"Life has a way of taking its toll on the person you thought you were."
-- A.S.A. Harrison, The Silent Wife
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| Joe and the weight of the world 2-11-14 |
"You wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down."
-- Toni Morrison, Song of Solomon
I have to do something very difficult today.
I have to go someplace that was once an important, vibrant part of my life, and which is now a painful memory.
I have see people I haven't seen in a long time, who were once some of my closest friends, who are now bitter reminders of profound loss, and shame, and abandonment -- people I have worked hard to forget.
It's like returning to the scene of a crash.
I don't want to do it.
But it's one of those things. Not a good thing. Not a bad thing. But in this case, the right thing. It's a thing I could avoid, but because it matters to someone else that I show up, I will, no matter how difficult.
I've tried hard to forget this painful time in my life, to bury the memories and the feelings. For a long time it felt like I was endlessly trying to bury an angry alive thing that kept clawing and scrambling up and out of its grave while I feverishly flung dirt at it and whacked it in the head with a shovel.
It's better now. I'm getting there. It still lingers in the margins. There are occasional shadows, ghosts. I still have dreams about it now and then. But it is no longer the incredible weight and terrible burden that it once was. Mostly, I barely think about it anymore. Unless something reminds me. And that's the primary trouble with today. I have to return to a haunted, crowded place crammed full of reminders.
It feels like someone has handed me a stinking load of the old shit, saying "Remember this? Try it out again. Carry it around some more. Feel its weight. Remember its heft? Put your back into it now!"
You might be asking where the good is in this not-so-good thing.
Well, the good thing is that fortunately I developed some muscle from carrying the shit around the first time. I am much stronger now. I have much better balance.
And even though I don't want to hoist it again, I know it won't crush me this time. I won't crumble under it. It can't knock me down anymore.
Plus I have a strategy -- get there late, sit in the back, and leave as soon as possible.
I have someone to run interference -- my husband is all over it.
I have a getaway car -- so as soon as it's over, I can get the fuck out of there.
And so I'll go.
And when it's all over, I'll move on, again. I'll walk out the door, again, relish the sound of it clicking shut, again, scrape the shit off my boots, again, jump into the getaway car and ride off into the sunset, again.
I've done it before, so I should be getting pretty damn good at it by now.
