Letter I'll Never Send

J-,

I thought I was done. But here I am, writing to you after months. The thing is, I still can’t hate you. Don’t misunderstand, I hate how you treated me, how you felt you were entitled to hurting me because you’d had a bad day, you were tired or frustrated, you were on your period. I hate how you used what was modeled for you as an excuse as if you were not an adult and therefore, capable of making different decisions, healthier decisions, kinder decisions. “I am my father’s daughter,” was a favorite of yours even as you could see his behavior as hurtful and cruel. You, who so often were there to help your mother pick up the pieces of her broken heart, refused to see how you were inflicting the same pain on me. 

I thought about you the other day. I imagined what it might be like to run into you in town, how you would react if you saw me on the arm of a man. How you would take it as a personal attack that I don’t still call myself a lesbian. I imagined the hateful, angry conversations you would have with your parents, the barbs you would exchange, your father’s choice words. I wondered if he would think I’m a whore too, like he once said of his other former daughter in-law. As I imagined all of it, I was not hurt. I wasn’t even sad. I was amused. It was entertaining to watch three hurt and hurtful people talk about someone else who wasn’t in the room, who had no control over their happiness, as if their choice to remain unhappy and unhealed was somehow her fault. I might have pitied you before. I almost certainly would have felt badly that your life will never include a love that comes from a place of peace, that you will never know how wonderful it is to love someone fully, as your authentic self, and not be constantly afraid to lose them. You will never know a life of your own, without another person to give it meaning, or fill it. You will never know how wonderful it feels to be terrified to start a new chapter, and then do it anyway, and the joy that comes from knowing that it was worth it, even if it didn’t go the way you’d hoped. You’ll probably argue that you do know. You’ll say you were terrified. But, what new chapter did you start? It’s been nearly a year since you moved out, and we sold the condo. In that year, I’ve moved to my own apartment, fallen in love, gotten my heart shattered, and come back to my mom’s to reassess and recoup some financial losses. I’m sure you’ll see that last bit as an indication of failure on my part. To you, it will be proof that I couldn’t do it on my own. I’m sure you have more money than I do. But I have a life. And I wouldn’t trade it for every penny you’ve got saved up. What a pity to have a sturdy and stable safety net, and be too scared to test it. So you’ll stay where you are, choosing misery over contentment because it is familiar. You’ll choose routine because it isn’t scary, it doesn’t challenge you. It doesn’t make you admit all the places you need to be stronger. It allows you to stay deaf and blind to your own inadequacies. 

I would pity you. I would hate you.

But it’s more energy than I want to spend. 

You’ll see all of this as hateful rhetoric, aimed specifically at your heart. You’ll see all of this as an angry missive that I wrote only to hurt you. Because you aren’t capable of imagining someone speaking from a place of peace. You can’t fathom someone speaking truth kindly. It isn’t the speaker who hurts you. It’s the truth you can’t stand. 

I hadn’t intended to write any of this. Again, I thought I was done. I thought that my need to be heard had been satisfied, that I had moved past my want to tell you the impact you made, as if it would change anything. As if I could somehow make you see yourself as anything other than the victim. But then, as it often does, the universe stepped in. A video popped up and suddenly, there were all the words I wanted to say. None of them angry or cruel. None of them biting. Just honest and real. I transcribed it because sometimes editing isn’t necessary. Sometimes, the universe gives you actually the right words, and all I had to do was write them down. 

“You made me feel like I needed to be a better person, but I was the better person. I still am the better person. And I don’t know what kind of person you are now, but I hope you’ve become a better person than you were. Good people don’t make good people feel like bad people. They don’t convince kind people they’re unkind, and compassionate people that they lack empathy. Good people don’t take advantage of good people, or anyone for that matter. You turned my trust in naivety. You made a strong person weak, and you did it all with your words. So, now it’s my turn to do it with mine.

I’m a good person, and good people don’t make other people feel bad about themselves. So, I’ll leave the words I want to use to describe you out of this and tell you the truth about who I actually am instead of letting us both believe I’m the person you think you reduced me to. I am headstrong and willfully self-assured. I’m fiercely loyal, but you know that already. I am smart, and kind, and a good person. Of the two of us, I’m the bigger person. The stronger person. The freer person. The better person.

