My brain and heart are all over the place lately. This blog and my story that is told in it seems to me to be floundering at the moment. I’m not sure what my next story will be. I know some day it will all make sense though.
I’ve never been a huge fan of reading epic novels, but when you think about it they are really stories within stories. Each part as meaningful as the next because they lead to a unique conclusion. I keep thinking of Dr. Zhivago for some reason. I keep seeing Omar Sharif. I think of his sadness and loneliness and of everything that happened to him in his life. Epic, tragic, moving. People come in and out but they all effect the story.
I grew up in the same house until I got married. My parents were never divorced. All my friends from childhood were pretty much in-tact. I had a connection to my past, present, and I thought my future. And I liked it that way. Embedded relationships not broken ones.
But I have 22 years of memories that I can’t share anymore. It’s not like my kids can remember them. My daughter doesn’t even remember living in Washington as we moved when she was three. It’s painful for me to try to preserve the memories in my mind and they are fading.
One of the first things I did when Martin and I broke up was take all his images down from my house. There were many. It helped being so far apart most of the time to be able to look over and see his smiling face. In the kitchen, on the mantle, night stand, piano, landing at the top of the stairs. Everywhere. My dresser, on the walls.
Broken relationships create this need for amnesia in one’s life because remembering is too painful sometimes. But I don’t want to stop the memories.
I want a gigantic quilt when I die that includes the pieces and fabric that made me who I will be. The good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful. I want to stitch each square in as it unfolds so I don’t forget to remember. I know it won’t look designer. Too many different colors, textures, weights. But it will be true. It will be me.
This morning I had to go through images I took in England for my job. There were pictures I took that would help me do my graphic design work. While searching for one of those, I came across a series of photos I took of Martin and I huddled on a bench on a balcony at the house in Wales. It was raining and we had candles lit. I set up the camera on auto so every few seconds it would take a picture. What I saw laid out before me was a sequence of our interaction that was loving, intimate, warm, nice.
It caught me off guard because even the smells from that night came back to me. The sound of the rain. I remember talking to him about how excited I was to see his daughter the next day and asked if maybe we could bring her back to the house and play board games or have dinner. At that point he had already been to her home and dropped off her printer and it is likely he knew very well that we would not be seeing her at all. But I didn’t know.
That memory could have been one of the greatest in my life but is now one of the worst. Tainted completely. And it hurts. But still I want to remember.
My friend got a divorce and threw out everything from her old life. She bought all brand-new furniture and it was like starting over. New fabric, new color scheme, new sqauares and she started stitching a new quilt.
I can’t do that.
I don’t want my life to be like a romantic comedy, or a sitcom on television. Neat and tidy story lines with convenient endings before things start getting complicated or interesting. I want the Epic novel. I want there to be connection and stories within stories. Painful lessons, good, sweet moments, and everything in between.
I’m forcing myself to move on right now kind of like I’m forcing myself to eat. I did better yesterday with eating. I had lunch and dinner. Still no real appetite though.
I forced myself to go out with H.S. Guy on Friday night to the football game. We had a nice time. He really likes me. It’s strange to hear the same things Martin used to say come out of his mouth. “You are different, you are special, you have it all, brains, beauty, a good heart.” It’s strange to walk next to someone else, look up and have them smile at you like you’re making their night. Its strange to have it effect me so little. Guard is back up.
He’s told his mother about me. He has told all his friends about me. Even though he keeps saying no pressure, he is definitely hoping for a relationship.
He is different from other men I have been close to. He doesn’t try to impress me. That is different. I don’t complete his world. He’s got a great, full life. And its full of things that don’t particularly interest me. Sports mainly. He’s a sports guy. Loves football, baseball, is a coach and PE teacher. A manly man sort of guy. Works out 4-5 days a week. He eats well; not because a woman is telling him to but because its important to him. He goes to church; not because a woman is telling him to but because it is important to him. He has prayed before the two meals we have shared. He’s been really honest.
But something he has said a few times has me thinking…it’s the word, done. She was done. He was done. If a person lies before they’re married, I say its done. Done. Done. Done. He doesn’t have many friendships from childhood cause he or they were done.
That word done is a word I don’t use very often. Its a word I don’t really understand. Once I let a person in…which I have not let H.S. Guy in yet, I am never really done with them.
Maybe I will wrap myself up in my favorite quilt and watch Dr. Zhivago this week. Or Les Miserables. Or Gone with the Wind. Or maybe I won’t.
Lately I’m just sad. I’m in the part of my story I hate. But I know that I would not have done anything different. And it will all make me who I will be. Which in the end I’m sure will make for an epic story.