Pardon, Absolve, Forgive.

She said that the one positive aspect of having endured an abusive relationship is the fact that, once you find someone stable, you will cherish and respect that person for the rest of your life. Although I agree it's true that appreciation is a learned action - one that stems from the knowledge that things could be much worse, I believe there is a fair measure of baggage which accompanies the ability to appreciate. 

I didn't want to be an angry woman. I never had any reason to be. My memory is so poor that I forget to stay mad. I'm naive enough to forgive a million times, and nothing in my life has been too far outside the realm of stability. That is, until a year ago today. 

The details are a little cloudy, but the emotions are so vivid. I had a broken foot. It was cold, so that made it hurt more. I was at the big home furnishings market in Atlanta with some colleagues who wished I was just a little more southern like them, with a big mouth full of country slang and a chintzy decorating style. 

It had been about three weeks since I ended what never should have begun; but unbeknownst to me, it wasn't actually over. I found an empty stairwell and sat on the cold concrete for hours, trying to make sense of the preceding weeks. I had such resolve to do better, but a dark and unfamiliar force was drawing me back and eventually my own will was defeated.

Thinking of that today, I feel ill. But it's been a year now. I can and will be stronger. There are a lot of things that I thought I had let go of a long time ago, but now that I look back, I've found I have to reopen the wounds in order to understand where the scars came from. And then, they can be erased.


It was November.

I had almost fully recovered from the previous year and spent the preceding months making necessary changes – changes for the better. The promise of impending adulthood and right living set me straight; and for the first time in years, I was sincerely at peace. During the summer, I danced my last dance with immaturity and recklessness. I decided in August that it was time to set aside my childish ways, particularly in the realm of dating relationships. So as the months grew colder, I adopted a bedtime. I made new commitments to be more like my mother and less like the world. I grew up. I welcomed change. I turned down dates I might have otherwise accepted. I knew that I was yet to meet a man who was what I considered good enough and whose standards were high enough that the qualities I was developing were the qualities he was looking for.


Even though I had thought since an early age that I would more than likely live my life alone, that never cleared my desire for a companion. A companion is one whose understanding of his partner goes beyond a friendship; he is one whose presence adds to life and makes it fuller. That's what I wanted. A year before in Finland, I realized that I could go anywhere and do anything; but I wanted someone by my side. 


By November, I was ready to find that someone.

I wanted to be committed.

I wanted to brush aside all other options.

I wanted to love someone in a way I never had – without reservation, without fear. I was ready to give everything – all of my heart – to the person who would appreciate it the most; and now looking back, that kind of vulnerability is what caused me to be drastically wrong.


But from our first conversation, I was at fault. I hadn't anticipated making friends that day. But when I met him, I thought that because of the circumstances – because I thought I was mature enough do things the right way this time, because I was reading into signs and I mistook a casual meeting for something else – I thought that it was meant to be.


I was ready and willing to force it into being.


For an entire week, I couldn't concentrate. In conversations, I would drift off, thinking of him, of the possibility of us. I was so full of hope and anticipation that the week between meeting him and seeing him again felt like eternity. 

When I saw him on Friday, it seemed so perfect and so innocent. I wasn't able to allow the idea that this might not work to come into my mind. I was more excited than I had ever been about an opportunity; and maybe that's why, when I was disappointed, it hurt so much. No measure of sobbing, of explaining could make him understand why what he did was wrong, so I said, "he has no way of knowing what my expectations are. He had no way of knowing I would be so let down."

But I knew why I was let down. That should have been all I needed to know to see that any woman he encounters will probably spend the rest of her life in therapy after falling prey to his tactics. It seemed easier at that point to avoid confronting the issue, but if for one moment I had been honest with myself, I might have been able to reclaim a year of my life. I assumed that because things were good the first day, they would get better. 


But I was wrong. Things got worse. His approach was rough. He was demeaning. I didn't know what was happening as my self-worth plummeted toward extinction; and every time he touched me out of anger, I hated myself more. Every time told me I had no value, every time he pulled my hair, every time I lied to cover his tracks, I was a little more likely to believe that I really am as ugly as he said. At no time in my life have I felt more disrespected than when I broke vows I'd made to myself in order to be humiliated beyond words.


I was used to men being gentle with me; I didn't know what to make of someone who made me feel like I was nothing.

It made me crazy.

It almost makes sense for women who have been made to feel worthless their entire lives to allow something like that to continue. But for me, it made no sense. To this day, I cannot believe it was me. And while it seemed I was fighting to keep him around, none of the people who truly did love me could figure out what was wrong. I have an archive of letters and emails from concerned friends, asking where the person they knew had gone, why I wasn't funny anymore, why I didn't stand up straight. Somehow, I convinced myself I wanted him how I found him: possessive, selfish, controlling.

