I’m supposed to act like nothing is wrong.
It’s the mature thing to do. It’s the wise thing to do. It’s the safe, self preserving thing to do.
But I can’t.
It’s not me, whether that’s good or bad or otherwise, it’s just not.
I can’t move forward until I’ve taken it out of the dark corners of my mind where I’m pretending it doesn’t exist and fleshed it out into words I’ll have to remain accountable for. And I need to move forward.
My world sort of blew up last week.
Or rather, a small part of my world blew up – but the explosion was so massive and ugly that it seems I’m finding shrapnel miles and miles away in unexpected places. Like this blog.
A friend and I had, as the respectable people say, a falling out. It had been a long time coming and in all honesty, the relationship had gotten to the point where it wasn’t beneficial to either one of us anymore. It happens. That in itself, while always difficult, is survivable. It is what it is and all that.
What has left me reeling for days now is how it all happened.
I suppose there is no nice way to end a friendship. Perhaps it is impossible to remove someone from your life without an intense blaze meant to burn any and all remnants of your history together. If you can simply shake hands and part ways without biting words and explosive anger, maybe you wouldn’t be parting ways in the first place.
But still. Still I believe there is a line. An unspoken code between friends and loved ones that says “no matter how far we go in anger, this – right here – is too far. No matter what. This – right here – is too hurtful, too hateful to ever be said. No matter what.”
I feel like I was shoved into a canon and shot miles across that line.
And I’m… shocked. Dazed, really. And I find myself looking at my surroundings once again thinking “where the fuck am? What bizarre ass version of reality is this?“ And I hate that feeling more than anything. I hate the uncertainty and second guessing and the mistrust that inevitably grows up from the rumble.
I look at you and wonder, “what do you really think?”
I hear your encouragement and love and find I am looking behind your back for your true intentions. Waiting to see what you’re covering up in your attempts to make nice.
I doubt you. All of you. My husband, my friends. Myself.
I’ve learned over the last couple years that someone else’s perception of you – good or bad – is more about them than it is you. I know this. I’m no longer at the mercy of the random insult from a virtual stranger. My self esteem does not rise and fall with public opinion the same way that it did when I was younger.
But this… this is different.
This is a picture of me drawn by someone who knows me. Someone who not too long ago believed in me. Someone who I trusted with the most intimate details of my life, the deepest desires of my heart. Someone who was given full access to my psyche for a very long time and whose criticism and critique I can not simply toss off as being from “someone who doesn’t know”.
A part of me believes – or rather, is afraid – that maybe I have been deluding myself about who I am.
Maybe this person knows my heart and my humanity better than I do.
But how can that be?
If someone told me I was being a selfish ass and getting wrapped up in my own shit too much, I’d buy that. I could concede that it is possible to lose sight of the outside world when you’re swirling around in your own tiny piece of it.
Likewise, if someone accused me of being bitchy, snappy, crabby, short sighted, on and on blah blah blah blah – I can see how those are things that you can miss about yourself from time to time. Fuck, I get that.
But I also believe that there are some things about ourselves that we know to be true, no matter what anyone else tries to tell you.
You know your intentions.
You know your values and beliefs.
You know your own heart, better than anyone.
Don’t you? Don’t I?
I hesitate to write this. To publish it. Knowing that some people delight in making a big show about being fine, taking great pride in being unaffected – as if that is in some way proof of also being right. As if everything in the world that matters begins and ends with right and wrong.
But in not writing it, I realize I have been hiding. Shielding my thoughts from the potential of being misinterpreted. Protecting myself from having my trust and honesty used against me again.
And hiding, worst of all, from myself. From the doubts and insecurities that are now obvious. From the hard reality that I still have so fucking far to go in figuring It out, whatever It is.