C'est la Vie (Such is Life)

I wish it was as easy as ipecac syrup; that I could vomit it up from me, if it's there at all. I wish there was some effective way to purge myself—three times at least—just to make sure. Just in case. I’ve read some symptoms of your parasitic phenomenon and I'm watching for them in myself, praying that none present. The possibility of you—the very thought—left me curled up tight, freezing under layers and layers; I couldn’t stay on my feet from the shaking like withdrawal from I don’t know what. They’re like bad medicine, those thoughts; a steady drip of dread administered intravenously, slowly building until the knots in my stomach tear me apart.


I pray for a purge
And I must concede
That I hope you are not,
Or that you cease to be.


There are worse things.
But oh dear God, please not for me.


The bright baubles of easy solution dangle before me but it burns to look. It burns that they are there at all. I am like an ant under a magnifying glass, writhing in the light of their implications.

I realize now that I’m not as grown up as I thought I was. And that I don’t want to be. But I need to be.


It was stupid stupid stupid and I should have learned my lesson the first time, but no, this is me we're talking about here. Everyone who knows me well knows that I learn best from my own mistakes, but I thought I never made the same mistake twice. Apparently, I do. And I just cannot go through this same cycle all over again.


So I fall, skinning my knees on the ground before my God; I am Judas in the guise of a twenty-year-old girl. Because not one hour after a prayer for forgiveness was reverently dedicated, I took advantage of His precious grace. But unlike Judas, I’m praying praying praying that He will spare me the consequences, and that I will be able to go on without some kind of noose tight around my throat.


There is so much change happening now--or about to happen--change I didn’t expect, and yet the other day it was still so cold when the weather is supposed to be getting warmer. The things that are supposed to be changing aren’t, while chunks of my world’s crust begin to shift again in bittersweet earthquakes beneath my feet.

Some things make my heart absolutely ache with how much I’ll miss them; the gaping cracks they’ll leave in my foundation.


Since I was born I stumbled clumsily after you, my stuffed tiger in my arms most of the way. We were lucky then, you and I: shouting gibberish from the swing set, chasing the dogs to get our shoes back and that time you taught me the difference between praying and accepting Jesus Christ into my heart when I was four.

How we got so bored by the lack of color after we sneaked downstairs to watch “grown-up” movies, hidden behind the couch where our parents sat. We went back upstairs instead, listening to our “Your Story Hour” cassette tapes and I slept on your floor that night because one of the stories scared me; the one where the man on the iceberg kills his dog.

When we had tea parties, we never had to fight over the last chocolate-chip scone because Mom would always make an even number, splitting them up so everything was “fair”. I would drown mine in chocolate syrup, and then feel so childish when you were satisfied with just a drizzle.

When you learned to play guitar, you played all my favorite songs and I’d sing along. I loved our duets, and I know you enjoyed them too but I think I loved them more. I would have sung with you every day. I would still sing with you, if we were now as we once were, when almost every night you’d sit on the foot of my bed and we’d talk into the wee hours.

You were always what I hoped I’d measure up to in some way; you were always who I wish I’d gotten to spend more quality time with.

I know you’ll be happy; after all, you’re right on the path I predicted over a year ago. I see where you’re going and it looks fulfilling for you, and I'm glad. The only problem there is the word “going”. “Going” is the opposite of “staying”, and frankly I’m not cool with that.


And then there's me, going instead of staying; there’s this place and all the people in it. I wish I’d known much earlier that I wouldn’t be coming back here. I wish I’d known a month ago, when there was still time to make sure little pieces of me were firmly planted in as many places as possible, and in as many people. I know they’ve taken root in me and I wish I’d gotten to spend so much more time with each of them. I’m paralyzed by the passage of time, and I don’t think I’m quite the hermit I used to be. At first I was glad but now I wish I hadn’t changed at all.


There are so many things I'll miss as these next couple of months pass. And "missing", to me, feels terribly similar to "regret".

I’m not sure how I’ll brave these alien horizons.


But…


C’est la vie.




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