Last night I stayed up far too late in order to finish a book. It wasn’t because I liked the book; in fact, I felt it was twice as long as it needed to be. No, I wanted resolution. An ending.
Don’t we all want resolution? It keeps me up at night. (well duh)
I found pieces of myself in the flawed characters of the book. The girl who was raped and couldn’t bare to be touched; or if she was, completely disconnected from her body (no, I was never raped); the alcoholic mom (I’m not a mom) who struggled to face her truth. I’m struggling with the possibility of this truth. The kids stuck in the middle. The friend who’s been through it all and just wants to help. I spent the book just wanting to yell at the characters to figure it the hell out. Say it out loud. Face it. Own it. Strangely, I’m quite good at owning and facing my flaws. I was each one of those characters. It could be why I didn’t like the book but will remember it.
I believe in some ways I’ve been grieving. Sounds odd, but it’s true. I’ve also used things to mask reality and cope with the truths I did not want to face about myself, my life, and everything that I cannot control. I stripped myself of some of these masks.
I think people who move a lot as children share a common trait. We all have an itch and an intense need to ponder “where next?” This restlessness keeps us on edge; always waiting for the end; always waiting for the next time we have to adapt. We wait for people to stop caring and have an ability to close part of ourselves off and walk away. It’s not because we don’t truly care; it’s because we have to protect ourselves somehow.
We are who we are. We live our choices. We must accept our truths but must not limit ourselves by them.
well that was sort of disjointed rambling