A friend of mine told me I need to write. He is right. However, what does one say when there are so many secrets? So many things I can't say? So many lies dressed in shades of truth that sometimes the two look identical...even to me?
Today friends helped me move the rest of Rob's things from his apartment. I have gone twice this week to pack up most small things and move them to the garage or redistribute them to their old homes in my house. Each day I have gone alone. I didn't plan it that way. In fact, I planned to have someone there, someone to help take the jolt. In the end, I chose to take it alone.
Because the truth is even if someone else was there, they wouldn't feel the jolt. They wouldn't feel the impact of walking into a life where I wasn't wanted. To others it was just an apartment. To me it was reality of nearly two decades slamming in the face--"I really didn't love you. I just didn't know how to get out. Now, I don't want to come back."
I know people say men use words like that to justify their actions. Women do, too. In our case, though, they weren't just words. They were reality. I know. I lived them.
The Tuesday morning he died was the first time I had been in his apartment, and it was like walking into the world of someone I didn't know, except it wasn't a stranger. It was a man who promised forever...and lied. And I couldn't help but wonder how much more...just what all else...was lies.
In a stomach turning instant I was in an ocean of memories wondering what was real and what was mirage. Had I become so good at lying about the reality that I didn't know the truth myself? Why does it even matter?
The thing is, I do know the truth, and the truth is the mirage of the lie is its ability to make the truth look counterfeit.
The lie is that peace or closure will come with figuring it out, finding answers, understanding it somehow. The truth is healing comes with letting it go and moving on.
What was and why it was and how it was only create confusion in which who I am is lost, and trust to move forward is buried in the mire of questions.
The truth is the lies of then are only relevant because of the lies of now and trying to figure out how to write honestly when there is truth I am unable to share is maddening. I feel like nothing has really changed. I couldn't be honest then, and I can't be honest now...and I am tired of being here, tired of eggshells, tired of trying to present it in a way that makes sense to others when it makes no real sense to me...and yet, right now, there are two people who couldn't make sense of it at all...so I remain quiet.
Yes, I need to write, but in the sorting through, I find myself at a loss for words...and that's no lie.