The Thirty-Third Post

It’s been a time of cleansing, of detoxification.  A season of recovery and reassessment. I’ve spent the last few months out of sight, mostly in my apartment, and leaving mostly only for my therapy and psychiatric appointments, and the odd lunch with a friend here and there I managed to drag myself out for.

The wounds still sometimes feel fresh. But the healing, significant, as I slowly find ways to relate healthily to my past and the things that happened. The therapy and the hard work is bearing fruit. And little by little I begin to understand the forces inside myself, see things with more clarity. My inner compass, broken and spinning wildly even before all of this, is getting its bearings. I’m beginning, for possibly the first time in my life, to appreciate myself.

And in learning to appreciate myself, I’ve found myself acting decisively when it came to people and entanglements. Things had started up between Cheryl and myself again, for instance, until her ex moved into town, and a whole love triangle threatened to ensue. Feeling she had her own drama to see through and not wishing to purchase any part in it, I wished her all the best and told her to have a good life, either with the ex, her husband, or whatever she decided was ideal for her.

Several days ago, Lana wrote. We’d not seen each other since my sudden childhood recollections occured but stayed in touch over the phone and through texts. A day came when I left her a friendly voicemail that wasn’t returned, and neither was a text message. That night I found a note from her in my inbox. It’d been too long, she said. She liked me more than I liked her so what was the point? We were just casual friends now, and she wished me well. I was surprised, but didn’t reply immediately. I wrote her back a couple of days later instead, saying I didn’t blame her for her reaction but as an explanation I felt she deserved, let her know it wasn’t personal and that I’d merely reconnected with The Maestro a few nights ago after all these months of hiatus, thanked her for the good times and wished her well also.

A day later, she wrote back. From the typos, she was probably drunk. “Don’t push away the people who care about you,” she said in the first note. I got three more in quick succession, about getting together if/when I ever felt like it, how she wasn’t good at expressing her feelings. Then I got a last one, saying, “Don’t write me off, I really care about you.” I took a look at the note, went back up to the top of the message thread, noted the bipolarity between her first and last notes, and wrote back with a simple, “I didn’t write you off. You wrote me off, remember? Take care.”

I don’t find myself wanting to spend much time on things or people that don’t have their heads at least mostly together. I’ve spent too much time with mine in pieces, and too much time piecing mine back.  I’m averse to anything approximating drama. Nothing, nobody feels worth marginalizing myself or this process for. And as I emerge from my foxhole my focus is simple: my writing career. The Maestro and I are regrouping and finishing our script, which I’ve spent most of tonight streamlining and trimming. And I’ve begun developing an indie comic with a friend who illustrates. One’s for the money. One’s for me. Right now it’s as pat as that.

I feel connected to the abundance in the universe. I feel connected to myself. I feel little fear. About love. About companionship. About dangerous desires. This time of hiatus has been a time of abstinence as well. One I’d like to break in time, when I’m ready. The Summer feels right. Now I’m still sort of protective over myself, my space, my skin. And I can’t do it just yet. So I’ll let it run its course.

Your comments meant the world to me. The diversity of your kindness and support blows me away. Thank you. For reading, and reaching out. It’s past 5am and I’m finally going to bed now. But stayed up late for good reasons.