Winter.
I remember a time when winter brought out a desolate sadness that I held deep within me. I remember those days so clearly.
Alone, sprawled on my back across the king-sized bed in my condo (shared with my then-husband), my knees hanging off the side, smoking a cigarette I bummed with the ashtray carefully balanced under my ribcage. I never smoked in that residence (I by no means considered it a "home") before that very moment. Sure, maybe on the balcony when I was so intoxicated that the stars seemed to transcribe secret messages--just for me--across the sky, but even then...never inside our cold, "cozy" domain. I had been prescribed a rather strong painkiller for these pounding, endless headaches, and one of the best side effects was the ability the pills gave me to just...be. Cloudy and clear all at once. In disarray and yet utterly complete, the perfect dichotomy.
And I was. I was lightness and darkness. I don't remember the song spinning at that very moment but I do remember I wore beat up, thick-soled, high heels--the ankle strap kind--and one was dangling off my foot in a rather careless fashion. Improper shoes for a snowfall, but that was my usual modus operandi, I suppose.
As I remained almost motionless in the drowsy space between reality and unconsciousness, I remember feeling the beat of my heart as it coursed blood through my body. I was young then, with no sense of mortality. I could do anything, go anywhere, be anyone. The saint and the sinner in one package. The lover, the fighter. A little girl and an (almost kinda sorta) woman.
I suppose, in retrospect, I lived rather selfishly. I was always one for "living in the moment". I never subscribed to the notion of regret. Impulse control began to seem rather aimless, boring, a shiftless shape, and I once I realized I could control (the lack of my) control, I lived selfishly.
That's not to say I wasn't wounded along the way by others, by myself. I was, of course. Impulse control or lack thereof not withstanding, I was weathered, beaten down, exhausted. At that very moment...I felt as though my steady breathing was the only thing able to lift the weight off me, from me. In that quiet, I became myself again--if only for a moment. My fingers and toes were freezing, but I was living the life--if only mentally--that I thought I would've lived at that very moment. I was the person I thought I would've become. Calculated, controlled. Elegant. Graceful and gracious and brimming with goodness and light.
In real time, however...I knew I was none of those things. I was a train wreck in a semi-neatly wrapped package. If you could get past the smeared mascara, the knots in my hair, the run in my nylons, and the bitten-down-to-a-quick nails, maybe I could play the part. I had confident eyes and a winning smile. But I had no sense of self because at that time, I didn't need it. I was the victim. I was the perpetrator. I was Joan of Arc and Mary Magdalene. I was anything and everything. And sometimes, I was nothing, too.
Once you live "freely" (and I use that term loosely), transitioning to a life of constraint (even self-chosen and strongly desired constraint) is a strange adjustment. When I found out there was a budding life within my body, I become wildly protective of myself, of this little creature within me. I built a few walls; I tore others down. I became so very aware that nothing is forever. That I was not and am not forever. That my days of selfish living were heading on their way to falling into my past.
Still, at that very moment, as the cigarette burned down to where I could uncomfortably feel the heat on my fingertips, I was immortal and destroyed and imperfect and hopelessly hopeful. I ground the very last of said cigarette into the ashtray and stood up, brushing myself off. I needed lipstick, and my winter coat. I was getting up, I was going out, I was going on.
Alone, sprawled on my back across the king-sized bed in my condo (shared with my then-husband), my knees hanging off the side, smoking a cigarette I bummed with the ashtray carefully balanced under my ribcage. I never smoked in that residence (I by no means considered it a "home") before that very moment. Sure, maybe on the balcony when I was so intoxicated that the stars seemed to transcribe secret messages--just for me--across the sky, but even then...never inside our cold, "cozy" domain. I had been prescribed a rather strong painkiller for these pounding, endless headaches, and one of the best side effects was the ability the pills gave me to just...be. Cloudy and clear all at once. In disarray and yet utterly complete, the perfect dichotomy.
And I was. I was lightness and darkness. I don't remember the song spinning at that very moment but I do remember I wore beat up, thick-soled, high heels--the ankle strap kind--and one was dangling off my foot in a rather careless fashion. Improper shoes for a snowfall, but that was my usual modus operandi, I suppose.
As I remained almost motionless in the drowsy space between reality and unconsciousness, I remember feeling the beat of my heart as it coursed blood through my body. I was young then, with no sense of mortality. I could do anything, go anywhere, be anyone. The saint and the sinner in one package. The lover, the fighter. A little girl and an (almost kinda sorta) woman.
I suppose, in retrospect, I lived rather selfishly. I was always one for "living in the moment". I never subscribed to the notion of regret. Impulse control began to seem rather aimless, boring, a shiftless shape, and I once I realized I could control (the lack of my) control, I lived selfishly.
That's not to say I wasn't wounded along the way by others, by myself. I was, of course. Impulse control or lack thereof not withstanding, I was weathered, beaten down, exhausted. At that very moment...I felt as though my steady breathing was the only thing able to lift the weight off me, from me. In that quiet, I became myself again--if only for a moment. My fingers and toes were freezing, but I was living the life--if only mentally--that I thought I would've lived at that very moment. I was the person I thought I would've become. Calculated, controlled. Elegant. Graceful and gracious and brimming with goodness and light.
In real time, however...I knew I was none of those things. I was a train wreck in a semi-neatly wrapped package. If you could get past the smeared mascara, the knots in my hair, the run in my nylons, and the bitten-down-to-a-quick nails, maybe I could play the part. I had confident eyes and a winning smile. But I had no sense of self because at that time, I didn't need it. I was the victim. I was the perpetrator. I was Joan of Arc and Mary Magdalene. I was anything and everything. And sometimes, I was nothing, too.
Once you live "freely" (and I use that term loosely), transitioning to a life of constraint (even self-chosen and strongly desired constraint) is a strange adjustment. When I found out there was a budding life within my body, I become wildly protective of myself, of this little creature within me. I built a few walls; I tore others down. I became so very aware that nothing is forever. That I was not and am not forever. That my days of selfish living were heading on their way to falling into my past.
Still, at that very moment, as the cigarette burned down to where I could uncomfortably feel the heat on my fingertips, I was immortal and destroyed and imperfect and hopelessly hopeful. I ground the very last of said cigarette into the ashtray and stood up, brushing myself off. I needed lipstick, and my winter coat. I was getting up, I was going out, I was going on.
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