If I pretend that it never happened, that I was never exposed to any of it, will it all just fall away? The thought that I could do that, that I could let go of what i have seen and experienced, would cause me to lose many of the lessons I have gained from my journey. I think that, when I was so far from home, I was overwhelmed with worthlessness and for so long I wanted to die; I had a death wish. I used to say, “that cement median looks so inviting.” I was a different person then. This road has brought me so far and without the journey I would be missing rather large understandings, epiphanies, and pieces that have created me into whom I am.
One time, as I watched him inhale the white powder off the CD case his nostril rimmed in poison [before the needles, before the fall], I pretended I was strong. I pretended I was unaffected. I pretended that my heart wasn’t racing and that the tears weren’t really falling. Even then, as I wiped them from my cheeks, he didn’t notice. He never recognized what he was doing; never saw it affected those who loved him. We drove that night, into the darkness and past the sparkling street lamps that lit the path we both were crawling down. And the powder became bits of pieces that preceded my thoughts, affecting me in ways I never expected; its not as if I even sniffed it myself. I began to act and think like an addict. I justified his actions and even worse I justified my own. Loving him, meant accepting him, and accepting him meant that I loved him even when he was so far out of my reach. By loving him, i was his human life raft; my job was to keep him from dying, from drowning beneath the weight of it. I was taking in water, I was gasping for air, and when he fell, he grabbed my hair and I tried to hold strong [holding on for far to long]. I wanted to tether him to myself, so that if he fell, if he completely slipped away, I could hold on for the both of us. I was spewing forth excuses. He has such a good heart. Lies that we allowed to float on the surface, covering up the reality that was like sediment at the bottom of the sea; an ocean full of lies and justifications.
Fairy tales and make believe never really lasts. Underneath everything is this vague poisonous green. You can see it in the whites of the eyes of those who live in these lies. Of those who move moment to moment, a weight of longing and worthlessness upon their back. It’s death; a death wish. If you never really let go, if you never really forgive, they haunt you. Their presence is always their.
I thought that love meant sacrificing. I thought love meant acceptance. I thought love was the embodiment of “I will always be here, always care, always support you in whatever you do…” I realize now, that is not love but in so many ways its cowardice. We fail to confront people because of our fear that they will flee our presance, that they will walk away and never return our gaze. If we tell them that we are worried or that maybe their habits have crossed the line to something more, we are scared that they will flippantly ignore us or turn on us. The truth is, that if you really love someone, if they truly inhabit a bit of your heart, you cannot afford to stay silent. It is impossible to love them without ever being completely honest. You cannot sit back and watch them fall, but love them anyways. That is not love. Its moronic to think that you can be an inactive participant in the love you hold for them: Love without action is dead.
Cinderella
The prince leans to the girl in scarlet heels,
Her green eyes slant, hair flaring in a fan
Of silver as the rondo slows; now reels
Begin on tilted violins to span
The whole revolving tall glass palace hall
Where guests slide gliding into light like wine;
Rose candles flicker on the lilac wall
Reflecting in a million flagons’ shine,
And glided couples all in whirling trance
Follow holiday revel begun long since,
Until near twelve the strange girl all at once
Guilt-stricken halts, pales, clings to the prince
As amid the hectic music and cocktail talk
She hears the caustic ticking of the clock.
- Sylvia Plath
