A last post
My counselor asked me, "What happens next?"
And I had to say that I didn't know, that really I was in a situation where from day to day I wasn't sure how I was going to feel, or what I was going to do. That every night I went to bed not sure what tomorrow would bring, and every morning I woke up not knowing what would happen the rest of the day.
"That sounds like a good thing."
Well, it does and it doesn't. When I was working full-time, when I was living with The Signal, there was a comfort in routine--wake up at 6 am, leave for work at 7, get back at 6:30, back to bed at 11. To know what, generally, was going to happen each day. Mow the lawn or go hiking on weekends.
Now there are days I work until 3 am. Some days I don't get out of bed until 10. But other days I go to bed at 9 and get up at 5. I might be out of the apartment all day...or go three days without setting foot outside. I might work a 12-hour day, or a 3-hour day. My weekend might be a Wednesday and a Friday, or Sunday to Tuesday, or a Thursday night. I might be working for four clients in a day...or none. The only constant is my pair of lazy cats.
And not knowing what the future might hold.
When I moved into the apartment, I didn't have anybody helping, so I had to carry and unpack everything myself. It turned into a bit of an archeological dig, sorting through the layers of my life. The years I spent in England. The lonely years in California and Miami. My marriage to The Signal and its ups and downs. The recent times when the world closed in on me and I lost so much, all of it my fault. The time with The Star. Even posting here. They say you should take what is helpful from your experiences, carry with you what is valuable, and leave the rest behind. To some extent my past lives seem like a distant memory...I feel like I've been here, out of routine but at the same time feeling grateful to be alive, forever. The layers of my life feel as distant as the stars...
...and yet, if I close my eyes and put out my hand, I feel I can touch those past lives. I have a picture on my desk of a birthday party from when I was a kid. I can tell about when it was--our old TV is in the background, my sister wears the bowl haircut she had for a few months, my cousin is in the pigtails she always hated. My aunt, the aunt who was like a second mom to me, is behind me. She died when I was 15. So many years ago. Yet when I close my eyes I can still hear her voice. I can still see her drag on her cigarette (Virginia Slims if I remember correctly), pause, blow out the smoke, and prepare to drop some wisdom.
And she is saying to me, "Your time isn't up yet."
It isn't. But I do feel like I am between lives. This time would be the intermission in the movie about me, the time where the audience goes out to the lobby or the bathroom and wonders how the narrative threads of my life are going to be resolved. I know this isn't Hollywood and there is no guarantee they will be....my aunt's biography was cut off abruptly with so many questions unanswered. I think, though, that there may be some resolution to what's gone before in my life. Perhaps sooner than I expect.
I'm afraid, though, I don't want to put those resolutions down here. Not in this journal. Not under this name. This isn't the right place for that. I don't know what that right place is, but I know this isn't it. People come to this board for answers they can't find anywhere else to questions they feel afraid to ask elsewhere. I feel that although once my story was helpful to those people, it's developed into a narrative that doesn't belong here. Sort of like if you bought a ticket to see an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, and you sat down to a performance of Chekov's Uncle Vanya. It has its place. That place just isn't here.
If any of you are interested in what I'm going to do next, I don't mind if you PM me--when I figure out where I'm going to write next I will let you know. And I will understand if nobody does, too. But I want to thank you all for supporting me during some really bad times. I just wish I could have done more for the rest of you.