When I was a little girl, I had a little friend who lived at the top of our suburban cul-de-sac. She was the only girl in their Mormon family, and the only girl (besides my sister) in the neighborhood whom I would play with. In the evenings after school, I would often walk up to her house, sheepishly knock on the front door, and shyly ask, “Can Celeste come out to play?”
Sometimes she could. Many times, it wasn’t a good time, and her mother, Sandy, would say, “Not right now, but maybe in a little while.” I would hopefully agree, and Celeste’s mom would close the front door.
Instead of walking home to play with my sister or one of my other besties (a neighbor boy), I would sit very patiently, very quietly on the milk box to the left of Celeste’s front door. I sat there to wait. And wait. And wait. And wait, full of hope that, very soon, Celeste could come out to play with me. After all, her mom did say, “…maybe in a little while.” More often than not, after about an hour, assuming I was inside playing with Celeste, my mom would call Sandy to check on me. Upon finding out I wasn’t inside playing, she would poke her head out the front door across the street to see me sitting on the milk box and, sometimes impatiently, call me back home or call Sandy and ask that she send me on my way. I was usually scolded to stop waiting on the milk box for Celeste. As defiant as I am, I never stopped. I had hope!
I did this so many times I’m not sure there’s an accurate count.
It’s a little embarrassing to recount this childhood scene. But, it’s still so relevant to my life. I recently recounted this with my therapist in one or two of our sessions. I felt very sad and a little ashamed to admit it, to be honest. I feel sad for that little girl I was, waiting and hoping that my friend would play. But, as I told my therapist, I’m still sitting on the milk box, waiting until he can come out to play. I did the same thing with RB, and I learned my lesson then. Why–WHYYY?–am I doing this again? Isn’t this what you call insanity?
The toughest part of a relationship (or friendship) for me is that when I’m mad at the other person, it’s usually because I’m mostly mad at myself. And by mostly mad at myself, I mean, not really mad at anyone but myself, for my own flaw and weakness. I’m really pissed off at him right now. I have been for days. But I recognize that (one) I’m really pissed off at myself, and (two) I’m more pissed off that I care about him; that, after four days, I want to see him knowing nothing will change if I do. (And he wants to see me, but I said no.) I’m angry that I know my price tag has gone up, and I’m not displaying it. God, I really thought I’d evolved.
I hate that I can’t walk away from something that I know is a complete dead-end for me. I hate that I see myself as weak for not just cutting it off with the sharpest-possible metaphorical knife. I hate that at times I’m miserable because I choose to not cut it, and I’m miserable when I have decided to cut it. And as a result, in a way, I hate myself. Dislike is probably more accurate, but work with me here;
I’m having a moment.
I’ve decided to move on. Apparently, so has he. But I hate that, like RB, he won’t let go all the way. He wants the relationship without the commitment. Hold up.
WHAT?
Yet, somehow, that keeps enough alive in me to hope, to sit on the milk box and maintain that optimism that things will change.
What the hell is wrong with me? Seriously. I have babies to make, and a man to love (eventually). And by the way, that milk box is probably long recycled. I’m really probably sitting on air, about to fall at any moment.
(This felt really great to write, so if you’re reading, thank you.)
