Today, I received a message, a message that I never expected from someone who I’d rather forget, or at least bury under years of happier memories.
I had a long draft written: the usual ramblings you’ve come to expect from me – questioning my judgement; doubting my decisions; welcoming any emotional punishment for mistakes I’ve made and willing some higher power to serve me with penance for all the shitty things I’ve done over the years.
But I deleted all of it. Because now, I’m in control: it’s my life and I’ve had a pretty tough mental battle to stay in it. I’ve realised today that I still get angry, irate in fact, but the core of me is stronger than it was this time last year and the Person who sent me that message knows fuck all about the year I’ve had; the closure I found a long time ago and, being honest, I’m not sure the Person ever really knew me, even though I thought the Person was the only one who knew anything about me at all. There are tens of thousands of words I could write about the Person to add to the hundreds of thousands I’ve already typed and spoken and sobbed but I actually couldn’t be bothered writing that much now.
The Person doesn’t figure much in my life now, except in my nightmares and counselling sessions. Very occasionally the steely stab of a memory will catch me in the gut but it’s nothing a Body Combat class, a rant to a cousin or a slice of cake (OK, two slices…) can’t cure.
I’ve procrastinated long enough over this post: I’ve been switching between it and reading different articles for a couple of hours. Whether that’s because I’m still pretty pissed about it or because I don’t really care that much, I’m not sure.
The cover photo is from the Chihuly Garden and Glass in Seattle, WA. I took it during a day out with my American Mom and My Favourite Aunt (she christened herself that, kinda fits though) and Scandi. We’d just been up in the Space Needle; the weather was warm and sunny; the food was great; and nothing mattered but family; art and laughter. The Person was not part of this happy memory and, I don’t give a fuck how cheesy and self indulgent this sounds, the Person never saw, or valued, all the colours, shapes and shades of me and like Dale Chihuly’s glass sculptures (which is the most beautiful art gallery I’ve ever been to), I’m still in one piece. So that’s why I chose that picture. And now, I’m going to bed because clearly lack of sleep has made me channel Oprahesque self-affirmations.
There’s self care right there, bitch.