My heart has not healed in the slightest. Nor has my confidence, or
sense of being a worthy woman in my own right, been restored. It goes
like this: I came across John's participation in a Law, Culture and
Humanities conference that has many noteworthy scholars in it. Some, I
would like to hear. So too, there are old "friends" from 20 years ago
who, however, are now John's fans and do not talk to me. I cannot go.
I cannot go because I am acutely aware that I have no true distance or
sanity when it comes to him.
I am full to the brim of a toxic mixture of anger at being used to get
into the academy, of resentment at what has befallen me, longing for
his touch, missing his turn of phrase and often astute insights and
absolutely insane wry humor, and feeling small and bug-like. Taken
altogether -- I'd still physically attack him. Yes, yes, I know most
women would not do this. But I am what I am.
So, I don't go. Now if I do not come across things like this, and let
myself "fall" into the present, I am miles ahead of 7 years ago.
Students from last semester have been coming by to say hi indicating
how much they learned from my class. My daughter is proud as punch
that Mama is a teacher (at least this year). The dissertation went
well. And damn, I am doing a conference in April and May, both of
which he will not be at. These things taken together help.
They help to restore the structural integrity of my persona that
doctors say was so blasted apart by John. (There really was no one home
in me for a couple of years -no Rosena there). And it helps to feel
not bug-like. And hopeful. And to keep going and try the next thing.
But it scares, disappoints, and shames me that the hurt and toxic
effects are still so strong, so so strong. I get a wiff of him and I go
nuts inside. My stomach knots, I begin to shake inside with despair,
hot soup goes through my veins, and my eyes feel as if they bleed.
Eight years!! It has been eight years this month.
Do I just keep struggling to heal? To overcome it? Or am I suppose to
go and put a bullet in his brain? Is this meant -- by the gods or the
fates -- to end in a final act of frenzied tragedy like Hamlet?? Or is
this the right thing, to just keep trying to write, publish, find work,
mother my sweet sweet girl, and accept the slow slow pace, the
infintely small gains achieved??
It angers me that he is on this earth capable of laughing. The idea of
his laughing makes my blood boil. I let him take everything!! Damn
me.
Rosena
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