I was going to post this as a comment, but I decided to just turn it into a post…because, well, this is my blog and I guess I have the privilege of calling the shots around here (“around here” being my Ibook, but only when Moe is nowhere near the desk…he assumes control of all typing/internet-browsing when he occupies the 12″ radius surrounding my computer).
Special comment response to Miriam (referring to her comments from yesterday’s post):
Look, to be completely honest, I know that Ryan was capable of a high level of fuckfacery. And I’m sure plenty of my past boyfriends, faux-boyfriends, weird casual bed partners, etcetera, would say that I can be a ridiculous crazy bitch sometimes. And they are probably right. So I can’t really hold his mistakes against him.
I have been reading a lot of old journals recently. At the very least, it’s an agonizing experience. It turns out that I was (and probably still am) incredibly insecure, neurotic, and obsessive…and oh yeah, really, really terrible about honestly communicating my feelings with everyone. I can accept these faults because I feel as if they are commonly encountered flaws. I can ascribe at least one of these attributes to each of my closest friends. And I love these people to death.
But this is the single thing that fills me with a near-toxic level of self-loathing: the very idea that I tolerated all of the shitty things that Ryan said/did with very little protest. Because (if you didn’t catch on to this yet) I like to present myself as a total hardass. If I were half the version of Amanda that occupies my imagination, things would have ended after the first break-up (before I went to NYC). And at some point I would have hit him in the balls.
My mother raised me to be tough and self-disciplined. But the notebooks in a basket under my desk prove otherwise. Two simple facts present themselves over and over again in my laughably girlish handwriting:
I can’t escape drugs.
I can’t escape Ryan.
In fact, I’m practically running back to both of them, even though I play these games to TRICK myself into believing that neither matter to me…that I somehow control both situations.
My concern has been that I am not presently an even picture of him…that maybe some subconscious need to punish him is skewing my vision into an ugly caricature. But reading your comments–particularly about the pockets full of pictures–gave me a feeling of accomplishment…I realized that I am painting a compelling portrait of this guy…this guy RYAN that totally changed my life. He was neither a saint nor a monster…but definitely a cocksucker on many occasions.
And yes…despite all of his shitty statements and weird mixed signals…and despite his unwillingness to let me free myself from our fucked up druggie lifestyle…I know that he loved me. I have never doubted that. What if…what if.
I have spent the last seven years swimming in a sea named What If.
In conclusion, knowing that words I have typed are actually moving intelligent individuals to feel something more than “ugh…this is some bad writing” validates everything that I am doing.
So thank you, Miriam…and everyone else that has been supporting me via comments, emails, or just checking frightened by bees. on a regular basis…thank you thank you thank you.