As a result, I was destroyed. 

I'm still working to rebuild that person I was over a year ago.


As much as all of this sounds like the ideal script for a lifetime original movie, it isn't that. It's what I face every time I look in the mirror, every time I feel I've accomplished something, every time I try to trust a man. Now, I look at myself and think, "awesome. I'm nice and screwed up, and I will spend the rest of my life, carrying around baggage and infecting everyone I encounter with this disease of a speckled past."


The reason that I made the recent decision to delve back into these things is because I want to be through with it. I don't want it coming back to haunt me in a day, a week, a year. 

I don't want to be an angry woman. I've never had any reason to be. My memory is so poor that I forget to stay mad. I'm naive enough to forgive a million times, and nothing in my life has been too far outside the realm of stability. That is, until a year ago.

And now, I know that the only ointment if I truly want to forget all those wasted months is to forgive him. I recently admitted to myself that I have no idea how to do this. There is no one-time forgiveness plateau. It isn't a matter of scaling the steeps of repression and achieving a mountain top forgiveness moment. No, forgiving him means that from this point on, I will forgive him every day, renewing - not hatred, but - a kind of love-for-the-unloveable. Each. and. every. day.

I don't want to be an angry woman. I've never had any reason to be.

The fact is, I and the rest of creation have been forgiven. I am the unforgivable, forgiven; the unlovable, loved. Christ was despised in my place; yet someone's slight against me seems completely abhorrable? I am without excuse.

The fact is, I've been the wicked servant, forgiven of my enormous debt but unwilling to forgive the slightest of offenses against me. Every time my heart was pricked, His side was pierced. Every time my emotions were bruised, His body was crushed. My trust was betrayed, but I've never known what it is like for my Father to forsake me.

I do like my mother's outlook on these things. She said that the one positive aspect of having endured an abusive relationship is the fact that, once you find someone stable, you will cherish and respect that person for the rest of your life. She also told me to forgive, as I have been forgiven. She said it is what will prevent me from becoming an angry woman because, after all, I never had any reason to be.

When the Inside of my Mouth Bleeds

It gets bad when the inside of my mouth bleeds. That's how I know I have unresolved issues, but being so efficient at brushing things off, I am often unaware of the fact that anything is even troubling to me until I my anxiety manifests itself in a physical way. 

I am of the 'ignore it and it will go away' school of thought. Among my advocates are procrastinators, suppressors, sluggards, sloths and all-around lazy bastards. My contenders consist of go-getters, self-starters, highly motivated class president types and those who refer to people like myself as a 'waste of talent.'

It gets really exhausting, being this lazy. Even though I deemed 2008 'the year of art,' I've yet to pull myself from this creative void I'm in. I think if I truly wanted a way out, I might look for one rather than wasting away in the dark.

There's a lot I like to blame on January. The very word makes the hair on my arms stand up, indicating that if I weren't so complacent, I could increase my body temperature by moving around. Instead, I am reminded of all the extra sleep I get this time of year, when I'm busy making every effort to avoid all resolutions. 

Highly ambitious people have always told me that if they had my ability, they would be marketing it and making millions. Then, they shake their heads and throw their hands in the air, as if they have any idea what it is like to be out of ideas, or how it feels to hate every second of my existence not spent pushing for greatness. Everyone has the special ability to recognize potential, but I don't think everyone knows how low life can feel in the aftermath of achievement - when all the volatile glory fades and there is nothing to be excited about.

My feet were asleep from sitting on them so long and I was hastily picking bald spots in the carpet and biting the insides of my mouth - anything to avoid crying. He tried to make eye contact, so I clenched my jaw harder, my back molars tearing impressions into the skin inside my cheeks, causing them to bleed salty blood; then I raised my eyebrows, hoping that if I kept my eyes open long enough, any bits of moisture daring to escape my tear ducts would evaporate before they could materialize. 

When he paused from his condescending blah-blah-blahs, my ears began ringing and I realized that if I didn't scream, my eardrums might explode. Just as I jolted forward and flung open my mouth, the temperature in my face rose above boiling point and I began choking in ridiculous, asthmatic gasps of air between sobs. "Do," (sob) "you," (gasp) "think" (sob) "I - I - I," (choke, sob, gasp) "like being this way?"

