Dare to be true: nothing can need a lie: A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. ~George Herbert
First, miscellaneous things from my evening:
I bailed on my cardio kick class because Ad called me and said, “You know I am leaving on Sunday most likely, and we’ll have kids Friday and a party Saturday, so why don’t you come home and we’ll go on a date. Dinner and movie.”
So I did, and we did. But first I took him in the bedroom and did happy-making things with my mouth, and when I go to bed tonight I am going to do more of them. But in between, other things happened.
We argued tonight. Sometime after the feel-good stuff and the before the dinner, we got into it. We seldom argue, but when we do, it’s usually about his job. I don’t think he stands up to them enough, asks the right questions, or does the right things to get the information & treatment he needs from them. Neither does he, but he won’t do anything about it. I get exasperated and frustrated; he feels cornered and defensive, and we snap at each other. I’m wrong, of course. I shouldn’t do that. He is already unhappy with things. But you didn’t sit back for five years as his friend and watch him let a really not very nice woman run roughshod over him. I mean, it was bad, but he just didn’t have whatever-it-took to move her out of his life. It took me nagging and bitching at him (not because I wanted him to be with me, we were only friends then) but because I couldn’t stand it that he let himself be used and abused that way. Same difference here. But I have to learn to let it lie. He’s an adult, if he chooses to be miserable, so be it. Maybe I can help by making sure he is happy in other ways.
So then we went out to dinner. One thing I am glad about is that I will apologize when I am wrong, and he will accept it, and then we’ll talk, and in the end it’s all good. Which it was. Had a yummy dinner and then headed over to the movie. I decided that I am going to work out and go to a movie every night that he is gone. I like movies! I don’t like TV so much (though when I saw that the new shows aren’t all reality shows I kinda got excited about that and told W, hey, maybe I’d start watching TV again, but he said “No.” Apparently he thinks it might be unhealthy for me. So no TV. But I don’t think he objects to movies.
We saw Red which was actually good. I laughed several times throughout. It made me realize something though, which I thought about the other day and forgot to write about. I have always liked older men. When I was 20 and 30, that meant 30’s and 40’s–the age that the men in this movie were when they were the hot young starts. Now, as I have gotten into my 40’s, I like men in their 50’s and even early 60’s, the age these men are now (if not older. I still have a crush on Clint Eastwood.) And now they are in movies joking about being “grandpas”–Morgan Freeman, in particular, who I had a mad crush on when I was younger, played an 80-year old man–and, guess what? I still have crushes on them. In fact, I was never attracted to Bruce Willis when he was younger. Now? Mrow! So I still have a thing for men that are about 10-20 years older than me. But that’s got to stop eventually, right? I mean, it’s gotta even out soon, right? Actually, it probably has already, I find myself attracted to men in their late 40’s early 50’s now too. But it just struck me as odd.
In other odd bits of miscellany, my daughter’s boyfriend was apparently looking under my ex’s bed for the Wi games that he keeps there (they are out of town and my son told him where to find them.) In the box with the games, apparently he found a large, stainless steel dildo. And told my son, who told Ad, who told me. When I heard the story, I had no idea why they (I assumed it was my daughter looking for something in their room too) would be in their room, so tonight when she got home I asked her. I used leading questions, never stating what I was actually asking about, but she was clueless. W and Ad both had insisted that she was not as innocent as I say she is (innocent in that I do not believe she would snoop) but she truly had no idea what I was talking about-of that I am convinced. Apparently it really had been the boyfriend looking for games, not them snooping. But the funniest part was when I realized that the thing was in the Wi games box–of course all I could think about was a WiFit game involving large steel dildos. I couldn’t stop laughing.
Okay, enough about that. Now, onto the real meat of this post:
Truth #3: Something you need to forgive yourself for.
This is really, really hard. There are so many things I can’t forgive myself for. I have lived my life, since I have become self-aware, in a way in which I try very much to “do no harm.” But I haven’t always had that philosophy (and, since this is about “truth” I don’t always succeed at it, even now.) But…damn. I wish I could undo some of the hurtful things I did when I was younger, even if I hadn’t done them with malicious intent, even if I was just a stupid kid. No matter how I tell myself that I was young, that we all make mistakes, we all do stupid things…I just can’t bring myself to forgive myself.
I try. I do. And I know, if I could speak to him (this involves my father) I know for a fact that he would say he still loves me, and has forgiven me for it…but I can’t talk to him. He died when I was fifteen. And so I can’t forgive myself.
And…I…can’t really speak of it even now. It hurts too much.
Ad said he doesn’t know why I do this stuff, write like this, participate in things that I know will make me question things about myself, dig, expose myself–to the world and to myself. But then he turns around and takes that back. Yes, he knows why. “I don’t want to tear myself open and look inside,” he says. “I’ve laid things to rest, or made my peace with them, I don’t need to bring it all up again. But you do…” And so I do. That’s why I write. And maybe, yes, it is emotional masochism. Because I want to feel, even the pain, like I am now. Not manufactured pain or drama, but the real, bitter edge of it, the sorrow deepening and widening inside of me until it rushes over me, and, for a moment, threatens to drown me.
But then it doesn’t. Just like true masochism, the kind that is about physical pain, I survive. And the “after,” when the pain isn’t there anymore, is glorious.
Having said that, maybe it sounds like I want to hold onto my guilt, that the guilt somehow elicits pleasure, because if I didn’t feel it, I wouldn’t get to feel–and come through and out of–the pain. I don’t like to think that is the case. But I don’t know. Maybe I am a deeper masochist than I know.
And that’s the truth.