Occurrence: April 16, 2009
Sometimes, when I'm feeling most drained and have to somehow derive power and initiative out of this ignorant context, I think about the players that are part of this game. This is their livelihood, what they do to make money and it's never-ending. As much as I disdain this process, it's not the entirety of my life. There's more than this back-and-forth motion that will grow into something substantial, beautiful, fruitful. It will not be like this forever - at least not for me, as this is just the fallout from a bad decision.
This is the part where you're reading your script, preparing your costume and brushing up on your pronunciation when you know the last performance is coming up shortly. You've already decided that you'll no longer take part in this refuge of life, you're tearing up your advertisements and not circulating your name anymore for hire in this virtual exploitation factory. One more performance and then it's on to the "California" of your stardom dreams.
One more go-around explaining the things that are so clear to you, but still remain foggy to everyone else. And it's because without having you as their actress, they have no cast to continue the play. They have no evil threads to weave; pitting ex against lover, against child, against mother. They simply have a script. Yes, you may be considered a pawn in this juicy game of mistrust, or you may be improperly cast as the villain when what you auditioned for was the opposite. They've already filled that role, and no one wants to be the bad guy. So, you play along knowing that you will unveil the real story in a fantastic twist near the unveiling of the plot. The type-cast persons will march out to the giant with mere pebbles and the rolling laughter from the hillside, will suddenly be stifled when the monster falls. And won't it be brilliant!
The audience, these puppets - will rise to their feet, clapping and crying, wiping away tears because Good did win out in the end. The lights will fade out, the curtain will fall and the dust of the production will be brushed from the stage. You're done. That was it.
Time to move on to the venture of your "California" dreams. Time to rest, relax, recover and appreciate that you could see through the deception of the players, and of the play.
Now - Now that we've got the emotional context out of the way - moving on to the anger of the situation. That's mostly the "dammits!" and the "What the heck?" - using more profanity than there are descriptive words ...say "court-system" and it's like my conditioning word to turn complete placidity into rage!
We're working up to the descriptions on this one though - stay tuned....this poetic version of unfolding events shall soon take a new face. The one of itemized screw-ups of the litigation process, and of filing fees and attorneys/judges who've dropped the ball on more than one occasion and who probably couldn't spell my name correctly even now that I've spent the last four years with them.
I step outside with a wet head, draw my coffee to my lips, and realize that these are the mornings that I love. It is through the mist of the clouds, setting low in the yard, that the smell of wet leaves and dewy gloss waif over the grasses starting to turn to brown. There is the sound of birds rustling high in the trees and I take in a deep breath for the attempt to relieve this pressure on my heart. Many times, I can turn back the pages of my mind and recall the days that I would nestle into the crevice on your arm and wrap legs around in a mass of tangled morning warmth. I rest fondly with that memory and then suddenly, feel the pangs of love gone wrong.
It brings me out of that idealistic fairy tale and the clashing, banging horrors of what life was really like hits me square in the temple. That’s the part that carries with it resounding pain. The kind of pain that I can’t seem to drop now that I’ve moved on; now that I’ve been separated for more than three years; now that I haven’t twisted legs with the man in nearly as much time as we were married. One would assume that things could be suppressed enough to dissipate after enough time has passed, but they don’t. I’m finding that you have to pick them apart and dissect their innards in order to find the meaning to all the questions that surface when hindsight kicks in.
I talk to friends in a dire need to rid my soul of these horrors—wanting for the nostalgia of the good times to rely on and the bad days, the ones that dragged me to the bottom of despair, to go and eat themselves through until they don’t exist. People listen—my friends, they listen—but I question whether or not they really hear me. The agencies, they’re all set with convenient slogans of promise to help us through these agonies. They give tomorrow a shimmer of hope, but through my experiences, they lack a main ingredient. The one ingredient that extends achievement to make it real: accountability.
When you retell your life so many times over to stranger after stranger with an undying hope that they’ll be able to direct your sobbing soul somewhere profitable and yet, they jot down a few notes and schedule another appointment for some future meeting. My resiliency and idealism tells me that things aren’t as they seem; that people really do care and that they’re in their positions precisely for the reason to assist and amend. Why then, do they seem to take some long in the realization that I’m telling the truth? Why do I continue to feel the way that I do when I step outside and that dewy fog hits my face, the little pods of moisture stagnating on my skin and relentlessly wrapping me? Why is it that when I reach the points of clarity, I can’t maintain that perspective?
Maybe it’s because memories play tricks on these dear hearts of ours. They plot and scheme and pose as benign stagehands for this play. I realize that in essence I’m living as though my life has already reached a pinnacle ending—its resolve to capture pain and heartache, wrapped eloquently in the warmth of a true love and a real partnership, has taken up residence in my void. In this cycle, I’m reminded that it is ultimately our choice to continue on down the path of righteousness and truth; our choice to turn the corners of our mouths upward against that prick of painful memories—to prove outwardly that we’ll be alright in the end. I must keep in mind that those in the positions of assistance are there in order to help but they, too, are limited in their approaches. Friendly affiliations do not necessarily allow for a hug when we walk through the door of a practicing professional.
In this pain and heartache of remembrances, I feel I might reach a place where my strength out of pain will resound in my ability to stand tall on my own. In the meantime, I pray for continued strength and understanding. I reach out to the friends that smile cautiously as they listen to my tales of woe and I appreciate their place in my life. To build upon our lives is the essential part of living—the accountability that may be missing is what can ultimately be replaced and/or created by the ones that have trod this very road. In lack of accountability on others’ part, I take ownership of my life. I am building this piece by broken piece and when I finish, I will have created my own masterpiece.
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