It wasn't our first conversation like this. He then gave me that look he's so famous for (the one that says, 'you are pathetic'), and softened his voice to a whisper. "So, change." If he were ever any example of the love I want, it was then. Disappointed in this child who could do better, his eyes grew red and he became overwhelmed with compassion, wanting nothing more than to welcome me into his arms.

But when he held me, I didn't hold him back. When he offered his love, I refused it. And now, thinking of all the times I allowed my pride to harden me, I feel not only ashamed but more worthless than before. 

I could do better. I could be better. But I've locked myself in my bedroom to sulk and when I don't come out for dinner, I'll somehow think I'm proving a point.

Someone said I was normal. Someone said everyone experiences this, as if my laziness and self-loathing are not unique to me. Someone else told me I was crazy. He said I'll never be like normal people, and for as many times as I've screwed up, I don't deserve any more chances. Still another voice said all of the above. That voice said that abnormal IS normal, that failure is not absolute, that living is about dying and perseverance though my mania is the only thing that will redeem me.

There was hope in the latter answer. There was something so soft about his stern words: "you are running away," and hope that if I stopped running and tried making peace with my current state, I might be able to write a song again.

We got these bracelets at the county fair - silly, cheap things, given to us by some old man at a philanthropy booth with a ridiculously soft voice. We struggled to hear what he was saying, but it didn't matter, since we knew what he meant. There is a reason I still wear mine. 

When the inside of my mouth bleeds, it's because I've been chewing on it. When I chew the inside of my mouth, it's because I'm avoiding something. When I start to taste the blood, I realize it's gone too far - but that realization alone isn't enough to motivate me to change. 

I took about ten ponytail holders off my wrists this morning before stepping into the shower, and then I realized I'm still wearing that bracelet. There is a reason I bear the name that I do. I think in my quest for open-mindedness and self-worth or fulfillment, I have let so many issues pile up that I've become ashamed of who I am. 

"So, change," he said, and I wanted to contest; but I have no argument.

head + sand = ?

Almost without transition and immediately preceding its newness. a thing, a person, a situation becomes stale, old, familiar. For some more stable people who are deterred by the awkwardness of change, there is great comfort in this. 

But as for me, I inadvertently become bored. My condition is a rather unfortunate one, because as soon as I learn the ins-and-outs of any given job, I desire another, more challenging one. Such inconsistency is not conducive to success in any way. It foreshadows, in fact, failure.

This I know.

So why then, do I continue to say, "...but it's the years, I must confess" as my excuse for commitment paranoia, as if investing years in something were a bad thing?
"It's the thrill of something new," I said. But he looked uncomfortable.
"Er...it's the thought of selling short for what's in front of you," I waved my arms. He shifted.
"Well. It's this - this internal conflict - when you ask me what I'm thinking that i am then subjected to." I was stammering but he was unconvinced.
"Okay," I continued, "you have been a sort of...study - in the subject of my will. I am finding I don't know myself (and thinking I do, still). You will wish you never knew me,"
"No, I won't!" he interjected.
I carried on, "We won't make amends."
But he argued, "Yes, yes we will!"
So, I said, "Let's forget 'the future' until then," and he obliged.

It isn't fair that I drag others down with me. I'm scared to death that I might stick with something, be it a location or a job or a relationship. And then what happens? If I find a city I like, I might never travel elsewhere. If I become established in a career, does that mean I will sacrifice the other things I want to do? Perhaps the most terrifying of these thoughts, though, is that, because I'm not as young as I once was, I might marry someone.

And then there's the idea that I might someday make a decision and follow through. I would like, more than anything, to be grounded; but it's difficult when fear and circumstance and absolute selfishness have me dangling from marionette strings that I'm too cowardly to cut myself free from.

This erratic behavior hurts those around me; sometimes I think I am capricious on purpose, in order to spare those who might otherwise get close to me from getting hurt when I drop into a week or a month or a year of solitude. 

Once, when I was four, I went into a local home furnishings store with my mother and immediately spotted a rack full of brightly-colored plastic dinosaurs at the check out counter. I rationalized that if I asked mom to buy some, she would probably only get me one. I wanted all species, though, not just the purple brontosaurus. In my usual hasty, thoughtless manner, I reached out my chubby little hands and stuffed the pockets of my red London Fog raincoat full of my new, free toys. 

I'm not sure what I was thinking later at home, when I hid them underneath my jacket in the playroom, but my mother-the-sleuth claimed to smell fresh plastic; and when she uncovered my first attempt at larceny, she marched me straight to the store owner's home to return the stolen goods and (gasp!) make me apologize for my wrongdoing. 

For two solid hours, my mother held me as I buried my face in her chest and sobbed, refusing to tell Mrs Duke what I had done. Obviously, she already knew; but it being one of my first real encounters with confrontation, I froze.

