It wasn’t that I was mad at my mom and projecting it on you.
It was that I was mad at you, then I was mad at my mom. And then I went back to being mad at you.
Remember when we woke up? I was apparently speaking in monosyllables, despite our communication being via gchat. That was because I was feeling bad about you. I had texted your girl friend last night to try and be nice to her. She said she was at your house having pizza. Fuck. Talk about side whacked. It was insulting that a) I didn’t know about it b) wasn’t invited and c) wasn’t made a part of any of your friends’ plans with your parents.
That, and some other work things and a general lack of sunshine, left me feeling a bit wobbly.
Then, of course, my mom sold the company that I built and stood by for three years behind my back. You’ve never felt heart ache like hating an alive mother. There is nothing worse. Until, maybe, she dies while you still harbor that hatred and then are forced to live with regret for the rest of your years.
So anyway, to back up.
I was mad that I was un-included. No, it doesn’t feel good to have you respect my space. It feels good when you want me in yours. So don’t put that on me. If it’s the other way around, fine. If YOU wanted space and time and freedom, I could have granted that to you. But don’t misguidedly put a desire that you THINK I had on me, and then hold me accountable for it. It’s not mine. It’s not genuine.
Then, you text: “you are invited to join us.” The classic “you” vs. “us” that I was faced with two years ago. I am the forced outsider. I thought YOU + ME = US. No. Alas. You + your family and your interests and friends = us. Jean = Jean.
I’ve always been a trooper on a vessel of my own. I know these oceans.
But I was excited to be a part of an US vessel. To come up with ideas with you and your parents. To be included. To talk with them, without you having to be there. To go on hikes, go shopping for the house, go to the movies, go on beautiful mountain drives and learn the songs that we each like to sing. I wanted to pursue the library, scrub the floors, cook eggs, sizzle bacon. Maybe it’s a fantasy. Maybe this, that I write of, is only a lullaby I sing while sailing the vessel of my own. But it felt warm, and beautiful. Now it feels contrived. Like maybe I’m watching that from an outside window, and only longing to be included.
And, really. That’s fine too.
My heart is pained, my mind is bored. The snow is falling, and tracks hidden. Maybe it’s just the calling of a new season. Another ring in my trunk. Another line on my face. Another dislodged tear.