La Petite Mort
the little death, supposedly that is what the French call an orgasm… a good description on many levels. That is not what this post is about.
I have little deaths of huge parts of myself. I am currently working on my second one. I don’t want to die, I don’t want to rework myself into something I can love again. I guess I didn’t want to the first time it happened either. The first seemed easier because I gave up a huge part of who I thought I was, and things I desperately loved about myself, to become everything for someone else. I had to become something new and unknown and scary, but I had to for her; she was my reward.
Now I have to for me, it’s not just a difference or something new, it’s a failing, something I can’t do anymore. Something that other people look upon with pride, an essential part of the way the people I love live their lives, I cannot share. I have to be different, all the while thinking no less of myself. I have to accept myself as a lovely person despite the fact that I suck. All of this is difficult and I want to do it quietly and thoroughly. I want to do this with dignity, for no one but me. I want to say goodbye slowly and gracefully, a warm holding of the hand and a solid acceptance of the unknown. “Hey honey, thank you, we had some good times and I really appreciate you being there for me, but you can go now, you’ve held on as long as I needed you to.”
My only reward is a different me, a me that I am not entirely comfortable with.