Sur le Pont

I used to be the girl on the bridge, or so I thought. Now I am just a girl trying to get back on my feet. I run errands, clean and organize, work, have fun. I am an independent woman. I think I have built a fairly decent life for myself, but I am also the one who feels the turmoil of being and loving and caring and shaping and evolving. I am aging. I can feel it. My soul has always been an old soul, but the face is also showing some signs of aging as well. The eyes look sad, the body feels tired, the skin looks yellowish, and my back weighs me down sometimes. As I talk, I shrink.

I am the girl who got lost in the supermarket once. I cried and refused to look at the face of the adolescent who held my hand and helped me find my mom. It was during a Christian Holiday, (Easter?) and the place was extremely crowded. I didn’t look at him because I was embarrassed and ashamed. I thought it had been my fault. How good I was at finding myself guilty (it must be the Catholic in me). And I can tell you this much, dear reader, I still am good at that. Actually, I am very good at that. And maybe, as a way to escape from my guilt complex, I've always read Jewish literature back home. I liked their sense of humor.

So, my mom died and it was my fault. My dad was (is he still?) unhappy and it’s my fault. The wrong guys approach me and it’s my fault. My marriage didn't work and it was all my fault. Someone is abusive or cuts in line in front of me and it’s my fault. My family has been struggling with some issues and it’s also my fault. Do I really have that much power?

I want to be the girl on the bridge again. I don’t long for the girl on the brink of war. I long for the girl who is inspired and finds beauty and meaning.

I have tons of (boring) work to do. I want to take a nap. And want to hold you. I went home this morning and last night and I missed some beautiful things we used to do. I stayed inside of my car for a few minutes thinking about my first Sunday without you and/or a milonga. I don’t like the fact that I got used to you or the pain you have caused me. I shouldn’t like bad attention.

I was listening to Amy Winehouse this morning. Her story did resonate within me. She said something like this: I should be my best friend, and not fuck myself in the head with stupid men. I concur, Amy.

I remember some of your last words: you’ll regret what you’re doing. You’re going to look back and see how well I have loved you and you’ll wish to get back to me. I wonder: really? No, I don’t think so. It’s best this way. It’s better to heal from you, Mr. Mega-Ego. If there's something I regret is just the fact that I didn't follow my instincts.

I am actually glad I killed a ghost last Sunday. I had a good time at home. It was a very productive evening. I declined an invitation from someone I have never expected to meet, I worked on myself, had visitors over. I read, made plans, I removed your pictures from my computer. I went to bed early because I wanted to. Life is good. It isn't perfect, but whose lives are perfect? Guess what, I tell myself: life will be better. This time, I am writing those goals down in my massive master calendar, which is seating beautifully on my desk in my sunroom. I don't want to forget any of my (not so) new goals.