The Picnic Table

You and I sat together in the corner of the park under a tree at a picnic table. The weather was overcast, like me. My initial thought was, "I can't believe we're sitting together here like this." You grabbed hold of my left hand and placed it in yours. 

I wondered whether I'd missed the memo about us. Because there's an entire piece missing up to this point...of you and I sitting side by side at a picnic table.

I could feel the clamminess of our hands together. I imagined your hands dry and strong. But here, the essence of us dominated. There was no room for judgment or ego. I saw that you accepted me.

You yawned and then I wondered why you didn't look like you. Something about you was different. You told me you had to tell me something. I wondered whether it was about your family or the lunch plans that never transpired.

A woman came to the table. She was supposed to fill me in. We kept getting distracted by people, which bothered me. You finally mentioned having to go to Texas...for good. I wasn't sure how to respond because right before that you had said, "I have something to tell you but you're not going to like it."

I wish I didn't miss who I thought you were. 

I told you how it made me sad to see you go and then forced myself to tell you I was happy for you.

My Pen Is My Sword

There's something about suffering in silence. The more you endure, the more it becomes obvious that you don't need certain people in your life. They say that it's important to talk to someone. I think that's true, but only with those people who genuinely care about you. Anyone else? It all falls on deaf ears. I'm convinced no one cares. If I had accepted this one truth many years ago, I'd be so much better off now. 

Better off, how? I'd have less expectations now. Yet, it feels paradoxical, too. Because I don't want people - family, included, except for my mother - in my business. I didn't realize how private I really am. 

I also didn't realize how much people actually don't care and that includes, certain family members, too. It becomes crystal clear who accepts you - flaws and all. It's obvious who understands you. Blood is not always thicker than water. 

There are times when a rage fills me up that I convince myself my words can pierce and maim, that my mighty pen can wound. That no action in all the world can effect the outcome than my pen, my words, my word. Because my pen is my sword and some deserve to be deeply cut. Some deserve to bleed.

I thank them all - the inconsiderate, the petty, the fake, the superficial, the arrogant and the stupid. What did they say about blessings in disguise? About wolves in sheeps clothing? How good can come from bad? I always think the understanding is going to come to me like a punch in the face. It doesn't. 

It comes over time. It's a slow, persistent and consistent growth that turns out to look like resilience. One builds resilience over time. Despite all the chaos, despite the hurt, despite the feeling of invisibility, there's an inner strength that grows larger and wider. And it roots and anchors itself in what's true and real and always alive, that cannot be extinguished easily, if at all. So that it no longer matters that you feel unloved by those you thought 'should' love you. It no longer matters.

I let that realization sink, good and hard, until it resembles a faint pang from the past. Until nothing you do or don't do, can't hurt me anymore, at least, not in the same way. How can it hurt you, anyway? When you're no longer the person you used to be...