Dear _____, (#4)

Dear ____,

I don’t think I could have built a higher pedestal if I tried.  Perpetually, you sit above; inherently, always looking down.  At some point, I became convinced that love was not a gift I was to receive.  As if I was always on the naughty list, checked twice, and receiving coal instead of presents.  The disappointment of a child forgotten on Christmas morning is the best way I can describe my understanding and experience of love.  Who taught me this? In so many ways, I’ve always said I am my own teacher.  I am far too stubborn to learn from anyone else.

Therapists love to smile and say “let go of the past”, while knowing fully that you are being instructed to heave a semi with your arms tied behind your back and a blindfold on.  But, as you like to say, maybe I’m being too dramatic.  I know full well my memories are as trustworthy as a blind man’s directions, but they are all of me, aren’t they?

I could never give you what you asked, because I can’t stuff myself in your box.  I never fit, and my parts are all jumbled together anyway.  You’ve given me the instructions so many times that I’ve forgotten it all.  Yet here I am, Pinocchio to your Geppetto, dancing all wrong as I’m caught in your strings.  I’ve grown so accustomed to living for others; I am not even sure who my master is.  I’ve told so many lies; I’m blind to my nose being too big or too small.  I always thought a little white lie would not hurt anyone, but at this point, I have forgotten where I started.

Remember The Dark Tower? I always wonder what kind of Gunslinger I would make.  Unfortunately, I keep forgetting I’m the one I’m supposed to be protecting, as I fight your battles for you.  Aren’t I just the sum of all my yesterday’s smashed into a hot mess playing composer?  Nothing prepares you for today better than an army of data, extrapolated meticulously through the lens of rumination.  A perpetual play by play of every “oops!” broadcast in surround sound as I navigate life.  I’ve analyzed my mistakes so thoroughly, I have found that I can neither progress or regress, because I am too busy spinning in circles.  In my standstill, I look up, and I see you.  I see you looking down and wondering why I can’t just live up to a single expectation.  I honestly doubt The Dark Tower is all that fictional…

As you watch me dance, pretending to have no knowledge of your strings, I see the disgust you have for me.  I feel a sense of loss for a love I never received, or never let myself receive.  The pain in the ass about choice is that this is all a path I’ve chosen for myself.  Thank you for being the compass of all that I do not want to be.  Thank you for helping me to see that pedestals are made to be knocked down.  Thank you for helping me remember that the only master I serve is the sun guiding my path and the moon illuminating my darkness.  I am stronger for all the times you have knocked me down.  I am more beautiful for all the petals you plucked.  As my own teacher, I have made many mistakes and I have hurt many along the way.  As Roland says, I kill with my heart.  My inability to love or receive love has grown a beautiful flower in the desert.  I don’t really need you, nor did I ever, but I lie to myself and say you are my water.   Thank you for the thirst that led me to my own oasis.   Hopefully I can learn enough to not waste my life searching for all the things I already have.  You may have taught me to dance, but I can learn how to fly.

Love, Rose

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