Six months. It has been six months. A part of me is in shock, the other part of me is proud, the other part of me says, “I want to look him in the eye, smile at him and celebrate over ‘just lunch’” but perhaps that is the part of me that enjoys fire play.
I used to say, “Talk to me in six months” and I sort of meant it but at the time I couldn’t imagine it. Sometimes I wonder if I could have gotten through the six months if it hadn’t been for other, equally or even more satisfying distractions (who happens to have a job possibility in Kansas which I am encouraging, loud and strongly.)
I want to explore on-my-own-ness, well, as much as I can in my situation, with children depending upon me and sometimes it feels like the world depending upon me.
So – here I am, talking about endings.
When Railroad Man got angry because I took my children on an adventure I had been waiting to have for years (a cross country road trip) his anger turned into skirt chasing. By the time I got back, he was in a different relationship and unwilling to admit it to me. So, our six months has been longer than six months, but add about two months of me trying to figure out if he would ever come clean and not being willing or ready to let go. You know how that goes, sometimes.
When I finally let go, I let go. We have talked on occasion, like on Christmas when he randomly called. He is a man who has a hard time closing chapters and because of his unique gifts and talents, many women bring him back for limited engagements and encores. I told him when it was over, it would be different with me. I think I have held to that claim quite well.
Lately I have thought similarly in a different situation: that an ending is in order. It feels, sometimes, like a helluva lot of responsibility which I don’t want to take on, energetically anyway. I asked him a question the other night, “If you suddenly had 25 million dollars, how would our relationship change, what would you do?” The hopeless romantic in me was waiting for a specific response which didn’t come. This is rare for me to have ONE specific desired response. I have to say, he surprised me. But he probably had no clue I was waiting for one specific thing.
Beginnings, on the other hand, are a piece of cake for me to fall into. I begin and begin and begin. It is the ending I am so bad at. Actually, when I look over my last endings, I wasn’t so awful once the coffin lid came down. It was like, OVER. Mark it OVER. I saw these friends again, intermittently, but never sparked anything again although in times of loneliness, I wanted to. Loneliness is such a barrier.
There are times I think my forties have been about things I missed in my teens, only from a somewhat wiser perspective. I didn’t date much in my teens, at least not. (That is weird, it is like 750 words burped. THEY got distracted. I was writing along about angst and heartbreak and two sided angst and heartbreak when they told me my words had up and left me.
Giggle. What a perfect use of the space, eh?
Endings. Endings. Endings.
I am not great at quitting jobs, either. I am not great at saying “I can’t” or “I didn’t” or “Just won’t right now…” isn’t that intriguing? It is to me, anyway.
43things helps me with some of this.
Theater helps me with some of this.
Theater helps me with endings because there are always timelines for show and time chugs along whether or not I agree to it or want it or think it should be different, time chugs. And I love people intensely while shows are going on and then, poof, our regular relationships end – just like that.
Some people I never see again and sometimes, our relationships are so different.
People say I am overly dramatic when I talk about this, but it is very true, ultra true actually. Finishing shows has taught me more about grief than you might ever imagine. Endings. Beginnings.
Audition – read through begin. Final curtain call, strike. The End.
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