These are not suitcases. They are my stories. I carry them with me, yes, and at times – at 2ams and altitudes – my shoulders slump with their heft. The weight of past mistakes and all of the leaving. I spin the world backward, these times. Searching with my finger across the whirring, blurring globe for home. Are you nostalgic? she asked me once, and I said yes, as I understand it. I think writers, necessarily retrieve. I meant to say that memory matters. The past matters. But those words belong to another, so I left the thought behind.
I do – at times – have to turn myself around.
But these are not suitcases. I do not come with burdens, see. I arrive lush with autobiography. Stories spilling, swimming. I had a farm in Africa. I stood trembling at the door. There was a moment, just before. I sobbed and smiled. Here. And here. And here. I thought-. He was-. She was-. They were-. I was-. He sang in my ear. I shouldn’t have. I did. I came twice as he-. I saw the most-. I travelled to-. It made me feel. This is the … happiest I’ve ever been. Yes! I remember everything.
I remember every thing. I carry it all, swinging, dancing. Hands out, even to my sorrows. I never wanted a calm waters life. Though I waded through his once or twice. Just to see what it is to be light. And I found it heavier than I’d ever imagined, to carry no one thing at all.
Here, let me open for you now. These are not suitcases. They are my stories …
(Remember: Don’t believe a word I say. Just the way I say it)
♥ HAPPY NEW YEAR, dear readers! Here’s to all the stories in 2018 … ♥
“For her part [she] needs to begin to curb her angry outbursts – – not because they are unjustified, but because they will not give her what she is really seeking. Anger may make her feel more powerful, temporarily. However, psychologist Steven Stosny observes that that “if loss of power was the problem in intimate betrayal, then anger would be the solution. But the great pain in intimate betrayal has little to do with the loss of power. Perceived loss of value is what causes your pain – – you feel less loveable.”
Dear – –
This is not an apology. I am not sorry for the outbursts, for the kind of hurt from my kind of words, and the times I carved through your metal with my scorching blade. I am not sorry for the sparks, and if you got burned. You were the one warming yourself all over me. You should be the one on your knees, respecting years, respecting
I am not sorry for the discomfort of a buzzing phone. For street corner revelations, or for Actually … tied up in your silence, I am not sorry for any time I broke free. Understand, from behind your perennial shield, you share
some half this responsibility.
This is NOT an apology. My dear ‘Henry‘. Your arms-lengthing would provoke one more sober than me. Hard-won, I now at least have clarity. That withholding is an act of emotional cruelty. Revelation, finally! Your refusal had nothing to do with me.
No rust-mouthed man gets to (silently) say. If I deserve to be loved. And when I am free.
“Whether the ending is done in person or in writing, it must be responsible, mature, caring, and clear. He needs to … appreciate the depth of what they shared … and give her closure. There is no way for this not to be painful, but it makes a world of difference if [she] knows that she’s not the only one feeling heartbroken.”
… is there nothing left to say?
I don’t know why I was surprised to find you there. To see you newly satisfied in that place. Smiling, shining. Grown fat with your forgetting.
You took my favourite season, after-all. Rearranged the weather. Built your shelter on my foundation, sought safety on my seas. But now at least I know. What I have always suspected to be true:
You have no sacred in you.
(there is no temple of mine you will not defile)
Eidyia. Who sees. Who knows.
“Speak the words you have swallowed. We have – – years of silence to fill. Let us crowd this night with all we have not said, let us cover every last second with our secrets. Whisper them soft and sure against my skin. Tell me goodbye, and tell me why.
Dust me for your fingerprints one last time, hold me up to the light, and see yourself all over. Know that you were here. Here we are. Grasp at what we will leave behind. What we are losing. There are ways for us to end this.
Love me just enough. Then let me go. Hold tight all through these midnight hours, then stand up, be brave. And watch. me. walk. away.”
My darling, there are ways for us to end this.
Good god. She went so far as to tell you what to do. You have always done what you are told to do. How could you not even give her that …
never could resist a landscape metaphor …
It isn’t that I think the sky will fall. Or that I wouldn’t know what to do if it did. I am not afraid of anything, you should understand that. But I don’t know that I have ever felt safe. Safe seems like a promise someone broke, and the worst part is that you believed them. With promises, it’s only a betrayal if you believed them.
I don’t believe I’ll ever be safe.
Do you know how aware we have to be? Girls like me? The man ahead who slows down, who disappears into doorways. The man behind who walks too fast, his encroachment felt on your skin, creeping. Vans with dark windows and streets with alley ways. A park at dusk, or just emptier of people than you thought it would be, any old time of the day. The teacher whose hand lingers, or the group of boys with beer on their breath. The door closing and the room spinning. Do you know how aware we have to be?
(I suppose I let my guard down. At the end. When the sky actually did fall. The crack, and the flash of light, and the wet like rain drops. Air heavy like a boot on my chest. Dirt, and metal and being pushed down, down into the earth. It still surprised me. The shock of how little you can mean to another. How an entire world can be discarded for someone else’s storm. I was right not to believe I’d ever be safe.
But it still surprised me. At the end.)
~ Alice, What We Have Left