yesterday, i was trying to find a happy memory of my childhood. that’s a difficult thing for me to do.
this morning, i was watching sunday’s episode of brothers and sisters. kevin and scotty were on a quest for the perfect surrogate. kevin was quick to dismiss one because she was a genius but socially inept. how easy it is to brush people like me aside. how hurtful.
all my life this happened. because i’m not capable of being easy, breezy, beautiful cover girl.
i don’t remember much of my childhood, except that i was miserable. i can’t give you many specifics of the frequent, merciless cruelty i faced everyday. but i can tell you that somewhere in my subconscious there’s a catolog…a thick book filled with glossy, colored photos and quick, well-coined descriptions of every slight.
it’s impossible to let go of something you can’t get your hands on. but when i tank, and i’m asking for death, it’s because my subconscious has reminded my conscious of the existence of that book.
not too long ago i began a practice that when i think let me die instead i say let me live. because i haven’t, really. i’ve been lots of places. i’ve seen lots of things. i’ve withstood a lot of mental and emotional onslaughts. but there’s never really been a spring in my step. i’ve never felt light or free. the kind of passion i’ve known has generally been associated with anger and rage. that’s not the kind of passion i want to know.
this morning, i made myself think that over and over. let me live. and suddenly, i thought let me love.