I try to tell him that I’m not interested, who I was isn’t who I am. He seems distracted. He’s fixed his attention on the details, the ones I’m no longer interested in.
He points at the spec on the crumpled paper, locking his gaze on me, my eyes. His fingers thud into the paper floating in the palm of his hand. I look away. What’s there to see? I’ve been down this road—fuck, I lived it. I know what’s there. He curls a smile, pursing his lips—he’s satisfied himself, he can see I’m uncomfortable and that makes him happy. His efforts justified.
I look down and I wonder why any of it still matters. These things happened. The hurt happened. It’s done. What’s done is done. I shrug my shoulders and toss my head to the side and throw my hands up. What does he want from me? He won’t budge. So I have to make a choice. I can see it’s no use standing here, staying here. I know I have to turn and walk the other way. It’s like hanging on to a book that has only a few pages left. You know what’s written there already. You read it. You’re done. There’s comfort in this old book, the one with the stories you know, the ones that make you wince when you dawdle too long. I told myself that I don’t want to let it go. It’s familiar.
Familiarity is a drug—we get hooked on it. It keeps us so. Familiarity is safe—the unknown is fearful, I fear it, the unknown. It’s why I stand there being mocked by him. It’s my choice.
And so I turn the other way, I take a step. My heart pounds a little more, a little faster. I walk, I slump, but I keep going. The grounds are shaky, unfamiliar. The memories begin to fade. What I know, who I knew began to fade. I’m sad. My vision blurry, I wipe the tears from my eyes. I can’t breathe. I stop. I force myself into a full breath. I take one breath, heaving it slowly.
I take another breath, I take the next step and the next one after that…
I’ve said all the words to myself. I forgive you and now I have to act like it—I have to live like it. It’s scary. It’s scary because it means that I have to own up to the lessons. I have to be better. I have to show up. Not just for me but for them, too.
You see, it’s easier to feel shitty, to discard self worth, to say my damage is fixed and so am I. But that’s a lie. The lie is attractive because it is easy. The work, the real work showing up healed because while the lies are fixed, healing is a practice. One that never stops—it’s hard and it yields the greatest reward on those who pursue it, who live it.
It’s a choice and a practice.