skin-diving

My Mama met my Daddy in a coffee shop. Her work. Fargo. Nineteen-seventy something. I wish I knew if it was snowing. That was not a detail she remembered. She just remembered his smile and cock-eyed confidence. He came up to her because she was sad.

Somehow, that small conversation convinced her to leave her husband with no warning. She hopped a bus and vanished from that life she led in that small town, with that man who threw her desperately sick baby against a wall. She left her parents and her home and his grave. She left it for some hope of a life with a stranger who did things no one she knew was brave enough to do.

He kept his promise and joined her here in Denver. They left and did crazy things good girls from North Dakota didn’t do. And she found her voice in his mirage. And she got lost in him and his world until she became too much like him and then he pulled her out before she could drown. And, for once, they stayed.

Here.

And that’s when I came. And that’s the day she started believing in miracles again.

I want to believe in miracles. I cut my teeth on them and carried the promise of the miracle of me around my neck like a cross. I hung my heart on it, even as he ballooned into a yellow monster—sorta like those balloon animals clowns fashioned at birthday parties I was never invited to. I watched him float away, and I held onto what was left of the hope he’d get better and wrapped it in his fingers before they closed the casket shut that day in mid-December.

I want to believe in something because I don’t know how to believe in nothing. But, more than anything, I want to believe in love. I want to believe that there is someone who would—could—devastate me the way he did her. Who would pull me up when he knew I couldn’t do it myself.

But in all honesty, I don’t want that. I have had my fair share of tragedy. Each time the head kick came, I absorbed it and let it blow me up into someone who could withstand grenades. All my life. I sought it out, too—finding one tragic character after another to steal moments with—so I wouldn’t feel so damn broken. So, I could forget who I was and get lost in them.

I am tired of being sad, and I am tired of being alone. Well, not so much being alone as feeling alone.

Today was a day to remember things. Maybe it was because I was knee deep in paperwork—a tedious, mindless chore that allows the mind to wander. Up until this morning, I had been feeling really good. My last relationship ended a little bit ago, and I was not at all sad about it. I didn’t have the same dread I’ve had for Valentine’s Days of the past. For the first time in my life, I actually like being single. I’ve made my peace with it and have decided it’s the place I need to be. I think I was a little contemplative, though, because I ended a friendship with my ex yesterday. I didn’t act in the best way. I allowed myself to get triggered, and instead of talking, we emailed. Instead of arguing further, I let my temper flare—and I told him I no longer wanted him in my life. It was direct and sudden. I felt it was necessary, though—and I’m actually proud of the fact that I communicated it directly and didn’t negotiate. In the past, exes would hurt me and–instead of telling them enough was enough—I’d just stop. No communication whatsoever. I don’t know that I felt like I owed it to him this time so much as I felt like I owed it to me. The thing about being an alcoholic’s daughter? You get very good at doing exactly what people have always done to you.

I don’t know that I felt bad about it today or not. I made a lot of mistakes with that relationship—namely, getting in it to begin with. That hope I have that things will be how I want them to be–well, it’s sometimes a painful thing. You think–because you’re not involved with your typical cocky asshole–that you’ll suddenly find it. Swap that for “nice” and “stable.” For a while, it’s okay. You genuinely like the person. Your feelings are real. You try. But then, you find yourself trying too hard. Then, you start noticing the self-deprecation is more about self-hate than humor. You notice he never asks you about anything that could sting. You notice that you laugh a lot, but you never really go into that deep end. And you notice all the small things that make you different–the things that bug you when you’re wondering if you could make a life with this someone.

I’m thirty-three. I think about these things. About marriage and children. Because I want these things, and I’ve spent a lifetime with people who didn’t know what they wanted. It took me so long to know, but now I do—and there are no compromises. You see how crazy he is. You see how hard small intimacies are, and you wonder if you could ever really just be yourself here. And you know it’s a resounding no.

The truth is that I love to laugh, but I’m at home with crying. I can’t stand avoiding anything. I want to talk about her. I want to talk about him. I want you to rip open my heart and take a piece of me with you. I want messy as Hell, and when you leave—I want to be beside myself. I don’t want to feel like I broke up with my hairdresser. Oh, well.

God, no.

That’s why I left it. But that’s not what I said. I said the nice thing that I thought wouldn’t hurt so much. Eased into it. Used sticks to push him farther away, inch by inch, and hated him more for it every single day. Edited myself and censored myself and felt myself choking and loathed all of it.

I was not brave. And that sucks. Because, Goddamn it. I’m better than that. Brave. So damn brave. Isn’t that what everyone says?

Where did the girl I was go? Where did that girl who ran to his door–knocked and yelled–fought for us–fought for me? Where did she go?

I haven’t felt taken by anyone in a long time. I don’t stop and notice people so much anymore. I don’t crush after people. I don’t pursue.

Except for me. I am taken by me. I notice me. I am in love with me. I am pursuing myself. And, for the first time, I wouldn’t want to be anyone else. Not even for a minute. I like this person—even when she isn’t brave.