I Was Not His

  • Upon 30 years of agonizing reflection, I have finally come to the conclusion that I was never his. His heart belonged to another soul, and that I did not readily know. I fell hard and fast, and he merely fell. I was his diversion while he was my everything. I unknowingly helped to soothe his wounded pride by loving him. He quenched a thirst in me, not knowing how parched I was inside. He had an insidious hold on me that to this day I cannot explain. I willingly gave my whole heart and being, blinded by his Hollywood good looks, and charm. My soul was mesmerized. My heart was full. He encompassed all my thoughts and actions, yet to him I was only a passing thought, fulfilling a primal need that his ego required. The mask he wore for me was that of a caring lover and over time changed to indifference. When I was finally made aware of the source of his heartbreak, abruptly everything changed. No longer was I a lover or friend. I was just “not her”. I held on for dear life, and was in retrospect, pathetic. I still loved him, but I was not, and never was his. The loss I felt was agonizing. My soul was wailing. My heart shattered beyond repair. After 30 years I finally realized the truth. To this day, my being mourns the loss. I feel incredibly stupid. I should have regained my dignity. It is still attached to him. Unable to be retrieved. What he will never realize is that I am still stuck in the prison of all encompassing thoughts of him. I am once again reaching, but not able to grasp. I am dying a slow death with a forced smile to get through the long minutes of life. And I pitifully know in my injured soul that my life has been a vain attempt to try and replace my Machiavellian love. He haunts me. I am torn between want and sweet release. I live in a dwelling of regret and shame, for I foolishly love him still. He has my heart that I so desperately need back, even with it’s painful scars. You see, my childlike intelligence has informed me that I was NEVER his, because I was not her.
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    Life Intrudes

    I am a solitary soul. I cherish the sound of no sound. The kiss of breeze on my cheek, a hummingbird flitting from flower to flower in its own silent way. The sound of the heat hanging in the air like a damp blanket. I am an observer. In the car as a passenger, I look at the people in the other cars and wonder. Are they happy? Are they abused? Are they depressed? Are they wishing for human contact in their solitary lives? I see the wisdom and longing in the aging eyes of a man at the park. Longing for love lost, and the craving for human touch. Knowing he is going home to a well worn favorite chair, and a television that he never turns on, but watches with memories of his life. Another kindred soul who loves the sound of no sound, but also is tortured by it. I want to listen to the wisdom he has to offer, but don’t wish to be the intruder. I want to hold his hand with the paper thin skin, just to give him my warmth. I understand the souls who cherish the sound of no sound, for I am one of them. But life intrudes, as it should. But sometimes, just sometimes the longing for no sound can be a refuge for some, and a heartbreak for others. I want to gather those people in my arms and intrude, and warm them, and show the the joy of solitude, and tell them that life intrudes, but beauty shows up in the least expected moments. Silence is a double edged sword that can cut or cure. The cure is what I want to pass on. Silence has much to say, even when life intrudes.

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    Stranger Fascination

    I am the type of person who will go out of their way to make sure that I ask the surly young cashier at Burger King, if they are having a nice day. I’m sure they never get asked that question. They are usually dumbfounded by the simple greeting as if it were a trick question.  One girl gave me a look that literally translated into “Please help me get out of this fast food hell hole”. Another kid  clearly thought I was being a jerk, and obviously did not want me to “Have it my way”.  

    My Daughter, Samantha, is mortified when I talk to strangers in her presence.  She tells me in a stage whisper, “Mom, stop it!” Or, I hear her mutter to herself, “Oh my god Mom!”  She also doesn’t like when I address people in the retail or fast food industry by their names. For example, I might say, ” Hi Helen, how is your day today?”  Sam will almost immediately admonish me! When I ask her why, she says “It’s rude, and too personal!”  I am completely befuddled by this comment because Helen is wearing a name tag that says…wait for it……Helen!!!!  

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    Me, my hair, and I

    I do my best thinking when I am fixing my hair in the morning. It is one of the few times I am actually completely in my own head. I hear no one, I see no one, I. Am. Focused!  

    Thoughts ping around in my head like a pinball machine. Both ends of the spectrum are examined, if only fleetingly.  Occasionally, if my husband, Charlie, is in the same room, I might blurt out some absurd question or thought. They usually pop out of my mouth like a bullet out of a gun. It could be a question, odd fact, or observation.

    For example, one morning while going through my grooming routine, I asked him, ” Hey Charlie, what do you think so and so meant when they said that I had an interesting shape? Do you think they meant that I am fat? Do you think they were checking out my boobs? And by the way, what do you think of my hair today?”  This all bursts out of my mouth like a machine gun, and I can see the wheels turning in poor Charlie’s head. As I stare him down waiting for an immediate answer to all questions, I can practically hear the wheels turning in his head. His eyes dart right and left searching for escape. Sometimes he just looks at me like I have lost my mind. In any case, he has learned to roll with it, and reassure me that my hair looks terrific, and that so and so was probably just jealous of my figure. God love him! I’m sure he feels like he dodges bullets like inanimate objects in a shooting gallery! He escapes to the breakfast room like a thirsty man rushes to a mirage in the desert. The bead of sweat running down the side of his face being the only evidence of the verbal assault he has suffered!  The sports page brings calming relief like a blankie….until the next encounter!

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    At The Starting Line

    This is my first written sentence. The first step forward. It is utterly terrifying and exhilarating all at the same time. My mind is swirling and churning a mile a minute with ideas and conversations I have heard. 

    As apprehensive as I have been, strangely I feel elated; almost giddy with thoughts of future posts and musings!  So, having written my first words on this site, I close for now, but will return to what I hope is a satisfying, and even FUN endeavor!

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