Guilt. Blame. Fear of confrontation, to name a few. None of which are particularly admirable.
Good morning, The Worm, Your Honour,
The Crown will plainly show,
The prisoner who now stands before you,
Was caught red-handed showing feelings.
Showing feelings of an almost human nature.
This will not do.
I have always loved Pink Floyd, even though I am such a prude at heart.
A crisp autumn morning, a nice cup of tea, and a warmed bran muffin. I love a crisp autumn morning. It feels so good to deeply breathe the fresh cold air and see the sun sparkle on the turning leaves. Autumn is my favorite time of year. Days like this inspire hope and my thoughts turn to pondering the meaning of life and happiness, and invariably I find myself thinking back to when I was the most full of vim and vigor. When I was sueeeus maximus, the embodiment of vivacity. Those days seem so far distant. So what do I do? Why, peruse the world wide web for death reports of spurned former loves, of course.
The decline in my health and erosion of my vivacity is clearly marked by what I call the D-years. Years in which I immersed my self, body, mind, soul and spirit, in a man. A mere mortal, 17 years my senior. Of course I blame him for everything. Even though I know that I am somewhat to blame as well. It’s so much easier to blame someone else than acknowledge one’s own shortcomings. I do acknowledge, though. Which is partially why I tend to harbor feelings of guilt. I should never have jumped, hook, line and sinker. Ultimately, then, it’s completely my own fault. My foundationless sense of optimism that allowed me to believe that he was so much more of a man than he was or ever could be. To my credit, I did see a spark of the better man that he could be, only he never chose to nurture that spark. So much for believing in people. The D-years. In that span of six years, my frustrations and disappointments manifested themselves as 60 lbs that I’ve not since been able to shed.
I sometimes wonder what ever became of him. When I told him it was over, he told me I was pulling the plug on his life. I was his retirement plan. I wonder if he ever regretted actually saying that out loud. It only made me all the more relieved to be pulling that plug. I half expect to see him one of these days, standing on a street corner, holding a sign. Either a Mattress Warehouse Going Out of Business Sale sign (why is there always someone on some corner wearing such a sign?) or a Viet Nam Vet, Homeless, Hungry, God Bless sign. The former because his job qualifications aren’t particularly impressive; the latter because it’s hard to imagine he could become gainfully employed at this stage of life. I would never hire him, if I were an employer. But then I’m a hard-nosed biddy. Oh, then comes more guilt. Guilt that he has no job, no savings, no retirement. I encouraged him to leave his job, the job he detested, the job for which he was most likely next on the chopping block during that year of corporate downsizing, to try a new life in a new town. Building on the hope of the future and the belief in an individual, that he could pull through and hold up his end. Only he couldn’t. Is it my fault for believing in him? Can he blame me for having nothing now? I often think he does blame me for his predicament. Imagined predicament, because I certainly don’t know what his true predicament is, or if he’s even alive. He might think that he’d be gainfully retired from his cushy corporate job, if it weren’t for me. He wouldn’t take into consideration that he’d likely be fired, if random drug testing were in use. He wouldn’t take into consideration that he’d have been laid off in the downsizing. Honestly, I should harbor no guilt, now that I think of it. When we were together, I got him into a new corporate job, similar to the job he left behind, so we were square. After that, it was up to him to hold up, but after we split, I learned he had been fired from that job. So he didn’t hold up, and that’s on him, not me.
Today, I did a little internet searching. Death records. There are some limited searches that can be done for free. I’m fairly sure that he, and his mother, are still alive. The last I’d heard, he had moved back in with her. So I assume that he has been living off of her all of these years. She was losing her sight. Perhaps he is her caretaker, and justifies his existence as such. He could tell himself that he’s not a loser, after all.
I rather expect that he imagines that I ruined his life and screwed him over financially. We invested all we had in a property and a dream. He didn’t have much, so when it came down to it, he had 10% in to my 90%. When I wanted to buy him out, how hard he tried to claim 50%. I stood firm and eventually he signed the quit claim deed, although he ended up with much more than I thought he deserved. The property value was stagnant for nearly ten years, and then, finally, a boom year. I sold at the near peak and made a tidy profit. I know he would think he’s entitled to some of that profit, thus the assumption that I screwed him over. Am I crazy with all this imagined guilt? And that, dear internets, is why today I am debt free. Years of sacrifice and an investment in a life and a dream that went sour*. I tell myself that the profit makes up for the heartbreak and disappointments of all those years. Even so, I’m still carrying that extra 60 lbs, so something still isn’t right in Dodge.
I think, to break it down to the heart of the matter, that I need to forgive myself for giving myself up, all those years ago, to a mere mortal. Something tells me that’s probably what it all boils down to. Forgiveness is a very powerful thing. There is such freedom in forgiveness.
And now, only, to do it. I find it very hard to forgive myself (this pertains to most things), because I should know better. If I could answer myself why I expect that I should know better, then perhaps I could convince myself that I am worthy of forgiveness after all. Riddle me this, Batman. Oh the folly of expectations! From whence do they come?
*A quarter century of working my ass off might also have something to do with it.
