It’s Good To Be The Queen
I am exhausted. It’s four in the morning. I peel off my skinny jeans and climb between the crisp white sheets of the Motel 6 bed still cool from the night. I finally get to let my head sink into the security of the pillow that smells faintly of bleach. Next to me my 18mo old is snoring, also exhausted by the night’s activities. I turn out the light.
As my eyes start to adjust to the dim light escaping from under the bathroom door, the faint silhouettes of what is left of my life emerge from the darkness. There is a well-defined box with lumps of clothing at the top. Circular cut-outs and rounded edges mark my filing box. Bulky cubes and rectangles lying awkwardly indicate my dismantled computer. If I squint I can make out two thick loops which are the straps to the backpack containing my son’s clothing. That’s it. My life’s journey of thirty-six years. I close my eyes too tired to cry.
That was a year ago today.
Life after death. I am a testament that it exists. I have found healthy soil rich with nutrients to take firm root in. I am rooted. There are moments I am a vulnerable sapling, but most of the time I am an established oak ready to take on the challenges of time. I have acquired new purpose from my past life experience. It works seamlessly with the goals I brought with me. This added purpose gives those previous goals complexity that will be a great joy to experience and explore.
Today is my anniversary or, in a manner of perspective, a birthday.
How do I feel? What do I think? Both are mixed, feeling and thought. It creates a limbo this year, being the first year. I think and feel I am still letting go of the sad woman who had had so much hope for a future that would never be realized. I wish that it were physically possible to walk into that hotel room and hug her and hold her. If I could, I would tell her that she fought for what she believed in with all of her heart and that was something she could be proud of.
I would tell her many things as I let her soak my shoulder with the pain of having lost the war. I would tell her that it was a war that could not be won because the prize for which the war was fought over never existed. It was an illusion. This would cause her to pinch her eyebrows in confusion. This woman from a year ago was certain the prize of sharing a balanced and adventurous journey of life, with the father of her youngest son, was attainable. All she had to do was prove to him he could trust her. I would smile a knowing smile at her and explain to her that the war she had been fighting for six years was as fabricated as the prize being fought for.
I would explain that she was his prize. That was his goal. Nothing more. Nothing less. His goal was simply to take her has his own and loot her for all that she was worth. The trick was to get her to willingly go along with it. So he conjured a dream for her to fight for.
I would tell her not to cry over a lost war. She did not lose. Cry for joy sweet woman for you have won. You stormed the castle, fought your way into the depths of its labyrinth and took back what he stole from you; your life. Now, it is yours to do with whatever you like. Guard it well.
Happy Anniversary Shannon!