hours spent being available, waiting, crying and the hundreds of quarters spent checking voice mail from every pay phone for some proof of life, of love.
The things I didn't do and opportunities I didn't take because I would be forgotten, left, or replaced if I wasn't there. The countless times I lived in the shadows as the secret, waiting for my turn, a turn that never came.
It is so hard to feel anything but sorrow and regret all the life I threw out the window so that someone would love me, pick me, marry me and save me...anything, just make me "real."
I can look back with detachment now- I have learned so much, and wow, the therapy has begun to stick. I see everyone in more dimensional ways and know it wasn't always malicious.
We are all broken- and broken people are often compelled by other damaged people whose brokenness courts and sparks the wounds they carry. I
offer grace to myself and others; I ask myself to not feel ashamed; I try not to hate. ( I said *try*).
I understand the role my needs and forms of unhealthy attachment played, but that doesn't mean I cannot mourn with the girl; it doesn't mean I can't sit with her and scream/sing "Break me like a promise" and cry like the hurt is fresh and real because I can, and I do, and it is so, so real.
The 10-minute film was a balm for the heartbreak, and again, it feels so parallel to my own. As I compile my stories, I see them less as scars and more as jewels for the crown I am crafting. I have always said I would write a book, and finally, I feel ready to. It is a book about my life - from the dazzling fireworks to crushing failures and the oh-so-human humanity in between. I get pretty nervous about the messy parts; if I tell them correctly- everyone looks bad- even and especially me. I bolster myself by saying I am only a reporter- here to tell the story accurately- and am steadied by this quote from Anne Lamott:
"You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better."
PS- Taylor, If ever by chance you come by this entry-* Thank You*. Also, can we be friends?