I carry that attitude with me today. But forgetting a problem is not the same as dealing with it.

I had read stories about children owning up to their dishonesty and being rewarded for coming clean, so I figured if I eventually mustered up a "s-s-sorry," Mrs. Duke would let me keep the dinosaurs I stole. This was not the case. I didn't even get one.

I quickly learned that, when caught in an act, I should change my story - avoiding the truth at all costs. So a year or two later in first grade, when my teacher Mrs. Downing called my mother at home to discuss the reason why I wrote "I HATE MRS. DOWNING" across my math work, I feigned utter surprise. "What? I wrote 'hate?' I meant to write love! I meant I LOVE Mrs. Downing!"

The next morning, Mrs. Downing greeted me with the biggest, most sincere hug I can remember receiving since; and when she passed away from cancer not too long ago, I couldn't help but wonder how anyone could be so unconditionally understanding and forgiving of a little rat bastard kid like myself.

Maybe it's the knowledge of my ownself, the discoveries I made about my inherently evil character as a child, that has made me the way I am today. I've hated myself for as long as I can remember, yet I've never done anything to change; and when things feel beyond my control, I either bury my head or run.

I have made it my goal in recent years to stop talking in code, to start telling the truth, to approach conflict head-on and stop being a baby; still, I can't escape this age-old pattern. I'm in the process of sabotaging my job, so that i can claim that I tried to stick with something but it just didn't work out. I'm excited about the prospect of something new and more challenging - so excited, in fact, that I've mentally finished my current obligation, which I do not think is a good attitude to have.

My head, it seems, is in the sand. I've done this before, I think. It feels familiar. Yeah, familiar. It's comforting. Stale. Old. As one who lives for change, perhaps the most beneficial change I could make would be a behavioral one. Perhaps, for once, i could stop running. it's worth a try.

One Boy. One Girl. One Story.

It's a vicious cycle, really.

A story begins with a boy and a girl. They sit down for coffee. They go for a drive. They meet unexpectedly on the subway. Whatever.

The story always begins with one boy, one girl and limitless magic. 
It's unexpected, refreshing, unlike any other story and it makes for a good read.
These are the kinds of stories that fail to mention the ugly things, like the boy's crippling paranoia and the girl's consistently retreating tenderness. He tells lies and she smokes cigarettes and they drive one another away with their massive insecurities. She runs away, feeling moved to run as he pushes to know more of her. It's then a tragedy, a mistake, a misinterpretation of what could have been and while the entire thing burns to the ground, they will turn their eyes, waiting for the smoke to clear so that a new boy and a new girl can eventually be integrated into the act.

Of course, the stories I read are generally pages filled with the highlights, the beginning, the sunrises and sunsets; they tell nothing of shattered glass and violent words. 

Decidedly, I am involved in one such story, struck by the perplexing thought that perhaps - every once in a while - this is really how it goes: the good might outweigh the bad. For once, it might be worthwhile. One boy. One girl. One story of things working the way that they should.

A boy and a girl sit on opposite sides of the table from one another, each recording images of the other's face. He through a camera lens, she with ink. A boy and a girl wake up and it's raining, but for the moment they care nothing of the world outside one another's arms - for the moment there is no other world. Together, they laugh and tell secrets; they marvel at their likenesses just like every other boy and every other girl will do. There is nothing wrong. There is no pain, but that felt for their future days apart.

But when the girl cannot concentrate on her personal affairs, she brings her fingers to her lips and considers all the reasons why this cannot be so. This time, just this once, a story is different from the others. This time, she tells her friend, it is spontaneous and unexpected, but it doesn't feel reckless and it only seems good. There's something different this time, she thinks. But she bites her fingernails anyway.

Because, one time, a girl sat on the floor and a boy sat at a drum set. They sat in a car. They drove places in the middle of the night and created things together. They spent years, they made plans and then one day, they were on opposite sides of the universe while he sat on the edge of her bed. With tears in his eyes, he wondered how it could be that she just left and never came back. With a pain in her stomach, she wondered how he could be within arms reach but buried beneath so many blankets, so many years of highly saturated emotions and substitutions, now disposable and depleting and sweeping the history of love into a scrapbook entitled "past."

That was before, and this is after. That was a different boy. A different girl. A different story. This time, it's a different one. This time, the girl wasn't planning on getting caught up in things. But, she says, amidst the exceeding happiness she has encountered, she feels clear-headed and certain.

That is why it is different. Because he is a different boy. And she is a different girl. This time, it seems, it is a different story.