Some Days…
“Some days, I still want to call the person I used to be — just to say sorry and thank you.” Lucia Berlin
Well, this hit me. I feel this way a lot. Like these older versions of me, which were also newer versions of me at the time, are owed a thank you and an apology. I put myself through so much. So much pain and loss and sorrow. So much seemingly unneeded pain. But I would be remiss for not saying thank you also. All those other “me’s” went through a great deal to get me to the me I am today. And fuck, if they were not tenacious, grinding, persevering and fucking brave.
I think often if the 25 year old me, the 35 year old me and then 45 year old me could have coffee with the 55 year old me. Shit, the stuff we could discuss. I mean, to some degree all those women live inside my head and speak up now and then. But to have the benefit of each version of me to be a stand alone entity? That would be amazing and probably also terrifying.
The 25 year old me would be full of piss and vinegar. She would be rebellious, loud and running scared. She would be hard to talk to because all she would do is talk. Talking was her favorite way to shun intimacy and connection. She had so much to say, but not a great deal of depth and weight. I mean, it was there, she just kept it hidden very far beneath her stormy surfaces.
The 35 year old me would be a brand new mom. I would have a newborn. I would be moving from New Mexico, to California, to Florida. I would be married and working. I would be so overwhelmed with the events of my life, I would be a shell. I would be capable of so very little emotional range. I would be, in some cases, just unable to relate to anyone or anything. I would be on autopilot, doing my best to live up to this great big life I just created and I would feel for the most part I was doing fantastic. Of course, I would be lonely and feel unsupported a lot. I would be so content to lie on my bed for hours, just watching my son and be amazed at what my body produced. I would be lost in the throes of motherhood.
The 45 year old me would be tired of being married but scared to leave. She would have been walking for at least half a decades with this ever increasing unhappiness in her marriage. She would try all sorts of different things to make it better but she would always end up feeling alone and lost. She would be passionate about her kids and be returning to full time work after a hiatus of a few years. She would be overwhelmed and once again running scared. She would doubt herself a great deal but she would move forward and out of that marriage into the lonely, tiring but also freedom producing world of single motherhood. She would never regret this decision.
The me at 55 would be tired. Tired of the grind of work, parenthood and longing for good times. I think me at 55 most resembles me at 15. Which is sort of sad, sort of good. Today I am having my second adolescence, kinda. I feel the need to be free and enjoy my life. And am tired of day to day parenting and the confines of working. Having accumulated all the things: house, cars, stuff, I want to eschew it all now and move into a camper van with some dude name Ethan and take off to parts unknown…for years. The today me longs for youth and spaciousness and freedom and less responsibility. She is also, at the very same time, incredibly grateful for the life she has. She loves her home, her kids, her family, her cars, her job, her pets, her friends and most of the time walks around in an ever evolving intimacy with all those things. But there is a fire burning brightly within her that could just get into a camper van one day and just vanish (not permanently but for longer and longer periods of time).
I see that I need all the versions of me to be this person I am today. I shudder to think what the 65 year old me is going to look like…definitely more tattoos and biceps that could crush a walnut. Emotionally, I hope I have settled down. She could have finally found love or just given up. I do not see the 65 year old me still dating. Please God, no. I expect she will have either found a man she loves and can live with, or she will have finally accepted that solo is just her lot in this life. I hope she still hikes the hillsides, camps and swims in mountains lakes and streams. I hope she spends at least some of her time in a cabin in the woods, living off the grid, spending time just living in the present. I hope she travels to far away places and has great adventures and takes as many photos as she can. I hope she spends time with her kids and parents. That perhaps the time spent together is less but the quality of the time doesn’t waiver. I hope she remains sober. I hope she finally publishes that book and I hope she continues to tap out her heart and soul here. I hope she can appreciate herself in ways that she struggles to now.
Some days I see the whole picture of my life and I do feel an apology is warranted and still other days, I am sure thank you is all that is required. I guess no matter what the day, I survived it all and have lived to tell. And that is perhaps one of the greatest gifts of living, living long enough to reflect upon all the days that came before. Inventory being one of the most precious skills to a life well lived.
To be sure, I have lived an amazing, interesting life. I have overcome a great deal and enjoyed even more than I have overcome. Should death find me now, I would have little regret and a great deal of satisfaction.
With each passing day, as death draws ever closer, I feel my ability to enjoy this life, in its grandeur and minutiae, increases exponentially. And some days I am just in it and some days I am just watching the wheels go round and round. Regardless of whether I am living the apology or the thank you, I am here, doing my best and loving almost every minute of it.
Again, still.
