I spent the first 26 years of my life doing everything I could to put away all that I had been taught. To start fresh, to begin a new, just flesh and blood and bone and whatever it was that is me. It was the hardest, most painful journey of all of the journeys Ive attempted in my short life. I wanted to be without prejudice, to be without judgement to be open minded and capable of seeing and feeling all things as though I had been told nothing. It took me 26 years before I felt as though I had finally managed such a thing (the last 5 being the most difficult) the putting away of bitterness completely.
And it took me 27 years to realize that that is simply not possible. We are not capable of forgetting or (I don’t think) truly forgiving but I did find that in the act of trying I moved on and maybe that is the same thing.
I’ve always been a realist; I’ve always known (from as far back as I can remember) that everything ends. I will probably lose everything that I will ever love and I have trouble not giving up easily, knowing that fact. Some things are doomed from the start, how do we find it in us to continue fighting for something knowing there is no hope? Or maybe that is the point, who cares if there is an ending (all things end) maybe the point is making the good last as long as we can. What other point is there to living then holding on to that which makes us happy, even if it is only for a little while?
I find this doomed mentality stares writers dead in the face on a constant basis. What is the point of writing if my book will probably never be read by anyone outside of my friends and family? Why work so hard at something when it will probably garner back very little for me at all. And, of course, the answer is hard but clear (maybe as all of life’s answers are) the point is the journey, not the destination. The point is to write for writing’s sake and there are no other answers but that. Sit down, enjoy the writing, it’s time to write regardless if the book is ever read by anyone.
Last night was the epic super moon everyone was talking about and despite my very long weekend (with little sleep) it felt as though I could feel it rising. My dog laid with me and neither of us slept as the world turned brighter and brighter as the night slipped toward the hour of none. I felt as though the moon were in me, as though I too had come around on a cycle that left me in a place I had never really considered or imagined for my own state of being. I laid there with no idea if I were happy or proud of myself in any way. I’ve made some choices that are very very unlike me and half of me is staring in horror and shock while the other half is looking back at her saying, “I thought you never wanted to judge again? How can you judge me? I am you.” Maybe I have grown out of my current definition of caution and survival, maybe I’ve finally been through enough of my own grief that the idea of putting myself through more just doesn’t seem all that silly or stupid. This is not a notion I take lightly, nor is it a notion I can yet entirely believe I have adopted as a life principal. But maybe we’re all fucked up a little bit, maybe that’s the point. Up until now throwing someone out of my life (who straight up deserved it in every way after many chances given to them) was a no brainer and easy enough when all was weighed.
But that’s not my attitude apparently in my current situation. Maybe after the loss of my grandmas and my three dogs has finally wore me down to the point of: I just don’t want to fight anymore. I just don’t want to throw anyone out of my life anymore. I just don’t want to fight anymore. Can I say it again? I just don’t want to fight anymore and that’s with myself more then anyone else. I don’t want to fight against what I want anymore despite how my brain is telling me that (according to my own principles and so many others) is wrong, or stupid, even if it means future hurt. Maybe sometimes we need to blindfold ourselves so our common brain can’t see the shockingly bizarre choices our bodies and hearts are making. Maybe its not sometimes. Maybe its all the time. Maybe this is the next step in stripping away all that I had been taught as a girl, the last thing: my instincts that were created by mistreatment done to me by male after male in my life.
Its time to come to my own terms, again. No regrets. Let the moon rise and smell the epicness of a night lit as a night has not been lit in a long time. Never mind anyone else. As I laid there with my dog I realized that no one else might be able to, but I can live with me and my choices. Maybe that’s the best anyone can do and worrying about the next horrible ending, and the tears that may come with it, isn’t going to help anything because apparently I have thrown caution to the wind and no threat of tears or future pain can stop me.
Maybe this is finally it. Maybe I have come to a place in my life where the one thing I figured I would never be able to shake from my past (my caution, my determination to always learn from my mistakes and those mistakes that I’ve seen others’ make) I have finally put down too. What’s really strange is that I’m not worried at all, nor am I scared. I haven’t quite figured out what in all of this there is to be afraid of, or ashamed of. There is some lingering doubt, as though I am somehow doing something wrong that should be stopping me… but I can’t figure out what I’m doing wrong according to me and not what I’ve been taught (or what society would say), not truly. I guess old alarm bells in our heads may always be there no matter how much we somehow change. Yeah I think I’m ready to blind fold myself and see what happens, let my desires and needs lead me now. I mean, let’s face it, my brain hasn’t done much but let me down anyway.