I am a better person than you.”

Regards,

P-

Box Cutter

I took my memories of marriage

put them in a box,

labeled it trauma

and thought that was the end of it.

I boxed up

the scars of a life unloved,

the nights alone in bed,

grateful for the solitude. 

I boxed up

rage at spilled coffee on beige carpets,

judgement of mismanagement of her needs

dismissal of my own.

I boxed up 

years of broken promises,

yeses and of courses meant to placate,

and the hollow in my chest when I recognized them as such.

Versions of myself I'd thought I'd drowned

in an ocean of my own making

are stayed in the corner, drip-drying,

squeezing endless waves of salt water tears from their hair. 

And they are pissed. 

We are pissed. 

I chose compassion.

I chose kindness.

I chose to be relieved that I'd survived. 

Now I am furious that I had to. 

I took a box,

marked it abuse

and placed my marriage inside it.

I covered it in the adventure of a new person,

the softness of his skin,

the warmth of his touch,

the ripple of his laughter.

And then, 

just as delicately as ever,

he held me and said

"The box is still there. And I can't stay any longer."

And now all that is left

sits untouched,

uncategorized,

unprocessed,

waiting for me to tear into it,

gut it,

and when it neatly rearranged, light the fucker on fire.

I took my marriage,

put it in a box,

called it what it was,

and buried it. 

And now I can see

because I've seen what kindness is, 

and I refuse to accept less any longer

I buried the wrong shit.

never to be seen

i am writing.

more and more.

the parts of me 

i put to sleep years ago

for survival 

are slowly waiting up.

they are aching 

and angry

and bitter 

and so happy. 

so they poke me me

pen-swords at the ready

dare me to turn their rantings-

wordless, musical,

primal scream-dances

into a poem.

so i write. 

and i publish.

but some, i keep hidden away

for fear they will further separate me

from that which i desire 

and deserve.

and they stay there ...

Scene from divorced life

"I am so tired of hearing about your assault."

"Do me a favor and get a job while I'm at work today."

"Why don't you ever think?"

These are the moments that my mind plays on repeat

on evenings when I am desperate for sleep,

afternoons when I am in someone else's arms,

mornings when I am just waking up.

The anger that you smeared over everything

doesn't scrub away,

despite my best efforts.

And I am left with a soggy,

stained bitterness,

as my only means to clear away 

over a decade's worth

of dust and neglect.

I am hopeful that bitterness will eventually evaporate

and not leave a greasy, cloudy film

on this life I am earning.

So far, it seems to be.

But every so often,

there is a splinter in the wood,

and my dust rag catches

pulls up larger pieces of debris

and I have to stop

fish the sliver out with a needle

and tend to another wound.

This is arduous.

Greif.

Mourning.

Not the marriage

but the misery. 

I wish I could hate you.

But that was always more your style.

Sting

the sun rose this morning
turned the blue shadows to lilac
and painted the winter as spring
for a moment
before we all felt the cold again
no longer able to trick ourselves warm.

We grew toward the rising sun
pointed our faces skyward
waiting for what it would give us
wondering how long we had
before it would be dark again.

Mid-morning sun

It's so hard,

the beginning,

where everything and nothing feels real

and my mouth struggles 

to hold in the words I am terrified to say

because how can I know I mean them

If I've never known what they mean?

It's too soon to understand it all, sweetheart.

Trust the little you know. 

Sooner or Later

I sometimes wonder
if the things I know
will ever prove useful outside the trivia game inside my head
if knowing how many brothers you have
will somehow be viable information
and if imagining a bond between us
one that ties us together
will ever be anything other than
something I keep hanging myself with.

I wonder if there will ever be a reason
for you to look at me
that way I wish someone would
that you could
because you're kind
and gentle
and all the things I need.

I wonder if there will ever be a time
when our paths not crossing
won't irk me
if I will ever give up
the imagined brunches
shared laughs
ragged nerves made smooth
by your quiet compassion.

