There's much to be said for looking into our past, not as a means to blame anyone, but to be clear that what happened ought not to have happened, then to escort each and every issue out the door and say goodbye.
It wasn't until I had dealt with all the abuse and soul murdering, the penchant parents had for knocking me flat, that I was able to climb out from underneath that blue black boulder of ignorance and shame and walk head held high into the bright light of day. But....
....this required some doing. Therapy and reading all the good books I could get my hands on required down time, a time to go within and find that place that needed to be nurtured and filled up with good things. Time was what I wanted and was given, solitude, reflection and quiet, all the things I was used to running away from.
I got good at reality testing and, no longer at mach one speed, all the healing I could wrap up in. Many years later, when I was invited to go to a movie and have a cup of coffee afterward, I slumped back into my couch, wanting to stay home. I'd gotten so used to never going out and always being alone that to do something fun felt like work. That's when I decided to get off my lockdown couch and dress up with an attitude of really wanting to do this, be with friends, discuss the movie, eat, hug and bond, sharing delicate intimacies.
I could get used to this I thought as I walked in the door at mignight. I realized the social person I was had been forced underground far too long, but not by anyone but me and that same me could simply get up off the cushy, tomato red couch and come back to life, whole and invigorated with ideas for adventure, new horizons, all of it peopled with those like me. It wasn't voodoo. I had already thrown it out there to the Universe that I wanted to have people over and to go to the symphony with, people whose friendship was substantive.
All the years behind me had to happen and in exactly the way they happened. Even the last relationship which had me edging closer to the cliff had to happen. How do you know what you want until you see what you don't want. I knew that I didn't want a lying, cheating, upright. I wanted him. Maserati Man...
Maserati Man drove north on Federal Highway with darkened windows, dark Maserati sunglasses and a Maserati cap. He drove along side of me for awhile and I looked over at him and sang a song about him and his Maserati keys and Maserati sunglasses and Maserati hat. Oh, Mr. Maserati Man, come take me away to Maserati Land, where we dine on Maserati cuisine, where we live happily ever after in our Maserati town and love each other in our Maserati way...with our Maserati Master Card offering a Maserati ring. And on and on my little song went, unrhymed and not all that clever.
But Maserati Man was not the actual man driving north on Federal Highway. My real Maserati Man was symbolic of a man with a certain je n'cest quois. My Maserati Man would take me by the arm and tell me his truth about all things. Maserati Man would not necessarily be wealthy, although more than likely he would be. But his ideas, his courage, wit and grace would be strong and rich.
Maserati Man wouldn't care if I didn't look perfect, or if I sometimes misspoke. He would encourage me and support all my efforts at becoming a better human being. He wouldn't falter on this. My Maserati Man would buy me that ring and on the inside have MM engraved.
I'm glad I went through those unholy wars, prostrating myself before God, keening for the unbearable losses, my childhood, my son and later the pilot. I knew back then, that there was something in all of it for me. I don't sign up for things that aren't. I knew I would come full circle to a life ripening with joy, with fun and most of all the freedom I yearned for.
But being free and feeling free were twins separated at birth. I always felt free, but instead of being free, I bowed down to the cliches society passed on. One Wednesday night when my second husband and I were driving to eat Chinese food - as we did each and every Wednesday night - I realized I wasn't exactly all that free. I felt trapped in a conformed version of marriage. He wasn't Maserati Man. And I wasn't Maserati Woman. So we had our Miserable Maserati Divorce.
And that's when all the fun began.
...to be continued..