Anniversary July 19th

I saw your picture on the internet.

I looked you up, to see that you hadn't passed away.

I was surprised you let them write about you.

It's like a "Fuck you" in your own way

I'm angry.

The ending just happened. It came in the night and put walls around you, leaving the smallest crack where I could talk to you, me thinking we still had a chance. But then you sealed that off, too.

And you expected me to be okay with it. To not care that I was alone again, without my best friend, my universal love. You wanted me to go on and pretend like you had always been just a friend.

Just someone who shared the same humor.

To get out, you made me wrong, dangerous even. You made me your mother. Your evil mother.

I became the woman who was hurting you. Me and my vulnerabilities glaring in your face, your closed off heart, your own.

So, it was our destiny. The whole of it. The meeting and the now. The complete separation. We were each other's doorway to separate hallways.

Happy Anniversary, T.

Copyright by Rachel Drews, 2013. All rights reserved. Any excerpts reproduced from this article should include links to the original.

Found this from 2008

I am scared to death that I am not good at anything in particular, but okay at many insignificant things.  It breaks my heart if I think about it hard enough.  Which I avoid until I feel lonely and am supposed to figure out the thing that makes me forget I am lonely.  Can talking to people be a passion?  Do passions have to be lonely propositions?  My God, I am so embarrassed to be writing at all.  I am embarrassed to think I have anything at all that someone else would like to read.  I am embarrassed that I am not articulate enough.  The truth about my inferiority with working word puzzles will surface, and I will be exposed.  

I could start crying this very instant.  I am going to make writing my new boyfriend.  Maybe writing will become a long-term boyfriend.  Maybe I will marry my writing once and for all.  If I dedicated as much time to my writing as I did to my running, perhaps I wouldn’t be so insecure about it.  And although I talk a lot, I find that I have little imagination of what to say on paper that isn’t my incessant spinning of words in my head about myself.  And I cannot think that that might be interesting to another person.  Of course, I have been asked to start a podcast.  I keep saying I need to do that.  I keep thinking I will.

I could write about how to avoid doing tasks on lists.  I could talk about Dan.  Or can I?  I am just cleaning out my brain.  I am exporting all the irrelevant information that is blocking the ingenious ideas I have that everyone wants to read about.  What about the chocolate cravings?  I have been having one of those everyday since October.  Is it the Mars retrograde that is giving me this intense craving for chocolate?  I don’t know.  Maybe I am not the writing channel for God that I daydream of being.  The one where the story is already there, and I just need to sit down and let it flow forth.  

I can ramble, but who can’t?  Certainly, we hear enough of it.  I don’t know enough about the elections to talk politics.  I have to go to bed now.  I am too tired.  Maybe I can write in the morning.

Copyright by Rachel Drews, 2008. All rights reserved. Any excerpts reproduced from this article should include links to the original.