Slouching Towards Bethlehem

I read somewhere that, if you feel as though you are stuck, you should make a list of what you would like to do, what you would like to learn, what you would like to complete, and what you would like to say. Once the list is complete, you should label each item listed as "N", "L", or "NITL" -- now, later (with date specified), and "not in this lifetime." Then you should proceed to accomplish/complete the items on your list in the priority with which you designated them. The "not in this lifetime" designation is useful because it determines that that desire and/or that task, while acknowledged, need not be completed and thus moved off of the priorities list.

I am still working on initially compiling my list. Surprisingly, it is taking longer than expected. I am thinking, however, that I may have a little "in memoriam" moment for all of the items I end up listing as "NITL."

So far there is only one (query whether I am too ambitious, or too much of a perfectionist, to give up on any of my goals. Apparently the only quality I have that overrides the aforementioned two, is an unabiding fear of confrontation....): As such, my one NITL thus far is telling The Boy exactly how I feel about him coming back to town. But if I were to muster the courage (and, honestly, if I thought there was even a scintilla of a benefit at all -- to me -- I would) to tell him such things directly, this is what I would say:

I am so angry at you. I wish that I weren't because it means that, at some level, I still care. A lot. But the truth is I cared a lot for such a long time that just walking away from those feelings is impossible. They have to go somewhere. And so, with a brief stop at hurt, they caromed from caring to anger. You, on the other hand, feel nothing at all about this situation. Actually that isn't right. I know you feel something: Relief.

Relief that you didn't actually make eye contact when you passed me on the street.

Relief that I didn't stop right there and call your name.

Relief that, having ignored my last email (in response to yours), I have not attempted to contact you again.

Relief that you will never have to see me again.

Actually, I understand all of those things (I have been there myself). Well, except for the last thing. I do not claim to understand that at all, because, frankly, it is just stupid. If we did not live in the same neighborhood and share an (albeit extended) network of friends, perhaps it would not be so preposterous, but given those unavoidable facts it is the equivalent of a three year old sticking their fingers in their ears and yelling, "La, la, La, I can't hear you" when trying to avoid hearing a hard truth. Rational behavior for a toddler? Yes. For a thirty year old? Not so much. Again, stupid.

So now, in addition to having hurt me through your revealing the depth of the profound lack of respect that you have for me, you have also placed the burden of being the bigger person, the one to act like an adult, squarely on my shoulders. When we meet again, as in this small, small town we inevitably will, it will be my burden to smile and make nice. To keep things brief but civil. To wear a mask of conciliation, and to will it not to crack until the moment I am finally able to turn away from you. Maybe you will be alone. Maybe you will be with a significant other ("So nice to meet you. Really.") Worse still, maybe you will be with one of our mutual friends and then there will be no escaping. There will be no tears. There will be no screaming. There won't even be a snide backhanded comment. There will just be prolonged agony of the unspoken and the unsaid. And you will walk away unscathed and unrepentant. And I will be unwound. Tending to the wound -- the gaping hole in my chest that allows me to draw only intermittent rough, raw breath which serves only to punctuate the unceasing rush of pain -- which I had worked so hard to heal with acceptance and patience. Once again, freshly reopened.

I had wanted to try to avoid that silent melodrama with the "How's things" email I sent you, but you chose not to take that road. Again, I understand this too -- avoiding hard truths. It is certainly easier -- for you. Then again, for you every potential approach in this situation is weighted that way -- it is just in in your character. Unavoidable, really. And so I understand, but damnit, I hate you for it. And, in spite of it all, in my quiet moments, I will admit to myself that I miss you. And I hate myself for that. But it will be okay. Some day there will be no reflexive sting to hearing your name. Some day there will be total indifference.

I read the following sentence today, which says it all: "If you have judged someone's character rightly he or she is not likely to disappoint you." I am not hurting now because you misjudged me. I hurt because, clearly, I misjudged you. And that misjudgment leaves me feeling angry, and hurt, and embarrassed. And yes, disappointed.

But you know what? I will get over it, and I will do so precisely because I did misjudge you:

You may be exceptional, but, turns out, you are just not that special.

Naked Lunch

I am having lunch with my mother tomorrow. Which is unremarkable, but for the fact that we have spoken only a handful of times since Christmas, and the only time I have actually seen her since then was at my father's birthday dinner in July.

She lives about 20 minutes away.

Our relationship began to spoil about four years ago, when I allowed myself to be bullied into an ill advised investment. Numerous tearful exchanges, a variety of 6 to 8 month periods of not interacting, and my unending state of continuous denial later, we are having lunch. A cozy party of four. Mother, child, the ill advised investment, and either her failure (or mine) to extricate me from it as the pink elephant in the room.

I need to talk to her. I need to wrest control of the situation back. I need to make her hear me. I need to confront these demons -- the last, and actually, the only which have caused me prolonged stress due to sheer anger. This topic is the only one I can think of, in all my life, that has provoked a visceral and unending anger in me. I have to exorcise the anger. It burns. I generally try to ignore it, but my heart tells a different story. It bears the telltale blistering and puckering. Ever-raw and unhealed.

But this anger, this unexplained rage -- its strength scares me. And only now am I beginning to realize it is because the pool from which it emanates is so much deeper than I had ever realized. The investment isn't the issue. My mother ignoring my opinions isn't the issue. The issue is that the lesson I learned early on, the one I have spent my whole life working towards applying, is that I don't want to live a life like my mother's. And with this ill-fated investment, I feel she has pulled me into that morass. The one that made my breath short as a child, that seemingly compelled me to ensure dinner be made and the house cleaned prior to my father getting home every day in the hopes he would be a little less angry, that spoke with a soft Spanish whisper of "shhhh, don't tell your father" right in front of his uni-lingual-face, that post-dated checks, that was generous with promises, but always made you never want to ask "how" when they where actually fulfilled, that always screened calls, that prized cash-and-carry as the existence of a viable credit card was always a dubious proposition, that was always scrapping and planning, and hoping and wishing and risking and betting, with a wink and prayer that it would all turn out okay.

It did. Well fed and properly clothed, exceptionally educated and not at all deprived is how I turned out. I was a fortunate kid. I am grateful. But that fortune was so hard fought. The battle scared me. I worried about survival from one day of the battle to the next. I worried about the foot soldiers. I was always worried. I was always insecure. I was always afraid.

There was no safety net.

And after all these years, there still isn't.

I am my own safety net. I accept that. I am proud that I can do that. But I am fiercely protective of it. The one thing I loved about working at the firm was that I never had to think about money. I just don't want to think of it. I want it to be a non-issue. I have enough for what I need and for a fair amount of what I want, and that is that. When that is threatened, my whole world seems tremulous. A quivering house of cards that can fall at any moment.

And I fear, as I down shifted the fiscal benefits of my career, that my mother now has the power. The power to pull me down, to pull me under, to drag me out to sea, untethered, unmoored.

I need to talk to her. I need her to hear me.

I am afraid.