McBeth.
I've been thinking about being in relationship with others: how and why we make the choices we do, how we deal (or don'€™t) with the consequences, what the next steps can be (which may or may not have any bearing on what actually happens).
I was on the floor of the lower-level room where my son tucks himself away for TV watching, computering, and other miscellaneous things mothers should not be required to keep close track of (this one doesn'€™t, at any rate). We were hanging out, watching a George Carlin video, laughing (possibly slightly more than gives positive indication of an overtly healthy mind). As we giggled and guffawed and high-fived Curious George, I poked around at the contents of items on the bottom of the bookshelf my father made for me in 1986, created after I was forcibly ejected from my parent'€™s home for the ultimate offense of loving a person deemed evil ~ sinful ~ un-loveworthy. I didn'€™t simply date him and love him, no. I continued to date and love him after my mother made her opinions and, in due time, her forbiddance frighteningly, screamingly clear. The cost of that decision - not to mention a few choices later on -€“ was energizing but ultimately fiercely destructive (for me, for him, for my sense of family) on a number of levels.
While gently using my hand as a dust bulldozer to shove layers of months-long inattentive housekeeping to the side, I uncovered an envelope mailed to me by that fellow I'™d dated back in the day. The envelope was postmarked 10 July 2000 and had affixed to it the ho-hum flag-and-a-building 33-cent postage stamp. Enclosed along with his letter was a page ripped from a J.C. Penney catalog. A lovely plus-sized blonde woman model in a periwinkle blue two-pieced outfit was slung comfortably upright in a white hammock, a pair of white slings to her left side. Her expression says "hey, I'€™m cute. Would you like to swing in my hammock with me?"€™; she'™s very appealing to me and a downright cutie. She's the gal who I'd imagine visits nursing homes on weekends, just because; who buys the extra groceries to place a few in the food pantry donation bin. On the picture he'€™d written '€˜Beth --->'™, assigning me to her characteristics. Funny ... we do sorta look the tiniest bit alike if you squint. Anyway.
The letter, written in loopy scrolling blue ballpoint pen read:
"€œDear Beth,
Hi. Ever think about going total blonde. You're much more beautiful than the JCP Modle, but you get the idea.
I understand you tried to contact me, and I'€™m puzzled as to why since you don'€™t want to be friends. Or is it from the bracelet you gave me? (I still have it), 'œThat'€™s what friends are for.'. I guess I just don'€™t understand.
You should see my new Apt. WOW! Its basicly sound proof; which I was not aware of till I went out in the hall; but it'™s a one bedroom loft Apt. with a sky light and cathedral ceiling; it has two floors since it'€™s a loft. And I love it.
Right now I'€™m still psychologicly ill and taking no calls, just writing, and I'€™m staying at my parents till I feel safe enough to go back to the Apt. without delusions. I'€™ve done some Art and a lot of Poetry since I last saw you. Its really a shame I'€™m not able to share it.
If I talk with you, will you once again burn the bridges of friendship? You hurt me, I don'™t know why -€“ If it was about the kiss, I just wanted to.
One time long ago, I asked you if I could kiss you and you said 'no, because I shouldn'™t have to be asked.' This time you kissed me, and I kissed the way I do. That'€™s it. Lisa is pregnut again. Her due date is Dec 25. And Laura will be 3, Jan 2.
Anyway I'€™d better close, take care and write me if you need to, but think about what I said.
Love Almost Always
M---"€œ
I can'€™t recall now if I responded to this letter when I ha€™d first received it. I know we talked, but I cannot recall the details of which conversation happened when. I also feel consecratedly, intensely grief-laden that I am not required to follow the basic rules of proper netiquette and common decency by asking him if I could have his permission to reprint his words here. And that is because he's dead. He was young, in his late 30s, and he'€™s fucking dead now.
I think of M--- a great deal, especially when I am struggling and want someone to just hug me, or when I'€™m insecure and want to be reached out to by another person. When I see super-excellent cloud shapes I think of him. His heart was so big, so hurtable, occasionally hittable, filled with anger and an unsteady mix of '€˜don'€™t push me'€™ and '˜please push me. Harder'€™.
