Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Quiet Before the Storm

I feel like I am in the space inbetween all things. Love, sorrow, transition, and becoming. Awareness supersedes all things. There is everything here.

Part of it is upheaval from the move. Yet there is a storm here, powerful, moving.

Everything is about to change.

I am embracing change.

Twelve years in a place makes that place your home. There is no way to avoid that, you just spend long enough in a place and it becomes a part of you. I’ve made a happier life in the twelve here than I had in the eighteen in which I was—under some descriptions—raised. Yet I am alone here, utterly, and completely alone and feeling that separation, that loss, that lack of being more and more acutely. A sense of longing and nothingness and desire.

And yet here I have loved more deeply, been loved, allowed myself the freedom to be loved. Perhaps this is what I am afraid of, in that moving back I will no longer find a way to be acceptable, and yet all evidence to the contrary says this is untrue.

So, what is it that I am afraid of?

Not just the change.

It is a fear of myself.

I love my best friend. I have for some time. And I never want to see that same person again. Caught in a paradox that seems all too familiar, where I bridge love and hate. I love, deeply, and yet I’d rather excise that existence (and all it’s accompanying thoughts) from me like some gangrenous wound. Perhaps if extracted I will heal.

I will heal either way, in the end, I think to myself. It’s just a question of the scars.

I feel like I need to explore this, although the exploration may be damning. I need to know why I am so angry, because I am angry, as well as sad and hurt.

Perhaps it is the feeling that I have been used. One could argue that I have only done what I volunteered to do, and I would not argue this. I did volunteer, yet…to know me is to know that I will take on all responsibility as if it is my own with the belief that in doing so I somehow ameliorate the sins of my own past, reclaim myself from being this immoral, base, and despised thing I was raised to think of myself as. Aren’t I, in reality, constantly trying to redeem my childhood sins, the guilt trap I was born into, fueled by El Diablo Madre, and powered further by my own childish decisions?

I am capable of great love. I will do what is asked of me out of a belief that it is my duty, and that it is the right of anyone who shows me any affection that they can ask anything of me, and I shall do to my utter destruction whatever they ask. Those who I end up becoming deeply entwined with know this. Feeling angry or bitter because they take advantage of this seems unfair, and yet I am angry and bitter because of this. I allowed myself to trust, and that was abused, and now I am angry.

I have no right to be angry.

I am brutally angry.

The anger comes from the past, that trauma trigger from being constantly placed in the middle of great burdens, from constantly having to feel that I shouldered a burden of responsibility that was beyond me. It was too much, but I could not protest because I was a child, and I resented it. I should not have felt that kind of terrible purpose; I should have been protected, allowed to experience my own childhood, and yet I wasn’t. I was asked to do something and I did so out of a sense of burden.

In the end, I turned my back to all of it—walked away and never looked back.

I want to walk away again.

How much family am I willing to lose over this?

That is the question that is rattling in my head. Because my friend—my dearest and sweetest friend who has been a pillar of support and love, who has shared with me...doesn’t that make us family? Not that I didn’t provide the same pillar; not that I didn’t give as much as I received, but to strike it all down for one request that asked me to go beyond what I was capable of: should I be so angry about that? Shouldn’t I, instead, embrace it as the expected?

My best friend will come back to the country tomorrow, and for the first time in five years, the thought of standing there, face to face, saying hello after a long absence, fills me with nothing but dread.

I need to fix it.

I’m not sure how to fix it.

And I am floundering.



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