I wonder if you will ever read the letter
the one I sent the only way I could
when the world stopped
and your city
that was once my city
our city
went into hibernation
and we wondered
separately
if we wold both be around
to see it wake up.

I wonder a lot of things
on days like today
when I am safe at home
and the air is gray
and cold.

I wonder how you are.
I hope you are well.

Those 15 months in acting school

I miss coffee bought off a truck from a man who never isn't smiling.
I miss sunrise on W 70th street.
I miss sunset in Washington Square Park.
I miss my city,
even when I'm there because my old neighborhood was 20 reinventions ago.
I miss my home.

I miss walking from class to home, 

the quarter of a studio apartment I shared, 

with a communal shower, kitchen, lounge, 

the cafe across the street with the classical pianist, 

and kind waiter, 

warm light, 

and soft chairs. 

I miss the water of the pond in Lincoln Center, 

outside the Vivian Beaumont, 

and the library. 

I miss the security that the plaza allowed me. 

I miss how the rest of the city faded into background noise, 

and it was just me on a bench, 

resting in the memory of the first time I traveled into the city without a chaperone, 

and saw the play that changed my life, 

the first of two, 

both dance shows. 

I miss floating back onto Broadway and 66th street, 

watching television stars, 

movie stars, 

Broadway stars walk past, 

and genuinely not caring about any of them because they were just people, 

except that one, 

and no, 

it isn't who you think.

I miss the fleeting feeling that I knew who I was.

I miss the dreams of the someday brownstone, 

next to the perfect hole in the wall restaurant, 

and the expertly curated shop of always perfect gifts to bring back on long weekends, 

both permanently shuttered.

I miss Variety and Backstage, 

and the Candle Bar. 

I miss the cafe on the corner, 

and the bakery down the street. 

I miss how the air smelled when it rained in August, 

and how that was enough to make me forget that I was unhappy.

I miss the laughter. 

I miss the hollow in my stomach, 

the arch of my arm in ballet, 

the self assuredness in my voice when I sang. 

I miss the view from the second floor, 

the way the arched windows with multiple panes,

always dirty,

reminded me that I was just one person in a line that stretched back decades. 

I miss the promise I made myself. 

I miss thinking I was unstoppable.

I miss my city.

I was alive there.

What women do

My mother called off her engagement
in 1967,
I think.
I have no idea why
but I can guess.
She didn't love him
more than herself
did not want a life with him
more than a life of her own.
Maybe she could tell
that a marriage
to my father
would be years of disrespect,
and that wasn't the kind of mutuality she was looking for.

Again, conjecture.

I never even knew that she did it
until my father announced
he had asked for a divorce
and my sister and I breathed
for the first time in our lives.

That's when I was speaking to him.

Before he asked his forner brother-in-law
to help get the union annulled
in the church
so he could marry again
make his children bastards.

Not that any of us
kept in the tradition
of Catholicism.
Not that he ever married again.
Not that he ever saw the annullment through.

Before I came out
and he panicked
that his youngest
was buying a white dress
well, ivory.

Before I called him out
and called for help
and then stopped calling.

But this isn't about me
or him.
It's about my mother
and her mother.
"This is why we send you to college."

And then it was 1968

My therapist says ...

My therapist says I am sick
In the kindest, gentlest way I have heard it
Her words do not bite
They do not scratch
She says I am sick
And I am healed.

My therapist says she does not know
How I got like this
Says she can't determine
Which piece is pulling the strings
And which is just tied up in all of it.

My therapist says I am safe
And I want to scream
I want to scream because that safety
Is lovely
But does not follow me to the car.

My therapist says I am on the fast track
And widens her eyes when I tell her
I feel stagnant.
Maybe she does not know
I have been waiting for someone
To help me unpack this box of trauma
For decades
And it is heavy.

My therapist calls me my dear
Organically
And it sounds foreign to me
A pet name I have not earned
And I have it etched into my skin
So that one day it may be mine.

My therapist says to have patience
My therapist says to honor myself
My therapist says to focus, ground myself.

My therapist says I am sick.
And it is the kindest thing I have ever heard.