I cut him off. Completely. I extricated myself from relationship with him long after we broke off our relationship, including the engagement I never had the opportunity to announce, save for meetings with the ring designer in Des Moines to create an unique wedding band from a bracelet of gold and diamonds I found several years prior. But that'€™s another story for another time, that bracelet. After our breakup turned to friendship and then friendship turned to an indefinable something else we danced back and forth around; I made clumsy attempts to reconnect with him at a level I could bear but it never seemed to be what he wanted from me: it never seemed to be enough. He wanted me back; he wanted our relationship back. He wanted me to accept his apologies. He wanted to make up. He wanted to not be crazy anymore. He wanted me, a loved person who understood the scariness of occasional mind-losing, to hold hands when he was frightened.
I cannot take staring into the puckered superficial face of decisions I made toward the end of his life. I believe it is an unwise move to live the next section(s) of my life in an unexamined happy lala-world state, but the guilt I continue to bear feels so soggy, so heavy. It's like tasting a mouth-watering dessert ... a little is so good ~ too much is sickening. Yeah, the examination process of my personal accountability and my continuing grief is a little like that.
Today I'€™m so sorry. I hope there is a spiritual part of him hovering close by because I'€™d like to think that by my whispering these admissions now he can find a way to forgive me. I'€™m not sure what I would say if he was still alive, but I'm certain it would be a hell of a lot more than I did back when I knew everything; before he offed himself, centuries before George Carlin help me forget for an afternoon.
2 comments:
So this is me, Hurleygurley, just having made Flickr contact, clicked on your blog suspecting something interesting - lo and behold something that cuts to the core.
Suicide. The saddest death, with kids and, as you say, a heart that probably loved too intensely (maybe part of why it was too hard to be friends with him, maybe just impossible because his love was too strong?)
I felt a lot of resonance with this story. I am close to so many people who were exiled from home for similar reasons, not all necessarily about choices of boy/girlfriends but misunderstanding their kids in some gross manner and not recognizing the consequences of exile from family. They cut you off, you cut off others etc...?
It's hard to say that I was exhiled but in fact I was. I just don't remember the event. I was only 2 and given up for adoption, nevertheless I have the same cut-off syndrome. I feel the guilt ofhaving cut-off/ignored so many people who have loved me for years, too overwhelmed by the responsibility of all this love (as my biological parents were overwhelmed by my small self). I would say that I love most of them too. Still do.
"Come, rest a while", god, now I feel like checking my old address books hoping everyone's still around because I keep saying I'll get in touch.
Thanks for the confession. I hope "M" is at peace.
BTW, my name is Elisabeth and when I was in 6th grade we did , believe it or not, MacBeth in school. I played Lady MacBeth! (It was too perfect for anyone to guess at the time.) I was hailed as a future star but being essentially introverted I stayed closer to the ground. However, it was a one of "those" events and stuck with me. I am always the one who sees the dark stuff no one else is inclined to notice, the shit underneath the smiles... one of the nicknames I bear with one of my groups of friends is Betty MacBeth!
So this is me, Hurleygurley, just having made Flickr contact, clicked on your blog suspecting something interesting - lo and behold something that cuts to the core.
Suicide. The saddest death, with kids and, as you say, a heart that probably loved too intensely (maybe part of why it was too hard to be friends with him, maybe just impossible because his love was too strong?)
I felt a lot of resonance with this story. I am close to so many people who were exiled from home for similar reasons, not all necessarily about choices of boy/girlfriends but misunderstanding their kids in some gross manner and not recognizing the consequences of exile from family. They cut you off, you cut off others etc...?
It's hard to say that I was exhiled but in fact I was. I just don't remember the event. I was only 2 and given up for adoption, nevertheless I have the same cut-off syndrome. I feel the guilt ofhaving cut-off/ignored so many people who have loved me for years, too overwhelmed by the responsibility of all this love (as my biological parents were overwhelmed by my small self). I would say that I love most of them too. Still do.
"Come, rest a while", god, now I feel like checking my old address books hoping everyone's still around because I keep saying I'll get in touch.
Thanks for the confession. I hope "M" is at peace.
BTW, my name is Elisabeth and when I was in 6th grade we did , believe it or not, MacBeth in school. I played Lady MacBeth! (It was too perfect for anyone to guess at the time.) I was hailed as a future star but being essentially introverted I stayed closer to the ground. However, it was a one of "those" events and stuck with me. I am always the one who sees the dark stuff no one else is inclined to notice, the shit underneath the smiles... one of the nicknames I bear with one of my groups of friends is Betty MacBeth!
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