...

To the faithful readers.

This one took a while.

To the rest...meh.

I should be writing something else, because this one has had a hard time coming out.

I shouldn't keep coming back to it.  Deleting it, rewriting.  Trying again.  This may be the one that I don't know how to write yet.  The one that I don't really have the words for yet.  This may be the deal breaker as a writer.  The one where I have to prove my worth to my worst critic, myself.

Fuck it.

Let's take another shot at it.

The card came from my ex-grandmother-in-law.  Trust me that is more awkward to say out

 loud than it is to write out.  It isn't the kind of person that you expect a card from after a divorce.  She was nice enough.  And I know how to be a good boy around the relatives.  They never saw me drunk, or angry, or in a state.  I hid myself from them.  I hid myself from a lot of people, for a very long time.  I thought that would serve me best.  To be chameleon.  To be hidden.  To be nothing besides a yes man for someone else.  To not think, to not live.  To just sit.

I'll come back to that.

Put that on hold.

Back to the card.

The card read, "I know you had a hard year.  Here is hoping 2009 has something better in store for you."  Then some stuff about Jesus.  The kind that you write because you know the person is a "believer," if only she knew how deep that went for me.  I don't need the trite shit.  I have the real stuff right in front of me all the time.  The grace, the love the hope.  It is all right there, no greeting card message needed.  But I appreciate the thought.  That isn't what got me.

It is the hard year line.

I wonder if she knows what that means to me.

The divorce, the splitting with J., the arguing, all the stuff that should have been the hard stuff, that wasn't it.

It was the month.  On a couch.  Without my oldest.  Waiting for my life to stop being a fucking bed spin.  There was no putting my foot on the floor to stop it.  There was no sobering up, because for once it wasn't the drink that put me there.  It was the loss of control.  It was the one time I let "him" get the better of me.  The one time in over a decade that I lashed out and truly hated my fellow human being.  The one time that I felt so disrespected that I no longer had respect.  "He" has a long leash, and a long suffering spirit, I may talk a big game, but "he" is a man of action.

Now that month is over.  I'm still in the consequences faze.  I'm still looking for my way out of the system, and it is getting closer all the time.  But "he" lurks.  I know that "he" is there.  This other half of myself.  This deep dark place that I try to keep inside.  The one that would rather Molotov a building than watch it stand.  The one that would rather overthrow than watch one more poor person suffer.  The one that is hedonist and activist all at once.  The one that would throw his life away to help his children.  The one who would throw his life away to help his friends.  The one that I have to admit once and for all is the real me.

When I strip everything away what am I?

I'm the one who holds my children close, but tells them that if they are in trouble, call dad, not the cops.  That explains why it is important to live just a little outside of what they are telling you to do.  That tells them that we should salute no flag and pledge no allegiance.  That takes care of them, and loves them, and will never let them go.  Never.

I'm the one who will whisper in your ear, darkest sweet nothings.  And act on them.  And never look back.  Because he knows that you have that black heart inside of you too.  He is the one that loves with passion and does not relent.  Does not give up.  That is patient and lurking and ready for blood (however it may come).

I'm the one gripping his friends.  Pint of rum and straight razor in hand.  I will take your secrets to my grave.  I will never look back and regret a single moment.  I will always try my best for you.  I will always try to be honest, and to never give up on helping you all in any way that I can.

And these may all seem well and good.

But they are raw and pulsing:  Open wounds now.

Because they have been buried for so long.  Seeing people that I haven't seen in nearly a decade I'm reminded of how much I gave up to be with her.  And for what?  So I could try to live the normal life.  What the fuck was I thinking?  Who was I trying to fool?

I want to rummage through the Internet and find what horror may reveal itself.

I will pick up that money on the street and not think about returning it.

I am going to let you know how I feel, and if you push the issue things may get rough.

I'm never giving up on dreams again.

I don't care who gets in my way.

I know what I want.  I know who I want to take with me.  I know how I want to do it.  And I'll be damned if I don't give it a real shot.  And if I fail.  So the fuck what?  That fear has kept me in check for far to long.  I have enough hang ups as it is without having to worry about failure.

But there is something else here.

Some subtext that I'm not getting to the heart of.

It is a mixture of I don't need you anymore to one person.

You wonder why we can't be friends, it is because we never really were.  I was just trying to survive, and thought you were what I needed.

And I need all of you, to a bunch of other people.

It was a hard year.  But you all helped me survive.  If it weren't for your couch, your rum, your willingness to listen, your little hugs and kisses, your love (all four kinds of it from every side that I can think of).  I don't think I could have done it.

You know who you are.  All of you.

I guess don't give up on me.

Or something.

I'll let this one post.

File under Virtue.