Dealing with life the only way I know how: I write.
I’m sure I’ve elaborated on this before in my blog, and the people that know me best can—unfortunately for them—testify to the accuracy of this statement: I have two emotions I can deal with, happiness and anger. The others: Fear, Sadness, even Love, will eventually boxcar onto one of those two if they emerge. I assume it’s my minds defense mechanism kicking in, enabling me to ‘handle’ things the easiest way possible. Depending on the severity and which way it leans, I will either force myself to see the humor in something, or become downright, pissed about it. There is always one, however, that’s a given on which direction it will be taking; it’s the one associated with sadness called pain. I absolutely, positively, have had a belly full of it in my lifetime, don’t deal with it on any kind of a normal level, and automatically file it under anger. If I’m lucky, at best it may set up temporary residence in denial for a time, but never stays there long and when it rears it’s ugly head again tends to be ten-fold, as it seems to have had time to rest and contemplate it’s next move. This is where I am right now.
I truly am trying to be rational about this and look at it from a different angle, but in trying to gain new perspective I have to deal with ‘truths’ I see that I’d rather not. This ‘truth’ being, if either of them really loved me in the first place this is not something they could have or would have done. Nothing, not loneliness, attraction, a common bond, nothing…would’ve caused them to act upon these desires at my expense. Knowing this changes everything. It may not change the history I have with both of them, but it does change the way I view it now. It’s almost like watching the movie, “The Sixth Sense”. At the end you realize nothing was, as it seemed.
Nothing was, as it seemed. Wow! This close bond I thought we shared actually meant nothing to her. This ‘great love’ that never made it to fruition…the same one I’ve never been able to move forward and away from because a part of me refused to believe I could ever love another or be loved by another as much, wasn’t real to him. In some ways it comforts me, because I know now that I no longer have to beat myself up and keep asking myself why, but at the same time it fills me with an anger that is unparalleled to none. What it means, in essence, is that I’ve wasted a lot of my precious life on both, and neither was deserving or worthy of an ounce of it.
Time becomes a thing of great importance when you get older. You realize how valuable it is, how quickly you use it, and reflect on how much of it you wasted. Each time you say ‘if only’ consider what that means: If only I hadn’t done this or that. If only I could go back and change things. If only I could do it again… It’s time you’re asking for. It’s the one thing that should be most precious to us, and yet is still used most thoughtlessly. Money seems to be our top priority, yet can be replaced. Time cannot.
I’ve been thinking about time a lot lately. I realized it’s passed by quickly since moving here to the country six and a half years ago and marrying; I think I realize why: The more important moments that give us wonderful memories we have to fill the gap, the slower it moves. I have few. What once was a full, satisfying life, filled with work, family, friends, freedom to do the things I enjoy and holidays to look forward to, has now become a barren womb in comparison. I have nothing to fill the gap but empty space, so it seems to move from season to season with lightening speed. The memories that register are meaningless ones, like looking forward to Spring so I no longer have to use the fireplace, counting the days till my birthday in the Fall when I have a valid excuse to ask my husband to take me out on the town, and dreading the first, cold-spell in the winter that I know will probably freeze and crack our pipes. Time moves by for some payday-to-payday; other’s less fortunate, holiday-to-holiday. For me it’s just season-to-season. Seven years ago was as yesterday to me. Just yesterday.
This whole situation has put a new twist on things for me; especially where the topics of love and sacrifice are concerned. It’s more than painfully obvious how much time I’ve foolishly wasted for the sake of it that could’ve been better spent on myself. The question now gnawing at me is, how much more am I willing to risk? I have a pretty good marriage, and love my husband. He’s a good man and I’ll never say any different. But is he good enough? Is any man ‘good enough’ to alter your entire life for? If you’d asked me that question just a short time ago I probably would’ve answered, yes…if he were the right man. Today I know there is no such thing as Mr. Right. There’s only Mr. Right-Now, and he along with the rest of them are replaceable. No one can or will ever love you as much as you can and should love yourself, and because of this you owe no one gratuities. They will only fail you if you dare to put all your eggs in their basket, and you’ll wind up empty handed. I’m learning this. They have been two of my greatest teachers. What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. It must be working. I ain’t dead yet.