I agreed to the session because, well, I had no other plans
for the ‘day after you find out your husband’s been cheating on you for 3 years’.
Mr. Fell, the counselor, informed me that I’d been an “enabler”
“Take the rope off your waist, Scarlet. Let him climb back up himself” he said. And I agreed because it felt right, as agreeing often does.
And then we sat there. And little ice cubes stacked themselves between us, and the sun made its decent below the distant pines, and I said “nothankyou” to tea but I wanted to say, “fuck you” to Dan. I wanted to highlight, edit, delete myself out of this scene and fast forward to happy lawns and white fences and hammocks with strong arms around me that I could trust.
Can’t this be a dress rehearsal? On second thought, I think Ill play the little girl who doesn't grow up. The one who eats men like Pez and drives fast, always. The one whose eyes speak lifetimes but only give so much. Because I wont really go there. I wont really get in all the way but ill float beautifully on the surface like oil and ill shimmer so bright you wont ask me to go any deeper.
I know girls like this, and I hear the breeze in their voices. Lately mine has felt like burnt popcorn kernels, the ones left behind and just burn, don't pop. I feel stuck to my own pan and I don't want to scrape myself off. A part of me thinks, just throw it in the trash. It’s not worth salvaging, and then I remember I’m 4 signs in Scorpio, I feel emotions in one speed: tidal wave against small fishing village. And I need to breathe. It takes 12 deep breaths to reprogram your energy field they say. Well, 12 deep breaths takes me about 10 minutes and ill be damned if life hasn't changed at least a smidge in that fraction of time. So time is the common denominator? And still simultaneously doesn't exactly exist along with the rest of this reality?
I digress, I always do. Or is it more diverge? Because one thought cascades into a thousand others and I just sniff my way through, whichever has the most interesting fragrance finds my undivided attention, moment to moment.
We’re just human. I know this. And I don't blame him for the women, I blame him for the betrayal of not giving me an honest choice along the way. And still, I cant say what I would have done, because it never was so.
So all there is this. This red couch, this man who I used to build my life around, Mr. Fell and the striations of everything I thought I wanted that overlay the caves of everything I have yet to uncover.
Is there ever anything but this? All the things we “know” stitched into the fabric of the unknown. We’re equipped with a needle and left to unstitch ourselves from this fabric that is also ourselves. We’re set up to fail, balance, fail and balance again. And somehow through this become the string and the canvas, become the needlepoint itself.