I had a picnic outside in the grass today. I layed out an itchy grey wool blanket that smelled of the cedar chest I keep it in. I lay on my blanket and looked out at the abundance of life teaming in the grass. The shade was cool and I lay there with my memories.
A cigarette burned in my hand that day years ago, but the red smoking cherry was nothing next to the anger in my chest and the tears that clawed down my face.
I just wanted a happy marriage where my husband's love made him itch to touch me. I wanted to be beautiful to him, strong for him. I wanted a life of love and adventure. I wanted a life of wild sex and dances under the stars. I wanted 3 am wine and shared secrets under a blanket near a fire. I wanted someone who held me when I cried and laughed at me when I was silly. I wanted someone who would let me do the same. I wanted the other half of myself.
He took that from me.
No, that's not right, because we never had it. I thought we did, and I probably would have continued in my ignorance till death.
"I have an addiction to pornography." He told me. He was wrong. His addiction was not to porn, it was to himself. He was addicted to his own wants and desires. He wanted sex, he'd give it to himself. It didn't matter that I begged, bargained and pleaded for it. He wanted escape. He left me to my own devices while he threw himself into his games. He never took me with him. He wanted food. He would make it, and not care that I was hungry. He was addicted to himself.
And I felt betrayed. My knees against the steering wheel I stared out into the grass from the parking lot. A cool breeze came in from the open car windows pulling the smoke from its lazy swirls and lines into nothingness.
My cigarette was half done, and I felt the nicotine dancing in my blood, taking me away from my pain. I imagined that if I had wings I could fly away. My stomach felt heavy, by my back felt light and alive. Like wings were about to break from their hiding place under my skin. I took another drag and wiped away the tears. I imagined thick feathers and strong muscles exploding from my back in a spray of blood. The skin itched there as I dreamed of escape.
It's been years since I was in that parking lot overlooking that field. It's been years since I've seen my ex husband. Still, I worry about him. Does he eat right? Has he found love? Has he found a job he likes? Is he happy with his life? It kills me that I don't know these things.
I sit in the grass on my grey blanket now and I finally can admit to myself: I'm afraid. I'm afraid to trust people. Im afraid of letting myself be vulnerable. I'm afraid that people will not be there when I need them most.
A+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ writing!!!!
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